YOLO in Hell


YOLO in Hell | DavsArt


Shout YOLO from beyond the grave, before realizing that you’re dead.

If YOLO turns from teenybopper slang into a horrific realization of truth, you know you’re in hell.


A place where novelty acronym colloquialism rules the land, and hardcover books get cut up and made into decorative art. Books have been replaced with modern magic eight balls that tell you if you’re a hippy or jock after five generic question quiz… and somehow you secretly believe it’s true. You like the pretty pictures of the flowers in their hair. You got the hippie. You read nutrition labels on at the grocery store. So it must be true. But nobody reads leather bound books in hell.


Where they make sexy bras for four year old girls, and all the baby boy clothes are blue and have footballs and trucks printed on the front. Because in hell your gender has everything to do with your genitals and nothing to do with your soul, there are no souls in hell.


Where hierachy begins in the pockets of those who climbed a human ladder, stepping on the backs and the shoulders of whoever’s lever would bring them closer to the top, crushing finger bones into dust, and loyalty into a piece of human flesh stuck between the treads on the bottom of those thousand dollar shoes.


Where accepting differences is dangerous because we don’t have the love in us to connect with others who do not share our ideologies. Our taste in music, style, religion, politics. Social status depends on equity in possessions, rather than equity of love. There is no love in hell


Where who you are, and what you think comes from everything you’ve ever known. Your shoes match your belt because you read that in Style magazine. Lavender is the trending color, all the malls feature lavender, and so do you. Nobody does the robot anymore, because nobody does the robot anymore. There is no pure identity in hell, everyone is made up of influences from other already existing influences. There are no individuals in hell.


YOLO! YOLO! YOLO! I shout as I click my seven dollar and fifty-eight cent gold shoes three times in a row.

But nothing changes.

Y O L O ! This time shouting with desperation. Pulling at my hair in hysteria, as the realization slithers up my back like a snake.

Nothing’s changing.

YOLO! I cry.

~s.davenport 07/15/14


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