Matt Spicer (2017)
A hospital bed invades a quiet living room. The surrounding decor combats with the white washed mechanism. The comforts of home clash with the prerequisite coffin. Ingrid falls into the painful remnant of rest. Her cell phone illuminates the sanitized sheets. Losing her final friend drives her to the virtual crop of personalities.
She shops on Instagram for a companion. More invigorating than holding interviews and plunging through paperwork, Ingrid has an endless supply of rectangular resumes under her thumbs. Captions more eloquent than improvised responses, and emojis more concrete than complex nonverbal exchanges.
Ingrid mistakes these snapshots as refined essences of strangers' life, when they are merely a meticulously edited barrage of ego. Her selection is doomed from the start. When a potential hire lies on an application, a workplace accident is bound to occur.
Her target, Taylor, obsessively documents her pristine LA dream with redundant hashtags and nonexistent punctuation. She boasts over 300K followers, yet when Ingrid arrives West, Taylor's social life seems so inclusive that it only contains her husband, Ezra. Ingrid's admiration for the couple boils, and she transforms her recent loss into a resource for manufactured neighborly charm.
Ezra has transitioned into a tortured artist per his wife's request. He emulates his wife's creative success by painting cheap slogans that speak to the lowest common denominator. The anthems of millennial oblivion gazed on the internet like graffiti-ed mucus. He feels the disgust, yet he is in too deep. He reminisces of the times when Taylor walked with a sorority girl gallop, and did not plagiarize interests.
Taylor is trapped in a lie of "best". She has an unquenchable need to label exuberance, and her soaring standards will burn her life short. This is the subject of Ingrid's obsessive compulsion. The vile exchange between both posers generates a psychological spill reeking of letdown. Certain lies are exalted by an internet culture, and others are spat on by your closest partners. Masks are only convincing to those blinded by worship.
A hospital bed invades a quiet living room. The surrounding decor combats with the white washed mechanism. The comforts of home clash with the prerequisite coffin. Ingrid falls into the painful remnant of rest. Her cell phone illuminates the sanitized sheets. Losing her final friend drives her to the virtual crop of personalities.
She shops on Instagram for a companion. More invigorating than holding interviews and plunging through paperwork, Ingrid has an endless supply of rectangular resumes under her thumbs. Captions more eloquent than improvised responses, and emojis more concrete than complex nonverbal exchanges.
Ingrid mistakes these snapshots as refined essences of strangers' life, when they are merely a meticulously edited barrage of ego. Her selection is doomed from the start. When a potential hire lies on an application, a workplace accident is bound to occur.
Her target, Taylor, obsessively documents her pristine LA dream with redundant hashtags and nonexistent punctuation. She boasts over 300K followers, yet when Ingrid arrives West, Taylor's social life seems so inclusive that it only contains her husband, Ezra. Ingrid's admiration for the couple boils, and she transforms her recent loss into a resource for manufactured neighborly charm.
Ezra has transitioned into a tortured artist per his wife's request. He emulates his wife's creative success by painting cheap slogans that speak to the lowest common denominator. The anthems of millennial oblivion gazed on the internet like graffiti-ed mucus. He feels the disgust, yet he is in too deep. He reminisces of the times when Taylor walked with a sorority girl gallop, and did not plagiarize interests.
Taylor is trapped in a lie of "best". She has an unquenchable need to label exuberance, and her soaring standards will burn her life short. This is the subject of Ingrid's obsessive compulsion. The vile exchange between both posers generates a psychological spill reeking of letdown. Certain lies are exalted by an internet culture, and others are spat on by your closest partners. Masks are only convincing to those blinded by worship.
final words:
IMAGE POLLUTES PERSONALITY