we all got it, but

not as bad as when she drunk-posted Sand and Water by Beth Nielsen Chapman in honor of her uncle's passing forgetting it had a line in it about their child together which made it seem incestual and ridiculous, as if posting your grief in hopes of getting relief from it in the way of an artificially-induced rush of dopamine is a curated yet plausibly deniable high that every single one of the people reading in this time or any other has done again and again and again and don't even try to hide from it like you haven't been the guiltiest of all even if you don't do social media and eschew all the blogs and always jump to recipe every time you surf the darkest corners of the epicurean web we see you too even through the incognito browser you initiated before you swapped the names and negotiated the terms of the PTA sponsored dance at the end of the middle school years and—you, ding dong who raised a bud light in honor of your buddy who blew three fingers off his left hand in a fourth of july celebration of rights— we see you too peacocking and girl mocking your way into the male gaze, no shame, baby—we all gotta get it somewhere, baby just make sure you snare consent before the big bang, baby—