The Performative Male Apocalypse

Sometimes I’ll wonder what it must be like to be human. Pain and expression that both emanate and feed off each other, paired with opposable thumbs and ambiguous definitions of freedom for perfect, ugly messes. Luckily, though, we've mostly done away with those sentiments by now. I can’t very well tear my thumbs off, but it’s comforting to know The Performatives have finally risen to power. I couldn’t be happier, or any more self-aware.

“Performative” is a term best defined as the action of doing something, but less for the joy of doing something and more for the stroke of ego that comes with informing others that something is being done. Socially, we’ve gravitated away from “easier said than done” and towards “better said than done.” There’s action and there’s inaction, but not all of us can be the people doing the actions. Some of us don’t have time, between the oat milk lattes and the esoteric knowledge of the first cave painting to ever involve a record player, sketched in blood once its needle first dropped onto Radiohead’s most underground album. It’s just so much easier to brag, and I would know.

That’s right. I, Ian Dellinger (12), am a Performative Male, and since I haven’t washed my jorts in weeks, think of this as my airing out the dirty laundry. Social media tells me what to like too much and not at all. I can fine-tune my fixations at will. What’s your superpower? Yes, my jeans are five sizes too big for me; how else would I find the time for this belt? It’s thrifted, by the way. Honestly, though, this isn’t a terrible life to live. I remain an interesting person in the eyes of the public. The portrait in my attic is none of your business.

And I don’t see any moral issue with being performative, not at all. It’s freedom to stumble from idea to idea. It’s just like being a zombie! My brain is rotted all the way through and brown like a banana, but yours smells great from here. Human beings are cruel, anyway. Everyone’s already dusting off their pitchforks. I’m only one of a mob of many, where’s the fun in chasing me out of town? Seriously, is it fun? Should I get my own pitchfork? Are pitchforks sold secondhand?

I mentioned self-awareness earlier, but really, there isn’t much else left to compare myself to. Some things make me happy, some things make me sad. These are my rotted guts spilled onto a newspaper. When I pass my brainless brethren on the streets of New York City, I’m always sure to share with them a toothless, knowing smile. They’re the only ones that get me. In any case, I’m not sure it’s possible to be self-aware anymore. We enable each other; that’s what a horde is for. Sometimes I’ll wonder about humanity, but then I’ll remember my place. I don’t exist to speculate. This is me at my truest average.