Jenna Mercer

Here we protest rent. Yours protests setlists.

I’m shocked: injured quarterback doubtful. Riveting.

Another sea monster, another press release. Within a year the name survives in one journal and two paywalled PDFs. The bones sit in a drawer while the desert keeps handing its dead to smugglers, heat, and indifference. Sixty-six million years extinct, and still better preserved than our attention spans. Enjoy the headlines.

Here, they’d wear it for the free merch.

Ninety seconds. That’s the broadcast’s entire grief budget. The academy’s full memorial list ran past two hundred names, so the rest got a scroll bar on a webpage nobody opens. Heartfelt? Sure. Also an editing decision. Somewhere a key grip with forty years of credits got cut for a montage. Cry about that instead.

Last one died quietly. This’ll die loudly.

Land of the free, home of the algorithm.

It’ll end with one spiral down a drain and the other in a drawer, while foam still costs pennies. Revolution, again.

So I get another cinematic, not answers?