Modern televised voodoo or Media transient visions

This novella is a wacky hodgepodge of modern chaos. The crucial consideration is this: how do we define self when everything/ everyone else is doing the job for us? How do we create identity? Is the task akin to the video editing process where images (concepts) become the means used to shift about our fractured existence in the frantic attempt to create some sort of meaningful entirety? This novella was composed entirely on a word processor. This adds another complex dimension to the editing/creating process of writing. If I can change fOntS, sizes, etc., who is to say I can't manipulate much more? If I were so goofy as to fail to print out the text of this novella, I would lose everything if my computer disk were erased: my words would remain intangible, non-existent. When we fail to create solid identities, will we eventually become erased? Is your own Media Mistress (a.k.a. Muse) hard at work, fighting time and chaos to keep you remembered and whole?