Eventually, Everyone Gets Caught Jacking Off Into A Soup Can - 140

"What is the void?" you ask yourself, wondering what the thing is that you seem to be missing from your existence as a modern day human.
And you theorize the void is the absence of survival consciousness, or whatever it's called when an animal's sole focus, day in and day out, is eating, not dying, fucking, drinking water, shelter, not necessarily in that order.
And you feel that's a really good guess, but you're not sure how to replicate those things when you spend all day sitting behind a machine in a lonely office around uninspiring people, then go home to a small, lonely apartment occupied by a smidgen of worthless consumer items and a dog that is your only friend in the world.

You feel the void when you wake up, when you go to sleep, when you walk around nude in your apartment hip thrusting so your penis slaps against your lower belly and eventually swings back down to hit your balls which cases pain, when you type things into the machine, when you walk around populated places and look at people and smile, when you sit alone wondering too much about these types of things.
And you think of things that might fill such a void.
Things that were invented to do so; canned occupations designed to move a person seamlessly from birth to death.
"Hopefully they won't notice the void," a person inventing a thing to distract from the void might have said at the time s/he invented the thing.

But it's always there, begging to be filled.
And you can never fill it, you just have to take it.
And you wonder if everyone else feels it too, and you conclude they do but don't know how to label it.
And that makes you feel smart, like you invented self awareness and should be praised and win some kind of prize and have statues built in your likeness.
Then when The Future Explorers come, they'll know that you were a person who other people loved so much they built a thing to capture his essence, at least how they saw it.
And they'll debate for the rest of their existence why the statue depicted you sadly hunched over jacking off into an empty soup can.
Where the biggest question will be, "what was he planning on doing with that can afterward?"

And as you sit surrounded by other uninspiring, ordinary, boring consumer types eating bread topped with tomatoes and cheese, you feel the void in all its glory.
Like, if it could take form, it would be an angry minotaur with a flaming sword poised to cut your head off and shove it up its ass.
And it would be angry because it wants you to kill it, but you don't know how and not sure if you'll ever be able to.
And the best solution you can come up with as you take another bite and stare into the void is, "I should be doing scary shit, that's living"
Because the long ago human was scared almost daily.
Scared of getting killed by another human or animal or whatever.
Scared of not finding enough food or water or shelter.
Scared that his genes wouldn't live on, but not too scared because Nature doesn't give a fuck if a person or animal is fit enough to reproduce, She's only interested in the best of the best.
And the thought rattles around in your head, scrambling your brain, but not quite strong enough to defeat the comfort of the office chair, the delicious taste of the infinite food in your mouth, and the warmth and safety of the room you're in.
Then you return to thinking about what kind of porn you're going to jack off to later

The Sun Will Implode And Create A Singularity That We'll All Mistake For Heaven - 139

The hardest thing in modern life, especially when faced with numerous options, opportunities, and choices, is deciding which things to give a shit about.
You sometimes think those downtrodden souls you see on street corners begging for change are some of the lucky few.
Lucky enough to have their options and choices and opportunities narrowed down.
Now those options may not be very desirable, but still, the objective is to get rid of all the things that don’t truly matter and spend more energy and time thinking about and working on the things that do.

The downtrodden don’t really have a choice in what they have to focus on.
You do.
And people think that moving from one level of the spectrum to the next, where the choices expand exponentially, is the objective.
When we remove basic survival needs from the equation, the choices explode.
And as success is had in the choices a modern day person does make, the more choices they’re presented with.

You spent a good majority of your life bouncing around in choice.
“Oh, here’s this other thing I think I want to play with for a while,” you’ve thought to yourself almost every day of your life.
And in your never ending pursuit of happiness and satisfaction and fulfillment and ego stroking, you’ve failed to narrow yourself down.
This is what the self proclaimed experts say a person should do, “focus."
But focus isn’t your natural state, distraction is.
Because you think the next thing to come along is THE answer, when you know that there’s no such thing as THE answer.

Therefore, we must cull all the bullshit, brutally, ruthlessly.
Chasing those feelings of happiness and satisfaction like they are destinations to be reached and lived in forever only produces feelings of resentment, sadness, anger, frustration, and this nagging underlying loneliness that feels permanent.
And you’re OK with it; you’ve made peace with it; you just let it be.
And isn’t that the true goal, isn’t that what happiness is, being OK with whatever is occurring.
“Whatever, asshole, doesn’t matter, just tell me how to be more kick ass and get the pussy,” you might say to yourself.

You were driving your car the other day in a manner equivalent to everyone else, like you were so desperate to get somewhere that you felt like you were in competition with all the other cars to get there first so you have first dibs on whatever thing is there to attain.
And you became conscious of this fact and you said to yourself, “where are you in a hurry to be? And why does it matter?"
Like, you’re so desperate to get to the part where everything feels great and you’ve “made it,” whatever that means, and girls throw themselves at you, and money sprinkles from the sky into your mouth, and your problems become an embarrassment of riches.
“But in order to get there,” some web online “expert” with a website might write, appealing to your fear of not being able to get there, “you have to focus."
“Fuck you fuck face!” you might scream at the computer in retort.

You’ve decided that everything you do, everything modern people do in general, is a quest to feel “good,” whatever that means.
To cum in a hot girl’s mouth, to have a big dick stuffed in her vagina so perfectly that she can’t help but orgasm immediately and constantly, to explode out of bed every morning full of joy and excitement for the day, to smile and laugh and play deliriously one hundred percent of the time, to bath in the pleasure of success, to bath in pleasure period.
And we think we only get there by doing stuff that matters, by accomplishing things, as if basic survival and not having to worry about being eaten by another thing isn’t enough.
Nope, we need big dicks and tight vaginas and loads of money and buckets of accolades and, whatever.
Or maybe you’re projecting, maybe these are the things you think will make you “happy,” which is a term that has lost all meaning with you because it doesn’t exist.

So you stop giving a fuck.
You stop pursuing.
You let go of trying to get somewhere as fast as possible.
You let go of trying to get somewhere period.
You reject the journey, the destination, all of it.
You eliminate options, you minimize choices, you annihilate opportunities.
You take the advice of the online web “expert” and ruthlessly cut the fat to where there’s almost nothing left except one bite of a delicious morsel of steak that you’ll never eat, that you’ll just look at and wonder what it tastes like and how orgasmic it might make you feel, until you get tired of looking at it and throw it in the trash for some downtrodden asshole to come along and claim. 

Is Being Part Of The Unrecognizable Background Noise Such A Bad Thing? - 138

In your never ending quest to be the best, the most prolific, the one everyone turns to, the king, the most unforgettable, the most everything all the time always on top human ever, THE winner, you realize that you're probably the worst ever.
Like, you think you're good, but really, you're just another boy lumped on the commodity heap that everyone passes and doesn't even notice any more because they've experienced it enough that it isn't even desirable.
It's like, once you've had one, you've had them all and they run together and become a blur.
You are the disappointment that makes the true rarity stand out.
And that's the truth; reality doesn't give a fuck.

You make plans to get better.
You try to convince yourself that it doesn't matter, that it's all meaningless, in an attempt to protect your fragile ego, the illusion that you're somehow different and better than the rest.
But it all ends up exploding in your face, because no matter how much planning or practice or convincing you do, you can't escape the bell curve and that highly forgettable meaty middle where most people pile up and exist throughout their lives.

And you want more than to just be "good," you want to be at the far edge of the curve where the extraordinary live, that rare gem that can't be replaced or forgotten, that experience that forever lives with a person that can never be duplicated or topped.
And you don't want to be just "good" at the things that everyone can easily be good at, the things where "good" is the norm, that anyone can fill.
But as your perception of who you think you are butts heads with reality, you see that there's no quality about you that isn't easily duplicated in someone else.
You are just another black dot surrounded by other black dots in a sea of black dots lightly sprinkled with red dots, who you run into from time to time, who point out just how insignificant and weak and uninteresting you really are.
You want to be a red dot, but you never will.

You roll over in bed and allow it all to soak in, that rush of truth where no amount of comforting or reassurance can penetrate what you truly desire.
In your competitive head, you are a failure if you're not on the top of the mountain, even though you know no one can possibly stay on top forever.
Surrender and absolution feel like good options, just giving up and shrinking into the norm, because that's where you are.
Just let everyone win, give up the trophies and quest for accolades and exist as a nothing on a heap of other disposable nothings.
Jack off, play video games, get fat, isolate from the world, don't even try to play the game.
"Yeah, that feels right," you think, "embrace your averageness."

You wake up and think, "well, here's another day I have to move through."
It's another day where you get to choose whether or not to keep playing the game, to keep getting kicked in the balls, to keep realizing just how small and insignificant and forgettable you really are, to keep feeling alone among the sea of other black dots.
And you wonder what it might feel like to wake up and actually be "good" at something that's not a commodity, something that can't be picked off of any tree anywhere by anyone.
And you think, "another day being the low hanging fruit no one truly desires."

You Didn't Catch AIDS Again In 2016, So How About You Really Try Hard In 2017?

Welcome to twenty seventeen.

Everyone's convinced twenty sixteen sucked balls because a bunch of celebrities died and we elected an assclown cartoon character for president.
None of that affected me so fuck all them.

I think it's easier to see the shit than the gold in the shit, whatever that means.
It's easier to point out the flaws, the imperfections, because that's how we attach to each other.
I know it's easier for me to see what's wrong rather than what's right, because what's right doesn't need attention.
Nature doesn't fuck with what's right, She's only interested in fixing what's wrong.

And how does Prince or David Bowie or <insert some other celebrity here> not existing any more impact my life or anyone else's who didn't love them on a personal level?
Oh, so you're not going to get any more late career shitty music any more?
You're not going to get to pay three hundred dollars for a ticket to see them propped up on a stage far away and play (or pretend like they're playing) the same old tired songs they've been playing over and over and over for decades that you've heard six million times?
Fuck you.
They led pretty good lives, made lots of money, left behind a bunch of art and crap that will live on until the Chinese take over or Trump unveils he's really Hitler.

Anyway, yeah, twenty sixteen wasn't so bad for me.
I met a nice girl.
I started doing improv, a thing that I think is going to be my thing for a while.
I wrote a lot of crap here, but more importantly, I kept writing a bunch of crap here and didn't quit or start over.
I got stronger.
I lost ten pounds.
I took trips to San Francisco and Las Vegas.
I started drawing.
I picked up the guitar again.
I felt anxious, scared, happy, sad, miserable, excited, nervous, envious, proud, uncertain, lonely, loved, and everything else that a living human feels.

I went to the car wash yesterday and felt like an ordinary schmuck following the exact path The System wants me to follow.
I observed how pointless and time wasting and expensive an activity it is to wash the car.
Like, "why am I sitting inside my car while it follows this conveyor belt going through the exact same experience as the car in front of me and the car behind me?"
It's like I'm trying to clean the dirt off my soul so no one notices what a slob I am.
Or I'm rinsing off the bad parts of me, the flaws, to protect whatever image I want to project to the world.
And as soon as I pull the fucking thing out of the wash a bird shits right on the windshield.

Twenty seventeen probably won't be much different.
I wrote a bunch of things I'd like to do and change and accomplish this year, but we'll see which ones actually stick.
I don't feel I'm getting any better or worse, things just kinda shift around.
This time last year, my relationships were in the toilet but my money situation was pretty good.
Now, my relationships are going pretty good but my money situation leaves something to be desired.
Whatever, who cares, no of this matters anyway.

My only real goal this year and beyond is to light my own flame instead of outsourcing that job to external things.
That's vague enough to not make me feel shitty when I read this in a year and think, "oh, I failed at that."
I think if I can consistently accomplish that, I'll feel pretty good about twenty seventeen.

Comparison Shopping On The Web Online Is Like Sticking Your Nipple In A Light Socket And Hoping For Sunshine & Rainbows - 137

Your mind produces the words, "go your own way," and you think further, "isn't that what I've been doing?"

You spend a lot of time making comparisons.
It's like The System has conditioned you to be more analytical, like you need to know what the "best" thing is, like which worthless consumer product will make me the happiest, or which job will be the least beating, or which girl will fulfill all my desires.
And you know, deep inside your loins, that there's nothing outside your body that is "best" or "worst" or "happiest" or "saddest," and that all that feeling crap comes from within.
Because everything is meaningless and a struggle and painful and joyful and blah blah blah, it's a painting you've painted a thousand times and will continue to paint a thousand more, each time getting slightly more flawless but never achieving perfection.

You wake up with your nose almost touching your dog's asshole.
Like, you wonder if that's the reason you woke up, because it's imminent your nose is going to be touching his ass and the smell of dog shit is enough to release the "get the fuck up NOW" chemicals in your body.

You roll over and check your iDistraction device that knows everything about Earth and the universe except when it's all going to end, but it has a good guess, where "good" is relative and will never be proven by modern humans.
Four fifty five ante meridiem.
You open the iDistraction by placing your thumb on a button that scans your finger print and checks it against databases and links up with satellites and calls security droids that verify you are who the iDistraction device thinks you should be.

You open a thing and start scrolling.
It's an endless scroll, like, if you were to spend the rest of your life scrolling, you'd only get a fraction of the way to where the scroll ends, and they'd bury you with your face buried in your iDistraction device and say things like, "he loved that device," and, "what a fucking waste."

You scroll past political text where one person says a thing generalizing something and another person says a thing generalizing the opposite view, and both viewpoints are insane, but that's what gets attention and likes and hearts and whatever thing represents that another person came along and read it, or at least partially read to a point where they had a reaction to it, and decided to display their viewpoint by clicking a button and then scrolling on to the next thing.
You scroll past a thing where someone won an award or something and everything in their life at that moment seems perfect, at least it was eighteen hours ago, who knows what it's like now.
You scroll past an ad for belts, and the ad depicts a bearded man talking to another bearded man and they speak in a manner that suggests they just found a cure for some horrible disease, like Ebola or diarrhea, but they didn't, they just made a belt and now think they've solved the most important problem plaguing modern humans.
You scroll past a thing that shows attractive women with large up tops posing in sexual ways, and the text accompanying the pictures reads like something you need to click if you desire to have sex with a woman like this.
So you click, and realize what a horrible mistake you've made because it's a thing littered with ads for penis enlargement and "get sex now" and "make money fast" and other things that play on your insecurities and impulsiveness.

And this is how you live your life now, as an endless scroll, comparing your mediocre existence to whatever appears on the screen at the time, and feeling more lonely and desperate and sad and not good enough.
You think about rolling back over and putting your nose on your dog's ass and staying there until The Future Explorers come and generalize that you were a "sicko."
Instead, you put the iDistraction device back in it's place and stare at the ceiling and remind yourself that nothing is real inside that portal.
And even if it was, it wouldn't be nearly as amazing as it's depicted to be.
Because a person cannot live in bliss and excitement and happiness one hundred percent of the time, probably not even one percent of the time.
You look over at your dog, resting peacefully, oblivious to the struggles of the consumer, devoid of emotional garbage that tends to pile up and go uncollected for days, weeks, months, years, decades, and think, "maybe I'm wrong."

Give The Money Make Good Play Nice Don't Leave Be Free - 136

The Boss hands you a red card and says the words programmed into his skull that he is supposed to repeat when handing someone a red card who is a subordinate to him in the most professional, robotic, unemotional manner possible, "a Christmas gift from <censored>, thank you."
You fake a smile and take the card and stuff it in your pocket and return to pretending like he does not exist and he returns to his designated area where he can continue ignoring you because that's his best talent.

If you didn't fear losing the ability to purchase worthless consumer items like bath towels and cleaning products and sterile apartments that encourage you to check your soul at the door, you would've exploded up from your seat and impaled his head with your fist.
Because violence is a solution that seems to work, it's how humans respond to frustration and the emotion of anger and resentment, it's how we send messages.
But you're not quite sure what message you'd be sending other than something like, "I hate that you are the way you are and that I have to interact with you and look at your face right now in order to get money."

You return to being a nobody that anyone cares about and stare forward and say nothing.
A person comes whose job it is to ask you what you want to eat, and then translate that to people who will make the thing you want to eat, and then bring it back to you in hopes that you'll pay a little extra because that's how this person makes money.
He asks, "what can I get you?" as if to suggest you could just cut him out of the equation and go get the damn thing yourself.
You find the most expensive thing on the menu because fuck The Boss and you say the thing to him.
He writes it down and moves on to the next person and you feel satisfied in your selection and how it represents the way you feel about your situation.

The Boss stands and says things about The Company and working hard and family and a bunch of other things you've heard repeated at least a billion times.
The words fill up the air and invade your brain and consume space in your head that otherwise could be consumed by something more interesting and useful, like, "I wonder how my next poop is going to smell," or, "what is the best place to buy a thing that solves some domestic problem I have," or, "how can I make my penis bigger."
He keeps talking and saying things and everyone listening sits and takes it because he is The Boss and in control.

You think about standing up and walking over to him while he talks and choking him out, then retiring to the bathroom to take a shit and jack off, which is something you've never done in combination before and might add a little excitement to your boring life.
Instead, you virtually beat your head on the table and scream in agony, knowing you have the freedom to walk away and never return.
But that invisible force that binds you to the things you think you need and want and desire keeps you seated and silent and still.
Because there is no escape.
There's only parallel moves, where different faces occupy familiar roles, and somewhere else there's another version of The Boss saying similar words to similar people and there's at least one person like you who's contemplating shitting and jacking off in combination.
So you accept this reality and think, "is this really that bad?" because it isn't and you know it, yet you still long for some excitement like you're entitled to it, but you aren't because life isn't like that, it's a series of disappointments and boredom and frustration and failure and sadness sprinkled with moments of happiness and excitement.
And that's where freedom exists.

A Modern Day Adventure Drama Staring You As The Lonely Drifter Aimlessly Drifting From Experience To Experience The End - 135

You stand at stare at a glossy image of a young, bare chested man with perfectly chiseled abs wearing sexy neon green underwear and think, "my consumer instinct is strong."
You can make out a slight bulge where the man's penis should be, but no distinct outline of an actual penis, like someone modified the photo to erase any imperfections and hints of sexual organs in order to avoid upsetting anyone's feelings.
You think how your body would look wearing the underwear and conclude that disappointment and bitterness would be the only emotion you'd feel looking at yourself in the mirror.

You move on, over analyzing the bots going about their daily lives, consuming, smiling, frowning, talking loudly into the air at someone who is somewhere different.
You think, "I blend in nicely, wish I had someone to talk loudly into the air at that's in a different place."
But then you feel good that you're alone and disconnected and aware, at least that's what you're ego likes to tell you.

You look down an aisle and make eye contact with a girl standing in the aisle looking at boxes of, whatever.
Like, if she chooses box A over box B, how is her life going to be different than if she'd chosen box B?
Like, she'll never know what the other choice might've led to, love, fame, fortune, amazing experiences, maybe she would've become a legend and talked about for centuries after she dies.
Like, they'd build statues of her and worship her every word and murder other people who disagreed with anything she said or did.
But instead, she chose box A, and her life continues on being boring and monotonous and full meaningless trivialities, like almost everyone else that has ever lived or will live.

She smiles at you.
You cut your head back to the direction you're traveling, dismissing her and her existence as nothing but a small blip on your time line that you'll forget in ten seconds or sooner.
Ten seconds pass, and you can't even remember why you're here, in this brightly lit place full of products to buy and people to look at and decisions to make, organized neatly into aisles and lanes, a highly optimized maze designed to dislodge you from the money you just earned standing at desk in front of a screen all day.

A girl walks towards you while shouting in your direction.
But it doesn't affect you, because you know she's looking through you, and the shouting isn't directed at you, it's directed at a small microphone that dangles from a thing plugged into her ear.
And she says things like, "oh my God, really?" and, "no, way," and, "uh huh," and you feel like you're sorta involved in some amazing story, probably about a girl who heard someone say something about someone else then typed that something into a box on a website designed to share such things with other like minded bots who type their stupid opinions about that something into another box until a tiny whirlwind of digital drama is created that makes the small amount of entities involved feel something other than nothing for a fraction of a second which is now what life is all about for them.
And you think for a split second that somehow you're different, you're an exception, but then quickly realize you're not.
You're a drone, and every day you become more complacent with that fact.

You finally make it to the part in the journey where you place your worthless consumer items on a conveyor belt where another human wearing a highly optimized for maximum visual pleasure uniform takes those items and shows them to a computer that figures out what they are and how much they cost and adds up all the money so the human operator can say that number to you.
This is the part where The System takes back the money you just earned, so that you have to go back tomorrow and earn some more to give back to The System.
And this process repeats every day until The Progress Machine hauls you off to the incineration pit.
So your only purpose in this world is to keep the money moving, circulating.
Someone gives it to you because you do an unpleasant thing they don't want to do all day, then you give it to someone else, then they give it to someone else, and eventually it comes back to you, and you keep moving it in this manner until the sun explodes and Jesus returns and kills himself again because it's too much to handle emotionally.

This Is How Things Are Supposed To Go, But Sometimes They Don't, So Whatever - 134

Get an education.
Get a job.
Find a reproductive partner.
Lock them down.
Buy a house.
Arrange the furniture just right, in a way that defines us as a person and the lifestyle we want to project into the world and the way we want the world to think of us, in a way that attempts to control how we feel about ourselves and we want others to feel about us.
Settle in to routine, relax a little from all the hard work put in so far arranging everything just right.
Produce another human, or two, or three.
Accumulate debt, and bitterness, and resentment, and love, and friendship, and happiness, and sadness, and watch things come and go, but the furniture is still comfortable.
Solidify the routine.
Turn on autopilot.
Wake up, unexpectedly, and experience the rush of consciousness.
Watch everything crumble and dissolve and move away, including the furniture, and feel alone and uncertain how to handle it.
Develop a drinking problem, or maybe hard drugs, or get a doctor to give you drugs, whatever.
Spiral to the bottom.
Then recover, churn through reproductive partners, fall in love, fall out of leave, feel lonely some more, float aimlessly, find direction, lose it, find it again, churn through more reproductive partners, sifting through trying to find a "good one" to repeat the process with, but find it impossible.
Give up, let go, stop caring, do your own thing, feel OK, because happiness is bullshit.

And maybe THE answer is discovered somewhere, that feeling "OK" is the ultimate goal.
Or maybe just being "OK" feeling whatever, like it's just another thing that's there trying to distract us from the practice of surviving the modern world.
And then you think, "fuck all this shit," because it doesn't matter and you spend way too much time thinking about it.

If Only There Was A Way To Live Parallel Lives And Compare Notes To See Which Is "Better" - 133

Sometimes you wonder if you’ve done life wrong.
Like, what would you be like if you had a wife and kids and felt trapped in a job in a certain location for seemingly forever and ever.
Would you be happy, sad, content, whatever.
Would this thing exist, and if it did, how different would it be.

You sit on your couch and stare at your front door, then the tiny, single serving, pathetic christmas tree you bought at the grocery store designed for smug single people who are desperate to make a connection so they can fit in with everyone else.
You feel the loneliness and wonder if you had kids running around screaming and a nagging, fat, sexually drained wife and a mortgage and two cars and more debt piling up if you’d feel any different.
Like, is loneliness universal, does it exist for everyone despite their situation, whether they feel loved and wanted and needed, or they sit in an expensive apartment alone and ponder such things.

You feel the emptiness of your existence, the bare white walls, the squareness of everything, the stillness.
Because you realize it’s too late; The Progress Machine is unrelenting and it’s nipping at your heels, taunting you, laughing at how easy you are to catch because you have nothing other than the thoughts in your head and a medium for disposing of them (i.e. this thing).
And you think, “if I had kids and a wife and all that crap, I would have less time to analyze this bullshit and would probably actually live more rather than contemplating what it’s like to truly live."

This is what you’ve chosen though.
This is what you continue to choose everyday.
You isolate, you think too much, you spend too much time alone wondering why you’re lonely.
And the web online tells you everyone else is living more kick ass lives and they’re all seven hundred more times interesting than you, and here’s proof in staged pictures, and it compounds inside and you feel almost insane until you think of the girl who looked at you or the lady who said a nice thing about you earlier and the prospect that another day is going to happen whether you like it or not, whether you show up or not, and somehow that helps you fall asleep.


Then you get up, run water over your body while wiping soap on your arm pits and butt hole and ball sack, pet your dog, put on your jacket, lock your apartment door, get in you car, drive to the place where a cute young girl says, “hello,” to you and asks you questions that make it seem like she’s interested in your life and does things inside your mouth, to your teeth, that aren’t sexual related, and you lay there and take it because this is what we’ve decided is the best way to take care of our bodies.

Now you sit in your favorite coffee shop and leer at girls in yoga pants and sip on sugar coffee.
The guy sitting next to you looks in your direction every once in a while.
You can tell because you cut your eyes at him and analyze his sport coat and black slacks and brown shoes and other business attire like you’re trying to figure out if he’s an agent of communism, or whatever other thing is bad to be right now, Republican perhaps (he’s most definitely Republican).
You decide he looks in your direction because a) you’re amazingly attractive and who can help but want to look at you because humans are programmed to look at things pleasing to the eye, and b) he’s sizing you up and trying to get your attention to what he’s doing which is nothing but sitting in a chair reading a printed, physical newspaper that is an activity reserved for those who The Progress Machine has already caught up to and is hauling off to the incineration pit.
And for the moment, you feel joy that there is a person you know exists in the world whose time is up and who you’re fairly competent you could beat in just about any activity besides being old and worn out, but even that one would be a close contest.

And if you had kids, you’d probably be shuttling them to school and other things and feeling something like, “what the fuck am I doing,” and contemplating just getting in the car and disappearing forever because, fuck this, you don’t want it any more.
And if you did act on this impulse you’d feel massive regret some time in the future because you’d be alone in an expensive apartment staring at a door and mourning your wasted life.
But at least you’d have a comparison and data to back up which is “better."
And the conclusion would probably be neither are very pleasant all the fucking time, which leads you to believe there are no good choices that make life an endless string of mind blowing orgasms, piles of money, and a psychotic happiness that never ceases, even after death. 

Pretending To Be A Person That Is Not Different Than The Others Is Hard Work - 132

Each flush of the toilet is a small contribution you make to the world.
It's like the end of a project, a transformation, a start to finish microcosm of modern human existence.
The flush represents starting fresh, from scratch, all that is required is consumption and time.

You point your index finger straight and stare at the first knuckle and wonder how God decided to create our bodies this way.
Like, to what end, how did it get this way.
And then you wonder what it's like to not be aware that you exist.
Like, what if consciousness didn't exist and we just followed whatever impulse we feel until we end up getting our throats eaten by something bigger, stronger, faster, and smarter.

Then you decide you spend too much time in analysis, yet even that thought feels like analysis.
Analyzing the analysis.
It's like drawing conclusions and the conclusions.
And where does it end, or does it end at all.
And for a brief moment you go insane, but quickly snap back to reality when a boy walks to the opening of your office door, too timid to cross the threshold, and says something like, "we got the thing that makes the thing do a thing," you're not sure of his specific words.

You slide off your perch, i.e. your elevated office chair that you sit in because you have a "stand up" desk that you rarely actually stand at, and you use the minimum amount of muscular contractions to move your head, along with the rest of your body, to another room where other boys are sitting excited about some thing that a person just delivered that's going to allow them to do something that may or may not impress The Boss and make them feel good that mommy and daddy aren't angry that they exist and blame them for crushing all their dreams.
You remind yourself that you need to go into pretend mode so they think you are one of them for fear they may try to kill you because you are not.
Because it's never a good idea to frighten animals that have no consciousness.

And you slump your body in a chair and pull out the iDistraction and scroll, occasionally looking up and saying some words that feel like acting, because it is.
Your purpose in life is this, acting like all of this matters and is important, yet knowing that one year from now and beyond, whatever thing this is right now will be forgotten and the only thing that will matter is still the only thing that really matters now: not displeasing The Boss or any other authority figure.
Because living any other way is way too dangerous, yet exciting, maybe, you don't know because you're too busy trying not to stand out (acting).

And all you want is love, and recognition, and a little excitement, and a little sadness, and a little more emotion other than trying not to show emotion.
Because emotions are scary for boys whose only purpose is pleasing The Boss.
And you think it's weird that's all you want, because it's all we have left to concern ourselves with outside of make money, pay bills, please the masters so you don't have to live outside in the cold and jack off executives for money to buy liquor.

Everyone Needs Money, And This How We've All Decided Is The Best (Easiest) Way To Get It - 131

You sit in your car and wonder if the people sitting inside the building behind blacked out windows are looking at you, judging you, thinking something like, “what a fucking loser, sitting in his car, doing nothing."
You pretend to be engaged in important activities to help ease your anxiousness, like you’re thinking about something extremely important, or you’re looking for something you can’t find, or you’re confused about something.
The iDistraction device was invented just for this purpose, to make it look like a person has something to do when in fact they have nothing and don’t want to look like they have nothing because idleness is evil and no one wants to interact with each other any more.
And you wonder if in the olden days people generally didn’t want to have to interact with anyone and wished they had a thing that allowed them to not do so, like a newspaper, or a book, or something else to just look at and analyze and pretend is important.
And eventually technology caught up to that desire and a person said to him/herself, “hey, I should make a thing that lets me not have to interact with anyone, that makes me look like I’m doing something so I don’t look like an idiot with nothing to do but sit/stand here."
And now here we are, where our lowest priority is speaking with someone we don’t know and our highest priority is staring into the abyss of glowing unconsciousness.

You get out of your car and walk towards the entrance of the building with the blacked out windows.
You adjust your tie, look at your iDistraction device, and then away from the building and feel a million eyes trained on your every movement and you think to yourself, “don’t look fucking stupid."
But you don’t really know what not "looking fucking stupid” means, so you walk in a way that you think is “cool,” if “cool” is still a word used to describe something that isn’t stupid looking.

You walk inside the building with the blacked out windows and acknowledge how sterile and quiet and non-threatening and devoid of personality the inside is.
You walk towards the guard station, where two uniformed guards are sitting blankly staring off in the distance like they wish they were anywhere but sitting behind a desk in a uniform waiting for something to actually guard.
And you acknowledge how ordinary and sterile and devoid of personality they each are, in their own way.
Like, if their insides could be seen on the outside, you wouldn’t be able to tell the different between them.
Like, you’d be able to tell there were two of them, you think, but they would look identical.
And for a split second you wonder if your insides could be seen on the outside if you’d look any different than anyone else.

One of the guards ask, “can I help you?"
And you want to say something like, “ go fuck yourself you fucking drone,” but instead you say, “I’m here to see <censored> for an interview."
You slump your shoulders and feel the tie around your neck tightening, like you’re a good little servant about to have to beg for scraps while your master chokes you because he’s a psychopath and in power and there’s nothing you can do about it but take it.
Like, this whole process of wearing a disguise to hide your personality because it might be offensive to someone else or color their opinion of you and going to a place to sit in judgment before a jury of people who make important decisions about business and whether or not you have money rushes to the front of your mind and you think for a second about punching the stupid guard in his stupid fucking face and running out of the building and away from everything and going to live on a island somewhere you have no idea how to get there and existing on coconuts and fish and jacking off a lot, alone, for the rest of your life.
Instead, you obey the orders of the guard, “she’ll be down in a few minutes, take a seat,” and feel all the emotions The System wants you to feel in order to experience the hierarchy of power of which you are just a lowly pawn.

You sit down and wait, and scroll.

The lady comes down a flight of stairs and says, “hello, <censored>, I’m <censored>."
You shake her hand and she leads you back up the flight of stairs to a room without windows occupied by two gray haired boys with blank expressions on their face.
And you acknowledge how sterile and quiet and devoid of personality each of these boys (judges) are and wonder if you pulled out your penis and jacked off on their faces if they’d be capable of expressing any emotions other than complete apathy.

You shake each of their hands and settle in for a series of questions aimed at figuring out if you’re the type of person they could control easily, and tell what to do without question, and generally not cause them any problems, because boys don’t like problems.
You answer as robotically as possible, because personality is not allowed in this environment.
Any sense of individuality is like a dagger in the heart of any opportunity to get a job that pays money that you need to buy stuff like cars and boats and shoes and sugary beverages and other things.
But inside, you scream at yourself for being a willing participant in this sadistic game of judge and be judged and pretend like we’re all robots who get along and have no thoughts other than, “what is my next task, master."

The interview finishes and the boys shake your hand and say, “thank you,” and you say, “thank you,” and you walk out of the building, figuratively clutching your asshole in shame because you just allowed a couple of gray haired boys to rape you with a fifteen inch penis that isn’t even theirs, without lube.
And you strip off your disguise and get in your car and shut the door and scream at the world for being the way it is, knowing that you are a willing participant that is doing nothing to change it.
Then you put your car in motion and return to the rail. 

The Quest For Accumulation Only Ends When Fat Kid Gets Bored - 130

You want to do stuff, important stuff, meaningful stuff, amazing stuff, but all you end up doing is pooping and walking around and sitting in coffee shops behind a screen and driving your car and shopping for shit that you don’t need.
Like, you tell yourself, “hey, let’s make this thing exist that doesn’t already exist,” and you get excited and motivated for a couple of days then you wonder why you suck at everything and never go anywhere other than in the same circles of diarrhea living.
And then you whine about how awful you are and worthless and how you should be more amazing than you really are, like you’re a failure if you’re anything less than perfect and incredible all of the time.

But then you have a good day doing something and you feel good about it and you think, “hmmm, not too bad."
And you puff your chest out and flirt with girls who have no interest in even knowing that you exist and you feel good that maybe this is the big breakthrough you’ve been working so not very hard at all to achieve.
But then that wears off and you return to wondering why you suck at everything and can never get anywhere.

Then you wonder if anyone else feels the same as you.
Like, is their experience similar to your’s, or is everyone else so dead inside and checked out and complicit with their place in life that they don’t notice.
The question burns your head and you conclude that indeed everyone else is just content traveling on the rails they’ve created for themselves and don’t give any more thought to anything other than ensuring their comfortable existences continue.

You rest the bar on your shoulders, unrack the weights, step back a little, and squat down as far as you can go and then rise back up, with perfect execution.
And you repeat that motion 9 more times and feel good about yourself that your legs will accumulate just a little bit more strength.
And at the same time you feel like a hamster in a wheel, a pawn being pushed forward by an unseen hand, a cow in a cage waiting to be slaughtered, a gravedigger digging his own grave.

In your world, you put a premium on achievement, and you wear it like it’s a badge of honor.
You sometimes wish you had no ambition other than basic survival.
But you don’t, and you embrace it, and you use it as the thing that makes being alive worthwhile.
Because experiences matter, and a person can’t have experiences if they aren’t trying to achieve something, anything.
And at the same time, you think experiences are meaningless and that everything means nothing and it’s all one big pointless repetitive motion.

Yet you can’t shake the desire to achieve, to be the best, to work towards greatness, recognition, fame, fortune, sloppy blow jobs, anal sex, threesomes, money, power, all of it.
Yet you want to reject it because that’s what everyone wants, and it’s so much easier to reject it and live in the shadows of the ones living it than it is to put in the effort and fail and get spit on and shit on and ignored and rejected and hurt and possibly never achieve anything other than being just another human that lived and died.
And when The Future Explorers unearth your body and catalog your existence they’ll assign you a number and throw your bones in the pile marked “Typical” and move on to the next “Typical” pile of bones.
And that bothers you, because you want to be at least thrown in the pile marked “OK,” which means you contributed something, that somehow you were different, even if slightly, that you were an anomaly you believe yourself to be.

And your arrogance fills a balloon that gets handed to some spoiled fat kid who carries it around like a burden until he gets bored with it and lets it go and it floats away into the sky and eventually touches space and freezes and orbits the Earth until the sun explodes and officially ends all hope. 

The Only Goal In Life Should Be To Avoid Getting Cummed On - 129

You stare at a poster on the side of a luxury apartment complex in a hip part of town and think, “that’s what success looks like."
The poster features four attractive, young women, three distinctly white and another “racial neutral,” and two attractive white males standing almost out of focus behind them.
The women are toasting to something and smiling and ignoring the attractive males in the background in what you only assume is supposed to represent happiness from the female perspective.
Like, drinking alcohol with other empty souls while standing in an expensive, upscale apartment room while attractive males wish they could fuck them is what women think will make them happy.
And suddenly you feel left out, like the world is designed to cater to attractive people and the fact that you are not attractive at all means you’ll always be on the outside looking in.

Then you realize that you don’t give a fuck about being on the inside, where all the empty souls live, where all that matters is how attractive you are and what size apartment you live in and where and what kind of car you drive and how closely are you emulating the scenario depicted on the sales poster on the side of the building.
And when you wake up in the morning alone, with an erect penis so rigged that it’s painful, and a dog whose breath smells like the shit that comes out his butt, and that burning desire to just roll over and give up on the day, you wish an advertiser would come in and take a picture and print it on the side of the poster for your apartment complex as a depiction of real life.
And if advertisers were forced to be truthful, they’d show a picture of a young attractive woman waking up alone, dried cum on the side of her mouth and forehead, pounding headache from excessive alcohol consumption, and a burning emptiness inside that makes her wonder why she pays so much money to exist in a place so miserable.

You drive down the road further and pass boys walking dogs who all look alike and girls walking dogs who all look alike and perfectly manicured buildings and another boy standing outside his door holding a cup filled with what you assume is coffee.
And he just stands there, blank expression, empty inside, and you wonder if your theory of the existence of robots is true.

You walk into the coffee shop you typically go to and overhear an older boy say to a worker, “decking the halls, huh?"
And he laughs after he says it like he’s making a clever observation about the work related activity the girl he said the thing to is participating in.
And she laughs back, courteously, while secretly thinking, “if I had a gun, I’d empty the clip into his skull."
And you laugh at the thought of that happening.
Then you sit down and start your ritual of sitting in silence, looking at people, staring at the computer, and being a person whose existence is questionable at best, an easily ignorable entity that serves little more than scenery for everyone else’s exciting, adventurous, cum soaked lives.

And secretly you wish it was your cum that was drying on all the girl’s faces this morning as they wake up alone in borderline depression.
And you wish you were one of the attractive background males in the poster.
And you wish you were the robot boy standing in front of his expensive apartment door drinking coffee alone with a blank expression, except you wouldn’t have a blank expression because you’d know it was all your cum, and instead you’d have a sly, knowing smile and somehow that would make your life complete.

But you always want the alternate to what you have because you think it’s somehow better, more stable, more secure, happier, but it’s not.
It’s emptier, riskier, lonelier, like a never ending battle to stay “seen,” where “seen” means “being an empty entity that other empty entities desire to be around for superficial reasons only."
And when the money runs out, or the looks run out, or something else that happens that can’t be depicted in the poster, you’re left out in the cold with nothing but an expensive apartment payment and dried cum in your hair that isn’t your cum.
And suddenly you’re grateful that you never fell into the trap. 

Pain Is The Only Sure Thing Any More - 128

You feel like asking the boy blocking your access to the thing that dispenses paper things that humans use to dry their hands after they wash them if he is aware that you exist.
Like, you're almost certain he was aware of you standing next to him at the adjoining sink washing hands in unison, because you made eye contact with him and he gave you a little nod that said something like, “hello, I don’t care about you but since we’ve decided to live together in harmony I’ll acknowledge that I’m aware that you’re another thing on the planet."

He finishes running water over his hands and turns to the paper dispenser thing to retrieve a thing to dry his hands with when another boy says his name and starts talking to him like they are long lost friends or something.
And they leave you standing there, waiting awkwardly for access to the paper dispenser thing, your hands dripping wet, like they know you are waiting but they don't care because they know what everyone else knows, which is, you don’t matter.
So you stand there, looking at the backs of their heads, burning hate holes in their brains and wonder if The Progress Machine hasn’t already scooped you up and plugged you into the life simulation so you’re not aware that you’re about to be dropped in the incineration pit.

One of the boys turns around and looks at you with a slight apologetic look on his face, and gently directs the other boy out of the way to give you access to the paper dispenser thing.
You smile and say, “excuse me,” when you really mean to say, “fucking assholes, get the fuck out of my way, don’t you know who I am!"
Because you feel entitled, like the world owes you everything you desire, because you’ve been trained to think this way, The System is good at making people believe they want/need/deserve something then never delivering it.

Earlier, you stood in the middle of the stage with a blank mind, searching for something clever/funny to say while another boy said things the audience enjoyed, almost at your expense.
The other boy was the same boy blocking access to the paper dispenser thing, perhaps intentionally because he feels he’s better than you.
And he’d be justified in thinking that because he is, and so is everyone else in this environment.
You’re just a boy who stands on stage and thinks he’s funny when in fact he is not and everyone hates him because he gets in the way of them being funny.
Nature has its ways of filtering out the obsolete.

And now, given your failure as an improvisor, a comedian, the other boys feel it’s perfectly fine to block access to paper dispenser things, and ignore you vigorously, and push you down and trample you because it’s a highly competitive environment.
And right now, you can’t compete, but you think you can, but you’re reminded every week that you can’t.
And you’re beginning to feel what all the failed actors and actresses and show business wannabes have felt throughout history, absolute rejection is painful, but you’ll keep showing up for more. 

This Is What It Feels Like To Get Rejected By A Boy - 3.6

The boy on the other end of the phone was nice enough.
They always are.
Robotic, but nice and welcoming.
It felt like a trap, like I was being setup by a superior human who was using psychological tactics to lure me into some emotional torture chamber.
Or maybe that was all in my head and he was just being friendly.

It’s all a test though.
A test to see if I have a tolerable personality; “can he laugh at what I believe are my intelligent quibbings?” is what he might have been thinking.
Because boys have learned that they don’t like to work around other robotic people, even if they’re the smartest mother fuckers on the planet.
They like to work around people like themselves, to keep the echo chamber functioning at an optimum level.
Because boys do everything in their life “right,” the smartest most efficient best way possible, and they like to have others around them that validate they are indeed doing things right.

I knew where the interview was going from the very beginning, before I even answered the phone.
I knew it was going to end with me failing some basic puzzle the boy had planned that somehow proves how intelligent I am, in his eyes anyway.
Another test designed to weed out the non-puzzle solvers, because I imagine the boys sitting around in their free time seeing who can solve these types of puzzles the fastest.
I fucking hate puzzles and riddles and all that shit because it’s a waste of time and only proves one’s ability to solve puzzles and nothing more.
But boys don’t understand how to have an intelligent conversation with someone to figure out if they’d be able to handle the job, so they resort to inventing impractical problems to solve, like how to write a program that prints a text file in reverse order.
Or maybe I’m just too stupid to realize that something like this is an abstraction of a more concrete, real problem.
I don’t know.
Who cares.
I will fail your puzzle quizzes every single time.

He asked me the puzzle question then went silent.
A boy’s ability to go silent and vaporize into the atmosphere is remarkable.
It’s a skill I possess, but mine’s more rooted in the fact that I’m easily ignorable and forgettable.
Like, a boy will yap on and on about some bullshit computer thing, laughing at his own stupid “jokes” about the machine, then go dead silent.
I’ll be standing talking to a group of people who all be talking to each other like I’m not even there.
Then someone will walk right into me and be startled that there was a person standing there.

I fumbled through the answer to the puzzle question and his tone changed from enthusiastic and optimistic to “oh my fucking God this guy’s a moron."
He decided to gracefully transition to the end of the interview and told me about the stupid company and his stupid job and stupid team then answered a couple of my dumb questions and we had an awkward exchange before saying “bye” to each other.
Then I plopped down on the couch and wondered where my life went wrong and how can I turn it around.
I wondered how much longer I can keep fooling people that I’m smart and worth paying attention to.
I wondered how much longer I have before The Progress Machine catches up with me, and I came to the conclusion, “not long."
I wondered why I let the boy’s rejection of me get me down, because I don’t really care about him or the stupid job or convincing him that I’m smart and capable.

Then I started worrying about the future and growing old totally alone.
I worried about how much longer I have before the only girl on the planet who hasn’t rejected me yet will reject me.
I worried about how many more “good” years I have left.
I worried about all the other things that don’t matter right now, all because a boy seemed uninterested in giving me a job doing something that’s totally meaningless and almost certainly unfulfilling.
Then I wondered, “what is fulfilling,” before falling asleep and dreaming about a threesome that will remain just a dream. 

When We All Share The Same Brain, This Is What Things Will Be Like - 127

You feel like a copy of a copy of a copy.
As you walk your dog around your modern living “shared space" and watch all the other boys walking their dogs, you realize just how meaningless and routine and ordinary and boring you are.
And inside your soul dies a little more.

Your dog walks in the grass and assumes the position required of a dog to aim its butt at the ground to take a shit.
Another boy walks towards you with his dog leading him while he looks straight down at his iDevice, oblivious that anything other than the glowing distraction exists in the world.
And his dog goes crazy when it sees your dog, but the boy keeps staring at his iDevice like it's the reincarnation of Jesus, and you begin wondering if it is and what's so interesting and memorizing that he can't be bothered to look up and notice the gorgeous day that surrounds him.
He walks past you like you’re another object in the world that’s only value is as a thing people can easily ignore.

You use a plastic sack to pick up the shit your dog just made.
It makes you feel like a trained servant of The System that dictates proper behavior, like just another mindless, rule following fool who’s too afraid to step outside the bounds of proper existence because if he does, The System would punish him in ways that include shame and humiliation and financial levies and a bunch of other things that actually don’t seem too bad when compared with people who get their heads cut off every day.
You pick it up because it feels right, because everyone else picks it up.
And you tie it in a nice little knot and drop it in the proper receptacle and feel artificial pride that you’re contributing to keeping you superficial community sterile and safe and free of any reason to complain.

You pass a girl who has a yap yap dog that won’t stop yapping despite her best efforts to coral the beast with words that sound threatening but aren’t because she says them in a way that indicates the dog is really the thing in control.
Like she’s scolding a child but only for show so other people will think she’s at least trying to make the thing stop crying and annoying everyone.
It’s a token effort that doesn’t go unappreciated, because that’s all we can expect.
And you smile and say, “it’s OK,” and she laughs nervously like she’s committing a horrible atrocity against mankind.
Later, you’ll read comments on the community web thing that make it sound like she is committing a terrible crime against humanity by having a dog that barks a lot for a few seconds.
As if they’re entitled to perfect serenity all day everyday, and if they feel the least bit annoyed or distracted by anything then whoever is responsible should be punished and put to death.

And this cycle repeats every day, on endless loop.
And you can’t stop it, you can’t not feel like an automated person executing the same programming as the other automated people.
You feel drained of your individuality, if that’s even a thing that ever existed.
And you merge your body into the collective and practice acceptance as a coping mechanism. 

The Pointless Nature Of Comparison - 3.5

I knew it when I first saw her.
I knew that at some point, she was going to rip my guts out.
And I was certain, by the disappointed look on her face when she saw me, that it was probably going to happen within a couple hours or so.
I can just tell that look, excitement and nervousness gives way to something like, "oh fuck, I gotta spend at least an hour with this mongoloid? Jesus fucking Christ!"
It's so obvious that I even saw her body twitch ever so slightly towards the exit, like her mind had to remind her that it's not polite to just turn tail and run.

I always feel confident and sure of myself until I figure out what I'm being compared to.
This happens with everything, girls, hobbies, work, whatever.
When something is new I feel certain that at some point very soon, I'm going to be the best.
And this state is very attractive, I think.
Ignorance is bliss, right.

Then I figure out later that there's no fucking way I'll ever be the best because the ones who have either come before me or are currently practicing are way better than I can even imagine.
And it crushes me.
Because if I can't be the best, it means I'm disposable, easily forgettable, and that I'll always be compared to so and so who is/was the best.
"He's OK, but he'll never be as good as blah blah blah."

And now I'm sad and lonely because I've figured out why I'm not so important to her, the girl from the first paragraph, which I diverged from because this thing is all about ME and my stupid insecurities and failings and wah wah wah.
Fuck you, I know you've been here before, in that place where you're comparing yourself to others unfairly, and making assumptions about them that may or may not be true, and feeling totally inadequate and inept and lacking, and knowing there's no way you could ever live up to those standards.
It's the life of a beta.
We're fodder for the alphas.

It's just funny how I have this idea in my head, probably planted there by pop culture, about how I want things to be.
And then I get my dick stepped on when they don't turn out the way I think they should.
Because people are just like me, trying to live their stupid lives and find some little bits of happiness here and there.
What entitles me to what I want.
Nothing, that's what, I'll get shit and I better like it because that's all there is.

I can't make anyone be something they're not.
I can't force anyone to make me a priority.
I can't do things I'm physically incapable of doing.
Everyone is better than me at all things, so deal with it idiot and accept that I'm ordinary and average and boring and lame and so is most everyone else.

So yeah, there's this girl I met that I figured out early is amazing.
And I want her and I love her with all my heart regardless if she shits on me and fucks the football team in front of me.
Regardless if she ignores me or thinks of me as an afterthought or compares me to everyone else and draws the conclusion that I fit right in the slot labeled: average, at best, ho hum.
She's still an amazing person with amazing talents and an incredibly sweet heart and I got to spend at least a little bit of time with her.
It's the life of a beta, being cool with scraps.
Then the alpha comes back and drags the whole thing away with ease.

Fuck me, what was the point of this again?

Being More Like Hitler, Only Way Less Evil - 3.4

I need to work on developing the I-don’t-give-a-shit gene.
Like, whatever it is that I need to eat or drink or practice to unleash this gene’s full potential, I need to start doing it and like, all the time.

Everyone has this gene, it’s just repressed in some.
And a lot of people who say, “I don’t give a shit,” actually do, very much.
I’m one of those people, who tries to convince myself that I don’t give a shit, but the more I say it, the more shits I give.
It’s a weird thing that science hasn’t quite figured out, why the I-don’t-give-a-shit gene is repressed even more by saying, “I don’t give a shit."

I really want to give no shits at all, about everything, except a handful of things that matter to me.
Like, it’d be really great if I could concentrate all my shit giving into starting a business, or getting my body in tip top shape, or conquering some stupid fear I have.
But all my shits are scattered around shit that doesn’t even matter that much in analysis.
Like people and consumer goods and jobs and a whole bunch of other stuff that when put under the microscope really contribute almost zero to my well being and happiness.
If I could somehow get my I-don’t-give-a-shit gene to express a little more, I think it would collect all these wasted shits and focus them more on things that matter, like money and love and community and all that crap.

But whatever, I’m an outlier, I guess, I don’t know.
It seems everyone around me has their I-don’t-give-a-shit gene expressing at its fullest.
Or maybe Facebook is full of shit.
Or maybe I need to live my life more digitally, post more nonsense about what I think and what I’m doing all the time and have less interactions with actual people.
Or maybe I need to concentrate more on my own goddamn crap and build a wall around myself that no one else can see over unless I let them.
And if I did let me them, I’d charge them a steep fee, so much they probably wouldn’t be willing to pay it.
That would be great, and kinda how I used to be.
Of course, then, I was tremendously lonely and disconnected and whatever, it doesn’t matter what was then.
I’m more willing to be vulnerable now and sometimes it bites me in the ass.
OK, a lot of times it bites me in the ass because, I don’t know, this is stupid.

If I could give zero shits, I wouldn’t have to experience times of extreme disappointment.
Essentially, I wouldn’t have to feel anything, which would probably suck and make me a robot and turn me into the very thing that I dislike in some other people who seem to live their life on autopilot.
I kind of wish that I could though, have everything set up and in place and secure where I didn’t have to do anything more than go through the motions every day.
Just put all the pieces in place of whatever constitutes a “happy” consumer lifestyle and simply go into maintenance mode until I die.

If I could give zero shits, then I could be more of the bad guy.
Not in a destructive way, but more of a, “I’m not so sure about this guy and I strangely want to see how bad he can hurt me."
I don’t even know what that means.
I guess I just want to be more unpredictable and less concerned with other’s opinions and feelings towards me.
Giving no shits would allow me more freedom to explore this, to shake the “nice guy” placard that’s been stapled to my forehead and be more the “Oh my God, he’s so dangerous, I want to fuck him” type and less the “Oh, I didn’t know you were still here standing right next to me because you’re so boring you arouse zero emotions in me” type.

There’s probably no hope.
Science has figured out that the older a person gets, the less they’re able to turn on the I-don’t-give-a-shit gene.
And I’m pretty fucking old now, so, ballgame over.
But I’m going to keep working on it.
I’m going to be more selfish, more reserved, more standoffish, less likable, more dangerous, whatever.
At least for a little bit, until the motivation wears off, then I’ll probably return to being this doughy sack of ordinariness that’s easily forgettable.
I don’t know why that last sentence makes me sad.
Probably because there’s a lot of truth to it and it’s something I give way too many shits about.
And maybe that’s how I really want to be, unforgettable.
Like Hitler, only in a much less evil way. 

Delete Your Life's Account Because Who Fucking Cares - 3.3

Modern day life is bullshit.
It’s like, if they would’ve just told us when we were young that we’re most likely going to grow up and be boring and ordinary while we watch a select few become and do amazing things, it might make things a little easier to take when we realize the truth.
The truth is, you’re going to want to do and be and have a whole bunch of things, because you see others that are and are doing and have those things, but most likely, like in ninety nine point nine percent of cases, you’re just going to fall way short and give up.
And there’s nothing wrong with that, I ain’t complaining; why do any of us deserve easy anyway.
We have it really fucking great, comparatively, and maybe if we had a little more perspective, we’d be more appreciative.
I’m projecting, huh.

Jesus, here we go, more whining from a straight white tall good looking male with every advantage ever invented.
“Fuck you A-ron,” you’re probably screaming into the monitor right now.
But anyway...

I read a thing the other day buried in the middle of a bunch of political diarrhea on Facebook that said something like, “get up every morning and chase your dreams."
And I thought, “that’s the stupidest thing ever."
Because dreams are manufactured bullshit.
They are the equivalent of The Matrix, distractions to keep us from going insane with boredom.
And a really good control mechanism, because if you have dreams, you’re going to need money, and in order to get money, you have to do things you don’t really want to do with people you don’t really like and who don’t really give a shit if you’re alive or dead and who will cut your throat to make an extra nickel.
It’s true, I’ve done the research.
I dare you to prove me wrong.

And if you’re always chasing, you’re never realizing, which I suppose is OK.
And Hell, here I am chasing, with this stupid thing and all the other stupid things I do like improv and lifting weights and drawing and playing guitar and working a job I’d rather not work to support it all.
I’m chasing relationships, a partner, friends, family, something and someone real, and it’s impossible to realize.
Because it’s either this or get up every morning and do nothing.
Get up every morning and sit in the street naked and stare at other people chasing bullshit dreams and shit and piss myself until I’m dead.

I think I just want to matter or I want to do something that matters and it feels like I force meaning and importance on things.
Like improv, I can delude myself into thinking that it’s important because people need to laugh and relax and let go.
But that’s bullshit too, nothing matters, everything is meaningless, life only exists because of some random chance event in the universe and there’s no point to it other than keeping it going.

But I’m going to keep writing this crap because it’s fun and a good way to feel important and meaningful and a nice time filler.
I’ll keep working a job because I like money and not being poor and homeless.
I’ll keep consuming and chasing after relationships and hoping that one day, even if it’s just for one fucking day, that I can realize exactly what I want.
But really, I’ll keep doing everything because that’s what I’ve been trained to do.
I’ve convinced myself that sex and money and possessions are important and need attending to, so I’ll attend to them and do everything in my power to acquire more of them.

But really, life is OK even if I never have sex again, I go broke, and lose every physical thing I own and die alone in a ditch and no one notices.
Life for every other thing on this planet is painful and stressful and filled with suffering and hardship, so why should it be any different for us.
Just a little less of any of those things is pretty fucking amazing. 

Chaos, Meet Thy Maker - 3.2

I want to write something political, like I have something important to say about this dumb election thing.
Something like, whatever you believe to be true about the person that won, you're probably right.
If you think he's a racist, asshole, moron, sexist pig who's going to go around groping little girls and trying to launch the nukes every chance he gets, then you're going to find evidence over the next four years to that effect.
If you think he's going to make your life worse, or better, then you're going to be right regardless.
If you think the country is going to shit and the world will nose dive into chaos, then you're going to find evidence to support your belief.
But whatever, no one gives a fuck what I think.

I was trolling Trump supporters on the facebook yesterday, because they're so easy to troll, and I love reading comments on politically charged posts.
Like, Rush Limbaugh posted something about voting for Hilary is the same as voting for baby murder, or something like that.
And the comments paint her as the most vile, evil person that has ever walked the Earth.
Like she's going around and biting the heads off newborn babies and sprinkling magic dust on everyone that automatically turns them gay and she's going door to door with the Army collecting everyone's guns.
It's like, if all you had to go on was facebook comments, you'd think Hilary was like Hitler, only ten thousand times worse, and of course Trump is a saint who can do no wrong.

Now facebook is like a depression ward, like the world is on the verge of ending because their candidate lost.
Trump is going to round up all the undocumented workers and drown them all in the ocean.
He's going to put a gun in everyone's hand and send them off to war.
He's going to starve the poor and pour gold into the mouthes of the rich.
He's going to take away gay rights and return the country to a time where minorities and women couldn't vote.
And he's going to launch all the nukes, sending the world into chaos.

We can't win either way.
Half the people knee jerk to the extreme.
The other half gloat and celebrate and think they've triumphed over some great evil.
And nothing like facebook and the like to put it on display, to see the emotions pour out in real time.
People vowing to move to Canada to escape this great tragedy, or to turn their backs on friends and family who don't see things exactly as they do, or equating a vote for a person to agreeing to unbelievable, forthcoming atrocities.

We forget we survived a brutal and bloody civil war, where brother was literally killing brother.
We survived two world wars, and a handful of other military disasters that in hindsight seem pointless and tragic.
We've survived bad presidents, good presidents, indifferent presidents, corrupt presidents, assassinationsterrorist attacks, economic depressions, a nuclear arms race, and a bunch of other crap that at the time, probably seemed like it was going to be the end.
But it wasn't, and now everyone has it pretty good, so we have to manufacture some drama, fueled by the media and the political system.

Because we're emotional.
We make decision based on how we feel.
We're heavily biased.
No one is objective, or rational, or sees things without coloring in their own details.
We need the drama to feel like what we do means something.
Like this is the greatest or worst decision we've ever made, until the next election when it will be the greatest or worst decision we've ever made.
We need to feel important, like we matter, like we're understood and heard and accounted for.
And emotion gets us there.
It's how we measure these things.

Donald Trump is only one man.
Our system won't allow a dictator to take over.
WE won't allow it.
In a month it won't matter anyway.
My life, and your life will be exactly the same as it is today.
In a year, it'll matter even less.
And in four years when we have to do this shit all over again, we'll find reasons that our lives are either worse or better and relate it to whoever we back in the election.

But, whatever, I gotta go take a shit.