Roast of Stale Realism

To the best of my knowledge, I am a real person. Laughing, crying, struggling, dreaming, questioning, actual somebody.

So, as a true representative of reality, I have a real question: What good is realism if frantic prostitution and repetition drains the life out of it?

Thousands of people doing this. Thousands of artists doing this. I'm getting a severe headache. Depression dulls my perception. Is that real enough?

There are 948,929 tutorials on how to draw the perfect nose hair. Vivid, faithful, lifelike, authentic yanker's delight.

The perfect eyelash with all the crusty bits that lie therewithin. Talk about realism. Can I get a realistic amen! No?! OK.

I've seen you flaunt your so-called real stuff. You disturbed photo freaks, hyperheads, anatomy pervs and charcoal-breathing weirdos. Oh, it's gotta be the real stuff. You know, like a flowery, heroic likeness of a polished celebrity with a moronic expression on his washed-out face. You need some serious skills to make that exciting.

How you're able to do this without erasing every trace of your sanity is a real mystery. How do you measure your success? What's the most genuine way to measure that? Numbers, of course. There's nothing like the wholesome, natural high you get from your 56 million likes.

I hope you had fun. You like real, remember? Now you can go back to your tutorial, "How to draw dramatic lighting on testicular blood vessels without overshadowing the wrinkles."