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.
Pathetic.

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.
Creative.

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.
Competitive.

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.
"Yep."
"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.
Horny.

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.
Envious.

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. 

This Is The Easiest Way To Forget Everything For A While - 104

You sit at your homemade stand up desk in your office with your cheeks resting on your fists and stare at the keyboard and wonder, "have I run out of things to say?"
You think it's a great feeling being empty, not having anything left to contribute, like you've emptied your soul and it's time to fill it up with something else.
But then you start typing these words and think, "I'm writing about not having anything to write about."

And it's not about not having anything to write about.
It's about not having anything you think is good to write about.
It all feels like one big whiny monologue filled with complaints and feeling sorry and worrying about stupid shit that doesn't matter and maybe even assigning external blame.
And now you've run out things to say.

Except you haven't because things keep happening.
Your office is hot, like the heater is on, like God is trying to smoke you out so you can experience something else for a while, something not found in a white walled, sterile, boring office.
You take it because you feel like you have to.
Because the modern human must be practical; we all need money to survive and live life.
Yet we spend most of our life in the pursuit of money, so it all kind of feels like a zero sum game, and there's nothing rewarding about that.

But who cares anyway?
It's the way it is, the way Nature intended, nothing unfolds by accident, it's all intentional.
And sometimes you feel like you can't fight that because you fear living under a bridge and losing your mind and giving blow jobs to frat boys to scrap enough money together to buy a taco from a cheap taco place that won't serve you because you have some guy's baby batter dripping from your lower lip because you were so hungry that you didn't even think to wipe your mouth before attempting to purchase the taco.

And that's really the plight of life, to avoid having to give blow jobs to drunk, moronic frat boys.
So you take the heat of your office, you sit in the sweat, you close the door to make it hotter, to isolate yourself from the drones wondering around outside, waiting for your door to open so they can say the latest office gossip at you and you can act interested when in your mind you're thinking, "I can't wait to get home to jack off."
You need the money, or at least you think you need the money because you don't know anyone willing to accept you as an indigent, who you can lean on for support, who would be willing to wipe your ass and bath your balls if you were unable to do it for yourself.
And then that makes you feel alone even more, and makes you want to try to make more money, because more money means more options, it means you can pay someone to care about you, even if it's only because of the money, like a hooker.
But who cares, it's still better than blowing disgusting frat boys in an alley or under a bridge for taco money.

You remember a moment from long ago where a boy screamed in your face, "it's your attitude, A-ron!"
He was referring to your disinterest, at the time, in contributing to society, and more specifically helping with the cleanup efforts after a party at a person's house who had been gracious enough to let us have a party there.
And he was right, in that moment, you didn't care, but you also had no clue you weren't contributing.
Like, you were still having the party while everyone else had switched to cleanup mode.

And now you worry that you're not contributing enough, you're not being a good enough <insert whatever label here>.
Like, you need to be doing more.
You need to make up for lost time.
You need to be further along in whatever.
You need to be better at X.
But you know that no matter how far along you actually are, even if it was almost "to the end," you'd still feel like you need to be doing more.
Which probably means there's something else driving the bus, it's not lack of achievement.
And the heat pumping into your office directly on to your back is God signaling to you to find some cool place to hang around for while.
And while you think it needs to be some big dramatic change, it's probably something as simple as going in the hall and feeling the cool air conditioning on your neck for a couple minutes as a metaphor to finding more things to say.

On The Other Side Of The Fence Is A Box That Contains All The Answers To Everything And You Can’t Open It - 103

You’re fairly certain that life has passed you by.
As in, you don’t understand how the world works any more, and maybe you never did, and it makes you sad in a way.
As in, you’re playing a game that only elite level players play and you have no hope of ever truly competing with them.
As in, you stare out your car window and feel a thing in your tummy that’s a feeling you’ve never experienced before and you assign the meaning, “I have run out of chances."
And the glowing signs above the businesses suddenly don’t make sense and you’re not sure if they’re even real.

Being an undesirable entity is an inevitability of everyone, you know this, but it’s not comforting because you can only see three feet in front of your face and you don’t give a shit about anyone else’s experience.
Like, you look at a lady walking a dog on the sidewalk and briefly wonder what she’s dealing with, her problems, her experiences, her worries, but only briefly, because you go back to thinking you’re the only one with problems and uncomfortable feelings.
And if a truck were to come along and run over the lady and her dog, you’d keep driving and keep your mind on your own labor.

Like, you’ve reached the edge of your understanding of technology, and trying to keep up feels like getting trampled by younger people with fresher smelling hair, shinier penises, tighter skin, brighter outlook, less baggage, more enthusiasm for all shit in general.
They already know and don’t care that you’re in the way; they’d rather run you over than help you out.
And that’s why God created places for old people to go when they get tired of being run over by everyone who want to move faster than them and no one has time or energy and mental capacity to deal with them any more.
So they get shuffled off to a place called a “home” where indifferent medical people say indifferently, “hello,” to them everyday and inject them with medicines to keep them from screaming all day.
Their reality is your future.

You watch the girl at the end of the coffee bar, full of youth, full of hope.
She looks at you and you don’t care any more so you stare right back at her and she smiles and you still don’t care so you keep staring and she looks away and you keep staring and she looks immediately back and you still don’t care because your mind is so littered with garbage that you can’t move it out of the way to just enjoy the experience, it always has to mean something, it has to result in a favorable outcome, and you can never just enjoy the smile of another person because you want it to mean she wants to fuck you and if it doesn’t mean that in her head also then it further means you’re a worthless old man not worthy of anyone’s attention.
Yet you have proof to the contrary, lots of it, and you don’t feel particularly old, and you don’t really look too old, and you still have aspirations and things to accomplish and things to do and people to love and money to spend and life to live.
You have plenty of everything, more than enough, more than most, but the garbage in your head, “will someone come clean it out please,” you think to yourself as you continue to look at the girl at the end of the bar who is now indifferent to your existence and looking at her phone and now you care because her demeanor confirms everything you think you know about yourself to be true.

This is why you’re tired all the time.
This is why you have a hard time sleeping.
These are the things you worry about and fear.
Searching for meaning is the Devil’s way of stabbing His pitchfork in your rectum and forcing you to watch a television show about a lovesick boy who spends most of his time moping around waiting for this one girl to want to suck his dick. 

Stability Is Like Sticking Your Penis In A Glory Hole And Hoping Evertyhing Works Out For The Best - 102

You stare at a pregnant woman loading sacks of consumer items into the trunk of her car.
Not staring as in lusting like a sex starved dog with bulging balls full of puppy making juice, but staring as in fascination, with a dash of sympathy, and the desire to experience exactly what she experiences as a person with another person about to fall out of her body.
She glances up and looks right in your eyes, as if she could sense you staring at her, which you believe is an ability animals possess, like we're all interconnected wirelessly but we can't quite understand, consciously, how.
You immediately look away which makes you instantly feel like a creep, which is a feeling you're familiar with so it doesn't bother you too much.
And as you get older and older, as your body becomes less and less desirable by females, as your face shrivels and your mind deteriorates to mush, but your sex drive still remains intact, it's a feeling that's going to occur more frequently, so might as well practice.

The boy helping the pregnant woman load sacks of worthless consumer items into the car seems happy and content, like his life is complete, like he's arranged all the pieces just the way he likes them, like someone would arrange the furniture in their house to optimum efficiency, at just the right angle to the digital entertainment box, at the perfect locations in the room so moving around is easy.
And you feel some jealousy for his contentedness, even though the evil in your mind is screaming, "SUCKER!"
Like, in a way, you wish you could attain the stability you project he perceives he has, as in, all the pieces arranged just the right way, so all you have to do is turn off your brain and coast the rest of your life away, like you've written all the code, worked out all the bugs, and all there's left to do is let the thing run.
But way deep down in the bowels of your soul, you know this to be bullshit.
There is no stability, and even if there were, stability develops weakness, so when the boy one day comes home to find his pregnant wife sucking off the brown costumed delivery man while the pool boy fucks her in the ass, he'll probably hang himself, go insane, or become one of those guys you see in the street who smells like piss and sleeps in boxes and looks like how a human might look if we weren't all running from The Progress Machine.

You formulate this opinion while staring at the pregnant woman, looking mostly at her tummy, and it makes you feel accomplished inside.
It makes you feel different, like you have it all figured out, like you're intentionally living in instability just in case you discover the people you love engaged in hardcore group sex with strangers.
It makes you feel prepared for such a situation, like you're tough, like you'd just be able to shrug your shoulders and say, "whatever," out loud as the brown costumed delivery man unloads his love on the face of the person you thought you knew well enough to not engage in something so pleasurable for her.
But then you question your whole "living in instability" postulation, like, it feels untrue, as in, even though you don't have a pregnant woman to help load sacks of worthless consumer items into a car, you do have stability, and in a way, you have more stability than the boy who has something else in his life that he's afraid to lose and he's about to have another thing once the new human squirts out of her body.

You get out of your car and feel the heat.
It's like the sun is draining your life force, like you're melting into the ground with each step.
And you realize in that moment that you're unprepared for everything, like one little unexpected twist might crush you.
But then you realize further that you're OK with that, being crushed isn't so bad, being blindsided isn't so bad, and at the end of the rainbow there really isn't a pot of gold anyway, or at least not on the end you decide to go to.
That being crushed means ending one story and starting another.
The motivation and contentedness last one step, then your mind starts itemizing all the things you're afraid to lose and how to make sure you don't lose them.

God Hates Our Machines Because All We Want To Do Is Jack Off & Make Money - 101

Who knows where computers actually came from.
Like, who invented them, why, and what their intentions were.
Well, the who and maybe the why are known, but we’ll never know their intentions.
Probably, they were the types of people who had zero hope of seeing a vagina in person.
So much so that they invented a thing that would eventually lead to seeing vaginas virtually, with a couple of clicks, so they could jack off all day and night and never have to leave the house.
Kind of like a man who spends time that could be dedicated to actually acquiring an in-person vagina stretching and contorting his body in such a way to suck his own dick.
It’s like a shortcut to getting what he wants, which is nothing more than a better way to orgasm without doing any work that might lead to rejection, embarrassment, or shame.
Except the shame that comes from jacking off to digital vaginas and simulated sex.
This pretty much sums up the whole who, why, and what questions above.
It sums up everything in life, really, because the whole point of this existence is to come as many times as possible while expending as little effort as possible, right?

But who fucking cares about the lonely eggheads that invented the computer.
They don’t matter, and neither do we, the end.
That guy who invented the iDevice and ruined all our lives forever was not a god.
He died; real gods don’t die.
And soon we’ll all be dead and the next generation will fill the cubicles we occupy and go through the same drudgeries as we did, and put up with the same bullshit, and get the life strangled out of them by a boss who wants nothing more than to look good for his boss, and have their souls crushed into dust by companies that need eggheads to make the things that turns them a profit under the guise of “making the world a better place,” which is a euphemism for “we don’t give a shit about you or the planet or anything except massive profits."
The boss will cut everyone’s throat but his own if it means a fancier title or more praise from The Company or just makes him “look good,” whatever the fuck that means.

This is why computers exist, to serve our sexual needs and turn a profit for The Company.
If we couldn’t use a computer to jack off AND make money, then it would not be a thing, computers, not jacking off, that will always be a thing.
None of us would exist.
We’d all be assembly line workers or drive through window attendees or baristas or lawyers or risk analysts or whatever other generic office worker titles exist in the world.
And those things wouldn’t be too unfamiliar; a job is a fucking job regardless of what work is actually being done.
Ultimately, the boss wants total control and subservience over his subordinates.
The Company wants profits at the expense of everything else.
And we want comfort, stability, and a place we can go and complain about things.

We like being told what to do and exactly how to do it, because left to our own decisions, we get stuck trying to figure how best to please the masters.
This is the definition of comfort, existing as a blameless, unrecognizable, highly and easily replaceable drone that does nothing more than the bidding of a risk taker.
Just tell us what to do, how to do it, and when it should be done and flip the little switch on our back that executes.

One day, they’ll invent robots that do the work we do now and we’ll all be relegated to building those robots.
This is the future of software and machines.
Only the smartest of the smart will make the software that powers the robots that will replace us.
They will be our new masters and we’ll happily follow their lead because, well, that’s how we’ve been bred.
And when they get the software to behave just right, The Company will take over and enslave them and let the robots build and program themselves.
And when all the rulers of The Company have slit each other’s throats, there’ll be nothing left but us, the new slaves, and the robots, the new masters.
By that time, God will be so pissed that He’ll hit reset on Nature, which will direct all the comets in the universe to collide with Earth, wiping us out for good.
Or Nature will invent a new deadly, incurable disease that you can only get through jacking off to whatever crazy things the robots will force the digital vaginas to do.
Then The Future Explorers will come and study what went wrong and realize rather quickly that it’s probably not a good idea to piss off God. 

God Will Show You The Meaning, But You Won’t Believe Him Because Panties Are Way More Interesting - 1.100

You conclude that the woman sitting in front of you, whose panties are visible because her jeans aren’t capable of keeping them covered, is not aware of the sexual side show she is presenting to you.
If she were, she would probably be so disgusted that she is giving it to you, of all people, and would reach inside your head and rip out all the sexual thoughts that involved her, her panties, and you ripping them off and fouling her with your sex organs.

Then the girl sitting in the seat right next to her stands then sits down causing her jeans to slide below the top of her panties, which causes you to go into sexual overload.
Like, you can feel the blood collecting in your bathing suit area and your pants becoming just a little tighter.
But to outside observers, everything is fine, like you’re just another cog in the machine occupying a chair in the world.
You’re just another thing that doesn’t matter and is going to be dead soon.
A person completely worthy of ignoring.
And God relentlessly teases you with a parade of panty exposing women, who have no idea and don’t even care that you even exist and are mind fucking the shit out of them.

You imagine you are the only male in the crowd and everyone else is an attractive female wearing lacy panties who want nothing more than for you to give them your seed.
They collect in lines around you and take turns milking you for deposits.
And somehow you’re able to fulfill this ridiculous demand, because it’s all in your mind and in your mind you’re capable of just about anything, including producing endless amounts of fertilizer that in real life would cause your penis to throb in agonizing pain after the first blast or two.
After each woman receives her deposit from you, she just disappears from the stadium and eighteen years later you get seven hundred thousand knocks on your door from people claiming you are their father.
And most of them take you to court and win and the judge orders you to pay back child support to all of them.
And this forces you to clone yourself so the clones can work multiple jobs to pay the child support because you don’t want to go to jail because in jail, you would be the guy who gets fucked in the ass then shanked in the shower.
And after you’ve generated enough clones to cover the massive expense, you somehow manage to escape to a deserted island, where you live the rest of your life running around the island nude in search of food and water, happy and content.

Both women sitting in front of you lean forward at the same time, exposing their panties and you wonder if God is now just fucking with you.
Because you’re almost certain the two women have never met before in their life and after this event will never see or speak to each other ever again.
So you conclude that God is indeed fucking with you and you look at the sky and mouth the words, “fuck you, asshole."
But the women continue leaning forward, and the more they move, the more their panties are exposed.
And your brain struggles to focus on one or the other.
White or Burgundy?
Blonde or Brunette?
Short or Tall?
Your eyes dart from one to the other and you imagine your penis as a divining rod capable of detecting which vagina is the best.
But even in your head you can’t decide, because divining rods are stupid.

Then the one wearing burgundy leans so far forward that her panties struggle to cover the crack of her butt, which becomes the clear winner of your attention to the exclusion of everything else.
You stare so hard that reality ceases to exist; time stops and the world becomes just you and the glorious trailhead to divine pleasure in front of you.
Then she leans back and reality comes rushing back.
And as if she felt your burning gaze, she turns around and looks at you like you just cut off her mother’s head in front of her.
You hold her gaze because you feel like looking away only implies guilt.
She cracks a slight smile, then, as if guided by the penis of God, leans forward again exposing her panties and butt crack, like a stripper begging you to fill her ass with one dollar bills.

You think back to how your life has unfolded so far, and how everything you’ve done, every decision you’ve made up to this point has been almost exclusively for the purpose of acquiring the very thing exposed in front of you.
You think about how The System has guided you to this moment, and how many similar moments prior have passed, and how many more moments like this you will experience before The Progress Machine deems you no longer worthy.
And you feel the pointlessness of it all.
Like, your life is nothing more than a collection of disposable sexual fantasies and experiences.
And how you’ve been led to believe that there should be more, there should be some meaning, some greater thing that you’ll leave behind that will exist forever and ever, something The Future Explorers will discover and use and pass on to whatever comes after Them.
But you know deep down that meaninglessness is all there is and that you should enjoy your sexual experiences because that’s it, that’s the meaning. 

This Is How Things Work Around Here: You Don’t Matter, Then You Die - 1.99

You pretend to be interested in thumbing your pinky fingernail while listening to a couple of cackling hens cackle about their boring life.
They’re like two chickens clucking dramatically about the triviality of their existence.
They use phrases such as, “yeah,” and, “let me tell ya,” and, “you know,” and, “um."
You don’t care what they are talking about because you’re not sexually interested in them, and even if you were, you still wouldn’t care.
Either way, you don’t care, generally, what other people talk about if it isn’t about you.

You produce the thought, “it’s impossible to figure out what to do with my time."
Like, you want to do something amazing, something mind blowing-ly creative, something people will oooh and ahhh at for centuries, but you don’t know what that is because how can you know until people are kneeling before you proclaiming you the genius that you think you are.
Egomaniacs were the first to get the guillotine in medieval France.

If a smart person, or just a person of questionable intelligence, were to come along and listen to your whines about how you have no idea what to choose to spend your time on, he or she would probably say something like, “why does it need to be ground breakingly amazing and mind blowing?"
And then you’d think, “hmmm, maybe <insert person’s name here> is right?"
And then they’d be able to hear that thought and respond with, “why don’t you just pick something, like something you’ve always wanted to do, and do that for a while? And what’s wrong with this writing thing, you’re actually good at it?"
And then you’d illogically think something like, “fuck you asshole. I’m destined for greatness, can’t you see that!?"
And you’d storm off in your head while still standing physically next to the person silently staring forward like nothing is happening, which is probably the future of all human interactions.

It would be easier if you had a life boss, like a person who could analyze what you like and what you’re already good at and a whole bunch of other variables and come up with something for you to do without you thinking about it.
Kinda of like a personal trainer for creativity or whatever.
Then they’d make you create schedules and forecasts and force you to follow a process and work with other people less talented than you.
And you’d have to submit daily, weekly, monthly, quarterly, yearly status reports that they could micro-analyze and make knee jerk decisions and beat you down to the point where you hate the thing that you do so much that you want to metaphorically burn it to the ground and erase it from existence.
Like, if you could somehow eliminate the whole concept of computer programming from Earth, like totally, one hundred procent gone, you’d do it just to spite all the managers and process creators and status consumers; like one giant “fuck you” to them for ruining something that should be more artistic.

But at least if you had a life boss, you wouldn’t have to waste massive amounts of time trying to decide what to do next.
Your life boss would just say something like, “I’m assigning you the <censored> project and I expect it done in two months, and I’m expecting you to submit daily status reports so I can micromanage the shit out of you."
And you say something like, “fuck you ass crack, I ain’t doing shit for you."
And he wouldn’t say anything because he knows that despite you saying those words, you’re going to do exactly as he says because your a good little drone with a big mouth.
And at the end of your usefulness, right before The Progress Machine catches up with you, you’ll look back and appreciate all the things you “accomplished” despite receiving very little praise or recognition or glory or monetary rewards.
But in that moment, you’ll feel proud that you finished all those things, and you’ll look at the sky and metaphorically thank your life boss.
Then The Progress Machine will scoop you up, along with all the crap you were just appreciating and feeling proud of, and haul you and all of it off to the incinerator pit and your entire existence will be erased from the planet.
And your replacement will fill your space in the world and begin the futile ascension to inconsequentiality. 

We’re Not Here To Tell You What To Do With Your Humans, We’re Here To Get You Humans Stat - 1.98

You feel like you don’t have anything clever to say.
As if it’s only worth saying something if it’s clever, or groundbreaking, or amazing, or the most interesting thing someone has ever said; something that will be bronzed and put on a statue of you or tattooed on someone’s arm.
Like, why bother doing anything at all if it isn’t going to result in absolute brilliance or result in some huge payoff?

Earlier, you were thinking about how you’re going to be dead one day, and how that’s what you’re going to be mostly for all of time.
And yet, knowing you’re going to die doesn’t stop you from doing things, like smiling and laughing at your own idiocy, and driving your car, and going to work, and having sex with yourself because no one else wants to, and sitting in coffee shops watching people with purposes scurry about.
Death isn’t a deterrent to living, it seems.
It’s not like anything just gives up and says, “fuck it, why bother, I’m gonna be dead soon anyway?"
And if it does, then it doesn’t matter.

It makes you wonder why you’re so eager to get to the finish line, to the end, to achieve the goal.
Why you try to force things to be or behave a certain way, things that are beyond your control, and why you bother investing your time and attention to things that have no possibility of paying off ever.
It’s like, is the result, the end, the finished product that important, or is it a matter of figuring out what is a waste of time versus a worthwhile investment of time?
If you could see into the future and discover what the end will be, would that make you more or less likely to pursue the thing?
Like, if you knew that investing your time in someone was going to result in you going into a deep, dark depression where you do nothing but drink and do drugs and have unprotected sex with hookers and crack heads, would that dissuade you from even getting started?

You look around at people and think, “they all have it so easy."
They stare at their iDevices, talk to each other using regular voices, they smile, laugh, shake their head attentively, and you feel envious of their seeming contentment.
Because it seems you can never be content.
You always want more.
No matter how much you have, “more, give me fucking more,” even though deep down you desire less.
Simplification is the ultimate orgasm, at least that’s the fairy tale you have in your head.

And it’s more a matter of uncertainty, where the end isn’t known.
Death is a known, a done deal, it’s gonna happen.
But everything else? You don’t know.
“So why should I fucking bother?” you ask yourself.
Then you wonder why you’re entitled to know.
And then you think about building an army of robots and sending them out into the world to compile all of the knowledge that you need to feel comfortable, as if feeling comfortable is the ultimate goal.

You feel a rain drop on your nose and think, “sometimes life is stupid and sucky."
And somehow, you feel OK with that, like, in a moment where frustration and uncertainty feel like a crushing force pushing down on your shoulders, you’re OK with it.
And you feel OK feeling OK, and let go of trying to stop the force from crushing you into the Earth, because the Earth is where you belong, it’s where you’ll return to one day.
And your bones will fertilize the future and grow other things that will feel the weight also and be OK with it and just let it smash them into the ground so the cycle can continue until the moon decides it’s had enough and smashes into the Earth and ends all life and The Future Explorers come and try to reconstruct the magic of human existence because they need to figure it out for an app that let’s other Future Explorers build and raise their own human farm.

So knowing your existence is nothing more than fodder for a being you can’t even conceive in your feeble brain, does that make things a little easier to swallow?
Like, if it all truly doesn’t matter, then there’s no use getting all worked up over anything, right?
Like, let your boss kick you in the balls and call you names and blame you for everything, let that person walk all over your penis and spit in your mouth and call you a “retarded donkey fucker,” let everyone reject you and use you for their own purposes and discard you like a shitty piece of toilet paper, none of it matters so why should you care?
It’s just feelings.
Do what you want, the less people that care the better, right? 

Stapling Your Penis To A Board Might Be A Better Option - 1.97

You sit and stare out of a window.
It's something you're really good at, staring out of windows ruminating over details, analyzing things that shouldn't be analyzed, worrying about the past, the present, and the future, assigning negative meaning to things that could be interpreted seven billion different ways, thinking about what your gut is telling you, then debating with yourself whether or not your gut is "right," looking at people with dogs, looking at girls in cute dresses and thinking, "man," watching bikers do biker things, then thinking some more about how badly you want something despite the evidence that suggests that thing doesn't want you to want it.
It's like acknowledging how incredible your life really is while feeling like something is crawling around inside your belly doing some violent remodeling.
This is the modern human existence.

If we hadn't built rules and walls and governments and societies and prisons and schools and churches and organizations and laws and invented contracts and developed all these hidden etiquettes we're all supposed to follow so we don't kill each other into extinction, you'd just take whatever it is you wanted or needed and not feel bad or guilty or anxious that it was "wrong" or "right" or whatever.
You'd be a person that wouldn't care either way, and things would be great, until that stronger person with a bigger penis from the other tribe found you in the jungle eating some of HIS food and caved your skull in with his bigger hands and feet.

Your inclination is to melt down under all these rules and regulations; "just give up," your head says when things aren't going your way.
And things rarely go your way, so you hear this a lot; "just give up, it's so much easier, you don't really matter, no one cares you exist."
This is the modern human existence, because if you truly didn't matter, you'd already have been eaten by something that did matter.
And if no one truly cared you existed, then you'd be abandoned in the jungle, left to fend for yourself against everything else that needs to eat.
Regardless, just giving up sounds like a good plan sometimes.

You watch a machine scoop up dirt from one side a field and move it to the other side.
Another machine sits atop a large pile of dirt and moves it from one side of the pile to another.
Where a single man with a shovel moves the dirt into a hole.
You think, "why don't they just move the dirt directly into the hole?"
Then you think, "why are they doing this at six in the morning?"
Then you realize that The System is designed to fuck with people and who cares if six in the morning is usually a time when people are still sleeping, Progress needs to be made.
And then you think, "why does Progress need to be so fucking noisy?"

You tend to want what you can't have.
You tend to desire what cannot, or does not want to, be desired.
You tend to create these things in your head that deceive you into believing, whatever, the sky is fucking green, the moon isn't really there, the sun is spreading AIDS, grandma's diarrhea tastes good.
It's like God is a manipulative little ass fuck that's always fucking around with your programming, trying to get it "right," to finish the remodel.
But it's all really a test or a signal or something, you're not sure.
But you do know, it's exactly what you need, God doesn't fuck around.
So you feel the gut punches, the uncertainty, the frustration, the impatience, the unrelenting desire to have what you cannot, the overwhelming feeling to just give up, and yet, somehow, keep moving forward.
"Strength is built in increments, right?" the TV yoga guy told you once.
 And you believed him.

This is the modern human experience, where finesse and skill and patience outweigh brute force.
And it's a tough game for you to play, because brute force is your instinct; you want it all now.
But waiting is what everything has become.
It's like we all exist to wait, for the phone to ring, for the people in front of us to finish their stupid order, for the cars ahead to go forward, for the elevator to carry us to the top of the building, for The Progress Machine to scoop us up and haul us off to Recycling.
You live inside a box that's wrapped in another box that's loaded into a crate with a bunch of other boxes and you're allowed to see and experience all of the things yet actually attain, possess, whatever, none of them for your own.

The Complete Guide To Picking Up Women Using Insults & Cleverly Manufactured Tongue Movements - 1.96

The man sitting to your right whose shoulder is touching the middle of your upper arm and whose knee is snuggly planted in the middle of your thigh slurs a sentence in your direction, “what issa it yous do?"
“What’s that?” you say in return, leaning in a little closer as if that’s the way to understand someone who can’t speak the same language as you.
“Whaa, you def er wha?"
Then he makes a jerking movement with the hand holding his beer, like someone just shocked him back to life, and a little beer spills on you.
And you sigh and roll your eyes and remember all the times you were a drunk assfuck who just wanted people to like him and thought they would if they thought you were drunk because being drunk is cool.

As you wipe the beer off your pants, you wonder how the designers of seating arrangements come up with the dimensions of seats.
Like, you look down the row and see everyone has plenty of room to maneuver their legs without banging their knees into the seats in front of them.
You look at your knees and determine that you are the anomaly, the transient that drives the average up to make the numbers look better, and you feel that everyone who enjoys lots of leg room owes you a big fucking “thank you” for the comfort they enjoy.
Like, they should be organizing a fucking parade and building statues and naming schools and freeways and diseases after you and writing songs praising your glory and building institutions around your likeness and deifying you as the second coming of Jesus and congregating every Sunday morning to worship you.
All for providing them with a thing that improves their comfort level by minuscule amount.

The guy sitting on your left offers you some of his peanuts.
You say, “no thank you,” and he says, “they’re good,” and you say, “I already had some,” and he shrugs his shoulders and returns to being a person occupying the chair next to you who enjoys enormous amounts of leg room while you return to being a person whose knees could almost serve as armrests for the person sitting in the seat in front of you.
Then the guy sitting on your right slurs, “I take sum,” and he reaches his paw of a hand into the bag now hovering over your lap to grab a handful of extremely mediocre peanuts.
And then you say, “you know what, I will have some,” and you grab a handful of the barely edible, shelled legumes, throw them all on the ground, and stomp them with your feet while spitefully starring through the generosity of the guy sitting on your left who offered them.
But he doesn’t notice because he’s content with you doing whatever you want with his offering, or he’s too drunk to care.
And then a light bulb switches on in your brain and suddenly everything makes sense.

The man sitting on your right says, “hey, sorry fer the spill,” and you acknowledge him as an accident, and you put your hand on his shoulder and say, “it’s OK."
Then, with your hand still on his shoulder, he yells something you can’t understand at a cute girl walking up the steps.
And she looks at him which makes you look at him and he sticks out his tongue and makes a flickering motion with it, like he’s waving hello but instead of using his hand he uses his tongue.
Then you look at her and she smiles and looks down and shakes her head and you look back at him and he screams, “stupid bitch."
Then he takes a huge drink of his beer, crushes the can in his tiny hand, stands up and says, “time fer more,” and he disappears into the crowd. 

Something Better To Jack Off To - 1.95

You read a sign above a thing that scans people’s bodies to make sure they’re not carrying anything they can use to kill a lot of people.
It reads, “Safely Letting People In."
You imagine an elaborately decorated conference room in a downtown tower filled with marketing people dressed in black and grey suits and colorful ties that express each’s “personality” spending hours and hours trying to develop the perfect saying to put on their machines.
After accusatory sayings like, “Making Sure You’re Not A Terrorist,” and, “You’re Not Going To Kill Anyone Today, Buddy,” and, “Sex, Not Violence,” and, “Fuck You, You Mutha Fuckin’ Commie,” a young, boring, up and coming corporate drone said something like, “why not, ‘Safely Letting People In.’"
And everyone in the room applauded his brilliance, and the boss gave him a promotion, and the other young, boring, sexually charged corporate drones took him in the bathroom and blew him and collected his sperm into a vile that they stored in a thing designed to do such things, so some scientist twenty five years from now can mix it with some other young, boring corporate drones sperm who had an idea once that everyone liked to create a super boring, corporate drone capable of coming up with even better marketing ideas.

You take your keys, iDevice, and wallet out of your pockets and put it in a plastic thing that a person whose job it is to move the plastic thing from one end of the table to the other then back moves it from one end of the table to the other and you walk through the machine with the non-offensive, heavily generic, somewhat accurate slogan.
You feel the invisible radiation pass through your body and think, “will this make my penis glow?"
You emerge on the other side, collect your things from the plastic bin and the person on the other side of the table dressed in a very cheap suit-uniform moves the plastic bin back to the other side of the table for someone else to use.
You say, “thank you,” to him for no reason other than he didn’t try to stick his finger in your butt.

Among the crowd, your eyes are immediately drawn to a pair of titties struggling to stay inside a tight white container attached to a woman who looks like she’s been molded out of plastic.
Like she just stepped out of a magazine cover and kept all the photo processing that covered up all her flaws, because in order to sell magazines, female imperfections must be muted so men will buy it and take it home and jack off to it.
As she walks, it looks like she’s trying her best to keep a certain pose, the magazine pose: expressionless, disinterested face, hair slightly blowing, a statuesque pose reminiscent of a department store mannequin.
It’s as if one misstep and she would fall and shatter on the ground and men would stop buying whatever magazine she stepped out of and the jacking off to her would cease.
But nonetheless, in a sea of people, your eyes are drawn right the point where her two perfect boobs meet, and in that moment, nothing else in the world matters.
Hitler could rise through the floor and start burning everyone and your instinct would be to protect the boobs.

Her male counterpart looks equally impressive.
He looks like he just stepped off the cover of “Chiseled” magazine, where models taller than five foot three inches are rejected because they can’t fit their entire upper body on the cover close enough to highlight perfect abs.
You look down at his shoes to find he’s wearing the male equivalent of high heels, so he looks five foot four inches instead of five foot two inches and is just tall enough to be one inch shorter than the magazine cover girl that’s walking beside him, which is close enough in her eyes because look at him, he’s fucking perfect.
His hair and facial features are perfectly manicured, and he carries the same expressionless, disinterested look on his face as the pair of tits next to him.
Together, they look like the ideal couple featured on a poster that hangs in some cleverly named community that looks and feels like every other community that features the same type of people.
And you’re certain, in that moment, that whatever magazine cover he stepped out of, where his abs were carefully crafted on a computer by an obese nerd whose never had a girl show him her vagina, was purchased by ordinary women all over everywhere so they could take it home and jack off to it.
And you conclude that every magazine’s intent is to give the purchaser something to jack off to.

The ideal human couple floats passed you without acknowledging your presence.
Their purpose in life is to be seen, and in a sea of people it’s easy to achieve that quest.
You see them.
You see everyone else seeing them.
And for a second you feel jealousy, that a) your abs are buried under a consistent layer of very poor food choices and b) they are fulfilling their destiny, which in a way, you think, satisfies them, even though the expression on their faces gives off the impression that they may not even be human.
Like, no matter how insignificant, or shallow their purpose may seem, it doesn’t matter, they are achieving it.
And you are not.
And you feel like lowering your scrotum into a running sausage grinder in protest. 

Alive Is Just A Word We Use To Describe A Thing That Moves With Relative Intelligence - 1.94

You’re not exactly sure how or why the Earth chose this particular spot in the galaxy to exist.
Just the right distance from a benevolent sun, with a rock designed to keep all the water in check.
With just the right mixture of substances that can combine in different ways to form other substances, like people, and dogs, and trees, and statues, and buildings, and vaginas, and bags of cereal, and ceiling fans, and motor vehicles, and nuclear weapons, and signs that read “Enter Here."
You wonder if what we call “life” exists everywhere, but it’s called something different, or not called anything at all because it’s not aware that it’s alive or has a different definition for what “alive” is.
Like, is a rock “alive?” Is a gas “alive?” Because if those things are, then “life” isn’t so unique, is it, at least according to the people who say those types of things exist elsewhere in this so-called “universe."

You watch a man in a machine that moves him up and down off the Earth do some kind of labor to the windows outside your office.
It’s like he’s a corporate spy checking in on you to make sure you’re doing the work you get paid to do, which you are not in this moment because you have a game on your iDevice that hypnotizes you into continually playing it to the point it distracts you from everything else happening around you.
It’s like your universe shrinks to the size of a screen and your eyes focus so hard on the game and your brain concentrates so intensely that when you look up to see what the man outside your window is doing, he’s out of focus and you’re confused by reality.
It’s like the moment right after blowing your load on a hooker’s asshole while a second hooker attempts to drink your baby juice through a straw, the moment you regain the ability to process reality and it’s just a flood of sensations that overwhelms you, like waking up from a nightmare thinking the dragon clown water demons are really trying to extract your soul through your anus.

You wonder if the man outside your window were to just drop dead if a drone would come along and scoop up his body and haul him off and replace him with another man.
Perhaps not a similar man, but a man equally skilled in whatever he is doing to the building outside your window.
Like, life has evolved almost to the point where humans of similar skill are kept in a warehouse somewhere, maybe in an incubator designed to keep them from aging, and when one of us expires, The Progress Machine collects us and another machine delivers the replacement, a machine that you haven’t come up with a name for yet.
You wonder what human will sit in the chair you’re sitting in when you expire, and what he/she will look like and be like, and at that moment you feel somewhat complete that somewhere there is a warehouse full of yous ready to take your place.

The man in the machine outside your window moves down, where his face is at about the same height as yours.
And you look at him, you get up and move closer to the window and stare at him.
But he doesn’t break from his routine, maybe because he can’t see you because the windows are tinted to the point people on the outside cannot see in.
You take your index finger and touch the glass approximately where the space between his eyes is.
You say, “you are not my master,” and you mean it.
The lady who sits at the first desk a person sees when they come in the door to the office says, “what’d you say, <censored>?"
“You are not my master,” you say.
“Oh, OK,” and she laughs in that way a smoker laughs.
Then she says, “you’re so crazy."
And you feel pride that some people think that of you.