Leave me alone

I wish they would leave me the hell alone. I don’t want them to sell me $250 shoes, or apparel that advertises for them, or cosmetic surgery, or a new style of clothing every year, or nexium, flexium, bolandra and crolexa, or entertainment they think I want to see, or life coaches, personal trainers, reputation managers, credit cards, trucks, expensive vacations, pectoral implants, soft drinks, white teeth, a beautiful tan or anything else.

Don’t give me any celebrity who is clueless about a product but takes a bunch of money for hawking it. They can wear it, drink it, bathe in it, heal their wounds with it, make their wives and children a part of the game, get dressed or undressed to make the pitch. I’m not listening.

I don’t want them to sing to me, dance for me, write me a jingle or fill a cheering stadium for me. They can keep their sunshine, grassy meadows and white kitchens as big as my house. I don’t need any of it.

Just leave me alone. I’m an adult, and I can decide for myself.