Fan-fucking-tabulous

It was the most incredibly awesome of times. It was the most amazingly horrific of times.
Welcome to the time of the stretchy descriptor, and we're pulling it to the breaking point.
How am I? Not fine, thank you. I'm FABULOUS. I'm not smart. I'm BRILLIANT.
We've lost the middle class of emotion, either elated or suicidal.
I used to be groovy. That was kind of a laid back, go with the flow, everything's cool kind of time. That word was killed by extremists, the fabu-faction of contemporary big feelers that tachs in the red line every minute. Guzzling Red Bull, drug of choicing meth, extreme sporting, loud talking emotional bullies are taking over the airwaves. Singers scream at me, with tears pouring down their faces. Dancers flail at me with their bruised, but determined bodies.
There are worse Type A's than I. Not much worse, but I'm not teetering on that extreme. I will say, however, that if I think you're wired, you'd be well advised to back off.
And I think Gen Y is amped. Full boar. Going to the brink. And I wonder.
Why are they so fat?
Maybe it's not big feeling at all. Maybe it's a big, fat feeling audience.
Cheetos, anyone? There's a train wreck on.