Monday, February 13, 2017
Trying to Confuse my Wheelchair or A Man Without a Demographic
You see one day last summer I went into this boutique that sells women’s lingerie. I was just in there for a few minutes and I didn’t buy anything. The only reason I went into the place was that I was being stalked and I wanted to throw the stalker off the scent.
I wasn’t being literally stalked, just virtually. I just got this new wheelchair at the time and there’s a display window on the drive box that shows the time and date. And every once in a while a warning appears in the display window commanding me to update the time and date. And chair won’t move until I do it.
Why is it so urgent that the time and date always be current? I surmised that it’s because, like everything else these days, my new chair must contain a secret tracking devise that constantly monitors and records my whereabouts.
Why would the government waste time and money spying on me? That’s the thing. I don’t think it’s the government that’s behind it. I think it’s an even more evil entity with a sinister agenda and elaborate spy apparatus, like maybe Google or Facebook. They made a deal with the wheelchair manufacturer and they’re watching my every move with their tracking device so as to determine my demographic so they can bombard me with the proper barrage of targeted ads on the internet.
And I resent that. My demographic is none of their damn business. And just what the hell is my demographic anyway? I like to think of myself as a man without a demographic. Demographics are dehumanizing. They’re a pigeonhole, a trap. So whenever I catch myself settling too comfortably within the constraints of a certain demographic, I try to engage in some form of undemographiclike behavior, just to keep myself honest. Being a man without a demographic in a capitalist consumer culture can be lonely. It’s like being a man without a country. Your demographic is your home, the place where you find the comfort of community and your sense of identity. A man without a demographic is an expatriate. But oh well.
But you can’t give a virtual stalker the slip like you can an actual stalker. Wherever you go, it goes, like a shackle. The best you can do is confuse it. So when I’m out and about in my wheelchair, I take a lot of detours. I drop in places I would never otherwise ever go, such as American Girl, a Baptist church or a fitness center. I’m doing it to confuse my wheelchair. And then maybe those nosey bastards trying to figure out my demographic will write me off as a lost cause and leave me the hell alone.
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