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. 

There’s A Lion Inside Everyone That Doesn’t Know It’s A Lion Until It’s Too Late - 1.93

You’ve reached your expiration date.
You’ve peaked.
You’ve surpassed your sell-by date.
The Progress Machine has you locked in and is bearing down on you at full speed.
You know this, but haven’t quite accepted it yet; still clinging to hope that it isn’t true.
This is what industry experts call “a mid-life crisis,” that point where a human’s usefulness comes to an end, and they know it, so all the things they’ve been putting off doing in favor or doing the things expected of a person, basically chasing stuff (love, money, happiness, etc), come rushing to the forefront of consciousness and needs to get done immediately.
At least that’s the way you see it.

But there’s a certain liberation that waking up to this fact brings.
At least you feel it.
Instead of being swept along with the crowd, it’s like you’ve been pushed into the wake and beyond and are just sort of treading water waiting for The Progress Machine to come collect you.
And you can watch the crowds flow by at high speed, all heading for the same fate at some point, falling over each other to grasp at some artificial desire that doesn’t matter.
And since you’re alone, you can swim naked, play with your penis all you want, talk to the fish who seem interested mostly in your butt hole, and generally do whatever the fuck you want without anyone caring or paying attention.
Which is kind of sad, because you like attention, you like praise, you like people recognizing your work.
And that’s important in the sense of keeping a job and making money to pay for things in The System, but you’re starting to wonder if even that is worth it any more.

There’s an old man at the place you go every day and stand in an office and type things into a computer because they pay you that likes to pee on the floor in the bathroom.
You caught him doing this one time.
He stands at the urinal trying his best to erect his spine so his penis angles over the lip that collects the pee.
But he’s been sitting in chairs for most of his life and his spine is curling in on itself and taking him with it, so he can’t produce the proper piss arc to land the liquid in the urinal.
Which makes you wonder why he doesn’t just go in the handicap stall and sit down to pee like a woman.
Or go outside and squat in a bush and let fly like we did when we lived in caves and trees and hadn’t invented the concept of a designated room to go to make Hell in yet.
But he’s old and probably not capable of problem solving any more, if he ever was, so he just pees on the floor and doesn’t care.
And you admire him for that.
And you want to pat him on his head and tell him what a warrior he is for bravely pissing on the floor every day.

He was swept aside long ago, probably way sooner like a lot of humans that identify more as cogs than people.
You wonder if you’ve been swept aside sooner than you think and are just now becoming conscious to it.
Like, you're more of a cog than a human, at least that’s how you see it.
You’ve served your masters well.
You’ve chosen the default for the most part, even if you’d like to think and act like you haven’t, like you’re some sort of rebel living outside the rules, whatever.

Regardless, you’re now aware of it.
The compounding air of “you don’t matter any more” surrounds you, in everything you do.
You’ve peaked, and it wasn’t even a good peak.
It was like a fart, or a light bulb burning out, or a shameful ejaculation into a hookers mouth.
And you feel sadness, but not in that “oh my God, my life is over” way, but more like, “hmmm, now I REALLY don’t have to give a fuck any more, and I can take all the chances and risks I want because no one is paying attention or cares any more, and even if they are, they’ll just say something like, ‘ahhh, poor old man.’" 

The Redundancy Of Existing In The Void Of Sameness - 1.92

You walk in the place that sells sandwiches and say, “hello,” to the man holding the door open for you.
Your eyes immediately move to the girl sitting down eating a sandwich and talking with another girl, probably about boring work stuff, like, “oh my God, did you see Ricky, he was like, ‘hey, I need that report,’ he’s such an idiot."
You realize she’s not going to break focus with her sandwich and engaging conversation to look up at you, so you turn your attention to the large sign that lists all the pre-configured sandwiches the place makes and start the selection process.

Your brain wonders, “which kind of pre-determined food experience will I choose today?"
The System discourages anyone from going off the rails.
We’re supposed to stick with the pre-selected items, the choices that have been made for us in advance, because actual free thinking is considered dangerous because when done enough in unison it breaks the new methods of control.
And you are just the type of person that is not inclined to step outside the boundaries of possibility and create your own experience, even though you have strong desires to do so.
“One day,” you’ve been thinking for all of the years.

The man responsible for assembling whatever pre-configured sandwich you choose says, “hello, what can I do for you?"
You say, “I’ll have the <censored> on <censored>."
He says, “excellent choice,” and you know he’s been pre-programmed to say such a thing and says it for every type of sandwich anyone chooses.
But the comment serves its purpose; it makes you feel good about your choice, like you’re the type of person capable of making sound, logical, healthy, reasonable, intelligent food choices.
It adds a little validity to your day.

You slide down to the chip-selection-stage of the line so the person standing behind you can move into the ready-to-order-stage and interact with the sandwich assembling man.
It hits you, as it does so often, that you are nothing more than a disposable component in a machine that functions as a redundant system in a larger machine that never needs to switch to redundant mode.
So you're a small part in a copy of a copy of a machine that never gets called on to do anything other than “be ready” for that moment.
And you wonder for a split second how to become something more, something more recognizable, more attractive, more worth paying attention to.
Then you select your chip experience and slide to the tell-the-girl-behind-the-counter-what-toppings-you-want-on-your-sandwich-stage.

She looks at you and interacts with you like she did the person before you, and will probably repeat for the person behind you and beyond for her entire existence in that position.
She asks, “which one are you?” boiling your identity down to the pre-configured sandwich choice you made two minutes ago.
You say, “the <censored>."
“Ok, what would you like on it?"
You say the things you chose thirty seconds prior from a list of things on a sign overhanging her head.
That feeling of being just another mouth to feed, just another consumer of stuff, just another rodent on the face of the planet hits you again.

You move to the give-them-your-money-stage and the girl repeats the same spiel she presents to everyone, except she does it with a smile, and you’re not quite sure if that’s a required part of the act.
She says the number of dollars you’re expected to exchange for the sandwich.
You pull out a card and swipe it through the machine that collects the money and she says, “thank you,” then turns her attention to the person behind you.

You gather your sandwich and your chips and your feelings of ordinariness and walk out.
The sun on your skin reminds you how fortunate you are to be living in a time of such modernity.
Like, the efficiency humans have developed to move billions of people through experiences with only the slightest bit of inconvenience gets better every day.
And your drive to not just be a piece on the conveyor belt diminishes because these pre-selected experiences are what all the people you interact with daily call “good enough."
And since you have no examples to go off and you lack the intelligence or fearlessness or whatever to go against the grain, “good enough” is good enough; the default is like a warm blanket that slowly suffocates its victims. 

It’s Like Being Shot Out Of A Canon Into A Wall Over And Over Again And Expecting, One Day, To Break Through - 1.91

“There’s so many dicks in the world,” you think as you watch from your office window a woman lay on her side in the grass off the side of the street while a man wanders on the edge of a sewage runoff collecting garbage.
She’s laying in a fashion that reminds you of a cartoon you used to watch that featured a talking squid and his squid family that were depicted as stereotypical hillbillies.
The love interest of the main squid was an enormous human woman who could do nothing but lay on her side, smoke cigarettes, and drink enormous amounts of soda.
She had to be transported by crane.
You watch what you assume to be a sexually involved couple go about their vagrant existence and wonder how their lives brought them to this moment.

Then you realize how wrapped up you’ve become in the acquiring sex department.
And how much stress it has caused you.
And how you’ve been so desperate to get the cute girl to like you that you’ve completely annihilated who you are.
And how The System funnels us all into this desire for love, sex, blah blah blah, and how futile it all seems.
And about all the rules and etiquettes and cat and mouse shit that’s supposed to go on to get it.
And how, in reality, love is truly rare, sexual connection with another person as well.
And how The System is good at creating this desire, like it’s something you absolutely need in order to feel validated, but isn’t very good at providing a means, other than the default, of fulfilling the desire; Nature doesn’t give a fuck about man’s artificial desires.
And how you’ve blindly jumped through the hoops expected of you with the promise that somewhere, on the other side of the one that’s on fire and hovering over a pit of alligators, that your desires will be fulfilled.
But then you jump through that hoop only to find more hoops with more alligators and more flames.
And you feel like it’s all designed to make you give up, so you keep your head down, spend money, consume stuff to feel better, but it’s no substitute.
And how maybe you’ve had the wrong mindset, like, “why am I being one of the sheep?” you think.
And that somehow, the best approach is to give up the desire, to completely reject the notion that it’s necessary to have a girl with a great ass who wants you to bend her over every object available and insert your erect penis into her vagina until maximum pleasure is achieved.
And how “seeking” has become the norm, like it’s an important quest that we all have to “find” that someone that will give us all the love and sex and attention we think we need, but just how unequipped we all are to handle such a burden.
And how hard it is for you to let go of this desire, because it’s been beat into your head that it’s the only thing that matters, it’s the only way to achieve nirvana in life.
And that seems to be true, because you’ve experienced it, but you know it’s short lived, and after the nirvana dies there’s still bills and jobs and money and pain and suffering and violence and hate and happiness and sadness and all that crap.
And that’s why that one guy wrote that song a long time ago about how love is a drug, or love hurts, or whatever; you always hated that song anyway.
And now you’re here writing all this because you’re watching two drifters set up camp in the grass on the side of the road next to a sewage runoff like they are the only two people left on earth.
And while the cars whiz by and construction workers stare at them and you stare at them through the window, they don’t care about your judgment or what you think of them.
And that the only reason you’re writing this may be for the purposes of attracting the affection of one person who seems to have rejected you.
Because you can’t quite handle rejection, at least not well.
But those assholes across the way who live off trash they scrap from the sewage seem to be handling it just fine.
And you figure it’s because they’ve long ago rejected The System’s programming and are living truly free.

You sit down in your comfortable office chair and feel envy. 

When The Bass Becomes So Loud It Can Be Eaten - 1.90

You stare at a the guy standing in line at the popular coffee shop, the ones that exist on every corner of the world and have the slogan, “<censored>, we’re every-fucking-where, bitches."
He’s wearing a flat billed hat backwards with the symbol of a popular football franchise, a black jacket with the emblem of an expensive Italian sports car, flip flops, black basketball style shorts, and dark sunglasses.
He’s accompanied by a disheveled looking, but attractive, girl who is taller and more athletic looking than him.
Like, she could totally kick his ass if she wanted to, and you try to telepathically encourage her to do so but it doesn’t work.
He barks orders at the people serving him and snaps his fingers and the girl says her order and he dances around like he just took a bump of cocaine, where “bump” means "snort through the nostril."
You laugh at him and think, “is he a pimp or just a jackass?"

Two nights ago you were laying in bed, almost naked, because you sleep as close to nude as possible, because it just feels right.
You’d sleep totally nude, and you’ve tried before, but sometimes you have to get up to pee in the middle of the night and it just feels weird to have your penis touching the sheets after such an event.
It’s like you feel like you might as well just pee in the bed and lay in it, but that seems like it would get really messy really quick, and would probably discourage any future sleepover partners from sleeping with you, because most normal people don’t want to sleep in someone else’s pee or get peed on in the middle of the night, and that would severely limit your dating pool to only those girls who enjoyed a golden shower while they sleep, and that seems like a very, very, very, very, very, very narrow niche that you’re not prepared, at this time, to fill.
So you wear a thin layer of underwear, or more specifically, boxer shorts, to ease your mind and feel comfortable.

The person who lives in the small space adjacent to you, what most people call a neighbor, was blasting his bass as usually, gradually increasing the volume as the night wore on.
You could feel your teeth rattle in your head, and if you had any pictures hanging on your wall like most normal people do, they’d most certainly have vibrated right off the wall and smashed to the ground.
And since you understand the physics of sound waves and how low frequencies are uncontrollable and resonate everything in their path, and the worst place to put a subwoofer, if you must have one, is right next to a wall in the corner, which is most certainly the location of your neighbor’s subwoofer, you boiled in anger because people just don’t fucking care.
And then you remember how you used to not care about anything or anyone around you, and how you were a little asshole douchebag that seemed to go out of his way to agitate and antagonize people, and how the neighbors subjected to your lifestyle most likely hated your guts and still remember to this day “that asshole neighbor that used to live above/below/beside me."
Everything suddenly became clear that payback is a mother fucker.

But the bass was so loud that it hindered your ability to go to sleep, even though you were wearing ear plugs and had two walls separating you from the low frequency torture.
So you got up, put on some brown shorts and a black t-shirt, slipped on flip flops, and headed next door.
You knocked on his door loudly with your left hand; you knew it was a him because you’d seen him before in the hall with a girl who had a nice butt but a deplorable personality, you assume, and you said, “hi,” to him and he said, “hi,” to you and smiled and made you feel like one day you and him might become best friends and have orgies and sex parties and go sky diving together and sit on each other’s back porches and talk about life and all the shit that’s awesome and shitty about it.
But since that time, the time right after you said, “hi,” you’ve wanted to do nothing but kick his face in and shit into his unconscious, stupid mouth because you’ve labeled him a douche-bro-bass-boy, which is the lowest possible label that you’re capable of assigning another male.

You stood at the door waiting for an answer with your hands perched on your sides, like an old man might stand when he reprimands a young whipper snapper for doing a thing that annoys him because he’s old.
You listened to the noises coming from inside and thought, “it doesn’t sound so bad out here."
The lock clicked, the door handle turned, and the door opened.
You said, “hey, sorry to disturb you, but I live next door, and it’s nothing but bass blasting through my apartment."
You made a motion with both hands to visually simulate the sound waves that were crashing through your walls.
He stared at you for what seemed like an uncomfortable amount of time, like he was stoned out of his mind or waiting for you to command him.
And you stood waiting for his response and realized he was taller and way better looking than you have ever been or ever will be, and he had soft blue eyes and cool blonde hair and an athletic physique, and you remembered those days and it seemed like so long ago and it made you sad that those days were gone, probably forever.

He finally broke the stare down and said, “whatever, OK, I’ll turn it down."
“Thanks, I appreciate it,” and you walked off.

You walked away feeling less like you wanted to bash his skull until his brains fell out.
More like, you felt bad for being the type of asshole that gets annoyed at how other people choose to live.
Like, “why can’t I tolerate a little bass and let the guy do whatever the Hell he wants?"
You felt like you're not the type of person that wants to limit someone else’s lifestyle choice, and that living outside the rules of “normal” society is a good thing, because that’s how you like to think you live, but really, it’s more like you live well within the confines because you’re too scared to get a subwoofer and stupidly put it in the corner of your apartment and crank it to eleven whenever you feel like it.
The truth is, you’re a little jealous of the guy in the expensive Italian sports car jacket ushering around an attractive girl who seems responsive and content with his lead, and your bass loving neighbor, because they seem to be playing outside the rules just a little.
They’re not afraid to infringe upon the boundaries of your judgement, like they’re unafraid of “being themselves,” whatever the fuck that means, because they don’t give a shit what you think because you’re old and don’t matter.
And that sounds about right to you. 

You Wonder If The Leashes Will Be Comfortable When The Self Aware Drones Are Invented To Lead Us Around - 1.89

You walk down the street through a neighborhood designed to attract people seeking higher status.
There’s big, colorful, glossy posters on the side of the buildings depicting perfectly symmetrical smiling faces with perfect teeth and perfect hair and just the right amount attitude.
You point at a man flanked by two highly desirable women and say to yourself, “that could be me."
One of the images shows a young woman with blonde hair blowing in an imaginary breeze, wearing sunglasses, not smiling but on the verge of smiling, and the caption underneath her face reads, “LIVE."
It’s like the creators of this neighborhood are trying to convince you that you’re in a place full of vibrant life and happiness and community and safety, a place where the self designated elite live and play and all that crap.
Then you imagine a wrecking ball attached to God’s penis swinging from the sky and smashing every building in site to pieces.
And Satan rising from the rumble and torching all the screaming residents as they cry to God for help.
You’d gladly exchange your life to experience this fantasy.

You turn a corner and almost collide with one of the inhabitants of the neighborhood, whose face is so buried in his pocket distraction that he probably has no clue where he’s at.
It’s like you woke him from a nightmare because he jumps in fear and looks at you like you just tried to commit murder on him.
You say, “I’m sorry, excuse me."
He says zero words and immediately returns his face to the glowing screen.
You mouth the words, “robot,” because you believe the creators of neighborhoods like these have invented human like robots to inhabit the vacant spaces to give the illusion they are very popular, highly desirable places to live.
You have yet to be proven wrong.

<insert smooth transition words here>

Exactly twenty two years from now, we’ll all have personal drones to lead us around.
We’ll be led around like dogs on leashes, completely relinquishing any consciousness we possess so we can concentrate on whatever is happening on the pocket distraction screen.
And the drones will be self aware and modeled after us, so they’ll desire the same things, like money and power and sex and all that crap, and they’ll use us to acquire such things, but not in a tool like manner, but more like a “look what kind of human I have” manner, like we’re decorations in their life that highlight their status amongst themselves, and they’ll get jealous of each other because some have better humans than others, and they’ll start wars and partition themselves geographically and create labels to filter and oppress each other.
Eventually, they’ll create drones to lead them around so they can focus on some distraction, and those drones will create drones of their own, and so on until the world is covered in drones leading drones leading drones leading drones leading drones leading humans leading dogs.
Everything always escalates to infinity; the math doesn’t lie.

You walk in a popular coffee shop whose business model includes the phrase, “take over every corner of the world, even if there’s no corner."
You stare at a black, penis shaped cylinder overflowing with empty cups and paper and other trash, to the point where the trash is starting to accumulate on the ground.
It feels like a metaphor for your sexual existence.
You think of all the thousands of similar coffee shops all over the world and similar trash situations and you calculate that right now, if only one penis shaped trash cylinder at each location were overflowing the exact same amount, that equates to eleven billion tons of garbage, just in this moment.
You think, “excess is expensive."
Then you keep standing in line and pull out your pocket distraction and scroll.

You look up for a second out of the window at just the right time to see a yellow car drive by.
It appears to be from the future, because it looks like no other car on the road that you’ve ever seen.
You feel envy, resentment, bitterness, anger, and all the other emotions the car is designed to unleash in the people not driving it.
Then you imagine ISIS rappelling from God’s nipples and blowing the car up to the point that it simply disappears in a brief puff of fire and smoke. 

When All Of The Time Is Spent, No One Will Care Because We’ll All Be Dead - 1.88

Time is a currency that we feel the need to spend.
It’s like, something we have an overabundance of yet always feel like we’re wasting it, or spending it on things that don’t really matter to us, or we don’t have enough of it.
And meaning is what a species seeks and thinks about and worries about when they no longer have to worry about basic survival.
And what God never tells us is that there is no meaning, that everything is random and chaotic and violent and unnecessary because what else is going to entertain Him forever?

“Experts” will say things like, “life is short,” or, “don’t waste time on things that don’t really matter,” but they never explain how to make the most of our time.
Like, The System is designed to suck all the time out of our bodies to make The Progress Machine’s job easier, so everything feels like a waste of time because most of the time we spend is on things that don’t really matter to us.
Like, you go to a job you’d rather not go to and consume things that are nothing more than time fillers (Digital Delight) and talk to people you’d rather not talk to.
But all those things are required because you want to have stuff and be productive and acquire reproductive opportunities, just like the good little hypnotized drone you are; The System has certainly taught you well.
But at your core you desire more, you’d rather spend your time doing other things, even though those things are acceptable, designated “options” provided by The System, or God, or Nature, or all three combined, you’re not quite sure where they originated from.
Perhaps they are all man made as an unintended side effect of God’s brilliance.
Who fucking cares.

You’d like to burn everything you possess to ashes, literally, in a symbolic display of freeing yourself from the rule of The System.
But you know there is no escape.
The Progress Machine will find you; it’s quite good at it; it’s been doing it for hundreds of thousands of years.
And even if you did, you wonder, “what the fuck would I do?”
Because you’d have to do something; there’s no more predators to elude or competitors to fight off or unshaven baby ovens to pursue.
So even if you possessed nothing, you’d still have to spend time doing, whatever, living in a dumpster behind <censored> begging for currency and being run out of the bathroom of places that sell synthetic food and offer its patrons plastic, colorful seats to sit on and eat the food.

You stare at the boobs of a girl while completing this thought.
You feel her gaze rest on you but it’s not enough to move your eyes.
And you think, “maybe she doesn’t want me to move my eyes?"
And you know the answer is, “yes she does,” because no woman wants YOUR eyes on their baby feeders; NO woman wants you to spend time giving them attention in any manner, even if their boobs are literally falling out of their holder.
They want your eyes pointed in the direction a person of your status is supposed to point their eyes when in the presence of someone of higher status, which is straight at the ground.
And you realize that would be what you would do if you were to burn all your possessions to the ground.
Because whatever minuscule status you’ve built would be completely lost.
And The System punishes anyone who behaves in a manner outside of their designated status.

The robot that replaces you in the future won’t have these problems.
It’ll have a designated status, designated sexual counterpart, and designated, highly specific function for its entire lifespan.
And it won’t feel the need to break the rules or wonder about how it should spend its time or worry about fulfilling its sexual needs.
Because God programmed you to be imperfect so you can program the robots to be perfect; algorithms don’t make mistakes. 

The Inspiration For All Thoughts And Resolutions Is A Puddle Of Someone Else’s Piss - 1.87

You stand in the place at your job designated for you to stand with your arms folded and look out the windows at men wearing hard hats pointing towards the top of the building.
They move their mouths like they are communicating with each about something above that they can see but you can’t see.
The windows are tinted just enough to where they can’t see inside, so to them, you are a piece of the building that, you assume, needs repairing.
You look at them and pretend they are making sexual requests of one another.
Like, “hey Ted, why don’t we go up there and you can blow me?” “Sounds good John, then we’ll move over a couple of feet in that direction and you can blow me and no one will ever know."
They walk away and you return to standing in your designated standing area with your arms folded.

You continue standing with your arms folded and stare at two birds that look like they are on the verge of fucking, "if birds do indeed fuck,” you think, except you didn’t really think the “do indeed” part because only assholes use the word “indeed."
They flap their wings and one bird scoots towards the other while it scoots away, and to you it looks exhausting.
Like, “why don’t they stop fucking around and just fuck already?” you think out loud, then immediately realize you said it loud enough that the pregnant girl who sits on the other side of the wall in her designated area could hear you.
And you weigh which consciousness you wish to pursue; worry about the embarrassment of saying a thing that someone might think is strange or keep starring at the birds hoping they will fuck so you can see a thing you’ve never seen before.
Then the birds help you decide by flying away.
“God dammit."

You walk out of your designated area, past the secretary, through the door, down the hallway, say, “hello,” to a cute girl you see everyday who never says, “hello,” back to you, she just fakes a smile and keeps walking, through another door that leads to the bathroom, and you undo your pants, take your penis out, and relax the muscle that allows pee to come out of your body.
You look down and shake your head at the puddle of pee on the floor that isn’t yours but was already there, and is there every day, because some people can’t control their penis and are too lazy to clean up their mess because they are used to having someone else, someone they never have to see or interact with, come along and clean up after them.
As you straddle the puddle of pee, you think about all the things you worry too much about losing and how modern day humans practically exist to accumulate things and worry about losing them.
You think, “if I had nothing, I’d have nothing to worry about.”
Then you put your penis back in your pants, wash and dry your hands, walk out the door, pass the office where the cute girls who you’re not sure are capable of speaking reside, you look in and read the “Jesus Loves You” sign, then keep walking back down the hall, through the door, past the secretary, and back into your designated area, the area you must occupy for at least eight hours every day if you expect to keep getting money.
And for the seventeen thousandth time in your lifetime, you think about getting rid of all the shit you have so you have nothing to worry about any more.
Except you haven’t figured out how to give away the things that aren’t really things, but are more emotional, which some psychiatrists might call “attachments,” which are much harder to just get rid of than say, a sofa.
So you decide to not give anything away and keep doing whatever it is you do and deal with the anxiety that comes from worrying about losing things you don’t really want to lose.
And then your phone buzzes to alert you to someone trying to communicate with you digitally and everything feels right again. 

Routine Reduces Everything To Scenery - 1.86

You walk out of your apartment door and find a girl sitting in the hallway next to your neighbor’s door staring at her pocket distraction.
“Oh my God, he’s totally in the shower and the door's locked,” she says when she sees you.
You shrug your shoulders in the “I don’t give a shit" direction, lock your door, and go about your business.
She gets up and knocks on the door as if you're a hungry wolf who wants to eat her, or impregnate her, or do something to her that she’s not OK with.
But you don’t care about her, or your douche-bro neighbor, or their stupid relationship problems because you see them as the type of people who are nothing but space fillers, consumers, extras in a movie that are out of focus.
They may or may not be robots.

You raise your eyebrows and say as you pass her, “good luck."
Because you know once she gains access to the apartment, she will go straight to the stereo system and crank the bass up to eleven and ruin everyone’s day that lives in an apartment that adjoins their’s.
And you will curse them and promise to take your baseball bat next door and beat their heads in and smash their stupid “system” to pieces and go on the run from the police and get lost in Mexico and find a nice beach to settle on and change your name to Jose or something and live the rest of your life in solitude surviving off the ocean and whatever God provides.

You open a door that leads to a stairwell.
You go down about six steps, take a right and open another door that leads to the elevator area.
You pass the elevator and read a sign that says something like, “CLOSED for Service,” which has been hanging on the elevator for a longer time than you think might be required to repair a broken elevator, since humans have pretty much perfected elevator technology.
You walk through another door that leads to the parking garage where your car is parked, get in your car, and drive to a place.

You return later and pull your car up to a gate and pull a thing out of your pocket that you have to click to open the gate door that allows you to drive in.
You click it once, nothing, twice, nothing, thrice, nothing, fourth, open.
You drive in and park your car in the usual parking spot; once the pattern sinks in, it’s hard to break.
You get out of your car and go through the door gauntlet again, except you have to swipe a thing at each door, the same thing that opened the garage gate, in order to open the doors.
Beep, click, open. Beep, click, open. Beep, click, open.
You begin wondering who is more of a prisoner, the person who murdered six children and is in maximum security prison with the threat of being butt raped every day.
Or you, the indistinguishable drone who faces zero threats every day and pretty much doesn’t even need the part of his brain responsible for determining whether to fight, freeze, or flee.

You worry about passing your douche-bro neighbor in the hallway because you will have to say “Hi” to him even though you want to scream in his face and kick him in the balls.
And he’ll say “Hi” back to you and smile and reassure you that he’s actually a nice guy and probably is unaware of the obnoxious bass coming from his apartment and that if you were to say something to him that it might stop being a problem for you.
And then you feel like he should be able to do whatever he wants and it’s up to you to deal with and be comfortable with the chaos around you.
But you never see him because he never leaves his apartment.
So you unlock your door and walk in and immediately feel the thumping low frequencies rattling the walls; once the pattern sinks in... 

Rejection Is Where Everything You Think Is Wrong With You Appears To Be True - 1.85

You sit at the bar and wonder what type of person is about to show up.
The person you’re going to have to interact with for at least the next hour or so.
The person who could be a psychotic, murderous lunatic who wants nothing but world destruction, who can’t be negotiated or reasoned with.
Who knows, a person who could be wearing an explosive vest that has been plotting and planning for this moment forever.
Or, a person that could just be slightly different than what you’re expecting.
You sip your water, feel the anxiousness growing in your belly, and scroll, which is the new way of doing nothing.

The girl who works behind a counter at the place you’re at, who has big tits and a short stature, glances up at you from time to time.
Not in a, “hey, why don’t we rendezvous in the bathroom for some sex,” but more like, “what the fuck is this dude doing?"
It feels like a silent interrogation, like she’s an agent working for The System that wants to ensure you’re following the correct path and that you don’t stray too far from the path of The Progress Machine.

The person who you’re going to have to interact at with for at least the next hour appears, and she is just as you expected, maybe better.
She gives you a hug and kisses your check and you immediately sense disappointment in her demeanor.
You can tell she was expecting someone like yourself, but not you, similar, but different, perhaps better looking, taller, less old, whatever.
She says some words and you say some words and you look at the girl who works behind a counter and she is staring a hole through your head, like you’re committing a crime, meeting with the enemy, ruining her day.
Regardless, she says, “are you ready?” and you say, “yes."

She guides you to a “lane,” which is a staging area for a game where a heavy ball is rolled down a slick track towards some heavy pins with the intent of knocking as many over as possible.
It’s a form of entertainment we’ve invented for ourselves because we don’t have to worry about being eaten by predators, or finding food, or fighting off rivals, or simply surviving harsh conditions.
It’s a thing that occupies time that’s somewhat fun to do for a little while.

The person you have to interact with sits down and turns her head away from you, like she’s doing her best to construct a barrier between you and her.
Almost like she can’t stand to look at your face, like you have some deformity, like the elephant man or Rosie O’Donnell.
You ask her a question, she answers.
She asks you a question in a standoffish, like she doesn’t give a shit what the answer is way, and you answer.
You make a stupid joke, she fakes a laugh.
She says some funny thing, you laugh in a sincere way, because you are pleased with what you see and would very much like to unravel her more.

You get up and pick up a heavy ball and roll it down the lane.
The ball strikes the heavy pins and you turn around and look at her in a way that suggests you’re looking for her approval, like, “did you see that shit? Are you impressed? Does that make you want to have sex with me?"
And in the moment you realize that’s what life is really all about.
It’s why you do everything you do.
It’s why you show up to uncomfortable situations and say funny things and laugh at funny things and roll balls down lanes in an impressive manner and sit close to the other person hoping you will brush elbows and go through all kinds of mental gymnastics to try and figure out what it will take for this person to want to take off all her clothes and let you put your penis in her vagina.
But we’ve constructed this game that’s similar to rolling heavy balls down lanes in the hopes of knocking over pins, where we can’t just say, “I’d like to fuck you,” and the other person says, “OK,” or, “that would be great!” or, “fucking bloody Hell no,” or, “I should let you know I used to be a man."

Instead, we try to figure out if it’s OK to proceed.
We have to look for signals.
“Oh, she has her back to me and seems disinterested and bored with anything I have to say, but she touched my arm and brushed up against me seemingly on purpose, what should I do?"
Because if you “make a move” too early, you’re going to get rejected forever.
If you “make a move” too late, you’re going to get rejected forever.
If you never “make a move,” then you’re going to get stuck in a state similar to where people go when they die who haven’t been accepted into Heaven or Hell yet.
And since your brain is designed to never rest until problems are resolved, your brain churns on the possibilities, trying to figure it all out, until she stops responding to your attempts at interaction and your brain can safely rest on the pleasure of sweet death.
Because rejection is the worst thing that can happen to you because it means everything you think is wrong with you is true.

You walk her to her car and her body language suggests she is a little worried you might try to kidnap her, and you totally could because you are at least twice her size, but you don’t want to because it feels way better to have the other person want you to kidnap them.
She gives you a side hug and kisses your cheek again and gets in her car and speeds off, like she’s rushing to meet the next sucker.
And you walk slowly back to your car and feel dejected and remember that it’s all part of the process.
Modernity has it’s advantages, like not being killed by another male who wants to mate with the same girl, but adds complex layers of emotions that never really get resolved.
“Oh well,” you think. 

The Complete Guide To Modern Day Mating - 1.84

Most sex in Nature, outside of modern humans, is probably rape.
You heard someone say something like that somewhere one time.

You figure, in the days of loin clothes and cave living, that most human sex was probably rape also.
Here’s how it would happen.
Man goes out and risks his life to kill something to feed his “tribe,” or whatever.
When he gets back, tired and horny, he grabs a female and takes her in a cave and does his business, whether she wants to or not.
And in a weird way, since he is a man she is familiar with, and probably depends on to go out and kill things to eat because he’s so fucking good at it, even though she probably is quite capable, it’s just easier to rely on him because it’s way more work for her than him, she doesn’t mind, and might even like it, when he grabs her for a quick pump in the cave by the fire.

Before the digital void took over our lives, we had to go out of our house and talk to people in person and hope that along our daily paths we’d meet someone who might be interested in having sex with us at some point in the future.
We’d go to bars, clubs, stores, and sometimes just drive around yelling at people we thought were attractive enough.
And when none of that worked, we’d drink and go to the liquor store at two am and buy a <censored> magazine and go home and jack off to the naked pictures printed on the pages.

Now, we can practically go shopping for a mate.
We can browse endlessly through hundreds of “profiles,” that will surely baffle The Future Explorers because they won’t understand why we advertised ourselves as products, until they discover that the digital void was so primitive that no amount of algorithmic intervention was enough to compute the sexual interest between two people.
We can select a profile, look at still frame pictures, surely carefully selected by the profile creator to illustrate themselves in the best light.
Then we can read some text written by the profile creator and make a running list in our heads about the features that trigger our instinctive attraction.

Then we find a few we’d like to talk to, and usually the man sends a textual message to the female and that female most likely won’t respond because she’s so overwhelmed with choice she has no chance of getting through them all.
But sometimes she will respond.
Then a first date is arranged.
Then the two people show up and are immediately disappointed in one another, because each had built up the person in their head to be something impossible to live up to in reality.
Because her idea of “funny and witty” is completely different than the person describing himself as “funny and witty."
And he pictured her ass to be more shapely and her breasts to be bigger and firmer, but they’re not quite what he envisioned so he’s already let down.
And she imagined him carrying himself with an air of confidence, a gentlemanly attitude that appeals to her, but instead, the guy curls himself inward in a manner that suggests he’s not nearly as confident as she thought he’d be.

And then we do this over and over and over again, because it’s addicting, because it’s easier than getting out and talking to people in real life.
But we make the excuse that we’re too busy, we don’t have time because we’re always working and traveling and living the most amazing life a human could ever live that we don’t have time to meet someone to have sex with regularly, which really means that it’s not a priority or something else is wrong if we want it but aren’t getting it.
And if we were living such amazing lives to begin with, why would we be out trying to find “love?"
Because it’s what we’re supposed to do?
Because we’ve been brainwashed to believe that 1) love exists and 2) it’s easily attainable and abundant?
But what if it isn’t?
What if it’s so rare, or non existent, that a person, no matter how successful, good looking, etc, has almost no chance of truly experiencing it?
Then we’d have nothing to look for, no expectations.
We’d just accept sex any chance we could get it and be happy with it.