They say...

When I was younger, I thought They all worked in the same makeshift office. Nomads, They moved to a different American city every week. They were usually holed up in an underground bunker or cave, although, in my imagination, They once worked in the sweaty back room of a Ma and Pa dry cleaning business in Tucson. Wednesdays in New York, Sundays in L.A., Thursdays are split between Atlanta and DeKalb.

They were fashionable. They wore structured suits with shoulder pads and purses with long, skinny straps. They each wore a new pair of leather shoes which made delicious footstep sounds on the shiny black marble floors of their cave offices.

They were doctors and scientists and rock stars and moms, who toiled tirelessly over telegraph machines, spending hours punching blinking buttons and reviewing reels of never-ending data.

They lived in softly illuminated modern quarters, surrounded by the sounds of hushed conversation and electronic beeping in rooms filled with the smell of brewing coffee and leather couches.

They were a covert operation, designed to keep Me in the know. They looked out for me. They wanted for Me to know that my sheets were filled with dust mites. They wanted for Me to be Light as a Feather, Stiff as a Board. They lived their lives, devoted to My success and wellbeing.

But now that I am older, I realize that They are not people at all, but flimsy ideas formed in the minds America’s most cocky 21-35 year olds; written in cubicles under glaring fluorescent lights; created for profit under looming deadlines.

Bummer.