Before people start hypering insanely into wooden shoes with an attitude over my book title Surviving In A Fake World.
Assuming your brainsoup hasn’t already slid entirely out of your left ear into a puddle of Facebook comments.
Maybe calm your emotionally unstable overcooked and gluten-free conspiracy hamster first and take a tiny moment to reconnect your mental confusion pool to the central operating system.
If that feature is still available.
‘SurvivingInAFakeWorld’ sounds dramatic at first for your fake ears, I mean: poor and external hard drive eating ears.
But please remember: not every sentence is a direct attack on civilization, flying wardrobes and their huge pimpels, humanity, pigeons, psychotic dwarfs (is that even still allowed to mention) or your aunt Brenda’s suspicious crystal collection.
Although I assure you: the crystals are still under investigation.
But the stunning and also very true thing is: the title can mean almost everything if you crack your brains about it.
Let’s start with me and ever so weird pothetic myself. Since this stupid, mostly insanely biographic book is about my ever so unbelievable moronic life since 1966.
I seem to have this annoying habit for people to appear as a successful, self-confident, energetic and apparently looking like I got my shAt together while looking complete sane type of type.
Fake
Totally fake
I am totally fake
To clarify this: I am not really fake, the fact that people think that, is a totally fake vision of something that is by far not real.
That is: I’m not a robot or AI toy.
Really I am not.
What a shame.
For as long as I live, people always have been mostly scared for me and my ridiculous unpredictable self. And if I’m being honest: I scare the crap out of me too every day.
I somehow seem to have this image of flying around with an airplane to buy a half loaf of bread somewhere across the other end of the world, buy sixteen neon colored Ferrari’s, accidentally adopt a goose with severe emotional issues and open a deeply unnecessary chandelier museum in the middle of a desert.
Don’t get stuck on the Ferraris here and ignore the fact that I’m clearly not qualified to own a goose.
What actually perfectly characterizes what my book title ‘Surviving In A Fake World’ is all about; only that is also about 600 thousand other things as well.
I would not even call it a book, that’s so awful traditional. It’s my irrational what-even-is-happening nervous system expansion pack universe.
You may not have noticed (or you totally did), but I am your one and only walking mental documentary.
Surviving in a fake world is a totally insane brain eating rabbit hole of a completely unqualified malfunctioning and exhausted nervous system disaster who, since 1966, managed to trust humanity, or what is left of that, less and less as walking around emotionally unstable functional lifeforms.
This book can become totally some sort of live survival archive for future WiFi-dependent organisms.
Just call SIAFW: your serialized survival universe.
My pleasure.
Surviving in a fake world can for example mean surviving social media without accidentally turning yourself into a chronically online performing statistics detective investigating why a photograph of an ancient black telephone outperformed your best ideas and somehow convincing yourself this is a normal adult activity.
It can mean trying to stay authentic in a world where people edit not only their selfies, but apparently also their personalities, opinions and entire nervous systems.
It has even come to the point that I can no longer trust random individuals on the street. Like who are you exactly? How many accounts do you have? How many personalities are currently active? Which version of yourself am I talking to right now? Is this your real opinion or one specifically created for the internet?
And why do I suddenly feel like I need customer support before having a normal conversation with another human being?
A lot of people pretend to be nice, yeah really, and they do that so horrible professionally that halfway through the conversation I start looking for a zipper.
That’s exactly why I started to like garden gnomes more than actual people and not once has a garden gnome tried to reinvent itself as a lifestyle coach.
It can mean walking through shopping streets full of humans pretending they’re not exhausted at all while secretly having slurped some kind of discutable smurf oil, with a good dose of suppressed panic and one totally emotionally dangerous playlist on their probably haunted ravioli ears to make it through the day.
And as if I’m not dealing enough with my own left over brain cells; that kind of human things start haunting me during the day, which can confuse me very much and often get me into very awkward circumstances that I absolutely did not ask for.
Like why wouldn’t you be nice to me when I already spent ten straight hours this morning arguing with a toothpaste tube?
It can mean surviving algorithms that slowly transform everybody into the exact same person holding the exact same coffee cup while simultaneous saying: “Just living my best life.”
Meanwhile their soul left the building somewhere around 2017.
Which is probably why I spend most of my time with cats, garden gnomes, invisible sisters and other creatures whose intentions are more obvious.
‘Fake’ can also mean something much more disturbingly trapped like:
Fake expectations.
Fake urgency.
Fake perfection.
Fake success.
Fake eyelashes.
Fake eyebrows.
Fake profiles.
Fake celebrities.
Fake influencers.
Fake products.
Fake friendships.
Fake words.
Fake love.
Fake TV.
Fake beliefs.
Fake values.
Fake Gods.
Fake motivational speakers.
Fake spiritual enlightenment sold by someone named MoonCrystal88 who communicates exclusively through glitter fonts, flies around with real wings, blows extremely suspicious bubbles and claims your blocked energy can be repaired for only €444.
For reasons that smell like a 1000 years old pair of death underpants and nobody fully understands, but when you’re totally stuck in coping with people, stress, sickness, debts, frustrations, wrong choices; life easily becomes a series of ridiculous idiocy that all seem to haunt me.
Unfortunately for your remaining sanity but, you are basically being forced to always ‘build your brand’ like humans are some kind of half-finished corporate lasagna desperately needing more layers.
Somebody apparently decided that simply being a person was no longer enough and that we should all become tragic little marketing hamsters spinning inside the algorithm wheel of doom while an invisible robot periodically judges your existence.
Sometimes it genuinely feels like society expects people to wake up at 3AM, drink chlorophyll foam out of a recycled moon jar, monetize their breathing patterns and become a high value optimized mindset entrepreneur before their nervous system has even located its left sock.
Meanwhile half of humanity is basically screaming internally through their eyebrows while yelling like a confused and pancake-traumatized ghost: “I’m fine, I’m fine! Everything is totally under control!”
Sometimes surviving in a fake world simply means: trying not to lose yourself while reality becomes increasingly cursed and bizarre.
Somehow we collectively agreed this is normal behavior for a species that once got emotionally attached to pet rocks and still loses complete mental stability when WiFi disappears for seven seconds.
A world becoming more fake every day in all his overcooked aspects and ridiculous hysterical microwavable real life events that mostly doesn’t even turn out like you expected.
One moment you’re peacefully buying toothpaste. The next moment an app is asking whether you’d like to upgrade your emotional stability to premium.
Because seriously, todays modern life occasionally feels like a suspicious social experiment designed by overtired malfunctioning dingdongs wearing concerning ties with access to technology, yes the ties too.
My totally interdimensionally embarrassing Surviving in a fake world life expedition memoir shows my life full of awkard and alarming confusion events from the relaxing sixties with all its decades transforming into the emotionally malfunctioning technologically possessed nonsense dimension.
