More, still more, little buttons to push. Clicking our way into imagined posterity—we crave impact, want to be recognized for our oh-so-unique individual cleverness, deeply held activist beliefs, conspicuous consumption, what have you. We will absolutely achieve our fifteen minutes of celebrity to bolster our gelatinous egos.
Andy Warhol had no idea this quarter-hour spotlight would occur on a daily basis. And it doesn't take Jean-Paul Sartre to recognize the pathos of this desperate existential flailing—making our marks on physically non-existent walls and "liking" (dog-earing) millions of "pages" when we could be, oh, I don't know, writing our memoirs in a cafe somewhere over poached eggs on wheat toast with a double cappuccino in the sharp morning light of April.
