Wednesday, October 22, 2014

2334 Swipemark

I like to go through life convincing myself that things aren't as dirty as they really are. By convincing myself I don't mean an active ongoing persuasion campaign to fight against some OCD paranoia that everything is icky. I just mean maintaining an ignorant bliss about that whole filthy slice of reality.

So when I read articles about thousands of mites living under my bed furiously engorging themselves on the skin and hair bits I industrious and unconsciously shed every moment, I tend to not follow that up with a Google search to delve into it further.

Nor do I care to dwell overmuch on the parts-per-million of fecal matter wafting through the air of any public facility. Whether it's precipitating off the rear ends of dogs, cats, or the guy that just came out of the fast food establishment's bathroom, I'd rather not know too much about it.

So I've always been fairly conscientious about eliminating the little reminders of that sort of thing. Like streaks on my microwave or smudges on my glasses. Those small intrusions on my Pollyanna protective shell of imagined cleanliness remind me of all that other not-so-nice stuff.

So it was with sadness that I noticed an ongoing issue that needs a tissue. Swipe marks on my smartphone. You know what I mean. That greasy streak that no matter how often you clean your hands somehow appears on the screen of your device. 

Like some oily reminder of the piglike being you really are. Churning, boiling, and roiling through the organic mess of life. You have an inherent amount of grease just oozing from your thumb or fingertip. Ready to smear its ickyness on the pristine plate of your smartphone. 

Smudging your portal into the beautiful immaculate cleanliness of the techno-digital cyberworld.

America, ya gotta love it. 

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