So I've wanted to write for a while now, and I thought what better way to write than to let other people know what I think. Dangerous, I know, but doesn't it just sound so exciting to be exposed! To, you know, let people know the inner clockwork that is my mind?
Now, I know what you're thinking. "Cameron, what on Earth could possibly interest you enough to write?" And to that I say... I don't know. I plan on having this just be about anything that matters to me on a specific day. With that, let's get going!
I read an article earlier today about the gay teenager that killed himself over the whole webcam exposer thing. I saw a response that said:
"Today, 10000 kids died from hunger. Do I care about this drama? 1 death - tragic drama. 10000 deaths - statistics. Long live humanity."
And yes, that is absolutely correct. That is how people perceive the death of one person versus a tragedy of 10000+ people. Now, the reason being is it's a lot easier to put yourself in the shoes of one person. Another (fairly) recent example would be Greg Giraldo the 44 comedian died of an overdose of prescription drugs. Hearing the story of one man, I can instantly imagine, somewhat, what it would be like to be that person. People who have experienced it can sympathize, but I instantly see Greg as a person that was too smart for his own good. And I understand it, I get it.
And I think about the gay college kid that ended his life because he had zero privacy, and, again, I sympathize. Not because I can relate to being in the closet, despite what some of you may think. But I understand what it's like to be out there, and even being out there I like my secrets. I like having something to myself. I know that might sound silly because that would be like Michael Moore talking about how ridiculous it is that people are obese.
I'm part of that situation. I'm a self-involved, self-important person. But I feel like being part of it allows me to say, "Yes, that is correct person on the internet. Privacy in the United States does not exist." Now, for the most part, it is a self-inflicted problem. I'm part of the "look at me!" generation. "Hit me up on twitter!"
I went to school with a bunch of people who never really paid attention to me except for the kids that huddled around, you know, during lunch time, and played Magic the Gathering. Who would also say that I, "wasn't tapping the card correctly" and would "uber pwn me with their white deck." So I group up wishing that in someway I would be important to someone else because maybe it would make me real. And it's still something I can't fully get my mind around. It bothers me.
It bothers me that George Lopez, as of recently, is getting a divorce from his wife of 17 years. It bothers me even more that George Lopez got a kidney transplant from his future ex-wife. That saved his life. And I can look at that situation and go, "Wow! How would I act in that situation?" Would I have giant George Lopez balls to divorce the woman that saved my life?
Now I feel that half the reason people watch the news, the shows, or anything is because they want to feel something, they want to learn something, they want to relate or hate something. And as a generation, that's who we are. A majority of us are over-sharers that do so because we want to feel something. It boggles my mind that there is such a thing as "auto-facebooking your foursquare-twitter." Yeah, that's a real thing.
What's sad is that with the stories that we see is despite all that we share, very rarely do we come closer to someone or something else that is shouting out into the wind to the world will once again reinforce that you don't matter. Until you realize that it doesn't matter what anyone else is doing, as long as you are you.
So I think the main moral of all these stories is that George Lopez is a terrible human being who has never really been funny. OR life sometimes makes you wonder would you rather be the one tragic death or one of the ten-thousand. Because in life and death, you're usually one of the two and both have their perks and their downsides.
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