Waking the Sleeping Integer … 18

18 … The Suckage of Spin

Miranda was a social media wizard by day and an insomniac by night.  Why should this night be any different.  At 1:14 a.m. and her blue eyes wide open it shouldn’t be.  And so Miranda was up. 

She was known to park her keester at the keyboard on her side table when the whirling of the bedroom ceiling fan bleeted on into the early hours.  This generally annoyed the fuck out of her.  The bleeting, that is; not the side table, or her keester for that matter.  But it really wasn’t the ceiling fan that bleeted on ad naseum.  It was Miranda who did.  Why just blog when you can blog and tweet.  Bleet!  Synchronicity!  Of course she’d much rather have her boyfriend rub his penis on the outside of her vagina (another definition of “bleet” per the urban dictionary), but these days he masqueraded as an aggressive travelling accountant.  Which meant it was just Miranda and her trusty tablet rustling up the bed sheets.  And rustle the sheets she did, wrestling with a mind that wouldn’t quiet against hours that seemed to be held hostage by the tortured repetition of minutes.  Lack of sleep brought out the worst in people, making Miranda just as much an aggressive non-sleeper as her boyfriend was an aggressive travelling accountant during tax season.

She signed and pulled the tablet out from under the pillow.  She logged into her social platforms.  Unleashed her deployment tools.  Analyzed her analytics.   Surveyed her Klout.  Set up audience-focused messaging workflow that had all the spin sucked out of it.  And she knew it did because she messaged that it did, ha!  Strategically chose her words with a mind toward search optimization.  Hashtagged and generally tagged her way into the infinity weaving across the fiber optics.  Bent an ear to the screen to listen, listen very very closely *very closely* while she bleeted.  Wiz, bang, boom, post, retweet, direct message, yeowsa!  Heard nothing on the other end — nothing in this internet sea of billions and billions and gazillions of peoples —  nothing but her keyboard clacking away.  Marvelled still to this very day in this very second even after all this years of posting as she felt her fingers pick up grease lightening speed now.  Going to the Next Level, woo!  Whatever the hell the Next Level is…but who cares!  Woo!  Cuz I’m there!  And in the midst of all of this, Miranda realized suddenly with no small amount of panic and no small amount of rudeness that an ephinany like this one brings to bear that despite all the commotion of her tablet and in her social accounts and kittehs on the internet and cats in her head that Miranda…well…she…she had…

absolutely nothing of value to say.  Absolutely nothing.  She couldn’t find a trace of meaningful.  This, despite the fact that not one buzz word ever crossed her keyboard.  This, despite the fact that she crammed as much street speak into her messages as possible, because you know Miranda’s big into being Balls Out authentic and all.

And yet. 

She found nothing of value in what she was messaging.

Because…she was *messaging*………*deploying*…..and messaging…..

who the hell says things like that????

It was then that Miranda saw her reflection in the tablet.  Don’t think…feel…just make it real, she whispered to no one in particular.

She deactivated the tablet and pushed it under the bed, probably nearly onto the other side under the bed.  Miranda didn’t care.  She lay back and stared into the darkness.  She listened hard.  Very very closely beyond the bleeting of the ceiling fan.  In search of real.

nanowrimo10:  600 total word count this post, for a 44,600 total word count to date.  It may take two years, but I’ll finish it.


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