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.
Ugh.

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.

Yes, And Your Mom Has AIDS - 3.1

I've been taking improv classes, and it's fun as shit.
And I actually think I'm pretty good at it, whatever, no big deal.
I have visions of becoming a big star and letting it go to my head and making a shit ton of money and then losing it all because my ego gets so huge that no one can stand to be around me and spending all my money on hookers and cocaine and crumbling back to Earth a shell of what I used to be.
The possibility of any of that happening is zero.

There's really no future in anything entertainment related, at least for the vast majority of people.
Just like there's no future in becoming a starting NFL quarterback, or Hell, even a backup or third string quarterback.
Because there's only a handful of jobs and everyone wants them.
Entertainment is the same way, a handful of paying, sustainable jobs and everyone and their dog wants them.
Which is actually kind of awesome; it makes it easier to do whatever the fuck I want without worrying about keeping my job.

And Jesus, think of the pressure if you do happen to get one of those coveted jobs.
You always have someone breathing down your neck waiting for you to stumble and fall so they can take over.
Security is hard to come by.
And I'm old and worn out and don't have nearly the energy and ambition and good looks that these younger punk asses do.

But I don't really care, as long as it's something that I like doing and think I can keep getting better at.
Why does everything have to be about money.
Oh yeah, because I have this idea planted in my head that life is only awesome when I don't have to go to a job, and I have lots of money.
That's the fantasy perpetuated on the inner web anyway, one I've bought into pretty hard.
I hate it, but fuck, The Progress Machine is going to catch up to me one day and scoop me up and haul me off to the incineration pit.
I'll be put in a home with nurses who don't give a fuck if I'm alive or dead.
And I'll be left in a drab, small room alone for hours and hours and hours, laying in bed, staring out a small window at the next generation living.
Then I'll shit myself and have to lay in it for days because no one cares.
And I'll die alone and no one will even notice.
They won't even have a funeral for me, because why bother.
They'll say something like, "ah fuck it, just burn him up and flush his ashes down the toilet."

All because I failed to become rich and famous through improv.

Hello Again, Welcome To The New All About Me Who Cares About You Digital Space - 3.0

I want to write.
I just don't know what the fuck to write about any more.
It's like, when things are good, there's no story.
No one wants to hear, "man, my life is great right now."
They want to hear, "Jesus, my dick's falling off and everything around me is crumbling."
Maybe this is why the "brilliant" writer's lives seem to be always in shambles.
It's good source material.

But mines not.
I have a great girl who comes over from time to time and sits on my couch and pets my dog and goes out and does stuff with me.
My job could be better, but fuck it, I don't want to walk in every day and machine gun the place into oblivion.
Some days, yeah, but not every day.
I've found a thing to do that I like a whole lot and has seemed to revitalize the creative part of me that's felt dead for so long, and I have the girl I mentioned above to thank, because without her I wouldn't have been motived to get off my ass and try it.
That's something I'd like to write about, actually, but I don't know how.
Which means, I don't know how to write about it in a unique way.
Which means, I'm still afraid people will think it sucks.
Which means, I don't think I can make money writing about it and accumulate thousands of screaming fans, so why bother.

Maybe I could become the first writer in the history of writing to have his/her shit together and still be considered "brilliant."
I don't know.
How do I write about being happy?
Or should I just stop whining and wait for the sad to show back up.
Because it will, happy doesn't last forever.
Maybe I could fake it in the mean time and write about how my penis doesn't feel as big as it used to when I was younger, and how I'm having a hard time deciding whether or not I should trade in my almost new car for a new one, and how I'm struggling, still, to figure out how to make money without a job.
Jesus, just when a boy was feeling good about things, he breaks out the sad canon and starts firing into his own face.
I guess that's better than being farted on in the middle of the night by a girl with a perfect ass.

So I'm going to make this an experiment, to see if I can write stuff about life not sucking so hard, which feels really hard to do when I spend most of my time sitting in a dark office, alone, in front of a computer screen.
And really, my life has never sucked too hard.
I got a lot of white people problems, or suburban, over-privileged, white MAN problems.
If your biggest hardship is worrying about penis size when you've had zero complaints about your penis size, then things are pretty good.
Just imagine if you had no penis, or worse, a micro-penis.
Hell, maybe that wouldn't be so bad, because that eliminates one thing from the list of things that a person living in this modern society is supposed to acquire and secure, sex.
If I didn't have a penis, then I'd be able to focus all my energies elsewhere.
I might be making a boatload of money online and just pay girls to lick my ass or something.
But, sadly, I do have a functioning penis that I feel compelled to use as often as possible.
So that hardship isn't going away.

But that's not the experiment.
This is.
This boring, uneventful drivel littering the digital landscape.
And I'm going to call it, Taco Period, because, why the fuck not.

There's No Telling What Will Happen When God Gets Close To Orgasm - 126

A not yet obese but on the fast track to obesity boy stands at the condiment station at a popular coffee shop you frequent and frantically shakes flavored powder on the whip cream of his extra large caffeine drink order while talking to himself.
He says things like, “oh yeah,” and, “mmmm, hmmmm,” and, “I got <unintelligible>."
He shakes so violently that the flavored powder goes everywhere, on the floor, on the counter, on his clothes, and he just keeps shaking because his mother is outside on her iDevice trying to cheat on the boy’s father, or something like that.
You don’t really know for sure; she could be reading about how her husband has just been killed by an ax wielding psychopath and doesn’t have the mental wherewithal to give a shit about what her approaching obesity son is doing.
He keeps shaking like he’s a cocaine addict prepping his next line.

As you sit in judgement and think, “Jesus Christ kid,” you also think, “we’re doomed,” and for the seven billionth time you look to Heaven and ask God if He’ll let you stick around for the finale.
Like, you want to see how the Big Story ends, when Nature finally screams, “ENOUGH!” and what method of doom She chooses, and if you’re lucky, what comes next.
Then you want God to take you to Heaven and shower you with hot girls and candy and tacos because whatever comes next is going to fuck the survivors in the ass with hot pitchforks until they’re all dead.
And you continue to stare at the behavior of the boy as if his actions are Nature’s final straw, the realization that She fucked up and needs to start over.

He reaches a point of satisfaction with his accomplishment, places the plastic dome lid over the whip cream protruding from the top of the plastic cup, and runs outside to meet his cheating mother.
You assume it’s his mother, but could be some lunatic that kidnapped him, or a crazy aunt, or a stranger that the boy follows around like a lost puppy.
But most likely, it’s his mother, because she interacts with him as he shows her his creation and produces a look of disappointed and mouths some words in his direction that you can’t understand because there’s glass between them and you, and you really don’t give a shit other than hoping the boy grows up to be one of those obese people that eat themselves into their bed and need to be cut out of their house and hoisted into the back of an oversize ambulance by a crane.

And you wonder what separates you from him, as you take a sip through a plastic straw of the sugary beverage you possess.
And you conclude there is no separation, that his brain is your brain, his thoughts are yours, his actions a projection of how you’d like to fuck the world, as if that’s what you’re designed to do.
And you further conclude that fucking the world by shaking excessive amounts of flavored powder on a sugary beverage is what humans were designed to do, like Nature lost a bet with God and we’re the payoff, like it’s some weird higher power sexual thing.
Like if someone lost a bet with their sex partner and had to lick their asshole right after they took a shit, or something like that.
Humans are Nature’s way of licking God’s dirty asshole while he jacks off and will eventually ejaculate on Her face.
And the boy’s behavior feels like, to you, God is getting close to cumming, which means the end, the bet is paid, time to go back to normal, whatever that means.

The mother and the boy and two other boys get in their suburban tank and drive off.
You take another sip of your excessively sugary beverage and return to your iDistraction. 

Aliens & Evolution - 2.3

The asshole guy/girl who thinks it’s OK to blast their stupid fucking music or video on their iDevice in public places, like coffee shops, airports, airplanes, etc. Why did God give us these infinite distraction devices? Why did He allow them to make noise? Do these people even know, or care, how intrusive and socially aggressive they’re being?

This is how we’ve evolved, to sit in comfortable chairs with personal distraction machines that are capable of generating obnoxious, intrusive noise without concern for anyone else around us. Fuck all these other people in the world, this is MY video, MY entertainment, MY device. I have a right to do whatever the fuck I want.

And then when the distraction ends, we snap back to reality. It’s like the moment right after cumming when you get the urge to run away from whatever person you just came on.

I wonder, if there is some super intelligent aliens out in the universe, if during their development they went through a phase like this. Like, when their technology was beginning to grow exponentially, were they like lumps of dough being shaped by the technology? Or did they handle it a little better than we have so far?

This is assuming of course that somewhere in the universe, on some planet or other thing we can’t even know exists, that there are conscious, highly intelligent beings that have similar qualities as us. Like curiosity, aggression, and a never ending thirst for more. More food, more sex, more intelligence, more stuff, more, more, more, give me fucking more.

I’ve always thought for the past day or so that alien invasion movies are more a projection of how we would handle discovering an alien culture somewhere and what we would do if we were able to travel the impossible distances to visit them. We’d go with the intent of conquering them, or at the very least what we could take from them. So we think that if these things do exist, they desire the same things.

And that seems like a huge stretch, even to think that they would possess such a thing as desire or motivation or curiosity. I guess simple physics dictate that they would have to have some drive, because chances are whatever world they exist on is just as violent and uncertain and unpredictable as ours. So in order to survive, they would need some mechanism to keep going.

Or maybe I’m a fucking moron that doesn’t know how things work. And if life did exist somewhere else that it would almost have to be very similar to how our’s developed. Evolution, survival of the fittest, adaptations, natural disasters, disease, super intelligence, war, consumption, death.

But since the universe is billions of years old, it seems the probability of two super intelligent beings existing at the same time would be very tiny, like near impossible. And even if we did, if there’s another super intelligent being out there, the likelihood that we’d find each other seems remote. And even if we did find each other, the impossibility of traveling ridiculous distances across space would be the ultimate limiting factor. And most likely, any communication we receive from somewhere else in space would be severely dated, and possibly distorted to the point of appearing to be static.

That’s why I developed the concept of The Future Explorers. In the remote possibility that an intelligent being exist somewhere and “discovers” us and is capable of traveling the distance, by the time they get here, we’ll be long dead. And they’ll study us and draw conclusions and make assumptions and debate details and marvel at their own amazing abilities, that they are able to do such things.

Maybe this is how life works everywhere. Maybe it's the core of all life everywhere. That intelligence isn’t necessarily the pinnacle of existence, but a necessity to propagate life. Maybe we’re all really Martians, and that one day we’ll plant our seeds on another planet. 

Donald Trump's Penis - 2.2

I suck at sex, and I don’t think I’m ever going to be any good. All I can hope for is adequate, and perhaps the occasional good, and very rare great. But I doubt I’m ever going to be incredible, or amazing, or memorable, or whatever women call it when they catch an Earth shattering, knee buckling dick.

Of course, my measure of performance is porn. With their slick editing and gels and creams and all sorts of crap that make it seem like the dude can go forever and is the best lover the porn girl has ever had. It’s probably not a good metric to live by.

Still, everyone watches porn. Even your grandmother, your priest, the nice clean cut guy at your church that looks like he spends his days praying for world peace. And we see guys with giant dongs and girls with perfectly manicured pussies going at and acting like they’re getting the fucking of their life every time. How can anyone live up to those expectations?

We can’t, but that doesn’t mean we don’t expect it. Men expect the women in their life to suck their dick like it’s the last dick they’re ever going suck, and lick their balls and ass and having squirting orgasms and bring their girlfriends over for threesomes and all that crap. And women expect their men to have twelve inch penises and last forever and give them massive orgasms every night. Right? Am I missing something?

Maybe I just don’t know how to really please a woman. Or maybe my measure of pleasure is warped. I guess I wouldn’t know, because I suck at sex.

But so do most people, so I’m in good company. The guy sitting across from me reading his phone. The young dude waiting for his drink order. The girl serving him his drink order with the pink hair. The fat guy in the suit who keeps talking about business models and metrics and pie charts and shit. They all suck at sex.

So what is good sex? Is there a definition? Can it be defined? Does it involve massive orgasms? Is simply getting sex enough for it to be good? What if I demand amazing most of the time?

For most guys, just having sex is a monumental accomplishment. I once heard that eighty percent of the women are having sex with only twenty percent of the male population. And about twenty percent of fathers are raising kids that aren’t of their seed. In simple terms, eighty percent, or more, of guys have a really fucking hard time getting laid. And even if they are, their women are fucking a stud from the other twenty percent.

Who knows if any of that is true. I would imagine there’s some truth to it. But this isn’t a thing based on actual research and hard facts. This thing is about knee jerk reactions and believing whatever the fuck we want to believe. And I believe it. And I know for a fact that I’m not one of the twenty percent of guys banging all the girls.

And I further assume that the reason this is true is because only twenty percent, or less, of the male population is capable of giving women incredible pleasure. And when a woman finds a man like this, and they will eventually, they tend to keep going back. And they tell their friends. And their friends tell their friends and on and on. So I picture this secret directory that women share with each other that contains all the dudes that give the most amazing, head exploding sex.

This means there’s no hope for guys like me, the other eighty percent that probably would’ve been killed off if we were still living in a survival of the fittest situation like in the olden days. I mean, we can date and have girlfriends and wives and still have sex, but it’s like a major life event to have sex. Like, highly attractive, in demand women have forgotten more dicks than we have sexual experiences. And that’s fact.

So there’s the story of Donald Trump’s Penis, and knowing, through simple probability, that he’s most likely an eighty percenter. 

High School English Class - 2.1

I used to be able to write a whole page about a fart I let loose. Because my stupid high school English teacher, who hated my fucking guts because I wasn't one of the "nice" popular kids (my perception), made us write a page on some subject of her choosing. Not that "farts" was ever one of her subjects, but sometimes shit gets crazy.

Her name was Ms. Nine Iron, or something like that. I remember her being a real asshole.

When we couldn't think of anything to write, we had to write, "I don't know what to write. I don't know what to write." And some days (lots of days really) that's all I wrote. The purpose of the exercise wasn't to write anything interesting or meaningful or thoughtful or whatever, it was to just write, mainly so Ms. Nine Iron didn't have to do any work for ten minutes or so and could sit around and think about which biker dude she was going to let impregnate her asshole that night (slut shaming is wrong kids, don't do it).

She would give us an F if we didn't fill a whole page in a standard ruled notebook, or, if she didn't care for what we wrote. Like those days I wrote about my farts, or something that took a wild tangent from the theme of the day, I would also get an F. I took a lot of Fs.

One day in class, I picked on a zit on my face and it was bleeding. I had bad acne off and on through high school. Life sucked, especially in the self esteem and girl departments. On this particular day, my failure to be an attractive teenager was pointed out to the entire class by Ms. Nine Iron.

She said, "Aaron, what are you doing? Stop picking your pimples! It's bleeding. Go to the restroom and take care of it." And she pointed at the door, and everyone in the class looked at me and snickered, and I walked out of the classroom in shame. If school shootings had been invented, I probably would've considered it. Does that make me a bad person?

Then I had to return to class, with toilet paper pinned to my face. I slumped at my desk and sent hate waves at everyone. If my present day self would've shown up, he would've said something like, "it gets better, little buddy. All these assholes become beaten down trailer trash and you actually become good looking and semi successful." And it did. It got better. Way better.

Now here I am, a big shot with an Internet website, a boring job, a mediocre writing career, and a hot girlfriend. I've made it, as they say, a complete consumer success story.

But I've run out of things to write about. Or, I'm tired of writing about the things I've been writing about. Or, I'm the type of person who needs change in order to feel normal. Or all of the above sprinkled with a nagging need for certainty.

I thought about being more personal development advice-y, but why in the fuck would anyone listen to me? And isn't there enough garbage floating around everywhere to keep everyone thinking they're fucked up for decades?

Plus, everyone is trying to help everyone else, which is also known as trying to sell product, which is also called inventing problems then selling the solution. I'm good at solving problems but not so good at writing about solving problems. And fuck what everyone else is doing, I want to do the opposite.

Which is why I just wrote a stupid intro about a stupid high school teacher named Ms. Nine Iron who made us write a page of material on a theme every day. Except this time around, I get to choose the theme. Like today's theme is, High School English Class. Tomorrow's theme might be, Donald Trump's Penis. Who knows.

This Might Be It, Probably Not, But It Could Be So Make The Most Of It - 1.125

You've officially hit the wall, or you've stopped caring, or you've moved on, or you've found a new thing to play with and this thing you've been playing with for a long time feels old and worn out.
Or you've run out of things to say, or you're actually living instead of existing inside your head.
Or all of these things, it doesn't matter, no one cares anyway.
So you ask yourself, "what's next?"

Then you're snapped back to consciousness when a man who looks like he's been poured into the tiny stadium seat screams an obscenity, something like, "choke on a dick <censored>," at a player on the field who's too far away to hear him, and even if he was able to hear what the man said, he wouldn't care.
And you decide that you want to avoid becoming that guy so you silently condemn his behavior and return to scrolling on your iDevice and contemplating why you paid money to sit in a stadium with a bunch of strangers to scroll on your iDevice.

You notice a pair of female adornments out of the corner of your eye moving in your direction.
And you wonder if sharks can consciously resist swimming towards blood in the water, or wolves can choose not to pursue a wounded or weak whatever they eat, or a grown ass man can consciously choose not to focus his attention on a woman's baby feeders.
You receive your answer when the muscles in your neck force your head in the direction of the oncoming milk givers, like God forcefully turning your head in the direction it needs to go.
And you feel yourself go into a trance for a few seconds, where your eyes lock on and your brain releases chemicals that hypnotize you.
Then your eyes move up to hers and she looks at you as if to say, "you fucking dirt bag."
And God laughs and you feel shame and embarrassment and wonder what a real man might feel.

This is what your life has boiled down to, sitting in crowds alone, scrolling your iDevice, locking your eyes onto up tops automatically, and writing about it here.
And you're tired of it, like it's run it's course, like you've analyzed to death all the things life has to offer.
So you ask yourself again, "what's next?" like you know what's next but you're not quite ready to accept it.

A woman wearing too much smell good and dressed like she's about to go to a club in hopes of landing a sexual organ large enough to pleasure her walks down the steps in front of you and almost falls because she's having a hard time walking down steep stairs in heels.
You flex your leg muscles as if you're going to jump up and help her, but relax when you realize she isn't going to actually fall.
And she turns around and looks at you with hate in her eyes and all you can focus on are the big fake eyelashes she's wearing.

You return to scrolling your iDevice and thinking about stuff.
You come to the conclusion that nothing changes, really, just, things get shifted, rearranged, replaced, whatever.
These things are just window dressing anyway, which makes you feel good about stuff and whatever comes next.

Sometimes, Staring At The Wall Is The Most Important Thing A Person Can Do With Their Life - 1.124

You look at a painting on the wall of a long ago dead guy wearing a pointy helmet with feathers in it.
He looks like a person that lived in a time when people killed each with spears and swords and lived in houses made of mud and had sex with whoever they pleased and talked in pretentious accents and died very young.
You analyze his face and pretend that when the painting was made, he was having a horrible case of diarrhea, and he had just caught his woman fucking another man that looked similar to him but was slightly taller, younger, and he was overdue with his rent because he lost his job in the castle, and the king was on his ass about something he did that upset him, and he felt very unimportant and insecure and lonely.

A girl comes and sits in the chair across from you.
You say, “hello,” in a friendly way and she doesn’t look at you.
And you wonder if you even exist or had you died and just not realized it yet.
She pulls out a machine similar to yours but smaller and begins focusing her entire existence on the screen.
And you focus your entire existence back on your screen.
And the two of you sit across from each other and pretend the other isn’t there because that’s how modern day humans experience each other.

Like, earlier, you got into an elevator with three other people and despite speaking the same language and having the same problems and living in a world where there’s so much to talk about and interact over, you faced forward like they didn’t exist and they faced forward like you didn’t exist and this is how we’ve decided to live.
And you got off the elevator feeling a little more lonely and alone despite being surrounded by people who probably feel similar.
Like, you wonder if you were to drop dead if anyone would notice, which makes you question again whether or not you’re still alive.

You look back at the painting of the long ago dead person and just stare at it.
And he stares back creepily, like he’s waiting for the right moment to slink out of the painting and sneak up behind you and slit your throat.

And you remember a time when you didn’t give a fuck about being alone.
You didn’t give a fuck if anyone interacted with you or if a girl said, “hello,” back to you, or the boys in the elevator ignored you.
It’s like, somehow, you’ve come to believe that you need to be everything to everyone, like you need all the girls to want to suck your dick and the boys to want to be your friend.
Like, you have to be the most interesting, most attractive person in the world and if there’s someone better, then fuck them, “I hope they die."
And you calculate this is just a by-product of getting old and withering away and becoming obsolete and essentially not mattering any more, because the next generation filing in behind The Progress Machine are taking over the world and shoving you to the side to slog through the mud, slowing you down, so The Progress Machine can catch up to you sooner and clear you out of existence.

And the dead guy in the painting knows how this feels.
If the painting didn’t exist, no one now would ever know he existed and whatever problems he was facing when the painting was made don’t matter.
And somehow there’s comfort in not mattering, because your problems are stupid and meaningless and probably shouldn’t garner any more attention than a fart gets.
No one gives a fuck that your job sucks, you can’t attract a woman to save your life, you’re weak and fragile, you’re lonely, you feel like an obsolete, broken, fucked up, forgotten relic.

Let the vultures circle and pick apart what little you’ve collected.
Let them pick you down to the bone, where there’s nothing left but your soul.
Let them take it all away.
Let them laugh while they do it.
Because you know that eventually their time will come, and the more they have collected, the more painful it will be when The Progress Machine rides on their ass and starts taking it all away.
That’s the message the dead guy in the painting wants to send you. 

This Is What Happens When Three Boys Sit At A Table And Exchange Words - 1.123

The girl behind the counter in charge of taking money in exchange for a ticket smiles like she knows a secret about you.
Like, she somehow knows about the time you shit your pants in your car after eating a terrible fish dinner.
Or the time you peed on that girl in the shower because, why the fuck not.
Or maybe she can see inside your soul, all your insecurities, the ugliness that everyone possess deep inside their heart.
“But then,” you think, “why would she be smiling?"
And you say, “thank you,” and she says, “enjoy the show,” and later after the show you’ll see her in the bar area and she’ll make eye contact with you for an uncomfortable amount of time and you’ll smile and she’ll smile and you’ll walk away into the night.

You put the ticket in your pocket and walk to the bathroom.
You unzip your pants, expose your penis, and begin relaxing the muscle responsible for holding back the urine.
A thing on the wall reads, “Julia Hollis is a whore!!"
And without debating the truth of the statement, you say in your mind, “Julia Hollis is a whore,” and you make a mental note that if you ever come across Julia Hollis in real life, you’ll desire nothing more from her than a blow job, and maybe try to pee on her in the shower, because why the fuck not.
There’s a phone number under the factual bathroom wall statement and you wonder how many guys have stood in your place and called the number.
And you wonder further, “what would I even say? Hello, is this Julia? I hear you’re a whore? Uhhhhhhh."

You return your penis to the inside of your pants and go to the theatre.
A boy standing by the open door collects your ticket and directs you to sit at a table with a couple who seems very much in love with each other.
Like, they’re on the verge of fucking in front of everyone in love.
But instead of following his orders, you sit at the table next to them and cringe as they cuddle and kiss and laugh and giggle and feel on each other.
And the cringe is more jealousy that you don’t have what they have, and probably never will experience it because girls are repulsed by you.
Like, if there’s a place that a lot of girls go to and refuse to leave, the place could hire you to come in when they want the girls to leave.
And all you’d have to do is walk in and say, “hello,” and the girls would all vomit on the floor in unison then run screaming for the exit.
You could charge a ridiculous amount of money for this service.

A boy you know comes in and sits down at your table and says, “hello,” to you.
You say, “hey,” back to him and you remember each other’s names and talk about things like jobs and comedy and other shit.
You say, “fuck,” a lot because you say, “fuck,” a lot in real life, probably an excessive amount.
And he says, “fuck,” also, like you give him permission to be himself, and in a way, that satisfies you.

Then another boy comes and sits at your table who you think you know but can’t remember.
He says his name is, “<censored>,” or whatever, you can’t remember.
He’s taller than you and you immediately think you are beneath him and that all the girls want to have sex with him because they probably do.
And you shrink a little and feel inadequate and wonder to yourself, “what’s the point,” as if the whole point of this existence is to be the best looking, tallest, most attractive pussy getter on the planet.
He says some words and you say some words and the other boy says some words and for a moment, you feel like a normal modern day human male bonding with other human males.

The show begins and you watch.

The show ends, and the boy who you knew from before says, “well, I’ll see you Wednesday."
And you say, “yep, OK, see you then."
The other boy says nothing and exits like you don’t exist, and that makes you sad in a way because you thought maybe he could be your best friend for the rest of your life.

While walking out, you accidentally bump your ass on a girl’s shoulder who was staring at her iDevice.
She looks up at you with an expression that says something like, “God damn mother fucker! Now I gotta go hose off since you wiped your disgusting ass on me."
You say, “I’m sorry,” and she just crinkles her nose at you and returns to staring at her iDevice.
And you think a little more seriously about becoming a permanent shut in.

Then the girl who gave you a ticket earlier smiles at you again in the area where people gather before they go into the theatre and you think maybe not everyone is sickened by your existence.
And that maybe you exaggerate things a little too much.
And that maybe, despite feeling bad sometimes, you should keep trying.
And that maybe, who fucking cares if you fail or have a bad day or a bad experience or a bad relationship or a bad career or are bad at everything you ever try and become nothing more than a person who breathed, consumed, shitted, and died. 

Inadequacy & The Modern Art Of Forced Personal Transformation - 1.122

"Maybe he doesn't give a fuck," you think in response to a thing a Boss says in a meeting while complaining about another boy not fulfilling his duty as a complicit, disposable piece of The Profit Machine. 
The Boss keeps complaining, whining on and on about who said what and deflecting blame, like he's trying to reason with executioners who can't see or hear him.
And you point your eyes at the iDevice and scroll.

You wonder what it would be like to be a different person, to be in the Boss' body or to have his mind transplanted into your head.
Like, one day, this will be a thing, where two people can go to a place and tell a person something like, "we're interested in switching brains," and the person will be like, "OK, here's what we offer," and the person will present the two people with a menu of options of escalating expense, and the two people will look at each other and select the option that best suits them, and the person will take them to a clean, well lit room and perform the transplant, and the two people will walk out the same day with the other's brain in their head, and this will be a normal thing, because, why the fuck not.

Then you realize sometimes that people want you to be a different person, someone they're more comfortable with, more familiar with, someone they'd actually like to fuck and be with.
And sometimes you buy into it, like you think you need to be a different kind of person so that a particular person is more comfortable with you, more attracted to you, more interested in being in your presence.
And when you try and you fail to transform magically into the type of person they'd like to have in their life, you think something like, "what's the point."
Then you go back to being whatever you were before and sit in the pain of not being able to be everything to everyone all the time.

The Boss looks right at you while he talks, accusingly, like he wants you to be the type of person who cares deeply about what he has to say and the work you do and the people you work with and the career you've chosen.
And you see him trying to transform you into that type of person using his eyes only, and you look back at him and wonder when you're going to get your dick sucked again.
He keeps talking, you move your eyes back to your iDevice and continue to scroll.

You've been told by various people throughout your life that you have a "bad attitude."
You wonder how an attitude can be "bad," and you come to the conclusion that "bad" means something like "not like <insert person>'s attitude."
And you know the Boss is thinking while he's talking, "A-ron has a bad attitude," and somewhere in his mind a scientist is working on inventing a cure for your "bad attitude," and you're certain it includes a lot of convincing and arguing and psychological torture.

You keep scrolling and thinking about getting your dick sucked and other sexual nonsense and realize that you cannot transform into a different person and you don't want to.
Despite what he or she says passive aggressively, whether the Boss wants you to get a brain transplant to reform your "bad attitude" or a girl wants you to get a bigger dick, bigger muscles, thicker hair, whatever.
But it kind of makes you sad that if you can't transform into what other people find attractive, you'll be alone forever.
And in that moment, everything becomes background, you stop scrolling, the Boss' talk fades down, and you think about what it means to be who you are, and if that's even something that needs studying.