#life commodified

[dgspeaks]

Life Commodified: The Price of Constant Self-Promotion

In today’s digital age, every aspect of our lives seems to be commodified. We’ve entered an era where even the most intimate moments are opportunities for financial gain, and the line between personal experience and public persona has become increasingly blurred. This relentless drive to monetize every facet of our existence has profound implications for our well-being and sense of self. The…

[raven-the-ghost]

continuously intensely uncomfortable with how media portrays sex and love and romance and our human relations with each other

[mush-dooms]

tiktokers acting like everyone who ever gets distracted has adhd... yikes man

[vamp--dad]

People on tiktok will think oh no I'm having a panic attack and then sit on the floor, take out their phone, hit record, film 8 seconds of hyperventilation and add #spreadingawareness #neurospicy to the description

[cyber-corp]

Today I watched the Tina Turner musical up in Sydney. It was okay. I’m gonna go to hell and kill Ike Turner again.

[salan-d-er]

Reading the Chappell Roan interview with Rolling Stone. While I am happy that so many stars came together to support their peer, it is also absolutely fucking ridiculous and dangerous that fan behaviour has crossed so many levels of entitlement.

[vnd5lain88]

i will never understand jotakak sorry. they don't have that narusasu magic. they are two guys who know each other and fell off too early to get anywhere because they are way too awkward to the other. they walk past each other in school after that and it's forever like that zoolander clip.

[a-wolf-at-the-door]

Friendly Reminder That Privacy ≠ Shame!

It’s ok to not want to share everything! You don’t have to give all of yourself to the world! That doesn’t mean you must be ashamed of the things you hold private! Sometimes privacy is its own form of pride and self-compassion! Sometimes privacy is peace!

[scarawayfromfallingapart]

“She’s a Handsome Woman” - Panic! at the Disco (2008) // “What a Time to Be Alive” - Fall Out Boy (2023)

[syrasenturi]

love the internet killing art

[lizabeans]

is everything capitalism more than it used to be or am I just seeing it more as I get older

[misophoria]

finding my way in the world is proving to be tumultuous. not that it didn't prove that before

[quincywillows]

maybe it’s just that kind of day but i’m getting emotional thinking about how my favorite book ever like the one most special to me that i never tire of and that has so many lines i adore to pieces was a book i came across by happenstance. it was a something something medal winning book when i picked it up in the school library in fifth grade, or maybe fourth grade -- who can remember now -- but i didn’t care about that. i just picked it up by chance, to try it, and somehow it never made its way back to the school library. it still has property of my school county inked on the top of the pages. and it’s my favorite book to this day, with a magic that has not faded.

when people ask me my favorite book and i say it, literally not one person has recognized the title. it’s not a new york times bestseller. the author isn’t one of the big-name writers of this generation. it doesn’t have people raving about it on tiktok or twitter, it didn’t have hype parades down the street and all over the internet when it was released. in fact, it wasn’t sold to me at all -- wasn’t shoved down my throat by too-good-to-be-true raving ARCs or algorithms that guarantee i’ll love the next overhyped, recycled, cookie-cutter product coming out of the publishing houses.

it’s just a story that i stumbled on. that i liked. that touched me, tickled my brain in just the right way, stuck with me for years in a way that a goodreads choice winner or new york bestseller literally never has.

that is what storytelling is to me. it isn’t about the money. it isn’t about the hype. it’s the idea that one day, without your knowledge and likely with no prompting or money exchanged, someone will stumble upon your story and it will never leave them. it will pique their interest, capture their imagination, touch them in just the right way to become theirs. and you will probably never know how much it meant to that one person. but it doesn’t matter. it exists with someone else, is shared with them, and it gives them the same warmth (or excitement, or inspiration, or comfort, or all the above) to read it. to keep it on their shelf, digital or tangible; to keep it in their heart.

maybe that’s romanticized, or naive, but it’s all i can think about these days. it’s what i think about when i finish reading yet another lackluster published novel and wonder what’s missing. it’s what i think about when i ruminate on what i want from my writing “career,” what really matters to me, why i spend all the time weaving narrative and writing words that i do.

it’s about sharing the story, to anyone who decides to read it. it’s not about the money; it’s not about the hype. we write because someone someday might read our words and they’ll be exactly what they wanted, what they needed, and it’s a joy to share it.

[arrogantmrcnry]

:)

[thewordsman]

Oh, those were the days

Oh, those were the days. I’m not talking about the polyester-soaked seventies or even the neon-splattered eighties. I mean the real good old days, back when “fun” was just a mix of harmless crime and just the right dose of moral outrage. When getting your thrills didn’t involve three layers of corporate licensing, a background check, or a membership at some wannabe exclusive wellness club. Everything illegal, immoral, or generally frowned upon by your church-going aunt was precisely what made life fun.

Who remembers back when a cheap beer, drag racing on the streets, or just loitering around was considered the height of rebellion? Now, it costs more for a bottle of bourbon than it used to for a whole night on the town with change leftover. Back then, street life was affordable, and real, and didn’t come with a QR code or a social media campaign. The thrill wasn’t some calculated risk; it was an honest-to-God roll of the dice.

Now, look around. What used to be taboo, counterculture, or even outright sinful is the flavor of the day, sanitized and stamped “acceptable.” Smoking weed? That’s no longer a “gateway drug,” it’s a tax-deductible habit if you live in the right zip code. Gone are the days of back-alley dime bags and knowing which friend’s cousin could hook you up. Now it’s legal, potent, and conveniently costs about $200 a day for the curated, subscription-based variety. Forget about the old-school street dope—today’s recreational narcotics come with organic certification and a side of retail therapy. It’s marketed as a lifestyle, provided you can afford the astronomical price tag.

And let’s talk booze. Remember when you could score a six-pack for pocket change? Now, it's craft this and small-batch that, and don't forget the $20 artisanal shot. A daily habit—if you’re lowbrow enough to even keep one—is likely going to run you around $120 just to get your daily fix or drug of choice, a pack of cigs, and the same run-down motel that used to go for pennies back in the day. Funny how what was illegal back then is still a crime, only now it’s extortion.

For you nostalgia-bots who remember a time before credit scores determined whether you could enjoy a weekend without needing a loan—remember this: the true thrill of vice was in its simplicity, its dirt-cheap accessibility, its raw, unfiltered joy. These days, even the smallest rebellion comes with a thousand-dollar price tag. You want a taste of the forbidden fruit? Sorry, friend, that fruit is organic, shipped from Bali, and reserved for VIPs with monthly memberships.

It’s not enough to enjoy something anymore; you have to own it, flex it, brand it. Ever since the Ken and Barbie “Karen Crew” types—working-class weekend weed enthusiasts and middle-aged mindfulness influencers—decided to monetize every little bit of vice, there’s not a cheap thrill left in town. Legalized and digitized, what used to be gritty is now “gentrified grit.” Gone are the days when a dirty street corner or a dim dive bar could promise anonymity and mystery. Those same spaces are now “authentic experiences” with a hefty price tag, posted about and Instagrammed by ex-suit-wearing, 70s-wannabe divorcees and soccer moms with personalized yoga mats.

Don’t get me wrong; the irony isn’t lost on me. What was once a $5 motel night, a 35¢ beer, and a 55¢ pack of smokes—enough to live like a king on the wrong side of the law—is now a luxury. You want the thrill? Pay for it.

[elizabro]

please consider how you engage with aaron bushnell's death. you may react to it as you will, but it's crucial to remember that his death was specifically a call to action. it was not meant solely to shock but to draw attention to a vast moral hypocrisy: that to many, a soldier dying in a campaign backed by the U.S. government is noble, even if the soldier kills innocents to do so, even if the cause is morally bankrupt--but this? this is insanity. a man taking his own life, on his own terms, in an attempt to help others while hurting nobody else, is somehow less rational and more horrifying than the mass killing of civilians.

of course aaron's death was horrific. but as he said beforehand, it is realistically no more horrific than what's happening in gaza. if we can't stomach this, then why can we stomach children being bombed? thousands being starved? for all that self immolation is, it brings death in a matter of minutes. it is a fraction of the amount of pain, fear, and grief that people in gaza are experiencing. it's just that we are able to quantify it. and this tiny, quantifiable sliver of horror is still so unbelievably awful. how can anyone bear to think about anything else when this horror is happening a millionfold in palestine? this is the question aaron bushnell was asking. and he wanted you to face it, head-on, watching him burn to death.

I've been seeing people make fanart. minimalist graphics to sell on t-shirts. to commodify his death, to mythologize it not a day afterwards, is not only in poor taste but a hindrance to his message. the answer is not commodification, nor is it defeatism, nor is it rejoicing in his death. if you want to honor aaron's legacy, take action. channel your horror and your outrage into making a material change. this wasn't about him. this was about palestine. remember that it was always about palestine.