Time Is The Worst Invention Ever, And It Isn’t Even Close - 1.66

You lay on the couch and realize your youth has left, and it’s never coming back.

Earlier in the day, you walked with the people you work with around the building you show up to because that’s where you have to be for at least eight hours a day in order to receive money.
“Seven laps around the building is a mile,” a person walking next to you says.
You protest his claim, but then he says, “no, someone has a Fitbit that told them that."
“Oh, then it must be accurate,” you say to him, trying to avoid any further debate over how many laps around the building constitute a mile.

You think about how you’ve pretty much wasted the last ten years of your life.
Where “waste” means not engaging in activities that fulfill you, or not accomplishing much of anything other than the accumulation of mileage on your body, the occasional piece of pussy (not a very proper term for these times), a little bit of money (not enough), and a knack for bouncing from thing to thing.
In other words, you put yourself down for living , surviving, but not becoming a megasuperstarsuccess.
Like, everything short of being the most famous and rich and attractive and whatever person on Earth is considered a failure.

The purpose of walking around the building is to clear the mind so when it returns to the job it can focus better on work related tasks.
Like reading emails, and opening documents, and typing things, and figuring out stupid problems, and dealing with people who seem content with the default, and pretending to be one of those people who are content with getting whatever everyone else gets.
You think this act is stupid if it’s simply for the purpose of being better at your boring, monotonous, out of your control job, but you do it anyway because everyone else is doing it, and if anything, you’re a predictable drone whose more comfortable following the crowd than going against it.
So you walk in circles, pointlessly, filling up your mental capacity for returning to a job that you’re coming to hate.

The song you’re listening to was released almost ten years ago, and since then, the band who is performing it has released a shit ton of other songs.
You think, “just think where I’d be if I hadn’t quit."
Then sadness fills you at the thought of all that lost time, and wasted opportunity.
Then you think, “none of this shit matters. I’m still here,” and you return to focusing on using whatever time you do have remaining as wisely as possible.
And you do your best to convince yourself that being anything short of amazing all the time is OK, but it doesn’t really take, because the part of your mind responsible for telling yourself how awesome you are for just being lives in the clouds and isn’t very good at telling you those things unless you are amazing.
Validation is part of your lifestyle, and unless you’re experiencing it one hundred percent of the time, you consider yourself a failure.
You’re hardly ever comfortable just laying on the couch by yourself listening to a song you like, unless the hottest girl in the world is sucking your dick and money is raining down from the ceiling on your face and everyone is cheering your name and lauding you as the most amazing human that has ever lived.

After four laps around the office building, the guy who you work with on the same project told you about a friend he knows whose husband disappeared a couple of months ago, and how just recently they found his remains.
You say, “damn." 

What Doesn't Matter Is Like A Gorilla Slave Being Whipped By Giant Aliens - 1.65

Compared to the slaves who built the pyramids in Egypt for their alien masters, your job is like sitting on a quiet beach and being served by topless cocktail waitresses who double as free hookers.
"Miserable human suffering" is not a term most anyone would use to describe your situation.
Like, you're free to leave any time, and as long as you keep showing up and sitting in your chair for eight hours and face the screen and pretend to be interested in the work, you get money.
Those Egyptian slaves didn't get paid, unless we consider not being killed compensation.

But from time to time, your emotional reaction to meaningless work events make you think there's a nine foot alien towering over you controlling your mind silently, mentally torturing you.
Where, to the outside world, everything is calm and OK.
But this fucking alien slave master won't stop mentally beating you, over something you failed to do, something small, something so insignificant on the time line of all your lifetime that it's like a fart in the woods when you're alone.
But in the moment, when the shift from one position to another occurs, like the shift from not being mentally tortured to being mentally tortured, the thing is the most important thing that has ever existed and it makes you react in a way that a gorilla might act if another gorilla were to invade his space.
In other words, you feel threatened when things change to not your liking.

It's moments like these that remind you how far unconscious you've gone, and how deep into the fantasy world of things at the job you think matter but really don't you've wandered.
When you step back and look at it from the outside, you return to the realm of "doesn't mean shit."
Like, your job is a place to show up to in order to get a paycheck, nothing else.
Just like the gym is a place to show up to, do your thing, and leave, nothing else, except lust after the immaculate blond with the perfect butt who likes to show it off.

When you think someone is taking something away from you that you thought belonged to you is really just a thing where something you never owned is being distributed among other people who don't matter.
You don't matter.
At the job you're nothing more than a disposable commodity, a crumb that keeps The Progress Machine in business.
You know this.
The things you work on at the job don't matter.
They are things that, five years from now, will be tossed into some landfill and buried and ignored by The Future Explorers.
You know this.
Nothing inside the office door matters, except how much you get paid and when and for how long.

Your other interests are all that matters.
Your survival, your reactions, your health, whatever.
Those are the only things that truly matter.

How To Become An E-Expert And Make Lots Of Money Off Idiots Like Yourself - 1.64

There's plenty of dream dealers online. This is what I've noticed about them. The most successful ones apply these principles to almost seamless perfection. 


  1. There must be some kind of hardship story that precedes the success. Such as, I was broke, got fired from my job, lost my girlfriend, my dog died, I was in debt, then all the sudden, I turned my life around using these principles you’re about to pay me a lot of money to learn.
    1. This can be a hardship you had to overcome. Like, “despite being turned down numerous times for jobs, I stuck to it and finally landed the most amazing job anyone could ever have. And I owe it all to the techniques and strategies I’m about to teach you for a hefty fee."
  2. The success has to be just beyond believable. After the hardship is overcome, the success needs to stretch right to the edge of unbelievable. Like, “despite having zero prior sales experience, I was able to sell $10k worth of product in just under 2 hours. WOW!"
  3. You need success stories from seemingly ordinary people who have achieved just about the same level of near unbelievable success you have.
    1. You’ll probably have to cultivate these people. As in, “hand craft” them, working side by side with, mentoring them along the way and either throwing them away when they don’t achieve the success or exploiting them mercilessly if they do.
    2. Hell, just make ‘em up! No one on the webs is going to know any different.
    3. Preferably, if you do cultivate real people success stories, then they should already be in a position to succeed. Like, even if you hadn’t come along, they would’ve probably grabbed the golden ring eventually/anyway.
  4. Helping people either find or exploit their “passions” seems to be a good marketing gimmick. I mean, what’s more general and vague as “find your passion” or “do what you love?” People seem to eat this shit up. I know I used to.
  5. You’re probably going to have to invent some problems that don’t really exist, the vaguer and more urgent sounding the problem, the better, then you can sell the solution. Like, being stuck in a boring office job sucks, my e-program will show you step by step how to escape and live an exciting, fulfilling life.
  6. You’re going to need some credibility. It seems you might be able to just make this up (see #1 and #2). I think people default to believing what they read with much skepticism, unless they’ve been trained to be skeptical. But nonetheless, a reference from an already established “player” singing your praises is probably a good jump start.
    1. Endorsements. That’s the word I was looking for. You need other already e-experts to endorse you, or just make ‘em up. Also probably doesn’t hurt to be “featured” in a well known media thing, like The Wall Street Journal or New York Times.
  7. You need your own slang, your own productization talk. You need to invent terms to describe your strategies. These are your brands, the things that stick in people’s heads. Stuff like, Tuner Strategy, Trickle Success(???), Lifestyle Design, Critical Aim Philosophy. These things help you “own” your own garbage and make it sound like something totally original and unique, when really, it’s just reprocessed nonsense or common sense with a slight twist. Hell, E-Expert is a term I just made up.
  8. Eliminating negative beliefs, like overcoming yourself, seems to be a big player. Like, you can’t achieve the success we’re going to teach you if you keep shooting yourself in the foot. These are the objections that people are going to have, the built in excuses. These will probably be hard to find until you start interacting with your community of gullible, desperate pawns. And of course, you’ll have your own unique solution to getting rid of these negative beliefs that’s simply a rehashing of basic psychology.
    1. Also, pushing things like short cuts or hacks or learning from mistakes (or don’t make the same mistakes) seems to be things people eat up also.
  9. You’re going to have to set yourself apart from the pack. There’s a ton of wanna-be e-experts out there with products and e-courses and what not they’re trying to ram down everyone’s throat. The self help industry is over $10 billion a year. So you either need to break down someone else and show how your’s is different OR your going to have to find something totally unique. Like my e-expert training, where you’ll learn the secrets to becoming a bad ass, money making, life changing (at least that’s the feeling you want people to walk away with) machine.
    1. I notice a lot of e-experts can distinguish themselves by just being edgy. Like, using terms such as “renegade” and “rebel” and “tribe” and whatever, and just generally writing in a different style. Like Ramit is all super cas and brags a lot and throws people under the bus in his writing. It’s entertaining, even though he’s spinning (very well) well worn advice. This probably follows closely with #7.
  10. Use oddly specific numbers and dollar figures. Somehow, specific numbers tend to turn off the part of brain responsible for skepticism, so whatever dollar figure or statistic your using, be as specific as possible, down to the cent.
  11. You need a good picture, preferably an action shot or a smiling head shot that makes you look as attractive as possible. People like attractive faces. It’s hard to say no to someone who looks like they are coming at you as a friend.
  12. Whatever it is you’re trying to sell, it will probably go a long way if you follow this formula for pitching it: ]get something] for [next o nothing]. Here’s some examples, “Get A 7 Figure Job Without Any Experience,” “Make $10k Per Month Online Without Knowing How To Sell,” “Bang Hot Chicks Even If You’re A Disfigured, Retarded Goon.” You get the idea.
  13. You have to be a contrarian. You need to say things like, “I could’ve got a regular, boring job like you, but that path wasn’t for me. I knew I was going to be bad ass and awesome.” Like, you need to sell people on the idea that you’ve carved a path to happiness, success, and all that crap and you’re inviting people to follow in your footsteps. For a fee, of course. And you never give them everything all in one package. You need to string them along so you’ll have a constant source of money.
  14. The end result of everything you push is the feeling you want the receiver to feel. You're not just going to lose fat off your fat body, your going to feel more attractive and confident and sexy. You're not going to simply build a successful e-business, you're going to feel joy and satisfaction and happiness. People want to feel good emotions, and it's your job to sell it to them (you don't actually have to deliver, you just have to convince them that in exchange for their money, they're going to get X good feeling(s)).
    1. It's always much less about the product and what features it has. In other words, the actual details don't matter. The "sizzle" is the feeling one is going to get by consuming the information.

In Honor Of The One That Succumbs The Best To Marketing Bullshit - 1.63

They make this thing that plugs into the TV that makes it so you can play content from your computer or iDevice on the TV.
Google makes it.
You think those guys are pretty smart, and you’d very much like to work for them, but you’ve tried, and they don’t think you’re smart enough, and you curse them for having such ridiculous standards, but you know, deep down, that if you were to get a job there, the first time they wanted you to do something hard you’d say something like, “fuck this shit,” and get pissed and hate everyone and start looking for another job.

You go to the place that sells this consumer item.
You ask a person wearing all black and a name tag standing around the iDevices doing nothing but standing with his arms folded, “do y’all have <consumer device> here?"
He squeaks, “yeah,” and starts walking fast towards where the thing is.
“Here and here,” he says pointing to two different locations on the shelves.
“Thank you,” you say.

He returns ten seconds later and asks, “would you be interested in upgrading your phone today?"
The whole thought of an upgraded phone appeals to you.
You like upgraded everything.
Upgraded apartment, upgraded car, upgraded sports seats, upgraded vagina, upgraded pre-packaged life experiences.
You walk through life seeking opportunities to upgrade, thinking that somehow, maybe, if the moment is just right, that upgrading whatever will lead to upgraded happiness and upgraded sex.
Yes, it all comes back to sex, there’s really no other reason that we exist.

“No thank you,” you say, because you don’t like the way he looks or talks or walks or dresses.
If he had a pair of nice titties and spoke a couple of octaves higher and asked you in a way that suggested he might be interested in having sex with you if you upgraded your iDevice today, then you would’ve probably said yes.
But instead, you chose to mentally dismiss him as a nuisance on your quest to consume.

You pick up the box and examine the packaging, and already, you feel your mind making tiny judgements about its appeal to you as a person.
Subconsciously, you compare each detail to some predefined quality you have in your head, where the sum equates to either, “yes, this is me,” or, “no, this is not me, next package please."
All the qualities align with how you’ve been trained to think of items like this.
Through years and years of mindlessly consuming advertising, Google has slowly programmed you to view their products in higher level than the products it sits next to.
And between the time it takes you to move the package from your hand to your basket, you feel like an intelligent, well informed, competent decision maker whose just chosen the best possible option wisely.
“One day, they’ll be a statue of me in honor of my amazing consumer product choosing skills,” you think.

On the way out, you pass a rug that triggers your pleasure centers.
You think, “this would be great for the dog."
You choose a color that you think might look good with the other decor in your apartment, fold it under your arm, and walk towards the checkout lanes.
You realize at that moment that you are an unwitting pawn being funneled through a well honed experience designed to drain your desire to say “no” while raising your desire to say “yes."
And you know it’s a game you can’t win and will never be able to win.
And then you wonder if you give enough shits to even care. 

The Future Is Full Of Worry Because Convenience Is A Thing And Shiny Floors Need To Be Maintained - 1.62

Everything is designed to be an inconvenience, a time sink, a method of syphoning money from our pockets, keeping us all, the mid to low level minions of The System in perpetual checkmate.
Some people might call this “the rat race,” which implies that we are all rats running in an infinite wheel until we fall over dead and another rat takes our place.
And inconvenience is a concept that can only exist in the presence of convenience, a state of comfort so addictive that deviation from it brings about a whole new way of expressing emotions, and a whole new vocabulary to enunciate those emotions.

You move your furniture from its natural location in order to clear the floor so the apartment maintenance people can come shine it.
After placing a chair in your closet, you begin to feel the pointlessness of your existence and how it relates to the concept of inconvenience.
“A shiny floor is worth 30 minutes of pointless physical exertion and 4 hours of un-access to my living space,” you think something like.
Then you think, “gotta have that shiny floor in case I bring a girl home who might want to have sex with me, but first needs to see how I care for my floors."
You sink into the madness and acknowledge what a pawn you are to the trappings of The System.

It’s this endless need to achieve perfection, as if it’s an attainable goal that once attained can be rested on.
It’s your programming, the routines that have been burned into your brain over and over again since the day you crawled out of your mother’s vagina.
The doctor who helped pull you out whispered it in your ear, “be a good boy, obey the rules, strive for completeness."
Then your parents yelled at you and hit you when you deviated from the rail, “mind your mother, me, and God,” your father might have said to you after scolding you for disobeying a command.
Then your teachers repeated the same obedience lessons over and over again, hammering your brain into submission because that’s how brains get programmed.
Then your bosses work more to keep you in line, a quiet, subservient, obedient drone, than they do to help you do work.
It’s more important that they all have control over you than it is to allow you to be free, which might hinder their experience of convenience.

You slide the last piece of furniture into the carpeted bedroom and feel a great sense of accomplishment.
Like, once these floors are shined and perfect, you won’t have anything else to worry about, except moving all the furniture back in place and your future in general, which is everything and always looming.
“But shiny floors,” you think, “it’s like a small part of my life has improved and I can rise a micro-tick in status, because not everyone has shiny floors."

But you know, deep in some crevice in your head that’s the only spot in your whole body capable of intelligent, rational, sensible, reasonable thinking, that in just a few days, the floors will not be shiny any more.
The shine will wear off and you’ll be left with regular, not shiny, probably fucking dirty floors again and you’ll be right back where you started.
And the micro-tick rise in status will regress and slip into depression and your brain will go into overdrive trying to think of ways to recover what you lost.
And that will become another worry on top of all the other worries.
Then you’ll go looking for solutions, products you can buy to solve your worry.
And you’ll find it and use it and be satisfied and the cycle will repeat until you die and “The Progress Machine” comes and reclaims your experience and downloads into someone in the next generation, who will conceptually worry about the same things but use different technology and products to try and solve them.

You know you can’t win, yet you can’t stop playing the game because you don’t know any other game to play.
All you know is your floors are about to be shiny and that defaulting to convenience is easier than grinding against it, and that girls only have sex with guys that have shiny floors.
That sliver of your brain dedicated to reasonableness says, “fucking bullshit,” but what does it know except everything? 

Remember In The Way Back Time When Humans Didn't Need Instructions For Their Food? - 1.61

The lady sitting at the table behind you says, "here's to first experiences," then everyone, you assume, takes a gulp of their alcohol drink.
You further assume that it's someone's first time ever consuming raw fish wrapped in rice.
But maybe it's her first time consuming alcohol, or her first time ever being out of the house, or her first time sitting at a table with other women where before she only sat at tables populated with men.
You're not sure, but you still assume it's her first time ingesting sushi.

Then you realize the truth about all of the world and how it relates to individual human experiences.
"It all happens in a bubble," you think.
And you congratulate yourself silently for being one of the greatest thinkers in human history.

The waitress comes by and asks, "is everything OK?"
You keep chewing while holding your right thumb straight up and shaking your head in the "yes" direction.

The ladies sitting to your left receive their food and you overhear them ask, "how do we eat this?"
Then you think, "are we the first humans to ever wonder how to eat something? I mean, it's like, did the loin cloth wearing savages in the jungle wonder, 'how do I eat this mastodon I just killed with my bare hands?' If you have to be told how to eat something, isn't that a sign you probably shouldn't be eating it?"
Then you look down at your plate and think, "can I eat that piece of green thing underneath my sushi?"

What you consume becomes a part of you.
The molecules, the atoms, whatever you don't piss or shit out gets incorporated into your body.
That's something you don't think about when you're gulping down your ninth soda of the day or woofing down the seventh cookie in a row.
It's something no one thinks about any more.
Food is placed in front of our face, we're instructed how to eat it, then we eat it.
If it tastes good, if it hits that spot in our brain that signals pleasure, we keep eating it.
If it tastes like a dirty asshole, we don't eat it and go on Yelp and write a bad review.

You imagine that's how humans have always been, but the humans in the long long ago didn't have The Void to reach into to grab anything they wanted at any time they wanted it.
And they didn't have couches and TVs and iDevices and goals and jobs and money and taxes and buildings and air conditioning and cars and pollution and AIDS and doctors and screens and wireless invisible signals passing through their bodies and movies and restaurants and highways and divorce and schools and soccer practice and sports and anxieties about all this crap that doesn't matter to how God designed us to be but we still can't help it because we have anxiety that needs to be replicated somewhere.

You close your eyes and focus on your breathing.
You remind yourself that none of this matters, and it's the experience, the process, the going through the motions that matter.
Pleasure isn't the only thing we should seek, because it's fleeting, just as everything else is.

A girl who works at the sushi place instructs the ladies to your left how to eat the thing they ordered.
The ladies, in unison, say, "Ohhhhhh," in a tone that suggests excitement, that their pleasure centers are revving up.
The ladies behind you take another gulp of alcohol after saying some words.
You finish the food you had to be taught how to eat, pay your bill, get in your car, drive to your apartment, pet your dog, and turn your mind back to goals and money and everything else that is just stuff to the fill the time you have on the planet.

Behind The Curtain & Inside The A-ron Brain - Week 8

If you’re a regular reader of this thing, then, HA! that’s a trick question. There are no regular readers of this thing HAHAHAHAHA! suck it!

But seriously, if you’re a Future Explorer and have started with week one and read up until now, you’re going to recognize a format shift. And I’m going to tell you why. Because 1) I fucking feel like it and 2) the whole challenges thing just wasn’t working out for me. And I’m going to further elaborate on that last point in this new format.

And now, ladies and gentlemen and possibly aliens in the future, here’s the debut of the famously creative and world wide read literary superstar, Inside the A-ron Brain...


Here’s what’s going on inside my head this week...

  • I’ve never been good at fulfilling too many goals all at once. Like, the challenges thing was a nice experiment, but in the end, it was too much all at once. I don’t have the bandwidth to work a full time job dealing with half morons, start a business around my own shitty software, write amazing, interesting, mind blowing things in this blog every day, eat right, train almost every day, and improve my social skills. Call it old age, laziness, whatever. I do better when I’m striving for excellence in a skill instead of towards a singular goal(s). So I’ve ditched the challenges in favor of just working on getting better at things that matter most to me.
  • In an effort to raise the middle finger to cable providers and their numerous knock offs (u-verse, fios, etc), I spun up my very own VPN server using Amazon’s EC2 thing. “Why in the fucking bloody Hell would you want to do this, A-ron?” is a question that may have popped into your head just now. Well, two reasons:
    1. To protect my browsing stuff when I’m connected to a public WIFI. After getting a phone call from USAA a couple of weeks ago because their fraud alarm went off on one of my cards, I decided it might be time to lock down how I access the interweb. Some assholes in China duplicated one of my cards and went on a spending spree, culminating in an attempt to purchase what I can only assume is fabric from some fabric store in China. So having a VPN server and making sure I do all my internet things through it will help protect me from the Chinese even more. The struggles of the consumer are real.
    2. So I can watch Dallas sports teams play sports games, essentially skirting the blackout rules that the NBA, NHL, and MLB have because they are fucking the TV providers, and probably licking their ass too. A VPN server allows me to pretend like I’m somewhere I’m not, which is perfect for bypassing their stupid rules. This is the real middle finger to TV providers, because I’m not paying them $50+ a month for 6,000 channels I never watch. If you would like me explain in a post how to do this, contact me.
  • I worry way too much about wasting my life. Like this whole switching from thing to thing has gotten really old. Believe it or not, there was a time when I was solely focused on music. I’d spend just about every free second I had either practicing, recording, or writing. Then one day I quit. Then one day I started this writing thing as a substitute. But that nagging feeling, like I’m not doing what I was meant to do, if you believe in that sort of thing, never fully went away. This writing thing is cool and all, but it’s not a void filler. I don’t get lost in this. I can only do it for so long then I’m ready to quit. So I’m going back to the well on the music thing, and thus abandoning the challenges. My thinking is this: if I focus on getting really good at playing the guitar and composing music, then somehow that will turn into opportunity. Like, for the past 9 years I’ve wanted to stop having to show up to a job every day to make money, and I think that’s been a major driving force in my decisions. Music isn’t a practical business. No one makes money doing it. But watching Mozart in the Jungle has inspired me to let go of worrying about the financial side of things for a while, and just build the skill and the acumen to the point where it’s really hard to not be noticed. That’s the theory any way. We’ll see if I can actually stick to it.
  • I’m most likely never getting laid again. That weighs on my mind also. The fact that I’m on the wrong side of 40, I have zero social skills, and no prospects at that position. Maybe I should’ve stayed married, just for the occasional ass. No, fuck that. I’d rather spend the rest of my life alone than be married. Which, is probably going to turn out to be not so far from the truth.
  • It’s Sunday, in January, the middle of fucking winter, and it’s 75 fucking degrees outside and sunny, and has been for the past three days. This is how humans were meant to live. I love it, but goddamn it if the summer isn't going to fuck us all in the ass.

“Best” Can Suck It - 1.60

When The Progress Machine scrapes your body into the incineration pit, you’ll look up and wonder, "what’s the best thing I should do with my life?"
Then they’ll turn on the flames and your soul will enter a state between Heaven and Hell where souls go when they dedicate their lives to trying to figure out what to dedicate their lives to.
There, you’ll spend eternity thinking and mulling over and trying to figure what “best” means to you.
Then The Future Explorers will arrive and take less than a second to answer the question for you, which speeds you off to whatever place God picked for you to go.

You’d like to think you could dedicate your life to being some type of Hugh Hefner playboy, banging hot girls and living in mansions and walking around in robes all the time.
But you have a hard time saying, “hello,” to the girl at the gym that works out next to you, or saying any words at all to anyone any time.
At this point, you’ve dedicated your life to using the absolute minimum amount of words necessary to exist.
So you sit here, again, for the twenty seventh billion time, pondering, “what’s the best thing I should do with my life?"

Music is such an obvious choice.
"But there’s all these other things, and how will I make money, and it’ll take a long time to get good enough to the point where I don’t suck, and…"
Your mind is an empty void of this one single thought that bounces around endlessly, like an asteroid in space, or some shit like that.
It’s an unsolvable puzzle, a riddle maybe, this “best” that’s blended with overwhelming other choices, things you’d really like to do that you think is more practical.

You stare out the coffee shop window and think how the minutes and seconds are counting down.
Yes, down, they’re no longer going up, they’re moving down towards your expiration date, the date with The Progress Machine.
And you feel the crunch and the stress and weight of making such a decision, because you don’t have any more do overs left.
“Choose wisely,” a voice that sounds like God, but isn’t really God because it doesn’t boom with authority like his, it’s just God-like, rattles around in your head.
And you’re so afraid of getting it “wrong."
“But what the fuck does that even mean? How will I know if it’s wrong?"
Perhaps that’s a question for The Future Explorers to answer.

You look left and find the best ass poured into tight fitting pants that you’ve seen all day.
You stare for a couple of minutes wonder what it might be like to shrink yourself down flea size and live on her ample bottom.
Every night would be like sleeping on a cloud.
You watch her walk out the door and as soon as your eyes hit the daylight outside, your mind returns to trying to figure out “best” and “wrong” and what all these things mean.

Then the answer comes to you, it’s been there all along.
It’s the thing you’ve wanted to do since you were a little kid, the thing that’s filled with uncertainty and the possibility that you’ll never be worth noticing.
Which, “how is that different from where I’m at now?"
You’re an unnoticeable speck on the planet, with a skill set that’s quickly becoming commodity, and an appetite for consumption that doesn’t seem to be fillable.

So you run the scenarios in your head, and all of them end with either failure, quitting, and regret, or more uncertainty.
There’s no guarantee of anything, not even this thing here, which you spend so much time on.
You know there’s no need to quit everything else, but you will have to let go of some things to free up time to dedicate to whatever you pick.
You know the answer is music, because you get lost in it, you spend inordinate amounts of time working on it, practicing, trying to figure things out.


The Sex Robot Is The Equivalent Of Being Able To Lick Your Own Sack - 1.59

When you look in the mirror, all you see is a fat belly that’s beginning to droop at the bottom.
Like, you saw a person the other day who was wearing a shirt slightly too short to cover their entire upper body, where the bottom portion of their belly had no choice but to hang out.
Your immediate thought was, “fucking disgusting,” then you looked down and calculated how far off you were from having the bottom belly hanging out of shirt problem.
“Not much longer now,” you thought.

Squatting in the the gym highlights your belly.
Like, if you could somehow detach your belly, the rest of your body would look amazing.
Seriously, you’d literally have women fighting to crawl in your window at night to have passionate sex with you, and you’d probably get propositioned all the time by the most elite of gay men.
But your fucking belly looks like a sack of potatoes tied around your waist, and you hate it because it’s a reflection of your poor eating habits and your inability to be reasonable around food.

The girl who you like to drool over is in the squat rack next to you doing a movement where holds small weights in each hand and raises her arms out to her side then lowers them back to her sides.
Your eyes, like a hungry wolf targeting his kill, focus straight on her vaginal area in the mirror, and you stare like she can’t see you looking, but she totally can.
When your consciousness catches up to your animalistic instincts, you snap your mouth shut and dart your eyes up to her face to see if she’s noticing you directing all your human sexual energy to her crotch.
Her face maintains that vacant look of someone who is oblivious to anyone else’s existent, like a super model on an ad poster for some chic uptown apartment, where the purpose of the ad is to highlight how empty and void of life the building and community really are.

If this was any ordinary day, you’d go about your business and pretend she didn’t exist.
You’d go out of your way to not look at her, even if you were certain she couldn’t catch you.
But today, you’re feeling not only fat but social.
You look at her face in the mirror and say, “I’m sorry for staring,” in the meekest voice you can muster.
She maintains her robotic mantra, and for a second you wonder if the gym has invented lifelike robots and dressed them in hot girl skins to parade around the gym to attract males to buy memberships.

You mentally shrug your shoulders and go back to doing your squat routine while trying not to feel shame over your expanding waistline.
Like, it looks like a plastic sack of jello stretched across your mid section.
You have normal, somewhat muscular legs, an impressive chest area, a somewhat tiny head, and normal everything else.
But your belly, Jesus fucking Christ.

You look around the gym and find a guy with a beard reclined on a bench holding an enormous amount of weight doing some kind of movement where he bends his elbows so the weight moves towards his forehead then presses it back up.
When he’s done doing this, and after grunting loudly through each rep, he drops the weight violently on the ground, not giving a fuck if someone might happen to be walking behind him.
You stare at his belly and conclude that his is way flatter than yours and that somehow makes you less than him, in an economic environment that exists solely in your head where the inverse of your belly size is currency.

You add more weight to the barbell and do more squats.
The hot girl whose crotch you were mesmerized by earlier walks past as you reach the bottom position of the squat, which accentuates the enormity of your belly, and also makes it look like you’re taking a dump in a hole you just dug.
You puff out your chest and press the weight up, flexing your butt muscles at the top, hoping she’ll break out of her robotic routine and start sucking your dick.
Of course, that doesn’t happen, which confirms in your head that she is indeed a robot, because no female can resist your flexed butt and oversized belly.

The guy with the beard and flatter stomach than yours and appetite for grunting and dropping weight recklessly starts grunting and dropping weight recklessly again.
You wonder if this impresses the girl whose crotch you’d very much like to rub on your face.
Then you remember you read a thing not too long ago that said women are not impressed by his type of behavior and are more impressed with a guy who squats “ass to grass,” which is something you have perfected.
And since she doesn’t seem reactive to either you squatting deep or him throwing weight around, you conclude that everyone is full of shit and it’s very clear that she is indeed a robot.
Nonetheless, a robot you’d very much like to date, get bored with, and toss aside in favor of a newer model. 

The Man Outside Wants To Be The Man Inside Where Penis Touching Is Acceptable - 1.58

There’s a man outside your office window holding a long stick with something on the end of it.
He moves whatever is on the end of the stick - it looks like a sponge or something - across the top of the window, while concentrating deeply on what he’s doing, like a surgeon or rocket ship pilot or prostitute on her last client of the day.
You stop what you’re doing and just watch him, wondering if he can see in and watch you.

A person who works in your office comes in your office and starts talking about work stuff.
You talk to the person while keeping your eyes on the man outside your window.
You wonder, if he was a zombie or crazy person with ebola if he would be able to bust the window and get in and consume your body.
You cut your eyes away from the man outside and look at the person who came in your office and started with the small talk.
He just stands there in your doorway, blocking your only way out, and you feel threatened, cornered, like you’re going to have to make a decision soon about fighting to the death with either the person blocking the doorway or the psychotic, possibly undead man outside wielding a pole with an object on the end.

The person blocking the doorway moves about his business, and you feel relief, like an escape route opened up and freedom is only a few steps away.
But instead of running for freedom, you rock back in your chair and get lost in the infinite digital distraction.

You look out your office window and notice the man carrying a ladder towards your window.
You watch him meticulously prop the ladder against the building, making sure it’s secure.
Then he climbs up it and you instantly pray to Jesus that he will fall to his death and add some excitement to your day, your month, your year, your life.
You scientifically prove that humans are incapable of telekinesis, or whatever it’s called when someone tries to control another person using only their minds.
Because no matter how many times you silently try to send the message, “jump, jump, jump,” to the man on the ladder, he does not respond by jumping.

You stand up from your chair and do some deep squats.
You read somewhere on the internet that sitting for long periods of time is more likely to cause a person to die sooner than they probably should.
You wondered if this effect was cumulative and if doing some squats every now and then would be enough to ward off inevitable death.

You watch the man carefully climb down off the ladder.
When he gets to the bottom, he presses his hands and face against your window and looks in.
His eyes meet yours as you lean back in your chair resting your right hand on your penis.
You exchange a moment of envy with the man, as he wishes he could be sitting in a nice warm office touching his penis and you could be outside doing manual labor.
It’s like looking in a mirror facing another mirror where the reflection goes on forever. 

How To Kill Everyone In The World Using Only Words, A Horrible, Shallow Imagination, & A Spoonful Of Complete Incompetence - 1.57

"This is terrible," your mind says as you write the most ridiculous words you've ever written before in your life.
Like, if what you just wrote were actually published and people read it, they'd stab their eyes out and scream something like, "I can't fucking take it any more," then go strip naked and run into the busiest road they could find and wait for someone whose either drunk or texting (shouldn't be much longer now) to speed into their naked bodies, ending their miserable life.
That's the depth of literary atrocity you just committed.


But, not really THE END forever and ever.
Just for today.
You'll be back tomorrow.

How To Instantly Double Your Dating Pool While Shopping For A TV Antenna - 1.56

You stand in amazement at all the antenna options available for turning freely broadcast digital signals into moving pictures on your TV.
All the packaging promises the strongest reception, the longest range, the least amount of hassle, and every box has an image of a white, happy, smiling family sitting in front of a TV with a crisp, clear picture.
You wonder, for a split second, if your life would be that way had you made different choices or been born a different type a person, the type of person who thinks sitting around a crystal clear TV picture with two point five kids and an attractive wife is the ideal lifestyle.

Out of the corner of your eye, a man says, “hello, excuse me, do you know which one picks up <censored> best?"
His accent suggests he might be a member of ISIS, or Al Qaeda, or whatever terrorist group is the in thing.
At least, that’s where your mind immediately goes when you hear such an accent.
But after a moment of realizing he’s not trying to kidnap you or cut your head off, you realize his accent is most likely Indian, actually a person from India, and as a country, they’ve produced literally zero terrorists in their existence.

You say, “uhhh, I’m not sure, I think most of them should pick up all the local channels."
“My kids want to watch the game today and the antenna we have does not pick up…."
Your eyes glaze over at the boringness of his back story.

The other day you had your first gay fantasy, which you kind of forced on yourself as an exercise to see if you could instantly double your dating pool.
Although the images you generated didn’t make you gag or run to the toilet in a Crying Game kind of way, they also didn’t motivate you to seek out the sexual company of another man.
You figured that if your penis moved, even a micro inch while thinking of getting it on with another man, then maybe there’s hope.
But, nothing.

You shrug your shoulders at the man after words stop leaving the lowest hole in his head, and turn your palms up in the “I don’t know” direction.
You feel bad that you don’t care about his Indian people problems, which happens to be the exact same white people problems you’re facing, which is buying an antenna suitable for picking up the station that’s broadcasting the game today.
He says, “maybe I should ask somebody."
And all your suspicions about whether or not you think other people think you actually exist are confirmed, as he has declared you a nobody via exclusion from the somebody category, because if he thought of you were a somebody, he wouldn’t have used those words, as he’d already asked a somebody so no need to go any further.

You smirk and say, “sorry I can’t be more helpful."
“Oh, no problem, there’s just so many choices."
“You could always buy one and bring it back if it doesn’t work?” you say more as a question than a statement of fact, because you don’t know if such a thing is even possible at a store like this.
He looks at you and furrows his brow in the “that’s not a bad idea” direction.
“That’s a good idea,” he says, and all the sudden you’re back to square one with the whole question of whether or not you are a real person that other people acknowledge and accept as a person.

You choose the only antenna that doesn’t feature an image of an insanely happy family on the package.
“Good luck,” you say to the man as you walk away.
“Yeah,” he says still debating which to choose.
You think, “in another universe, we could be best friends forever."
And you carry the image of the two of you sitting side by side, arm in arm, cuddling in front of a crisp TV signal watching the football mens do football mens things.
You kiss him on the cheek then force his head down to your crotch, and a smile comes over your face at the thought. 

Behind The Curtain & Inside The A-ron Brain - Week 7

You like watching the football mens run around and tackle each other. And because of that, and the fact that your butt was misbehaving, you write this right before going to bed, which is unusual, but necessary if it’s to be done. And it’s important it get done because a revelation is forthcoming. Not that you care about a revelation, but, whatever, here it comes.

Due to unforeseen influences and the pull of things left undone, you’ve changed up the challenges you undertook about three months ago. Sometimes a person just can’t go on denying their true desires, and you’re no different, and the time has come to let go of of substitutes and do the real thing.


You scraped the software making thing in favor of turning this, your writing, into a business. You have no idea how you’re going to do this, because, seriously, who in the fuck would pay to read this crap? You have some ideas, and that’s the goal for the rest of Winter.


Since you’ve made writing your business, it frees this up to be used to make music, which is what your true desire is. You’ve repressed it long enough, and hopefully you can pick it back up constantly like you once did. Or maybe you quit again in three months and go back to writing or whatever.


This hasn’t changed. It stays the same, except you’re focusing on completing seasonal challenges instead of one big challenge.


You’ve simplified this one to just getting out of the house more and in a position to meet new people. If you don’t meet them, oh fucking well. The only thing you can do is try and to stop putting pressure on yourself to meet people in odd places, like the coffee shop or grocery store. And you’ve put more focus on the meeting womens. The acquisition of sex is going to become a real issue soon, so best to get prepared.


Challenges no longer last an entire year. They are broken down seasonally. This gives you the opportunity to reevaluate and make adjustments as necessary. It’s also a good indicator to how important something is to you. In other words, if you don’t put much effort into the thing, then it’s probably not something that’s important. 

Peeling Back The Layers Only Reveals More Layers Until It Reveals Nothing, And That’s Where We Stand - 1.55

“Wow, that’s a colorful, interesting shirt,” the girl behind the counter says to you instead of the traditional and expected, “hello, welcome to <censored>, may I take your order?"
A normal human would’ve responded by saying something like, “thank you. It’s my favorite band. They’re weird."
But you’re not a normal human, you’re “special,” which is another word for socially retarded.
You actually say, “yeah, it’s just some stupid band. I don’t have any clean clothes, so I have to wear it."
She looks at you like you just showed her your penis and made it talk.
Then she says, “Oooooooo, kayyyyyyyyyy, can I take your order?"
You say the terrible food you want to stuff in your mouth, slide your card through the machine that takes money from you and gives it to <censored>, and walk away feeling like you just shit in your own mouth and showed it to her.

You pump condiment juice into a small paper cup.
It makes you feel like you’re in old time-y days, where people would have to walk outside in the freezing cold and pump water from a well and carry it back to the house.
They’d have to do this several times a day, to the point where that’s all they did.
Except pumping tomato flavored red liquid from a plastic bin in a heated building without really using many muscles isn’t quite as physically or mentally demanding, and much less satisfying from a “one with nature” perspective.
The System likes it this way, to cater to human laziness.
It’s its version of control.

You fill the number of cups you think you’ll consume, then fill an extra just in case, so you won’t have to make another trip if you over consume.
You’re laziness, it seems, has no limits.
You think, “whatever, fuck all those third world children who are being sexually exploited and starved, whose life would change drastically if they were able to consume this red liquid instead of whatever they eat now, mud? grass?"
You collect all the tiny cups and head to your seat.

The girl behind the counter who tried to make normal conversation with you says your number, then announces to everyone the exact food items in your order.
Embarrassment washes over you, which is a good sign that whatever you’re about to ingest was never meant to touch the human digestion system.
At least not the way God intended.
It’s made from stuff on earth, everything is, but in a configuration that God didn’t design our bodies to properly translate into human fuel without massive repercussions.
Mainly, explosive diarrhea, guilt, weight gain, and social shame.

You collect your tray and hurry back to your seat, hoping no one is analyzing your food choices for a research paper they’re going to publish in a well read publication about people and their disgusting food choices.
You sit down and start scarfing down the impossibly delicious arrangement of molecules like a wild animal might consume a fresh kill after weeks of not eating.
Your mind drifts in and out of consciousness.
It’s like you’re in a coma, a trance of pure pleasure, what you image a drug addict feels the second s/he presses on the needle plunger.

You look up for a second and meet the eyes of the man sitting two tables in front of you.
He’s mid bite, and seemingly in the same trance like state.
In normal, non-consumption circumstances, the eye contact would mean something.
Like, “hello, I recognize you as another person on the planet and I’m not afraid of your presence."
But in circumstances like these, it means absolutely nothing.
It’s like staring into the eyes of a dead person, dull and vacant, only glossy and blinking because blood still flows through their veins, even though in the moment, they are dead.
You swallow and return your eyes to the remaining food on your tray, trying to decide the next arrangement of molecules to stuff in your mouth. 

A Retrospect Where The Hero Questions Everything For The Seven Billionth Time - 1.54

The sterility of your environment is crushing, stifling, like a giant weight pressing down on your head with the intent of keeping whatever wild ass vision you have inside from escaping.
You know this, yet you can’t seem to wrap your head around how to escape it.
Or rather, you question your desire to escape it.

The world outside, the world where the things being kept inside are let outside is uncertain, unsafe.
There’s no comfort there, only discomfort, perhaps pain, with pleasure as a payoff from time to time.
At least that’s how you romanticize it.
The reality may be way different, and possibly not so different than the utopian-like simulation you’ve chosen to be a part of.

And escape is a concept that seems overly dramatic.
Is that what it really would be?
It’s like what you’re enduring is a hardship of some kind, when it’s really not.
It’s more like a privilege, or at least a minimum security prison with lots of perks that you can walk away from any time.
No one is truly holding you down or back.
But it’s too easy to tell yourself that story and believe it to the point where you think it requires some monumental shift in energy on your part.
A shift that feels impossible.
When in fact, it’s more like simply making a choice and running with it and pushing everything else out.

This is one those times where you’re feeling philosophical, to the point of almost feeling sorry for yourself.
You get inspired, then feel like your living the wrong life, then feel bitterness and resentment and regret that you didn’t choose a different path, then think, “hey, maybe I should go off and do the thing I’ve always wanted to do?"
And it always ends in that question, never an answer, and never any sustained effort towards the things that you know, even if you won’t admit it, you want.

Not those things from yesterday.
At least not all of them.
Those are things you think you want.
It’s what’s inside, the things you can’t articulate well enough in this medium, the things that aren’t profitable or practical enough to pursue.
Well, fuck, if it’s not any of those things, then why even bother, right?
Why not go after other things that are a facsimile or a close approximation of the truth and see if that satisfies you?

And there’s that sterility, when you look around, the white, blank walls, the clean surfaces, the fresh smell, the feeling of being on the cutting edge of progress.
The friendly faces of the robots, their pretend niceness, it suits you, because it’s comfortable, it doesn’t require you feel anything other than indifference.

You’ll wake up tomorrow and follow the programming.
You’ll go to work and pretend everything is in its right place.
You’ll do the things that don’t matter to you and pretend to care about them.
Then you’ll go home and wonder why nothing seems to be in the right place even though you think you’re organized around the truth.
You’ll wonder why you spend so much time organizing and not enough time living and experiencing and creating and whatever.

There’s only a handful of years left before you’re truly obsolete. 

The “Avoiding Prison Rape” Diet & Lifestyle Plan - 1.53

Here's some things you'd like to see yourself achieve, soon...

  1. Generate significant income without having to expend too much effort making it. In other words, spend less than all of your day sitting in a chair watching the hours tick by in order to get paid. In further other words, you would like to spend the majority of your day doing things that interest you rather than things designed solely to generate income (which almost exclusively include things that don't interest you).
  2. Achieve almost 100% automation of your diet. In other words, you don't want to waste mental energy fretting over what to stuff in your face. You would like to get to the point where all the food you're going to eat for the day is ready to be shoved in your mouth, which would require effort on your part to prepare, but would ultimately be way less effort than you currently spend wondering, "what do I eat now?" Ideally, you'd only want to consume food when you're told to do so and in the amount determined. Kind of like being in prison, where they just bring you a tray of food and say, "you eat this now," and you either eat it or give it to the person twice your size to keep him from forcing his erect penis into your butt hole while you sleep.
  3. Setup a process for meeting and having sex with lots of women. In other words, you would like to systematize, habituate, whatever you want to call it, the process of meeting attractive women, getting to know them, having sex with them and/or hanging out with them casually, and letting them gently go when the time comes (if it ever does). You have a friend that has mastered this already and you think it's a work of art. Of all the things on this list, you know this one is the hardest, and may be impossible due to the dating market conditions you currently live in.
  4. Start playing guitar and writing and recording songs again. In other words, you'd like to make music, play that music live, get famous, sell out, and live the rest of your life doing drugs and having sex with lots of extremely hot, low self esteem women who will do anything to please you. ANYTHING!

You realize these things are artificial desires.
You wish you could be more organically aligned, as in, more content with just being a surviving, healthy adult male, and not worry so much about achievement and collecting what amounts to trophies.
But you've been conditioned to be a person who needs those trophies, those artifacts of accomplishment, crumbs of validation, as a way of saying something like, "I made it, mother fuckers!"

Soon, you'll realize that your list is stupid and that you should focus on doing things simply.
Soon, you'll unplug the internet and stop dreaming of being like so-and-so who has a slick blog and a unique branding position and cool looking lifestyle.
You'll burn your computer in an act of defiance and fashion your own loin cloth and live the rest of your life as an urban savage who kills for food and builds fires in parks and wards off authority figures who frown upon anyone who looks remotely different than the typical people of the area.
You'll come to embrace the monotony of just surviving, and focus solely on being the type of person that remains consistent across all levels of living.

But for now, you want those things in the list.
How determined you are to get them is another question. 

Being More Like Beyonce Is The Best Way To Get Laid More - 1.52

It’s nine pm, central standard time.

You wondered earlier today, while scarfing down a meat sandwich and curly french fried potatoes you bought and ate at a fast food establishment that specializes in meat sandwiches, how satisfied you are with the way things have turned out.

The day before, you found a letter you wrote to yourself almost five years ago that pretty much questioned the lifestyle choices you were making at the time.
Reading that letter again triggered your introspection gene that pops up from time to time and makes you reassess your life’s pursuits and ambitions.
And sitting in the colorful, plastic world of meat sandwiches while analyzing its patrons and how devoid all them are to any semblance of attractiveness seemed like a good time to punch yourself in the ball sack about your current life choices.

Not that you haven’t made improvements from that person you described five years ago.
Your life has improved massively and you’ve had some adventures that you’re quite proud of.
But it’s the rock bottom feeling of sitting alone in a glossy, cartoon-styled restaurant chewing on substances purported by the establishment to be made of meat and crunching on perfectly fried, goldenly delicious potato like things served in a cheap cardboard container, eating from a grey plastic tray, while sipping a black fizzy sugary beverage, that makes you question your lifestyle choices of the moment.

Nothing good ever comes from that questioning, because it’s always a question of improvements needed.
It’s never, “oh, this is going really well, and this is going really well, and that seems to be improving."
Perhaps it should be more of that, a “what’s going well?” analyses.
But it’s always, “what the fuck are you doing with your life? Why the fuck are you here eating this crap alone, pathetically? GET A FUCKING LIFE YOU LOSER!"

The old you would get down on yourself for days.
The new you knows better.
It knows this whole thing is a process with ups and downs.
Eating a meat sandwich alone in a place that no human should ever eat is just a small down blip on an otherwise vast expanse of mixed level blips.
But still, you think, it still might be a good idea to assess, again, your comings and goings without judgment and with an eye towards simplicity and automation.
Automation and simplicity are good.
The more you can cultivate of each, the better, and the more time you may have for seeking sex.

At nine pm, central standard time, you clicked off the TV after watching a show that made you wish that you would have taken some big risks when you were younger and perhaps landed in an environment where talented people were scraping and practicing and fighting and competing for prestige and recognition and excellence, especially centered around the arts.
Then you wondered if that environment really exists, or is it just fantasy backdrop that makes a good setting for a fictional story.
You see it’s nine twenty pm, central standard time, and you remember reading a thing a while ago about how Beyonce doesn’t stay out late partying or messing around, because she gets up early to practice and work hard.
Because she’s smart enough to understand that perfection, what the audience consumes, requires dedication and a shit ton of time preparing, what the audience never sees or cares about.
“Hmmm,” you think. 

Behind The Curtain & Inside The A-ron Brain - Week 6

Sometimes it’s tough to do things besides the things necessary to exist as a unit of labor inside The System. Sometimes it’s best to do the best you can and not try to push push push. You had one of those types of weeks.

Moving is something you should be very good at by now, because you’ve moved at least six million times since your birth into this world of consumption. But you’re still not very good at, because you’re better at procrastination. Whatever, it’s not a skill you’re interested in developing, but it’s the reason why you wrote that first paragraph.


What is this? Is this still a thing? Because you don’t seem interested in getting better at this. It’s almost like you’ve regressed because you reached a point that requires you to do more than just think about being better socially. Or you’re trying to do too much all at once. You’re not sure.

You did resist the urge to re-join match.com. You’d like to stay away from the dating scene for a while and learn how to meet women, and people, organically. Besides, look how your last match.com experience turned out.


You’re floundering a bit here. You keep bouncing around the design and not making real progress.

You decided to simplify the requirements just so you can produce something usable. The longer you stay in this limbo state of constant design change, the more likely it is you’ll quit and move on to something else. Getting the design perfect the first time is impossible, right? You know this, right? Why am I preaching to you? You know this.


You’re probably going to have to count these things in your final tally of three hundred, because that’s a lot of pieces, and you feel like at some point, you’re going to have to write twice a day to meet the quantity. And if you do that, quality is going to suffer.

Hahahahahahahahaha, quality, hahahahahahah. Oh, shit, you’re a fucking idiot.


Back issues, knee problems, and short days, coupled with moving responsibilities, have hindered your training. You’re thinking of taking a step back and focusing solely on food and correctives to maybe let your back get back to right. You definitely need to go see a person who knows a lot about back problems that can help you get back to normal, even if surgery is a word that is used to accomplish that feat.

Regardless, snacking at work has returned to more reasonable levels, and you’re staying away, generally, from sugar. Although, you can sense your mind trying to figure out a way to consume sweets voraciously while staying on track with your physical challenge. Here’s a hint: it’s fucking impossible.

Getting A Raise Is Like Getting Your Ball Sack Fondled By An Incoherent Homeless Man - 1.51

You have five bosses at your job.
One, two, three, four, five.
Six if you count the person who owns the company and puts his name in the box at the very top of organization pyramid and shows up every once in a while to check on your progress.
Your name is all the way at the bottom.
He is all the way at the top, with about eighty five layers between your name and his.

You think, “having a job is the stupidest thing for a person like me."
A person like you who has disdain for authority, and hates people telling him what to do and when to do it, and can’t stand sharing credit with others, and hates the hidden competition for attention and recognition that never comes.
But comfort is fucking awesome.
It’s comfortable having a place to show up to, and sit in a cushion-y chair, and have access to unlimited candy and sweets and snacks, and get paid every two weeks regardless of how good you perform, and not have to put yourself out there for others to criticize and reject and ignore.

The girl who is your newest boss says, “I need your status by four."
You say, “OK."
Then you go check your mail and find a thing from a person in human resources, which, as the name implies, means you are nothing but a disposable widget, a finite source of productivity that’s easily replaced by another commodity “resource."
You open the thing to see it’s notification of a salary increase.
For a second, your pulse increases and you feel excitement, and worthwhile, and loved, and appreciated, and all those emotions that a raise is meant to trigger.

You read the fill-in-the-blank letter and think, “hmmmm."
You pull out your calculator and do some math and figure the raise is 3.3%.
“Pretty good,” you think.
Then you calculate the amount you now get paid raises you into a higher tax bracket, and the actual amount of money you get to put in your pocket is less than what you made before at the lower number.

You think about calling the human resources robots and asking them to not give you the raise, daring to be the first person ever to reject a pay increase.
But instead, you fold your arms on your desk and rest your forehead on them and roll your head left and right while contemplating how your life has come to this.
You think about what you should do about this injustice, but come to the conclusion, as you always have when you’ve executed this train of thought seventy five thousand times before, that you are nothing more than a consumer that provides tiny drops of fuel to The System.
“There’s nothing you can do,” you say to yourself, “you’re screwed right along with everyone else."

You spend the next hour or so leaning back in your chair with your hands folded behind your head, like you’re surrendering to the cops, looking at the ceiling and thinking about all the things you could do to fight The System if you were the type of person who didn’t need the latest iDevice in your pocket to feel complete.
You could quit and live off the land somehow.
You could increase your contribution to 401k to bump you back to the lower tax bracket.
You could burn the building down and go to prison and rape weaker males and shank rival gang members.
You could do nothing, just take it, because you don’t have a choice.
Even if you fight The System, it’s pointless, because you can’t beat everyone who is perfectly happy and content and comfortable being an agent of The System.

So you rock back into the work position and re-engage in the meaningless work you received a raise to perform.
Rebellion is a neat idea, but it’s probably best to keep your mind and your creativity sovereign, while praying to God Jesus for chaos to appear instead of going to war with an immoveable entity.
“One day,” you think. 

What Do Dan John, Penelope Trunk, And A Winged Dick Hole Devil Have In Common? - 1.50

You’d like to think you’re capable of producing more than just this mindless drivel.
Like, you want to be more like Dan John, or Penelope Trunk, or <insert some hip online writer/blogger person that you read and love>.

And you catch yourself thinking, “I should write more stuff about subject X, you know, because that’s how I’m going to get people to like me."
Then your mind floods your consciousness with idea after idea, until it becomes this colossal thing that doesn’t exist and never will, but in your mind, you’re successful and swimming in money, and fighting off adoring fans, and gorgeous women are falling to their knees and sucking your dick.
“Mmmmmm, life is so easy and carefree,” you think in your fantasy.

But then reality comes crashing in shortly after something inside you goes, “I can’t do that."
And that’s when you realize this is what you are.

You don’t want to be like person X.
You want what they have: followers, money, recognition, fame, whatever.
But you don’t want to get there by being like them.
God didn’t create you to be a clone, even though you blend in well and are undistinguishable from the clones all around you.

You don’t want to be the eighty seven millionth person to write a blog offering mindless career advice.
You don’t want to be the trillionth person to write things that tell people how they’re living life wrong and you’re living life right.
You’re not smarter or better than anyone.
You’re just a middle aged guy with a decent job and a wicked urge to create off the wall, quirky, whatever the fuck things.
And this is a manifestation of that urge.

You’ve thought about throwing in more useful, albeit boring, pieces like what your experience is lifting weights, or how to write a better resume, or <insert some stupid topic that you have a lot of experience in>.
But that’s not you, and you know it, yet you can’t resist the urge, especially after getting sucked into a vortex of information consumption, to entertain the idea.

Besides, you don’t want to do something and be something unbecoming of your character just because you think that’s what the drooling masses want.
And if you’re reading this word right here, you are a drooling mass.
It’s OK, we all are.

You do the weekly wrap up, and that’s good enough.
No one needs the details, not from you.
No one even knows you exist, and if they do, they don’t care.
You’re trying your hardest to embrace this concept, the vastness and unhindered freedom of anonymity.
Even though it grates on you, like a tiny winged devil that flies in and out of your dick hole just to be annoying.

This piece inspired by Dan John, who A-ron loves and is currently reading like a horny schoolgirl whose about to get fucked silly. An college age schoolgirl assholes.