Avatars in Quarantine
Avatar has two definitions:
a manifestation of a deity or released soul in bodily form on earth; an incarnate divine teacher.
an icon or figure representing a particular person in video games, Internet forums, etc.
Although Facebook’s recent introduction of Bitmoji was criticized as hopelessly late and simplistic in social media strata, you can’t help marvel at the wisdom of unleashing avatars during a time of quarantine.
Following weeks of isolation, bathing only to kill germs on grocery days, eyes red from too much drinking the night before, ungroomed hair from head, nose, ears, and face, clothes stained or absent, I no longer recognize myself when I look in the mirror. Early on in the quarantine, I used to stare at myself, shake my head and think —
This is what Einstein would look like if struck by lightning.
This morning, I just grab my crotch, simultaneously belch and fart, and head off in search of Little Debbie doughnuts.
Clearly not a deity, I think to myself, this is a soul in desperate need of bodily release.
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Following my breakfast at 2 pm, checking out my Facebook likes concerning my wise but often humorous rifts on a terrible pandemic, I was overwhelmed by a sea of campy avatars, each of them asking the same question:
Do you think this looks like me?
Seeing swarms of so many bright and comical avatars would be what happens to me if I ever took psychedelics. I pleaded with all my Facebook friends to make the bad trip stop.
The next morning at 3 pm, staring in the mirror, toothpaste drooling from my mouth like a rabid dog, the same zombie looking back at me, I could suddenly see the charm of an avatar.
Through the genius of Mark Zuckerberg, facing charges of building platforms for global surveillance and disinformation, I created my own avatar using a choice for skin tone, eyes shape and color, hair style and color, (I couldn’t find balding), face shape, complexion, facial lines (one was as many as I could choose), makeup, eyebrows, and body shape, (nothing even close to obesity).
Most conveniently of all, there was no accounting for age.
Deteriorating rapidly in the time of Coronavirus, this is the bullshit avatar Facebook gave to me:
Do you think it looks like me?
Of course it doesn’t look like me. That’s the whole point.
During a time of quarantine, I felt my soul uncoupling from my body, the incarnate divine teacher with a face you can’t help but like exploring the pleasant lies of Facebook.