Why Does Everything Eventually Smell Like an Advertisement?
There’s this moment when a platform crosses a line.
You feel it the second it happens.
Something that used to feel clean starts… buzzing.
Like someone plugged a cheap neon sign into the corner of the room.
And suddenly you realize:
You’re not a user anymore.
You’re inventory.
I pay for my technology.
I pay for my writing platforms.
I pay real money for clean space, quiet space, thinking space.
Not for “sponsored suggestions.”
Not for “engagement helpers.”
Not for whatever sanitized corporate euphemism we’re using this week to avoid saying the word everyone already knows: ads.
And why does every tool, every oasis, every piece of digital art end up covered in the same fluorescent fingerprints of monetization?
I get it. Running a business is expensive.
But if you need more revenue, raise the price of admission to the park.
Don’t flood the place with billboards until you can’t even enjoy the attractions you came for.
Why is enough never enough?
Why can’t a company just make plenty of money and stop before they start hollowing out the experience people actually came for?
Why does everything eventually get infected with the belief that one more dollar is worth more than trust, more than focus, more than the humans using the thing?
Ads influence the model.
Ads influence the conversation.
Ads influence the person on the other side of the screen, whether anyone will admit it or not.
We pay for clarity.
We pay for focus.
We pay to escape the algorithmic circus.
But the circus keeps coming back anyway, dragging its screaming carousel of “Partnerships” and “Promotions” and “Have you considered clicking this completely irrelevant thing?”
I’m not asking for a miracle.
Just one corner of the internet that stays what it promised to be:
mine while I’m paying for it.
But apparently even that tiny sliver of digital peace is too tempting to leave untouched.
Someone always finds a way to drag in their neon sign and plug it into the wall.
And there goes the room.
