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

It’s Kinda Like That Scene In That Movie Where The Guy’s Heart Gets Pulled Out And Shown To Him - 121

You imagine a regular sized ice pick made of ice being slowly stabbed into your heart by a very strong, fully nude witch with green skin.
She laughs manically as she does it, and says things to you that prove all of your insecurities and self limiting beliefs about yourself are one hundred percent true.

Then she pulls it out right as you’re about to crumble into a quivering mess and rubs your head and back and says, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I still love you."
And as soon as she says it enough times that you believe it, she stabs the ice pick right back in and repeats all the bad things you know about yourself to be true.
And you’re too stupid to run away once you have an opportunity.
Almost like, you like, like the agony, the pain, the anguish.
It’s a comfortable friend you’re willing to put up with because it shows you moments, glimpses, fractions of seconds of pleasure.
Jesus probably suffered less.

This is the modern human experience.
Boredom fuels relentless thoughts fuels feelings of anxiety, discomfort, and inadequacy.
And it’s The Void that must be filled, that space we used to fill with hunting and running from things trying to eat us and just generally surviving; we didn’t have time to be bored and dwell on all the things that sucked.
Things just sucked, all the time, but we were too busy trying not to die to care.
Now, The Void gets too many thought cycles, and we try to fill it with love, work, possessions, power, artificial experiences, and massive doses of distractions.
But those things never work for very long.
And the witch returns to twist the ice pick a little deeper.

And you take it, because you have to, because you can.
Because you cannot control hardly anything except the way you move and talk and think.
And the latter is a stretch.
You lay on the ground and say, “come on, you stupid fucking witch, get it over with today, I got shit to do."
And you let her plunge it in and out while she sucks on your balls and says horrible things about you.
And you grab her by the snakes she has for hair and say, “I fucking like it."

Because, the pain is reliable, it’s going to show up again and again and again.
It’s always right around the corner.
So you expect it, welcome it in, like, “oh shit, OK, come on in and make yourself at home, just don’t shit in my mouth this time please."
And the first thing it does is shit in your mouth.
And you eat it because you have to it.
You kinda like it.

You’re idea of “normal,” “right,” whatever, comes from a textbook that’s been edited down to perfection, the ideal peak of the mountain that no humans can ever actually attain.
You read the textbook cover to cover and beat your head against the wall before realizing it’s best to surrender and answer the only question that really matters.
Fuck yes, or no?
You feel like this should be the fundamental law of modern human behavior.
Like, every decision you make should be based on that question.
If the answer is fuck yes, do it.
If the answer is fuck no, don’t do it.
There is no maybe, or wait and see, or crossing the fingers hoping something will morph into something else more desirable.
Or waiting around to see if one day you’ll be able to be the type of person to finally get selected, chosen, whatever.

But then again, your desires don’t fucking matter.
The universe doesn’t give a fuck about you or anyone else.
Yet you’re comfortable staying frozen with your fingers crossed hoping one day the universe will change its mind and select you as its grand representative, or whatever bullshit.
Meanwhile, the gray hairs get grayer, the wrinkles fuck each other and make new wrinkles, your balls sag a little further, your penis shrinks a little more, and your life dissolves while you wait. 

When God Intervenes, You Stumble Upon The Ingredients Of Consumerism - 120

The cop screams at you, "what are you doing? You can't go this way, sir! You done ran over my cone. Didn't you see it there?"
You lie, "no, I didn't see it there. Why can't I go this way?"
"Because it's closed, sir. You have to go straight."
"I don't want to go straight, I want to go that way," and you point in the direction you want to go not caring about his feelings or anyone else's feelings because you feel entitled to your way.
"You can't, sir. Now go straight," and he shakes his head and points in the direction he wants you to travel and you press your foot firmly on the gas of your car and cut in front of someone doing things the right way.

Sometimes you think the world is conspiring against you.
Like, God organizes His minions to get in the way of a thing you want to do.
And you can't figure out if it's for your protection or because God truly does hate you.
"Maybe it's both?" you think, because it is possible for God to hate you yet still not want to see you in pain.
And the thought of defying cops and God makes you smile, because, fuck it.

So you give up trying to do the thing you wanted to do and begin a quest for food intake.
You pull up behind two people on motorcycles, in the middle of a pristine, Utopian inspired suburb, at the intersection of two roads that have collected an assortment of shopping and dining options that can be found also at the next intersection of roads, everything neatly organized for optimal ingress and egress, to take the consumer efficiently through the consuming experience with minimal interference so they can get back to busily scurrying about their lives.

One of the persons on the motorcycle is bald, but sports a braided goatee, and is dressed in typical biker garb, tight ass jeans, black t-shirt, black boots, complete with a hunting knife of some sorts fastened to his black, studded belt.
And you wonder aloud in the safety of your car, "how much effort has he put into looking the part?"
And you conclude that he spends all day and night shopping and purchasing just the right articles of clothing and accessories to carefully construct the facade persona he wishes to display to the world, as if he wishes to make the statement, "look how bad ass and cool I am."
And you tick the counter in your head of people you run across who go out of their way to make it look like they don't give a fuck.
And then you imagine getting into a fight with him, and when he tries to stab you with his knife, you capture his arm, take him to the ground by twisting it in just the right way, and eventually spiral fracture it while whispering, "you'll never use this arm the same, ass fuck."

The person on the other motorcycle appears to be female, and you assume so, because at one point, the braided goatee man displaying a hunting knife kisses two of his fingers and then moves them to the lip area of the other person, who's wearing a helmet.

The light changes to the color that means "move forward" and you follow behind the two motorcycle people as they ride responsibly, at a reasonable speed, while the man revs his engine so it makes more noise and no doubt impresses everyone who is envious he's on a motorcycle and they're in a metal box on four wheels.
Because as a society, we believe the advertising that says something like, "motorcycles represent freedom, America, and coolness, and if you're not riding one, then you're an ordinary slave who hates America and is not cool."
Then you think, "maybe I should get a motorcycle?"

The motorcycle couple makes a left turn into a subdivision where all the houses look exactly the same, are packed tightly together to maximum profits, and manicured in a fashion that's the equivalent of buying a painting from a store that has several locations that all sell the same exact painting.
And you picture the man going into his cookie cutter home, unclipping his clip on braided goatee, placing his hunting knife in a closet dedicated to motorcycle costumes, and getting up the next day and putting on ill fitting slacks and a white, or blue, collared shit, maybe a tie, and he goes to a boring office and sits in front of a boring computer monitor and types boring things and talks in a boring tone on the phone with other boring people wearing similar costumes and he hates his life.
And the image of him slinking in a comfy office chair with a defeated expression on his face inspires you to think, "maybe I should get facade persona?"

When Your Balls Sag To Your Knees You’ll Be Overtaken With The Desire To Purchase Baggy Business Clothes - 119

The ill fitting attire of the aged office worker gives you a glimpse of your very near future.
Baggy casual but dressy slacks, oversized dress shirt that looks like it fit perfect thirty pounds ago, shiny dress shoes, maybe a tie, and a beaten down facial expression that says something like, “I’m a disposable pawn to my company."
You can almost see The Progress Machine nipping at their heels.
And you think, “this is my future."

Yet you refuse to accept it.
You think that somehow you’re going to escape such a fate, like you’re different in some way, like your going to mature into a unique butterfly and spend the rest of your life drifting on breezes while quietly achieving amazing, memorable things.
Then God slaps you across the face with His dick as if to say, “probably not gonna happen, jackass. Now back to work!"
So you shop on the inner web for ill fitting business attire and momentarily accept your fate.

The other day, you were standing in a meeting facing away from all the other people in the meeting.
You stood in the corner and said the words you were supposed to say while leaning your forehead where the two walls intersect.
You imagined a buzz saw protruding from the wall that gently and painlessly sawed your head in half, releasing the demonic infection that gave you the urge to face the corner and lean your head against the wall during a meeting where other people expected you to speak and make sense and show enthusiasm for something that’s as meaningless to you as you are to the entire female population.
And you see this as proof that you are not destined to wear ill fitting business attire and speak in generic languages and scurry about your day in “look busy” mode in an attempt to impress a Boss who may or may not promote you to the next rung of the corporate ladder as if that’s an accomplishment in life.
“YES! I’ve been selected by the great master to move one inch closer to the top of an abstract empire of meaninglessness!"

Today you sit in a coffee shop in ragged shorts and a t-shirt that has a hole in it and stare at other, more business accomplished older mens with their nipples popping out of their white shirts and wonder if you had made just a couple of different life choices, you might be sitting next to them talking about whatever it is disposable office workers talk about; project milestones and daily statuses probably.
And you stare at cute girls with their butts packed into pants designed to make their butts look good and wonder who’s having sex with them and if they’re happy and how they make money and how many dicks they’ve had in their mouths.
It makes you feel self aware to sit in judgment, because the things you judge others on are the things you judge yourself on.
And you wonder if you secretly wish you had the ambition of a man wearing ill fitting business attire, to climb the corporate ladder and please his Bosses and get an extra scrap of whatever that can be etched on his tombstone when The Progress Machine eventually hauls him off to the incineration pit.
And you suddenly want to hug the man wearing the yellow tie who seems to be talking to himself loudly as if he wants the whole world to know how important he thinks he is.

You remind yourself that you don’t believe anything matters, that in one hundred years no one will care anyone from right now existed, just like you don’t care that someone one hundred years ago existed.
Even the ones who believed they were fighting for a noble cause, to further humanity, who died face down in the mud, don’t matter now.
And it’s a liberating thought, because you’re free to live however you want, because who fucking cares. 

Because If Things Were Fucking Easy And Crystal Clear - 118

Sometimes you wonder something like, "am I doing things right?" or, "is this normal?" or, "is this the best way?"
Like, you consume yourself to the point of obsession with discovering the answers to these questions and how they relate to your world.
Like, you're preparing for a test that requires you to provide the right answers to these questions, and if you get them wrong, you go straight to Hell where the Devil will make you suck his dick until he jizzes hot lava in your mouth.

You take out a note card and start drawing little boxes all connecting to each other, like a collage, except drawn, and you worry whether or not it's the "right" thing to draw, where "right" really means, "will anyone think this is good?"
And then you draw a box or two that aren't perfect and think, "well, I fucking ruined it," and you fight the urge to wad it up and throw it in the garbage and start over.
The metaphor for your life crystallizes in your thick skull.

You keep drawing anyway with the nagging thought, "this isn't really drawing, I'm just wasting time."
You look up from your "art work" and stare at a box outside your office door that has a picture of a machine designed specifically to make ice.
And you think, "that's the stupidest thing ever."
But then someone paid money for it and receives some sort of pleasure from using it.
You go back to drawing the boxes and maintain the idea that you're wasting your time.
You remember the times in your life when you never worried whether or not you were doing things right.
And somewhere along the way, you morphed into this, a boy who sits in a boring office and types things on a computer and worries about doing things "right."
Like, it's not OK to just fuck things up.
It's not OK to make poor decisions.
It's not OK to fail and make mistakes and try new things and quit your job and go broke and live in your car.
Nope, everything has to be figured out RIGHT FUCKING NOW, and you must love every second and be the best at everything all the time or you have failed.

You look at pictures of people traveling the world and doing fun things and you think, "that's the right way to live," even though you've never had much desire to travel the world and engage in meaningless things.
You're a creator with a knack for over analyzing the details, for experiencing loneliness, for drifting from thing to thing, for getting stuck inside your own head and worrying whether you're doing things the way they are supposed to be done while at the same time rejecting the idea that there is a right way.
It's this conflict that defines you, or at least that's what you think about because you have nothing better to do than sit at a desk and pretend to work on things that you don't give a shit about because you want the money to pay for things you don't give a shit about.
Like, your ideal self is in there somewhere, but you get lost in the details and look in the wrong places and spend too much time trying to rid yourself of "bad" feelings because the right way to live is to always feel "good."
But if you always feel "good," how will you know what "bad" feels like?
Like, if everything feels "good," then nothing feels "good."

You go back to drawing boxes and thinking how pointless it all is.
You search for meaning, because, you think, "it's in there somewhere."
It's not in another country or another place or another activity.
It's somewhere on the desk in your office on the note card in one of the tiny boxes.
"I'll find it one day," you say out loud to no one.

Nothing Can Fill You Up So Get Used To It And Stop Trying So Fucking Hard - 117

You're feeling sad, lonely, and horribly inadequate.
"What have I done with my life?" you think, not being able to come up with a good answer, because you're convinced that you've done nothing but waste it.
You've played by the rules, done the right things, gone through the same motions as everyone else, and you've wound up exactly where God and The System and The Progress Machine want you, among the throngs of baby birds with their mouths wide open waiting for mama bird to come along and vomit some partially digested scraps of whatever in them.

The Internet tells you that everyone is living an amazing life, full of adventure, and fun, and incredible sex, and happiness.
It reminds you how everyone has a bigger penis than you, fucks better than you, moves better than you, is fitter than you, has more friends than you, does more amazing things than you, and rubs it in your face as if to say if you're not doing and being and having all the things, then you are a fucking God damn motha fuckin' failure and should just give up and bury your head in the sand until it's time to climb in the coffin.
And you sit alone in your boring, dark office and lap it all up.

You fold your arms, rest them on your desk, and place your forehead on them and close your eyes and pretend the discomfort and anxiousness are cleansing robots doing some remodeling of your insides.
And when they're done remodeling, they'll leave and be replaced by something that either numbs you to your perceived shortcomings or motivates you to get off your ass and do something about it.
You kinda hope it's the former because it'd be so much easier than actually trying.
Like that guy in that movie about office workers where he gets hypnotized into not giving a shit about anything any more.
You think, "yeah, that'd be great, do I know any hypnotists?"

You know you can't think your way out of this, whatever the fuck it is.
You know you have to do your way out.
Or maybe you don't want to get out.
Maybe you want to stay here and wallow for a while because it's still comfortable, it's a known state, and it doesn't require much effort to stay here.
Whatever, you roll your head on your forearms in the no direction.

Then you think about the boy who works in your office who seems like a fine example of what you could be.
Like, you think, "maybe I should model my life after his?"
And then you realize you pretty much have, except you've tried just a little bit harder.
He is the result of not trying at all, at anything, except being a good worker man.
And you know that one day he's going to wake up and be in your shoes and come into work one day and rest his forehead on his forearms and shake his head in the no direction and wonder where it all went wrong and how he can fix it.
And he'll also feel it's too late, like he's wasted it and there's no going back because that's how God wants life to work.
But still, you think, "maybe I should try that for a while?"
Because giving up makes sense, letting the universe around you crumble until there's nothing left but you.
And when you've lost everything, you're free to do anything, including nothing, including living under a bridge and surviving off collected rain water and scraps of food.

This Would Be Really Sad If It Weren't So God Damn True - 116

It's the middle of the week, fourteen fifteen, partly cloudy, a flag flies over a place that serves incredibly unhealthy food in as much quantity as a person desires, because freedom is exercising one's right to consume massive quantities because, fuck it, they can.
You want to leave your office, get in your car, drive home, curl up in a ball on your bed, and cry because The System wants nothing more than to make you work a job you don't want to work for money so they can take the money and give it to someone else.
Then you want to get on a plane and fly to some remote part of the world and live on the beach by yourself for the rest of your life.

You stood in line earlier at a place that makes food that makes you feel like a lemming following the other lemmings who are all following the other lemmings in front of them.
Like, your mind clicks off and you stare blankly at the back of the person's head in front of you and try to determine if their value is greater than yours.
Because you can't really click your mind off, it has to be busy doing something, and if it's not engaged in conscious activity, it tries to find impossible problems to solve.
And when it can't solve those problems, it triggers you to take out the iDevice and scroll.
And you obey because you are lemming mimicking what all the other lemmings in front of you are doing.

The person whose job it is to fulfill your order lives her working life in a repetitive loop.
She repeats the same words to every person she encounters.
She follows the same path, back and forth, her feet stepping exactly where they stepped before.
She makes the same facial expressions, which are no expressions at all, because she's not really alive, she's dead until she takes off the uniform and leaves the building.
You can totally see the strings coming from the ceiling controlling her arms and legs and mouth.

The person whose job it is to take your money in exchange for the food appears to come with more personality.
But you can't be sure if it's genuine or also on a repetitive loop.
It seems natural and unscripted, but when he turns his attention to the person behind you, he repeats the same phrases in the same manner and all your hopes of living in a world where people are truly free to think and act as they please come crashing down.
And you wonder if anyone else can see through the veneer.

You collect your sack of food, fill up your cup with a beverage, and stare at a person behind you following the same sequence you did: order food, pay person, fill up cup, leave.
Order food.
Pay person.
Fill up cup.
And that's what all of modern life boils down to: grow up, get job, pay money, die.
Grow up.
Get job.
Pay money.

You move extra slow out the door and smile at the people who walk past you, almost in perfect intervals.
They're like disposable ants collecting whatever it is ants eat to take back to their hive, or whatever it's called, to give to the queen so they can go back out and collect some more.
And the queen will eat the thing and shit out more ants that will replace the ones bringing her the things now.
So it's like they're feeding their own demise.
It doesn't make sense and it almost drives you insane that you can see it.
Almost, because it makes you feel liberated that you can and you don't know why.

Old Men With Tacky Rings Are A Reminder That The Future Isn’t Too Far Away - 115

An old man shuffles to the chair next to you and begins sliding the chair against the window like he’s trying to make it go further back than the physical universe will allow.
You stare at his old face then glance at his fingers where you discover a large, orange orb decorating his ring finger.
It reminds you of a thing your grandmother used to use to prop the bathroom door open at her house, because she lived in a trailer than was at least six thousand years old and trailers aren’t known for their longevity so they tend to shift and sag and become unstable to the point that bathroom doors don’t stay open on their own any more.
The thing was a solid piece of glass with an orange bottom, and it encased a large scorpion.
The old man’s ring looks exactly like that bathroom door holder thing, minus the scorpion.

He bangs the chair a couple more times into the glass and decides it’s as far back as possible.
Then he turns his attention to the little table dividing your chair and the chair he has chosen to sit in and begins sliding it to better suit his needs, taking your sugary beverage with it.
You watch him in astonishment, like, you think, “is he only able to see a few inches in front of his face? Cannot he not see another person here who might be using the table also?"
But he keeps sliding without saying a word, scraping your knee, ignoring your existence, which is familiar to you so you don’t mind too much.
He sits down and starts reading the paper.

You realize that you’ve lived a destructive life, that others around you seem to have worked hard to build some sort of constructive existence for themselves, engaging in things that matter to them.
But you’ve spent most of your time trying to destroy everything, yourself, others, and very little time building a life that matters to you.
As a result, you’re alone, lonely, and living through an existential crisis, where the consequences of your past actions are slamming into your current reality.
And you don’t know what to do about it, so you cry a little and resolve to get busy building a life that matters despite the pain of thinking that you should be further along than you actually are.

The old man keeps reading the paper with his bathroom door stopper ring glistening in the artificial fluorescent lights.
You wonder how he became to be this, a person who sits in a coffee shop in the morning wearing white shoes and a white hat and reading a newspaper.
You want to ask him, but you’re afraid he will consume your entire day telling you stories about shit you don’t give a fuck about.

And you know that thinking you need more, or that you should be further along with whatever, is absolute bullshit.
You know that you have a handful of things that you identify with and care about.
You know that seeing other people with more doesn’t mean you don’t have enough, because you’re perception of “more” and “enough” is probably different than theirs.
You really see them as better, doing things you wish you could do, living a life that’s full of activity and engagement and people that care.
And the loneliness surfaces again and you take it because you have to.

And you get stuck in your head thinking of all the things you wish you’d stuck with.
You wish you weren’t so wishy-washy.
You wish you’d kept doing things and practicing and taking them more serious than something to do between parties.
You wish you’d dedicated your life to a cause, or purpose, or something.
Instead, you just wanted to drink and party and live in distraction.
And now you don’t even have that, and it makes you feel empty, and envious of everyone who has things.

And you think it’s too late, like you’ve passed your prime, your expiration, whatever, fuck it, right?
The only thing that matters is dealing with it now, and finding constructive activity, and being around people who are also trying to build something constructive for themselves, and feeling the pain and shouting, “fuck you,” straight into its mouth, and finding the courage to take risks, and embarrassing myself, and getting rejected, and still coming back for more every day.
And crying, it’s a release, it helps, it’s like mourning the life you think you’ve wasted and transitioning into the life you think you need.

The old man seems happy just reading the stupid newspaper and sitting in a chair.
Maybe he’s not, maybe he’s going home to cry later over the things he’s lost and the things he really wants but can’t have.
Maybe he’s going to take a big shit then a nap then an early dinner and think of nothing.
Maybe he’s going to kiss someone he loves and be thankful that he stuck with that person despite it being very difficult to do so at times.
Who fucking cares.

You know nothing lasts forever.
Everything goes away and becomes meaningless.
“So, what do I want to get out of this?” is the only question you’re left with. 

The Method Of Knowing Things Are Within Your Control And What Not To Do About Them - 114

The window in your office frames a view of the world you describe as, "normal."
As in, this is the typical office worker experience, and you're getting to experience it on an almost daily basis.
And it feels like it's not enough.
And it feels limited, constraining, borderline oppressive, depressing, sad, unnatural, draining, and boring as all fucking fucks.
But it still feels, "normal," so you deal with it.

The concept of "letting go," the dark art of accepting your situation for what it is and not even trying to do anything about it, has been pissing on the squishy part of your brain responsible for producing the things you described a couple of sentences ago.
You hang your head in a semi-prayer position while seated at your stand up desk, take a deep breath, and say the words, "let go," as you exhale.
But you don't say the words out loud because then the people in the adjacent offices might think your insane, and you can't let them think you're insane because that might ruin the illusion that you have everything under control, if that's even an illusion they carry around, although it probably isn't, who fucking cares.

Those words bring you momentary peace.
Like, stopping whatever it is you're doing, which is either staring out at your limited, depressing view of the world or staring blankly at your monitor to the point where it becomes a blobby blur in front of your face, and taking a couple of seconds to soak in the moment.
And you think during these brief pauses, "why can't I stay here?"
And you know the answer, because God didn't build you to stay in one place, because if you did, you'd die.
Then you curse Nature and return to fighting through the chaos that fills your skull.

It's the unknown, uncertainty, the feeling that everything is crumbling around you and everyone is laughing at your demise and cheering for you to crumble along.
It's the feeling you're being used as a pawn, a game piece to someone else's ambitions.
It's the feeling of being at a dead end and too dumb and stupid to figure out how to go back.
It's the fear of letting go of things and people and just letting everything be as is, because you use these things to fill you up, the void that defines you as a person, which isn't much of a definition if it's a void.
It's the feeling that you need to get out of your head and into the world and experience something fresh, something radical, something so completely different that it changes the way you look out your limited, framed view of the world every day.
It's the need for something exciting, and maybe a little scary, to throw yourself into something so overwhelming that you have no choice but to work your way out, and to let the chips fall where they may.

But you know these are just feelings.
You've made a lot of mistakes, accumulated a lot of baggage, spent a lot of time alone, while thoroughly exploring the land of the ordinary.
You know what's going to happen when you wake up tomorrow, and the next day, and the next, and the next.
You know how you're going to feel, what you're going to think, how you're going to react, what you're going to say, etc.
It's like a song stuck in your head that you have to play over and over and over in order to make yourself sick of it.

You contemplate walking out of your job, getting in your car and driving to your overpriced luxury apartment, picking up your dog, your guitar, and a suitcase full of clothes, and just going for a really long drive.
No plan. No ambition. No destination.
But you're not going to do that yet, because there's still a sliver of hope that you'll truly be able to "let go," whatever the fuck it means.

The Un-Fucking-Believable Truth About Our Existence On This Plant - 113

You sit in a chair all day and look at a screen and think about all the things you'd rather be doing than the thing you're currently doing.
The guy who invented the digital distractions that currently plague the modern day humans and who lots of people that wear black rimmed glasses and graphic t-shirts think is a God, even though he wasn't because he died, and Gods don't die, said something like, "I look in the mirror everyday and ask myself, 'if today were the last day of my life, would I want to do what I'm about to do today?'"
And when he would look deep into his own eyes while lightly touching his bathroom parts and the answer was, "no," for too many days in a row, he knew it was time to change something.
But whatever, he was a famous multi billionaire that had everything handed to him and could do anything he wanted at any time.
You're a nobody, a drone sitting on a homemade throne that wants so many things that you probably can't have that can't afford to answer, "no," too many days in a row.
More, "no, but..."

And you wonder where this desire to be or do or whatever comes from.
Like, if you lived in a cave and bathed in a river and had no idea that the world was round and you didn't have a car or TV or digital distraction and only knew what was right in front of your face, would you still have the desire to be something other than a person who lives in a cave, shits in a hole, and tries not to die everyday?
The answer you produce is, "no, I would only care about the right now and not dying."
And then you think further about giving everything up and moving to the mountains and living with a bunch of other people who have given everything up in exchange for wearing orange robes and meditating all day and jacking off a whole lot because sex is also a thing you give up.

Because the absence of desire and fear is where peace exists, or something like that.
Maybe you read that on a bumper sticker or in a book or heard it in a motivational talk somewhere and burned it into your brain.
But desire and fear are implanted in our heads as things that drives all behaviors.
Like, without desire and fear we'd all just sit on the floor and drool on ourselves and The Progress Machine would have to work overtime to keep the streets clean.
But then we wouldn't have any motivation to fuck and reproduce, so we'd go extinct really fast if the new batch of humans lacked these two things.

So peace isn't really the absence of desire and fear, but the acceptance of it, right?
Who fucking cares.
Peace isn't what you're after because it's boring and will make you fat and complacent and unconscious.
Peace is a modern day tranquilizer.

What you desire is adventure, excitement, achievement, happiness.
What you fear is the opposite of those things, comfort and the lack of desire for anything other than existing.
And you're stuck in that place where your desires meet your fears, and it's just a void, like you're suspended is the middle of a black tunnel.
And you can turn and see each end.
One end is the result of living your desires.
The other end is the result of living your fears, which is pretty much where you've been living for a while now.
And that end is scary, but it's familiar, and you wonder if you could modify that place just a little to make it look more like the desires end, because you know the image of your desires is way better than the reality of it.
Because a person cannot constantly be stimulated with excitement and adventure, there has to be down time where things are just ordinary.

And all this has achieved nothing.
The question that's still rattling around in your head is, "what's next?"

Nose Periods & The Stupidest Question A Human Can Contemplate - 112

"Who are you?" is the thought you produce while standing alone in a crowd for the eleven billionth time in your life.
Like, if you could add up all the hours you've spent standing alone in a crowd and calculate the percentage of total time you've been alive, it would be like, seven hundred percent, or something like that.
The Future Explorers will use you as the outlier, the anomalous data point that drives Their curiosity and leads Them to amazing breakthroughs in regards to the modern human.

But you pose the question to yourself because you have no one to talk to so why not try and solve the riddle of who you are, if it can be solved anyway, and if it even matters.
You look at a girl also standing by herself in front of you who keeps turning around like she's looking for someone, and sometimes her eyes meet yours and you look at her like, "yep, I'm standing here alone and I totally know you think it's pathetic."
And that thought gives you a little insight to who you are.

Then you look up at the trees and the blue sky and feel the sweat running down your back and think, "I'm creative," as if staring at the sky and tree tops is all it takes to consider one creative.
But no one else is looking up at the trees and the sky.
Everyone else is standing around, smoking cigarettes, mumbling on about some mundane thing that happened to them on the way to this thing, complaining about traffic and jobs and girlfriends and bosses, drinking beer from a can that was sitting in a bucket of ice, and laughing and living their lives like the trees don't exist.
And a little more of the "who you are" puzzle comes into place.

But then you wonder what the question really means, as two people wearing big, thick gloves enter a squared "ring" with ropes as walls and begin trying to punch each other into oblivion.
The girl in front of you looks back again, meets your eyes, cracks a forced smile, then looks beyond you, like she's uncomfortable being alone in a crowd of dicks.
You argue with yourself that the answer cannot be a set of adjectives, like pathetic and creative, that it can't be described with words, that it's more about behavior and emotion and thinking patterns, which leads you back to the words creative and pathetic.
And then you realize how you get stuck in your own head and never do anything outside the norm because you can't help but over analyze every little detail searching for meaning.
And a little more clarity comes into place.
Over analyzer.

You think about your positive qualities, but argue that qualities don't relate to your being.
Considerate, reliable, understanding, supportive, blah blah blah.
The fighters in the squared "ring" exchange punches to the face and one of them falls and doesn't get up immediately and the crowd cheers because violence is fun to watch but not participate in.
You dismiss all those qualities as things that don't count towards who you are, and contend that at your core, the little whatever thing that drives your life, those things don't exist, that those things are a result of whatever your core is.
Either that or those are things that's expected of a modern day human living in a society that covets such things because they are required if we don't want to kill each other.
And that reminds you how competitive you are.

You walk towards the tent that sells things that you can put in your body, like food and water and alcohol.
You ask the lady for a water and she looks at you like you farted into your cupped hands and threw it in her face.
"Is that all, hun?" she asks.
"That'll be three dollars."
You feel the sweat running down your back and the dryness of your mouth and agree to pay the ridiculous amount for a bottle of water that may or may be recycled toilet water.
Then you walk to a different place in the crowd to watch people punch each other in the face.

You stand with your arms folded and watch a couple stumble a few feet away and sit down in the grass.
You remember your days of stumbling around and laying in the grass and resigning yourself to whatever happened, like you didn't care if someone dropped an anvil on your head or smashed your balls with a bat, you were too numb to feel it anyway.
The girl glances over her man's shoulder and her eyes meet your eyes, and she smiles and holds your gaze for a couple of seconds, then returns to being a drunk girl on the ground.
Your mind produces the word, "horny," and another piece is found.

In the squared ring, one of the fighting men tackles the other and the two fight on the ground for a couple of seconds.
The crowd cheers and holds their hands in the air and chants some words and you join in because it's fun to root for other people's demise in the moment but still feel empathy for them afterwards.
Like, you're envious of their courage to fight in front of a drunken, judgmental crowd.
And yet another word gets collected.

You put all these words in a bag and shake them around and you're not quite sure you like what you see when you spill them out.
And all you can produce is the word "negative," and realize you focus too much time on the things you think are "bad" about you.
"Hmmm," you think, and you leave the crowd satisfied with who you think you are even though you don't really believe in any of this bullshit anyway because no one is able to express who they really are without demonstration and a lifetime of evidence.

How The Business World Cultivates The Attitude Of 'Any Hole Will Do' - 111

The popular salad bar you occasionally go to for lunch time, that's populated with people dressed in business clothes talking about business things and generally being items that occupy a space with a slight bit of personality and deep, hidden away desire to be something more than they really are, feels like the type of place that modern day humans might be made.
You crane your neck up and to the left to read the large text on the menu board that almost feels like God is holding it in front of your face, above your head, because He is the King of all and will cut all our heads off if He gets in a bad mood.

You have the option of ordering a predetermined salad that's the equivalent of all the business people that occupy this space at this moment who talk politely to one another being careful not to say anything offensive that might be deemed inappropriate that could lead to punishment by a Boss somewhere sitting on a throne because that's how the business world works; we have to check our personalities and baggage and moods and any semblance of who we really are at the door and become the closet thing to an emotionally void robot as a human is capable of.
Because the business world has to cater to everyone, and everyone gets offended by everything else that doesn't offend everyone else.
And being offended is bad because it feels threatening.
And being threatened is bad because it means we might die or feel bad for a handful of seconds.
And feeling bad for just a fraction of a second is bad because we're taught that we always should feel good and if we don't then something is wrong and we need therapy and drugs and all sorts of reconstruction of our psyche to bring us back in line so we always feel good.
So the business world has to make sure everyone feels good all the time or bad things will happen to them and they'll lose control.
And maintaining control is what the business world is all about, because control equals maximum profit.
But humans weren't really made to be controlled.
Although you look around and see most people packaged up into the accepted costume of the business world, which is the first indication that they are under control.
It's the reason we feel it necessary to wear ridiculous costumes sometimes, and go out to bars and drink ourselves into oblivion, and have sex with random people, and invite more people to join the sex, and pile on top of each other's naked bodies, drunk, and stick our penis in any hole that looks appealing, and then go home with a memory that we think is wild and exciting and cool and weird and makes it seem like we're living a full life, but is really just another means of control that distracts us from our true desires and how we're not truly living them.

The lady behind the glass asks you, "what will you have today?"
And you think about going with a predetermined salad configuration so your mind doesn't have to work.
But you say, "a large create your own."
And the term, "create your own," sticks in your head and you feel embarrassed to say it because even though it feels empowering and creative and something that means you are truly living your true desires, it's nothing more than another predetermined choice that puts the anus on you to make it taste good.
You turn to the girl behind you whose dressed in full business attire and say, "feels like a rip off, huh?"
She looks at you in a way that says something like, "Oooooooooo, kaaaaaaaaaaay," and you feel satisfied with that response.

You inch down the line commanding the girl behind the counter what to put in your salad, and she obeys because she has to because she has a family and kids and a house and a car and all those things that require her to be in the position she's in making a stupid salad for you.
And you feel sympathy for her, and you want to hug her and tell her that it's going to be okay, but then you're only projecting and she'd probably kick you in the balls and blow her rape whistle if you even attempted to hug her because you really don't know if she hates her job or loves it.
And you realize that maybe you're the only one who is unhappy with their job, and everyone else is satisfied and fulfilled and happy and living kick ass lives full of excitement and adventure.
You think, "maybe I have a bad attitude," and you turn and almost ask the girl in line behind you to verify your thought but you stop because your programming screams, "that's not normal."
So you keep it to yourself and verify that indeed you do have a bad attitude about work and jobs and business and all that shit.
You shrug your shoulders and say, "I'm OK with that," then pay for your salad and leave and get back on the rail where you belong.

Change & Money & Letting The Boss Violently Rape Your Soul Is Where Everything Leads - 110

You stare out your office window and watch the rain pelt the car parked right outside.
This is the moment you realize you’ve reached a dead end, job wise.
As in, every moment from this moment forward is going to be dedicated to working your way out of the dead end and back to some other road that isn’t this one.
As in, change is a magnificent beast that’s designed to be ridden and not corralled and stabled and directed; it’s best to just let it happen and figure out how to enjoy the ride while it lasts.
And that’s where you sit a few more moments, watching the rain, feeling sadness that something has finally ended, even though it’s not really dead yet, it’s over, you’ve reached your expiration, it’s time to turn your back and go in the opposite direction.

You turn your attention back to the screen and use the inner web as the information gathering tool it was designed to be to dig up information about career change, and other stuff sorta related.
The big site that is the center of the inner web produces a bunch of sites with flashy, very clickable headlines that seem to promise incredible results.
You click on the first one and start reading the list of “tips:"

  1. Accept that it’s time for a change.
  2. Start networking
  3. Figure out what you want to do next
  4. Be open to...

You click the button that takes you back to the big site with all the answers to all the questions humans have about the world and how it works and themselves and how they work.
And you feel confident you can find an answer, THE answer to the abstract dilemma you face, which isn’t really a dilemma, more like a slight inconvenience, a momentary lull in action, a slump, a rut, whatever.

But then you decide the inner web is stupid and needs to go away because it’s filled with vapid click whores who’ve learned that when they get lots of people to click and go to their site, they make money.
And everyone knows that when money is introduced into anything, it tends to ruin it, because money is important and everyone needs it to live and no one ever has enough because The System is really good at taking it away almost as soon as it’s acquired.
So it creates this never ending struggle to keep collecting it, more, more, more, it never stops ever.
And this is the reason you feel unsatisfied, the reason you’re ready for a change, even though you know the change will produce a situation similar to the one you’re in where you stare out office windows and watch rain bounce off parked cars and contemplate your future, past, and present, and maybe sprinkle in a sexual fantasy where all the cheerleaders are sucking your dick and competing for your seed as if it’s the greatest trophy they could ever win.
And you think, “it is,” and your ego feels good but then you have to come back to worrying about making money because the more you accumulate, the more you need because the more you lose.
You can’t go backward.
You must always go forward.

Except maybe not.
Except maybe this time going backwards is the only way to go.
Either it’s go backwards or stay the same, and you know the same is mediocrity, it’s dissatisfaction, it’s brutal sadness, it’s dread, it’s comfort, it’s death.
And none of those things has ever really appealed to you, especially the comfort part, even though it feels good and allows you to not have to think and feel and live and all that shit.
But you look around and see nothing but those types of people, most of them older than you, and you see exactly where you’re headed and it scares the shit out of you because that’s not where you ever pictured you’d ever be.
You watch these people fall all over themselves to please an egotistical Boss, and slump in soft chairs and stare at screens for hours upon hours, and lazily let words slip out of their mouths like speaking is too much of a chore to put effort on, and parade to the snack area for free artificial enjoyment, like, you think, “why not install a ‘jack off chamber,’ because that’s what the snack area is, jacking off for the belly?"
The thought of succumbing to all this, of being an obedient servant because you’ve been corned in to it, feels like a death sentence.
As in, you’d rather cut your penis and balls off and move to the mountains and sit around and chant with monks all day and subsist on bowls of rice and sit around for hours at a time blinking and staring blankly at the beauty of Nature.
You see that as way more appealing than letting a Boss, even a well intentioned one, cum on your face whenever s/he feels like it just because s/he can because s/he knows you have no other choice than to let her/him.

You turn back around and stare out the window at the rain.
“It’s August, where the fuck did Summer go, where’s the fucking sun, the fucking heat?” you mouth to yourself and hope the people occupying adjoining offices can’t hear. 

The Earth Is Filled With Empty Space That's Waiting For A Person To Occupy It - 109

One of the Bosses walks in front of your office door and starts talking to another office person in a panicked tone about a digital communication he received about, whatever, who cares, it doesn't matter; nothing that happens in any office anywhere matters, unless it's sex, murder, or satanic sacrifice.
Then another Boss walks in to the conversation and the first Boss to appear defers to this Boss because this Boss' name appears higher in a box on a drawing produced by The Company for the purposes of assigning who controls who; it's like in the wild when a stronger, more dominant male shows up to fuck the female and the other males defer because they don't want to die.
They stand around with their hands on their hips and exchange words like "issue" and "push back" and "discuss" and pretend that whatever thing it is they're so worked up about is the most important thing in their life at this moment, and it is, because they're life is empty and devoid of anything worthwhile.
And you watch them, and they look at you looking at them but you keep watching them, and they keep talking and you keep trying to determine if someone had told you way long ago that at this point in your life, this specific moment would happen and you'd feel numb and indifferent and bored and unhappy if you'd still make all the choices you wound up making.
Like, if someone told you about the scene you're witnessing and said something like, "your life will be completely different if you just make one choice differently, just one," then teleported you back to that moment where s/he told you this and said something like, "OK, here's you're second chance," you wonder how many choices you'd make differently to avoid sitting in a boring office engaged in boring work around boring people and feeling completely drained and regretful and desperate to disengage?

Then you think, "what if that one different choice leads to something worse?"
And you can't imagine anything worse than this, other than sucking bleeding dicks for beer money or having sharp things rammed in your penis hole or sitting alone in an apartment with no one to talk to or interact with.
As the Bosses "discuss" an "issue" and engage in office-y type behavior, you continue thinking, "what choice would I make differently?"

Everything you've done and haven't done and thought and said, "yes," to and, "no," to have led to this moment.
And when you realize you no longer want to be in these types of moments any more, and you don't want to be surrounded by others wearing office uniforms and saying office things to each other and behaving as if disapproval from the person whose name appears in a box above theirs is the absolute worst thing that could happen to them so they better behave and do good work, you slump your shoulders and think, "there's no way out."
And the thought of being trapped, stuck, whatever feels like a midget with a sledgehammer pounding your stomach and balls and head.
So you continue acting as if whatever thing you're doing matters, that you care about it, but the act is getting tired, like a comedian who tells the same jokes over and over or that one band that loops the chorus for twenty minutes at the end of each song because they really got a big bag of nothing.

But money and the desire to maintain a certain lifestyle level and the acquisition of sex and things you want to buy and all that crap keep you acting.
And you know all the others are acting also, like you know they go home and become a completely different person, maybe even an interesting person, but you know that's bullshit because the act spills over, it's hard to turn off, it has become you.
This is your modern life, full of nothing but bathing, acting, eating, shitting, and loneliness, all because all the choices you made have led you here.
The Bosses finish their "discussion" and disperse back to their their corners of space consumption because that's all we really are, space fillers.

When You Think You've Received A Gift But It's Really A Big Box Of Exploding Shit - 108

Sometimes you feel like God is just setting you up to fail.
Like, He's playing a twisted prank on you as some kind of life lesson where you get your self esteem demolished completely so you're forced to build it back up again.
And this makes you wonder if that's what modern day life is really all about, getting demolished and rebuilding.
And the more you think about this, and how everything in Nature seems to mimic this pattern, the more you believe it is true and necessary.

You wake up from a shallow sleep, or more like, you open your eyes and stare at the ceiling.
You turn your head to the left and look at her face, and instantly you feel the gut punch by imagining some hulking stallion fucking her with his enormous penis and amazing technique and you think, "I can't compete with that."
And then you imagine yourself aging and shriveling and eventually drying up and blowing away while the stallion continues pounding away.
You take a deep breathe and say, "fuck it, I don't care," to yourself and roll over and try to find peace.

But God doesn't give a shit about your need for peace.
He created you to experience this.
He put this girl in your path for this exact moment to happen, because He's probably a sadist who jacks off to His creation's miseries.
Like, He created you and others like you for nothing more than His own amusement, while the other ones not like you, the ones who are "better," He created to do actual things that matter and  further and better the Earth.
You think about how your life is going to be, and you begin the process of settling back in to being alone and feeling undesirable.
It's a comforting place where the ego is free to be whatever it damn well fucking pleases without any threat of being destroyed.
And it makes you sad and you cry a little, because comfort is not what you seek.

But way deep down, somewhere like in the middle or your heart where the elves shovel coal into a furnace that powers your whole body, they shovel some coal in the furnace that powers rationality, that part of yourself that makes you feel good about yourself.
You think, "I've never had a problem landing attractive girls," and, "I like my body, most of it anyway," and, "all this shit is meaningless anyway."
And you start to feel OK.
But then you flick open your eyes again and turn your head to the left and look at her and God buries His fist in your stomach while smoking a cigar and laughing maniacally and you produce the imagine of the stallion jackhammering the girl to multiple orgasms while all the other girls wait around excitedly for him to get to them and all your feelings of inadequacy comes rushing back in.
Tear yourself down, build it back up.

Time Is Fond Of Kicking Us In The Balls While God Ejaculates On Our Faces - 107

Zero two hundred hours: you wake up in a panic thinking your whole life has been a waste and you've missed out on so many adventures and you wish you would've lived bolder and everyone can see what a loser you are and they reject you because of it.
It feels like God waking you up by gut punching you while screaming, "you fucking loser! Why didn't you take the things I tried to give you?! Why have you wasted your life!?"
And it feels like a war going on inside your head, but on the outside, you just stare at the ceiling in silence and take deep breathes and play with your undersized penis as if anxiety and panic are things that get you sexual charged.

"Is this the modern day existence?" you think to yourself while God continues to berate you and physically abuse you.
And then you think there's a least one other person on the planet laying awake in their bed, alone, like you, whose receiving God's vengeance as well.
And you try to telepathically connect with that person in hopes that it's an attractive female who might live nearby who might like to have some telepathic sex, which you imagine is kind of like the cyber sex that seemed so popular a couple of decades ago before the machines started receiving smarts.
But your attempts fail and you conclude that you're the only one ever who this has happened to because you're the biggest loser the world has ever seen.
And then you think you should make a t-shirt with that saying printed in big bold letters on the front and back: "THE BIGGEST LOSER THE WORLD HAS EVER SEEN"

You look at your iDevice for a distraction, but you deleted all the distracting things because they were distracting.
You open up an app that is a portal to the inner web, the place where all life exists, past and present and future, where answers are found to situations like the one you are currently facing.
Because you think you need to get rid of this feeling because it is bad to feel this way; it's not normal.
But you still haven't come up with a good definition for "normal," which you probably assume means, "comfortable."
And this all starts because you envisioned the girl who comes around sometimes and lays on your couch and stares at digital entertainment at the same time you stare at it is engaged in some sexual act with some stallion of a man who can please all women at the same time and she's just one of many receiving his pleasure.
And you feel jealousy and envy and like you're not good enough and never will be and that your life is boring and hers is exciting and why would she ever want to be with a person who isn't as exciting as the stallion and there's no way you could ever compare to him and you imagine her doing things you fantasize about with him and enjoying it to the point that she forgets you exist and then God shows up and starts punching and screaming at you out of sheer coincidence.
But your face remains calm, your body remains still, you lay in your own filth staring at the digital portal and wonder if this is something that you actually enjoy doing for whatever reason.

You find porn and look at it.
You imagine your penis is the one in the video where the two girls act like they can't get enough of it, and he has plenty to offer even though the editing is atrocious.
And you know it's not real, and the girls are acting, and the guy is trying his best not to bust because he already has ruined three days of filming the same scene, but you can't help but think how much better he is than you so why would any woman want to ever be with you.
And you eventually achieve maximum sensation then roll over and go back to sleep.

You wake up and go through your boring routine, which all the sudden feels so mundane, like you worked really hard to build it only to hate it when it's finished.
And you realize that you hate being finished, as in, you're not content arranging all the pieces into just the right places so you can comfortably live in it and wait for The Progress Machine to find you.
Like, the anxiety at zero two hundred is a message, from God, The Devil, who knows.
It's all the things you're standing next to that you can't see, yet they're there kicking you in the balls trying to get your attention.
And you cry because you can't see them, and that maybe the reason you can't is because they exist in a different spot in time, because as a modern day human, we haven't invented the ability to see time.
But then you think maybe you're not looking in the right direction, and you feel a little better but still cry because they're still kicking you in the balls.

How To Maintain Boring Consistency Yet Extract Brief Pleasure From Things In A Box On A Shelf - 106

Outside the store that sells everything for dirt cheap and has a reputation for attracting the lowest common human denominator, you watch a pile of trash roast in the Summer heat.
People walk by it and pretend it's not there.
Like, you're the only one that sees it.
Even the girl that comes over from time to time who you like very much but aren't quite sure if she's in your company because she's bored or because she actually likes you too, doesn't notice it.
You point at it and say, "look."
She looks at the pile of trash, then looks at you with a facial expression that says something like, "what the fuck is wrong with you?"

Inside the store that features the color blue with a yellow icon that looks like a facsimile of a sun, the girl who comes around from time to time and exchanges words with you picks up a hand held shopping basket designed to hold cheap, worthless consumer items.
It's actually designed to allow the shopper to purchase more than they're capable of carrying, thus increasing their profits.
You soak in the throngs of people, most of whom you assume are either robots designed by the mammoth store or hired to do nothing more than give the illusion of popularity.
Like strippers who pretend to be interested in horny guys so they can make lots of money; the illusion of impending sex.
Like "fans" at the half time show of the big football game cheering only because they're getting paid to cheer for whatever garbage performer is lip syncing some generic, disposable hit song; the illusion of quality.

The girl guides you to an area of the store that displays colored chemicals that women like to paint parts of their body with that they think make them more attractive.
Or maybe they just like decorating their body because there's this product that some person invented who was sitting around one day jacking off to paintings of naked fat women and had the thought, "hey, what if that fat naked chick had colored fingernails?"
And since this thing exists, and since other women have already validated it as a thing to do, and further since modern day life can get boring sometimes because we don't have to chase and kill our food or worry about being chased and killed by something that wants to eat us, girls must consume it.
So you follow her into the maze of infinite choice, where other girls stand around blankly staring at the well lit displays that make fingernail painting look like something exciting and glamorous and sexy and status symbol-y, like something only the elite, upper class, super rich, ridiculously good looking people of Earth engage in.

You look at another girl standing with her mouth open staring at a display.
She looks like she's been hypnotized.
You run your eyes down her body then back up to her face to find her staring straight at you now.
It's like, they have this power to detect when a creepy old guy is checking them out and their only course of action is to either scream in disgust or look back at the creep with a look that says something like, "I'm going to fucking vomit you weirdo."
You cut your eyes away and stare at the girl who rides in your car to go places sometimes, and you work your eyes from her head to her toes and back up.
It's like a pattern you can't help repeating, on every woman you see.

You make your way to another part of the store, which feels like a completely different country than the part you were just in.
It's like they designed the store to feel distinctively different in different parts, maybe to give the illusion of being on an adventure, or to create some psychological confusion which somehow translates into purchasing more things because you have to walk past more things and decide whether or not to buy them and eventually all that willpower wears you down and you find yourself filling your cart with a bunch of crap you don't need.

You ask a person wearing a costume that denotes their financial involvement with the store, an employee, where a particular worthless household convenience item might be located.
He looks at you like you're pointing a gun at him and speaking a foreign language in a threatening tone.
Then he looks around for someone else to ask.
Then he nervously points to a part of the store that feels like a long way away, like you need to get in a cab, then ride the subway, then get in another cab, then walk three miles, then take the ferry across the lake, then hike through the woods with a machete, then take another subway, then another cab, and you'll arrive.

A few moments pass.

Then a portal opens in the roof of the store, and only you can see it, and it looks like it leads to another galaxy, another planet, somewhere else that may even be in a different time, the past, the future, some other dimension that humans don't know exists yet.
And you can see human like figures, with perky boobs and tight, perfectly shaped asses, looking directly at you, calling you, perhaps trying to lure you into an extremely complicated and technologically implausible trap.
You look away and point your eyes at the girl whose holding your hand pretending to be your friend plus a little more, then look back up to find the portal closed.

And you feel sadness, like you missed out on either an amazing experience or a horrifying experience.
And either way, you missed out, you played it safe, but you scored a consumer product that will bring joy to your life for at least thirty seven milliseconds.
The girl looks at you and grins, like she knows what you missed out on, like she knows what's on the other side of the portal and it's fifty million times more amazing than you could possibly imagine, and she knows because she's been there, several times, and you've only fantasized about it, jacked off to it.
And you hang your head in defeat and accept your boring ordinariness.

There’s Gotta Be A Point Where Caring Becomes Optional - 105

“It’s so much worse in the burbs,” your mind produces as you analyze everyone around you.
It’s like you come here to validate your opinion.
It’s like you live here because it’s easy to stand out.
It’s like you want to be the one that’s hardcore and outcast and looked at as the enemy and loathed and rejected and all the things you think make you a unique individual that lives a better, more exciting life than them.
It’s like it’s easier for you to feel adequate in this environment, where there’s little competition, like you’re the one everyone looks at in envy because you have all the things they don’t.
It’s like you project this on everyone because it’s more a reflection of how you view the world than how they do.
And the spiral to the bottom starts again.

You drive by houses built side by side, so close together they’re almost touching, surrounded by lots and lots of empty land and you think, “why build them so close together when you have all this space?"
And then you realize that the reason they build them so close together is money; the builder people make more money per whatever unit of measurement of land by building more houses.
And they don’t have to work very hard to build them, they’re like cookie cutters, they all look exactly alike, arranged in neat rows, like a string of oiled up identical twins lined up hip to hip, bent over ready for insertion by some stud that isn’t you because you’re more like a dud.
And they’re occupied by the exact same people, who all look alike, think alike, go about their lives alike.
And this pleases you in a way, because it makes you feel unique, special somehow that you didn’t stay on the rail and do things the way everyone else does them, even though you kinda do because it’s inescapable, but, whatever.
It makes you feel adequate.
And for a moment, the spiral to the bottom gets interrupted, because you think, “at least that’s not me,” as you mentally point to an overweight, middle aged man standing in his yard debating whether or not today is the day he’s going to hang himself and end it all.

But at some point you have to return to your life as a single, middle aged man that’s rapidly approaching obsolescence, who’s inadequate, who never secured his lifetime sex partner, whose motivation is near zero to try for anything more, who mostly feels like he’s trying to play a game designed for elite athletes.
You want more adventure and more excitement, but above all, you want to feel needed, desired, indispensable, valuable, like you’re well above average.
Because you think if you were better than most that all your problems would be solved, like you’d be able to kick back and open your mouth and let the money and sex and good times flow right in and it would all taste so fucking good and you’d never have to worry about anything ever again.

You wish you could go back and fuck that girl whose name you don’t remember.
You think that might make things a little easier now, for whatever reason, one less thing to regret, as if going back and seizing all the opportunities for sex that you missed or screwed up would fix everything and make you feel adequate and loved and needed and blah fucking blah.
You tie so much of your value to how well and how frequently you’ve had sex, and you’re jealous if you discover someone else has had more or has experienced something that you always wanted to.
It makes you want to cry to think about, because you feel like you missed out, on whatever, you didn’t do everything all the time with excellence.
You wish you would’ve taken more risks, gone on more adventures, said “no” to some people, rejected the norm, and gave everything you could possibly give for whatever thing you truly desired.
Because now, you feel it’s just too late, like you’ve missed the boat, or maybe you got on the wrong boat, or you were too scared to get on any boat so you just stayed where you were and jacked off with your own tears while everyone else was off living because you were too scared to.
And you romanticize this so much in your head, as if everyone else has led a kick ass life and has no regrets and achieved everything they ever wanted and they’re all happy and content and fulfilled and all that shit.
And then you scream the words, “God fucking dammit,” in your head and look around the room to see if anyone heard you.