What do you expect me to do with this?

That you got ten out of ten on the multiple choice internet thing

You clicked on because you thought it was a news story

And then couldn’t bloody leave until fifty clicks later,

Because your self-worth is apparently bound up with

The kind of site that brings you

51 Best Celebrity Knees

And 43 people you didn’t know who’d died

(But might actually still be alive, because they haven’t checked).

They’re always an odd number, aren’t they?

Have you noticed?

It’s like they don’t care,

As long as you keep clicking,

And then you start liking,

And then your bloody score pops up in front of me

For some kind of response.

But what?

Dear God, tell me, what?

Do you want a pat on the back? A gold star? A slow hand clap?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m pleased you know who Shakespeare is.

Your skill with the multiple choice clickbait crap is obviously impressive.

Any fule can see that from your Twitter feed,

Even if it’s doubtful the question setters know what they’re talking about

When they think only a genius could tell Boris Johnson from David Cameron

Just four bloody years on from Cameron leaving, for Chrissakes.

And when their questions surf only the scum from the surface of Wikipedia

And half of them are taunting you for how old you are –

“We can guess your age, if you remember Spangles and Grange Hill and President Reagan.”

And then you can feel proud about that (proud? Really?)

And then you can tell me.

I mean, I’ve got something like 100 million neurons in my brain –

(Or is it billion? You see, I’m not one for stupid certainties) –

And you’re presenting me with this,

And you’re asking me to Do Something With It,

And I’ve no idea what it even means.

And now I’m clicking the bloody thing to see the questions,

And now I’m skipping past the 37 Celebrity Armpits,

And now I’ve got the bloody questions in front of me,

And now –

Oh, I get it.

Firstly, it’s not ten out of ten.

It’s 23 out of 23, because they really don’t give a damn how many, do they?

They just give up when the next dumb thing comes along they need to write.

And secondly –

It’s done. I’ve got my score.

I press Share.

And it’s over to the rest of them – thank God.

What do I expect you to do with this, then?

Frankly, I couldn’t care less.

Which is the whole point, isn’t it?

Mike Hickman (@MikeHic13940507) is a writer from York, England. He has written for Off the Rock Productions (stage and audio), including a 2018 play about Groucho Marx. He has recently been published in EllipsisZine, the Blake-Jones Review, Bitchin’ Kitsch, the Cabinet of Heed, the Potato Soup Journal, and the Trouvaille Review.