Identity Fraud


Identity’s a funny old business you know. A very funny business. I mean, everyone wants one, but then when you get it you are invariably miserable about it, right?. Happens every single time. It’s supposed to be so damn great to have one, isn’t it? It’s supposed to be so bloody marvellous. So bloody fantastic. And yet look around you and what do you see? A bunch of miserable buggers is what. And what’s making them all so miserable? Correct! It’s their wretched, pestilential identities…


And why wouldn’t having some dumb-ass identity make you thoroughly unhappy? Really – what do people expect? I know, I know, I know – you’re thinking that if someone’s miserable about who they are then it’s because they have a crappy, low quality identity. If they had a decent identity, a high class one, then they’d be made up. They’d be on top of the world. They’d be laughing.


What a joke. Do you really believe that? Thought not. How could ANYONE believe anything that stupid? What’s an identity but a hole in the ground, a deep, freshly-dug pit for the unwary to fall into. Some holes may be more luxurious than others. Some are carpeted, for God’s sake. Some are highly salubrious. Some are perfumed. Some come with widescreen HD TVs. Some are in high class areas…


It’s like coffins. Some folk want to be buried in the very best coffins – they’ll fork out thousands of euros for them. Best quality mahogany, with a detailed engraving of the Last Supper. Or perhaps their nearest and dearest want that for them – I don’t know. But whichever way it is, what’s the difference? Why not simply go for the very cheapest cardboard model, cost you a few hundred euros at the most? It’s all the bloody same in the end, isn’t it? Who’s kidding who here? Where’s the advantage – a coffin’s a coffin. For fuck’s sake.


Same with identities. They’re all the bloody same when it comes down to it. Tailor-made coffins. Sarcophagi for the spirit. Tombs for the soul. Prison cells into which free consciousness is painfully shoe-horned. Made to believe that it is this, that or the other… “Oh yes,” says the poor bamboozled consciousness, “I’m Peter. I’m James. I’m Eric. I’m Sarah. I’m Daphne. I’m Louise…”
What a bunch of bullshit! What a heap of crap! What a lousy crappy joke!


No shortage of takers though is there? Take a look around you and what do you see? There’s Peter, there’s James, there’s Eric, there’s Sarah and Daphne and Louise…” Yes, there they all are…


And do they look miserable? Damn right they do! Oh I know from time to time these damn identities manage to fool themselves that they’re onto a winner. That they’re really going somewhere. Sure! Good luck with that one!


Or perhaps the bloody misguided identities look all smug and righteous in themselves. Like they’ve discovered the right and proper way to be and the rest of us poor suckers haven’t a clue. Or maybe they look all superior and self-important, like everyone else is shit and they’re not. What’s that rotten old business but disguised unhappiness? What’s all that carry-on but another form of misery, for God’s sake?


Maybe the identity is looking super-confident, sure of itself, on some kind of highly-important mission or whatever. Bullshit! The poor bloody thing is merely trying to cover up for the fact that it is hopelessly insecure. That it hasn’t the slightest clue about ANYTHING. That it hasn’t the foggiest notion what it’s all about, who it really is, what the story is, what exactly it’s supposed to be doing here.


Or sometimes some identity or other will get all cantankerous and crotchety, sometimes it will get ANGRY with the other identities, like it’s somehow THEIR fault it feels so damn crappy! Yeah sure – that’ll work. I’ll go for that…


And also you get those identities that get very industrious and diligent and ‘responsible’ and work away mechanically at this, that or the other as hard as ever they can in the hope that this will help them. That there will be a big pay-off at the end of it all. A ‘reward’. Make it all worthwhile. For the good little identities. Who have done what they’re told. Been good girls and boys.


Ha! As if that’s gonna help them. Some chance! The poor suckers. The poor dopes. They seriously need to cop on…


I could go on, but I won’t. I won’t bore you any further with the wretchedly tedious (not to mention hideously pointless) strategies that the poor old ‘identity-cocoon’ uses to kid on to itself that it ISN’T as miserable as sin, as lacking in genuine honest-to-goodness happiness as the Sahara desert is lacking in ornamental gold-fish ponds. Full of big fat Koy swimming around having a gorgeous time, eating lettuce and sweet-corn and fresh garden peas and watermelon.


What a con-job it all is! What a swindle! What a racket! What a dreadful old business…


So have I convinced you yet? Are you ready to trade-in your crappy old identity yet? Are you ready to scrap it, for the piece of worthless useless junk it is?


In return for what exactly, I hear you say. What will I get if I give away my identity? What do I get back? What’s the deal?


Why – you’ll get a two-week holiday to Vegas, flights and accommodation all covered, plus $20,000 spending money. In your pocket. What do you think?


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