It’s hard to be proud of, let alone tell anyone, that as a twelve-year-old my world opened up and I knew anything was possible when a villainous super-hero ripped open her spandex bustier and shouted, “Laser my fucking tits!”

I’d been watching a program I wasn’t supposed to be watching. Forbidden fruit. And there it was. LMFT. Even as a twelve-year-old, I was pretty damn sure that in the entire history of the English language those words had never been combined before. In fact, that in the entire history of human language and symbolic communication, the juxtaposition of those concepts embodied in LMFT were as revolutionary as E = mc2.

For me, it was like a new universe had spun into existence, a wide-open realm to be explored. And conquered. A place I could totally LMFT to the top.

Heady stuff for a twelve-year-old.

So, how’d that work out for me? Pretty good. For me.

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Not so well for humanity.

Here’s the deal. When a new universe spins into existence, the person who gets it turning has a definite edge. Think about a merry-go-round. It’s a lot easier to hop on as it starts than when it’s really cooking.

Just ask the former tech giants. Stale farts like Gates, Bezos, Musk, Dorsey never had a chance on the LMFT carousel. I’d spun it up too fast, too recklessly. Only I could stay on the ride because I was in the dead center of it.

My neo-media merry-go-round even made me dizzy, but I didn’t get flung into the muck like everybody else. Bloodied, bruised, buried.

I buried them. Buried them in an endless avalanche of LMFT-inspired memes I created, then exploited to conquer all memedom. The more forbidden the fruit, the better. Let everyone taste of the garden. Push the boundaries. Shock ourselves into new life.

And there you have it. Frankenstein and his monster. Oppenheimer and his bomb. Zuckerberg and his social network. Me and LMFT.

Yup. I’m rich and powerful. The royal highness of webthought. Almost divine. Which is great.

Mostly.

The only problem is the rest of meme-fed humanity is so lacking in imagination that there’s not a soul with the whimsical spark left to laser my fucking tits.