Why would anybody listen to my podcast?

Not that I actually have one, but say I did, what would make anybody actually want to to listen to a podcast that I would ever create? For one, podcasters have to really love the sound of their own voice. I don't. I don't even like my tone in typewritten mediums, though I seem compelled to keep typing regardless. 

But people who watch other people sitting in front of a camera spouting off about this or that, what is it that they find so compelling? I keep thinking, that's a lot of sitting through some boring-ass shit, waiting for the one or two nuggets of genius inspired wisdom to drop. It's like reality shows. Why bother, when there's reality? 

Those that know me, know that I've got nothing noteworthy to say, and if I ever did, I've said it a million times before, milking it for all it's worth. So, they'd be disappointed if they thought, "Well, if I stay tuned long enough, by God, he'll say something original or epiphonic." (Hey, isn't that a word?) More than likely, I'll drone on just like this, only with my bland mug and mumbly voice just making it that much more unpleasant. 

There must be a sick fascination with the drama of watching a person coming undone before a live studio audience. Ringside seats to "The Universe vs. Andrew," streamed for a small monetized stipend, of course. I don't know why they are selling Viagra on my sidebar. I had nothing to do with that. Really. 

Maybe I ought to do a FOIA request to pull my "big file," you know, the one they get the algorithm from. The CIA/FBI/NSA Google Facebook data that somehow has been mined from my online and other monitored activities. 

Ok, I get it. I'm not that important. I'm just a little goldfish cracker, there are more interesting individuals for them to target. But they cast a wide net, so I just want to know where I shake out. Sometimes YouTube seems almost psychic with their suggestions. And search bar predictions are downright spooky, with just how much they must know about what I'm thinking before I even type it.

I'm clearly not feeling inspired, so why am I bothering to write these thoughts down, exactly? Alive until dead, I guess. And that little part of me that is still alive and bitching probably wants to insure that his little bits will live on in the ether for just a little while after he's gone. 

I'd just like to feel good, but I had an argument with a friend earlier about, of all things, my not wanting to argue: about Covid, about Trump, about the state of the union, nothing. That, in itself is a position which requires defending. 

Can't I just give up? I'm not gonna solve the JFK assassination, chemtrails or PizzaGate. I'll probably just be herded along with the rest of the "sheep" and go quietly to the camps. At least they might be efficient at bringing about my demise. Can't be much worse than hanging around watching myself deteriorate for the next decade or two. 

I can see that hanging the Christmas lights didn't pull me far enough out of my depression to give me a holiday boost. Maybe I should just eat a bunch of cookies and be done with it.