Suicide Diary Entries 86-94

in the event of a medical emergency, entomb me in 2 tons of epoxy resin.

“For the rest, I cannot here withhold the statement that optimism, where it is not merely the thoughtless talk of those who harbor nothing but words under their shallow foreheads, seems to be not merely an absurd, but also a really wicked, way of thinking, a bitter mockery of the unspeakable sufferings of mankind.” – Schopenhauer.

Hesse’s answer to life, the universe and everything seems to be, for the most part, ‘i just want to grill and do drugs, goddamnit, and in good company too’ as a sort of escape from the custom-tailored hell cage that every person creates for themself for some inexplicable reason. Can’t relate though, because i enjoy my suffering. What would even be left if some magical force were to free me of my suffering? Surely, an empty husk that would crumble to dust. Being dissatisfied with everything and tormented is one of my defining characteristics, which is rather absurd when you think about it, but it is what it is. It’s like somebody basing their identity on having a broken leg and not wanting it to heal. Anxiety is just spicy relaxation. Big fan of it.

All of this is their fault. I could’ve been worshipping the spirit of celestial fire now.

Freddie Gibbs is the modern Nietzsche. He understands there’s no point to life other than to sell and smoke crack and prostitute bitches. We’re beyond deconstructing this capitalist system and a 9-5 lifestyle just isn’t going to cut it. ‘Crime pays.’ ‘It ain’t’ gotta be a walk of shame.’ Do what you have to do, kill who you need to, sell it all, money is everything. In ‘Scottie Beam’ Gibbs shoots a pig and flees to Jamaica to fuck a sexy bitch, finally free of capitalism, and able to embrace the culture that was taken from him (“Stripped of my whole motherfucking name, stripped of my whole motherfucking culture”) without the suppression of western American racist society. In reality, that’s not what happens. You get littered with bullets, people protest, get arrested, we forget, move on, and another minority gets ripped to shreds with lead. Even if you’re a rich black man, the police are still going to put hits out on you. Glamorize making and selling crack on the streets or even if you have to sell a nickel bag as fast as you can because once you have a record, this society will eat you alive. Prostitute a girl that shoots up in her toes and do lines with her in your run-down apartment. The music video to ‘Crime Pays’ represents that if you sell drugs and go up the chain long enough, you can have this too, the Zebra farm in New Zealand with hot springs hidden in a forest. But it’s all a lie. We’re all on our ‘last days’.

We’re in a zoo and the people inside the cage think they’re visitors having a great time. We’re in a Victorian mental asylum and the ones committed believe they are doctors. Humans are novelty-seeking creatures driven by curiosity before it’s beaten and shamed out of them. Still, curiosity always requires one to hope/assume that there’s something out there to see, experience, learn. People would never choose to explore the unknown without hoping there’s something at the end of the road, that it’s possible to cross that sea, climb that mountain, figure out why two funny rocks struck together to produce sparks. Plenty of people advocate for abandoning all hope or treating it as a source of pain, but i think it might be one of the fundamental building blocks of the human experience. To bastardize a quote by Shunryu Suzuki: kill the hope if hope exists somewhere else. Kill the hope because you should resume your hope-nature.

“Against god, guns, energy.” Letter 76, on the topic of Russia’s new constitutional laws (27 August 1811); published in Lettres et Opuscules. The English translation has several variations, including “Every country has the government it deserves” and “In a democracy people get the leaders they deserve.”

Here’s a childhood memory that I have for all you fucking normies that can fuck off and suck my dick. “I’ll give you ten bucks if you lift your shirt.” “I know what that means. I know what you are.”

I’m a nudist in public showing off my little cock when it’s pitch black outside by the beach or in a hidden alley where people sell fuckin crack by the section 8 apartments. Getting a pic of myself to show my fans on pornhub, hoping they’ll buy my 8 dollar videos of me sucking dick at gloryholes, getting gangbanged from strangers on Grindr, and fucking myself with dildos while dressed like a lil sissy faggot on my premium. Send me money on ko-fi for more nudist pics, riskier than ever before. Send me money on ko-fi if you want to support my gainer goals. Promise not to spend the money on PCP meth fentanyl-laced heroin on the dark web.

I saw another human once.

When your boyfriend was supposed to stay with you forever, capitalism happened, and they wouldn’t give him a residence permit. Also, gay marriage is a hologram, and you had to help him pack all his belongings and see him off to the airport before going back to your dorm room balcony on the 11th floor to contemplate that you’re still alive only out of habit. I’m gonna be one of those ‘he was such a nice quiet boy. Nobody knows what happened’ when they find me unless I decide to hijack a crane and trash a mall before committing suicide by cop. Dad giving me the belt with precum still dripping from my dink and my head still buzzing with the afterglow. I can take it at 8, even if it’s dad’s buddies. I want dad to put our photos on the internet. Want people to see. Don’t wanna grow up. Evil sexual energy. Foreskins are for losers. If you don’t fear for your goddamn life, it doesn’t count as a real sex act in a culture that’s a death cult. In the unlikely event of age regression becoming real, I’m gonna become a kid, go to a public bathroom, wait at the urinals with my pants down, grab the dick of the first adult that comes around and tell him I need a real dad. Feel like appropriating Gramsci’s quote and using it in the context of growing pains of sorts, where I found myself up against the wall and forced to reinvent myself. Sometimes you do everything right, but you’re still trapped in a flaming wreck careening towards earth at 500 mph. Sometimes you’re an aquatic critter minding your own business, but environmental pressure forces you to make the blunder of growing legs and to waddle towards dry land throughout dozens of generations.

Any hope of prosperity for the lower class fizzled out in the 70s when growing productivity stopped being associated with  growing wages, so you had early computers and telecom solutions and what-have-you letting workers generate insane profit for their slave owners but with no cut in working hours or a bump in salary. Then Reagan decided to slit every worker’s throat personally and the rest was history. If the 80s were the last hurrah of the western civilization on the precipice of disaster, obsessed with the mirage of infinite growth and prosperity and the suicidal denial of how unsustainable all of it is, the 90s were the delirious visions one might experience dancing under your eyelids as you spiral towards your final release, with black and blue track marks on your forearm and an old scuffed syringe lazily rolling on the floor as it slips from your limp hand.

An acquaintance stated that communism is when Stalin forces writers to milk cows at a collectivized farm, so it sent me into a spiral of reading about early homo sapiens, hunter-gatherer societies, the rise of agriculture, slavery, and everything in general so i could argue with him in my head while taking a shower. Apparently, capitalism is human nature despite taking shape in the 19th century and classless, stateless societies being the norm from roughly 195k bc to 6k bc, with some of the earliest traces of slavery dating back to the Sumerian civilization. ‘Stalin starved millions.’ ‘Data has been used to argue Churchill’s wartime policies exacerbated famine.’ The British people have a long and colorful history of genocide in nine of ten countries. One of these days, I’m just going to grab a knife, barge into the nearest bank or office, and start killing people indiscriminately. Arguments against: all sorts of arguments for:

Antifa is a terrorist organization, so I’m waiting for that CIA check to come in the mail. There won’t be peace until the last liberal dies strangled with the entrails of the last conservative. Hopefully, civilization will collapse in the next five years at most. If not, give it a few years, and we’ll see how neoliberalism handles 200mil climate refugees. How I learned to stop worrying and love the frog boy. What do we want? More diverse war criminals! I want to wake up to a world with no market. No class, no state, no money. I wish he would look at me like he looks at that crab, and then we’d make out at a local gay bar, throwing molotovs at the ruins of the last bank for fun. Maybe burn an effigy of Reagan or Thatcher for the sole purpose of sexual gratification. The world had gone to hell in the 70s, and it wasn’t even that amazing back then to begin with. I need the french revolution, not a roommate stranger for splitting rent. Then i’m guillotined for not being radical enough. For having a horny dakimakura and the twelve gigs of porn on my fucking computer.

“Vanity Fair (https://www.vanityfair.com/news/2020/01/edward-gallagher-navy-seal-influencer)” / “Trump’s Favorite War Criminal Is a “Conservative Influencer.” Now, Edward Gallagher is in the branded-merch phase of his post-prison career.” /

I haven’t left the house since March. Fuck it, I don’t care anymore. Nothing to see, nowhere to go, nothing to do anyway. Everything under the watchful eyes of cctvs, infrared lights, motion sensors, walled off, fenced off. There was this nice path down the river leading to the lake. They fenced that off too, the cunts. All sorts of nice abandoned buildings peppered here and there – no money to fix them up or demolish them, just enough money to install cameras and lights so the homeless and insomniac adventurers can’t go there. Strategically quit my job x months ago with two other coworkers, maybe three. I’ve lost count, just weeks before an inspection from the higher-ups. Heard my bosses boss got arrested, and as  result, my boss got sacked. Good for them. Not gonna do spreadsheets 8 hours a day for the rest of my life and be scolded for my handwriting on a fucking envelope and get paid $480 a month. Guess i got an ma degree, wrote boring drivel, and presented it at conferences for old people, only looking to get wasted in a hotel in the middle of nowhere, wrote for the college newspaper, etc, only to fill out one spreadsheet for the rest of my wretched days on this hell planet and have some white collar ghoul nitpick about irrelevant bullshit to me. Fuck it, maybe I’ll retire early and live in a hole dug in the ground in a forest. Meanwhile, every miss ‘passing grade out of pity’ from high school somehow manages to enjoy the tradwife lifestyle with all the trappings of western society – a house, a car, two brainwashed hellspawn’s, a husband that drinks and beats her. I don’t know how normies do it. Everything is destined to reappear as simulation. Landscapes as photography, woman as the sexual scenario, thoughts as writing, terrorism as fashion and the media, events as television. Things seem only to exist by virtue of this strange destiny. You wonder whether the world itself isn’t just here to serve as advertising copy in some other world. What makes the last one extra spicy is that it’s Philip Dick quoting Jean Baudrillard of the ‘I jack off thinking about hyperreality’ fame – in the end even his own words ended up serving as advertising copy in some other world. Whenever I have a panic attack, the only thing that brings me comfort is the thought that maybe this time I’m gonna have a heart attack/stroke/what have you for real and finally fucking die. Laws exist for the privileged class to wield them as a weapon against the disenfranchised. There’s something about that power structure that must be inherently corrupting no matter where it’s applied. Funny how I was getting chastised for things like putting ‘group work’ in my syllabus during that deeply misguided period of my life when i was working as a teacher. ‘How are you going to evaluate it? You can’t listen to two dozen people at the same time.’ Of course my real intention was for the students to be left alone for x minutes to check their phones or do whatever they fucking want because fuck school and then they could just adlib a solution/answer to some simple task/question. Then my phd supervisor just randomly filled out paperwork saying i did half a year of internship on top of whatever else I was doing even though it never happened. If you’re miss big fucking dick you can just disregard the system entirely and do what you want, but if you’re at the bottom of the pigeon shit ladder, then people will take apart every single action you take until you’re beaten into submission. By the time I was done adjusting my syllabus to their liking, the course went from academic writing with introduction to computer assisted linguistic research to a ‘glorified remedial course for first year students who don’t want to be there in the first place but need a degree for their call center job so they can OD on opiates 6 months later.’ One day I just didn’t show up, i stopped using my old e-mails and never looked back. Should’ve shot the place up before I quit.

You’re a sunbathing lizard that licked something it wasn’t supposed to lick. You’re tripping harder than anything in the history of the multiverse. You’re a pattern of information imprinted as surface fluctuations on the 2-dimensional event horizon of a primordial black hole in a universe on the precipice of heat death. Every planck time you experience in your subjective reality spans millions of years to hypothetical outside observers. Stars have long ceased to exist. The majority of neutrons and protons have already decayed. A world of timeless, eternal darkness illuminated by the last weary spark of sentience locked with entropy in a dying embrace. You’re a Boltzmann brain serendipitously arranged from the low-density matter in the outer layers of an accretion disk circling a hyper luminous quasar at the center of one of the first radio galaxies to form. Its size so immense and the gradient of its gravitational forces so gentle that the tidal forces allow you to exist in a metastable configuration. You’re a disembodied sentience hallucinating an entire universe. A mass of oscillating computational substrate formed from the infinitesimal irregularities on the surface of a neutron star on the verge of collapse. ‘I should not have licked that. i shoOO̸͋O̵͂ ͛̾O̴͒O̵̓ ̈́̀  ̙̮ Ò̶H̴͒ ̷͑f̸̈f̸̅ F̷̃F̶̅ ̧͉F̴̑ ͉̪F̴͘F̶̓u̴̾u̷͆ ͙͚ū̸u̸͋ũ̶ ̭̙Ǔ̸5̶̚5̸̀5̵̈5̴͠ ̝̜5̷ ̜̋5̵ ̂͝ 5̵͆5̵́5̷̛7̴͑9̸̓2̷̎4̶̓6̶͋ 8̷͘4̸͑ ̟̠5̴̏ ̆̃ ͚̠9̸̓ ̃̆7̶̍ ͚6̸́ ͛̏9̴̐ ̋̚ ̘̽8̷͠2̴̈

I remember having semi-frequent nosebleeds from my left nostril as a kid, like maybe once every other week. I had this insane nosebleed the next morning after my second time. Like, it wouldn’t stop dripping for forty minutes. After that, I pretty much never have nosebleeds anymore. Silver linings, I guess. I don’t see the appeal in feeling pharmacologically compelled to play Mario on a friend’s bootleg nes for six hours straight, bouncing my leg until it feels like I’ve just completed a marathon. It’s the dumbest thing. It doesn’t give me more energy or relieve fatigue or anything, just makes me want to do something, anything, and keep going, and pacing back and forth across his room even though my back was killing me and I had a fucked migraine. I mean, you can’t just say no to free drugs. They give this to kids who can’t act like good obedient drones? Fucked up. The worst is when you get into one of those trips where you have to monitor your heartbeat every two seconds and breathe manually because you’ve convinced yourself you’re going to die otherwise. Then you start hoping to fucking die and just be done with it. Did it skip a beat? I fucking hope it did. Are my fingertips tingly from anxiety, my brain not getting enough oxygen because my heart is about to give in, deep vein thrombosis, stroke, transient ischemic attack, undiagnosed brain tumor pressing against my cerebellum, Stalin’s eternal will sending me encoded psychotronic messages in morse code? Everyone’s staring at me, right? No, nobody thinks about me at all. ‘Yeah, haha, I’m fine, it feels pretty okay now.’ Nobody who feels okay would say, that why am I so fucking stupid?

G-d, forgive us for destroying this gift that you gave us. None of us will go to Heaven now. To remain motionless when desire escalates / Withhold, encapsulate like if I move, I will explode. Mary Lattimore Harpist reverberated an empty ballroom setting lots of dust and trumpet player too. Romantic sex virus dream parasite lover abusive ritualistic sacrament. We Are All Targeted Individuals with Brain Implants. 6:01 PM – Homework. Listening to “Bach | Glass” by Iveta Apkalna, which contains compositions by Bach, Philip Glass, and Michale Riesman. Organ works. Feel like I’m becoming a madman. Losing my fucking mind. Homework is overwhelming. Life is overwhelming. Six hour training on trafficking prevention. Went to leave housing flyers outside of this veteran’s tent and he chases me with a knife until I get back in the car and race away. Calling CPS, knowing that CPS is just going to hand the kid back to it’s PCP addicted mommie. 

Unlike other gay kids growing up, I was a really smart faggot. The bullying that I allowed myself to endure in Elementary school while I was being neglected and raped and beaten up as a kid fucked me up pretty well, but after Riley was gone, my soul hardened into an abyss of endless hate. All I wanted was violence and a need for sexual attention, whether it meant playing with myself, lulling others in, etc. But back to the bullying shit. Once I realized that the bullies were right about me being a faggot, I understood that I needed to do everything in my nature to stop acting like one and be the worst douchebag bully ever. There wasn’t much shit that made me look gay anyway. I wore the gay ass shit my parents bought me and got the short haircuts with gelled up hair that made me look like a total faggot until I was bullied to the point of being able to dress in any way I want. Hypermasculine sports prep. Industrial mall goth with the emo skater haircut, looking like that faggot lead singer in AFI. Kids that used words like faggot gayward gay fag queer as an insult and yet they don’t even mean homosexuality half of the time anyway, but I wouldn’t let myself be called that shit anymore. When I was bullied, I’d punch and kick and spit and threaten with a switchblade. I wouldn’t say to someone, “Hey, faggot, you’re stupid.” I’d say, “Hey, you loser piece of shit, why don’t you go kill yourself? Do your parents own a gun? Go kill yourself.” Growing up as a young little homo I heard this kind of shit on TV and movies that Riley or my parents or my uncles watched or the crazy shit they would say to me or each other in a choir of screams. Everyone called each other a faggot and a virgin and so my response in middle school was just to tell people that I might be a faggot, I’ve had more sex then they’ll ever have in their entire life. But even when I told the truth, they wouldn’t believe me, so nothing really mattered anyway. Since I did baseball, cross country, and track, didn’t have a lisp, acted tough (despite always cutting myself and sometimes hanging with nerds and some closeted fat druggie lesbians), nobody would ever believe that I was gay. I had built myself the ultimate barrier, using confusion as a weapon now. At the same time, another kid came out as gay in 8th grade, but everyone already knew. He was into drama, choir, ballet, and had a lisp. His coming out YouTube circulated, and the response only made me want to hide more. Maybe I needed to fake date a girl, show off the straight porn DVDs my hypermasculine meth-addict uncles gave me. They bullied and beat the fuck out him and because he didn’t know how to fight back, I didn’t want him yet, too fucking open, too stereotypically gay for my taste. But I’d fuck him later when I was 17 in his basement and made his ass bleed. This is how it goes. People want to lose their virginity to me, maybe because I wasn’t the stereotypical faggot, because I had a fat cock, they’d say thank you, and I’d never hear from them again. I remember how in 9th grade, there was this fat fucking ginger, like six foot eight and four hundred pounds or some shit, almost all muscle, but with nasty pimples on his face, fucked up teeth with colored braces, always sweating, just the ultimate asshole bully. He had good drugs and shit too. Some of my friends hung out with him, because at the time, I was into pills and weed. He liked to call me a faggot, and the way he said it had much more power than others. It was like he truly did hate gay people, deep in his heart, almost as much as he hated Jews, another thing he was advent about. But when I offered him some unfiltered cigarettes one day, for a hit of weed, he was cool with me from then on. When it was just the two of us, sneaking out of school to smoke weed and cigarettes outside of school near a Mormon church, I came to realize that the reason he hated gay people so much was that he was bisexual. His parents were poor white trash Neo-Nazi’s. When I was able to get him to confess that he liked men, he admitted he liked me too, like like liked me, but that’s when I got back at him, stating that I was straight and disgusted by his proposal. At the same time, he was my type, I wanted to fuck him, but I also wanted to see him slip heavier into drugs, end up in juvie, and kill himself. Now he was my bitch and I was the better bully than him, despite the fact that I was a five foot five one hundred and twenty-pound Oxy addicted Xanax dealing suicidal loser.

Rich fucks are putting gold into their ice cream and tacos and wearing watches with expensive sushi in it to eat while they’re dressed in three-thousand-dollar tuxedo’s while the world is on fire, entire states are being flooded. I’m not sure why more people aren’t out in the streets and assassinating these people. Well, the world is overpopulated as it is, so I don’t care that much. I’m honestly starting to dig this level of violence our society is getting at. It’s all so unpredictable and beyond sadistic. We’re not too far away from a war where everyone is out to kill each-other, nobody on each other’s side, just chaos of bodies being torn apart and exploding everywhere. Tell that to all of those children that have been shot to death in their classrooms. I can’t believe you would even say that. You go from being this, this empathetic person to a misanthropic sociopath in a matter of minutes at times. Well, I can’t say anything to those dead kids in classrooms because, you know, they’re dead and all. I mean, we’re all probably going to get a bullet at some point in our lives, anyway. Whatever. Everyone on this planet deserves one. Even the saints and people that did nothing wrong because it’s not fair that they didn’t suffer while others do. 

There are systems that let Bezos buy ten yachts every two seconds, so why even *vague gesture* anything. Him dying doesn’t mean anything, him publicly dying a brutal recorded death means more though. as in like, his crimes read out for all he’s done to his employees, then him like, gutted open, castrated, dick got off, hot iron to his guts, limbs chopped off, tossed into the fire, intestines into the fire, head chopped off, put on a stick, torso chopped to pieces, cooked, dump the ashes into an unmarked hole, let his head rotting on a fucking stick for a month until it’s just bones, there’s not even maggots on it anymore, then crush it to dust with a big ass hammer in the middle of nowhere, maybe inside of the Amazon headquarters. Would you poopy pee-pee in your diapers to work at a factory and make a few dollars over your minimum wage that’s not even a starvation wage, but you’re like, this is cool because it’s at least not minimum wage. From the standpoint of capitalism, just do whatever brings Amazon more money and then you’re a good person. I can get not being a millionaire or a rockstar like in fight club, but living in this generation just feels like an abortion with extra steps. A fish grew legs once and that’s why people are doomed to do spreadsheets 9 hours a day until they die. Too young to fuck, old enough to die for Lockheed Martin, Raytheon, and Boeing. Too young to fuck, old enough to go $100k into debt. Every aspect of life and human nature micromanaged, commodified, domesticated, castrated. Basketball shorts with a metal shirt. Basketball shorts with a metal shirt. Basketball shorts with a metal shirt. Basketball shorts with a metal shirt.

I hope my boyfriend’s mom gets COVID and drowns in pink foam, clogging up her fucking ventilator.

And so I met up with him at a coffee shop inside of the Fort Worth Modern Art Museum, my tiny fingers playing piano keys on my cup of pour-over, and he’s checking his ice, a real watch, not the kind that tracks everything you do and sell all of that information to the government. ‘I’m wearing a moreskin,’ he confesses, eyes half-shut. ‘But my cut is too tight; it’s pointless. And I can’t use the tape method or that other kit to restore. Knowing that I’ll never have this, I’m always going to feel inferior. Girls in Canada will see my dick and just be disgusted. And that’s why I also hate women. All they care about is your dick. People here only love it because of a cereal company. Like me, they’ll never have the pleasure of holding the tip of their foreskin, filling it up like a balloon with pee, your head all warm, then letting it go.’ So I’m just gazing up at a Japanese painting, looking toward the theater, kind of want to see a Studio Ghibli movie here with my brother. ‘Man, I have fuckin’ PTSD over this. Nightmares and triggers. I don’t want to pee in public stalls because what if they see. Most of the world is uncut. Just because my parents were Coptic Christians… And then I found out that it’s a tradition that they’re cut. And then there’s you, who just doesn’t care, you support your tradition, you’re proud of it, I just don’t get it. You even think it’s sexy – like what the fuck?’ After another sip, I nudge at a bagel and tell him to keep his voice down. Can we just talk about, like, how it sucks they only have the Basquiat showing once every few years, what’s that about, why do they have it hidden in a back room, but they still have that seizure-inducing installation in a hall overlooking the meditation pool? Getting hardcore anxiety now. I’d be talking to my boyfriend on Skype about sports anime or ideas for some of our pornographic stories, but then he’d message me, begging that I’d read him poems before bed. Tells me he’s not bisexual, but all he talks about is penis, and he’s looked at more penises (on Subreddits and 4chan /soc/) online than I have. He asked to see my dick and so I showed him my dick and he was like, wow, because I guess it’s big, I guess, I don’t really give a shit about my size, sometimes I wish it were small so I could be a beta in a chastity cage, other times I like it because I can power top. ‘People have killed themselves over this,’ he whines to me. ‘Do you realize how sadistic this shit is?’ After finishing my cup (glad it’s biodegradable), I let out a heavy sigh, mainly because my drugs are wearing off, and I impatiently want to check out the second floor. I trigger him by speaking my honesty, ‘You’re just being brainwashed by pathetic losers online. Do you think anyone wants to suck your dick if the first thing you say to a girl is that you hate your dick? Just own it, man. Be proud of it, whatever it is. To me, I appreciate all penises, even if I have, like, my own preference. This is crazy. This is a mental illness. Not PTSD.’ But as soon as I mention mental shit, he speaks over me with literal rage, ‘You’re dismissing! Fucking, making fun of me, for having PTSD!’ And so he leaves me there at the table and flies back to Canada and we never talk again and I spend a few hours in the gallery in a calm trance. This place and the Rothko Chapel are the only places in this hellstate that are holy. 

After crowdsourcing enough digital doge coins, I was able to set up a private AI meeting with Zuckerberg and Bezos. Their anime bodies were short and fat, faces like kids about to overdose on Adderall. we met in the devastation of Yemen where a hospital just got bombed by Saudi Arabia. ‘It’s cool that you can see the starving women digging up limbs of babies and children and their grandparents.’ Bezos high fives Zuckerberg. They begin sucking each other’s dicks in front of the wreckage of blown-up school busses of dead kids. ‘Is this real,’ I ask. ‘Is this really AI or are we really here right now? Like… If an insurgent shot us, could we feel it?’ Bezos takes Zuckerberg’s skinny limp loser dick out of his mouth, drooling cum and maggots as he responds enthusiastically, ‘Yes, this is the future. We got the idea from an anime, Sword Art Online. Later, we can meet up with Musk and see how his construction of an Eva is going. Us billionaires are beginning to realize that anime is transcendent and might be the gateway to lead us out of this holographic world.’ My avatar transforms into Zenitsu from Demon Slayer and I behead them both at lightning speed, blood spraying over the fecal matter that was spilling out of their asses like a torrential storm. After I log off, I empty their offshore bank accounts, buy Raytheon, and blow up the entire United States, seeking refuge in Indonesia. Back in the AI world, it’s just me, and I’ve invented my own paradise, a landscape of a world that could have been, no light pollution, no plastic, no styrofoam, greek monuments surrounding my marbled temple. I strip off my kimono and fundoshi and dive into a steaming pool filled with eucalyptus flowers. At the bottom of it, I can hear the aurora borealis. When I swim up and my head droops from out of the water, I stare upon the transcendent milky way. My sperm in the pool. My piss in the pool. I want to be impregnated by Saturn’s rings and give birth to celestial children. Even though I am a man, I can be a woman at any second, then be a man again, I can be Zenitsu, and I can even be Tanjiro’s sister.

There’d be a morbid kind of tragic beauty to it all if he were making them from scratch, but it seems they’re mass-produced, and he’s just chiseling off the seams, hour after hour, day after day. That’s all his life is suitable for, because his slave drivers are too cheap to get a $5 more expensive casting mold with tighter tolerances.

carves buddhas sold in IKEA’s for white neoliberal Christians to put on their front lawn or in their garden as if it were a gnome to show they’re culturally sensitive

This product was made fresh without the use of preservatives. We suggest you enjoy this immediately or place in a freezer bag and keep frozen to enjoy at a later date. 

HANK WHY DO YOU DRINK WHY DO YOU SMOKE ? WHY MUST YOU LIVE OUT THE         I GOT                                        

SONG THAT YOU WROTE          KETCHUP

ON MY BLUE GEANS

I BUST BEAN BURNED MY HANDS

LORD IT’S HARD

TO BE A BUTCHER MAN.

WOMEN SEAL        LOCK         FEMALE    TOMAHAWK    BELL RINGER    SEAL

LIVES    BELL RINGER    FOOD        LIFES        TOMAHAWK    13TH SEAL    RUSSIAN

MATTER MUST DIE    N        MATTER    TOMAHAWK    ONE 03 SEAL    ROVER

FEMALES ALL FUCKING    DRUG        TOMAHAWK    GIANT SEAL    FEEL HAMMER   

LIFES     GHANDI    ADMINISTRATION    OKLAHOMA    THEY SAID THEY WOULD 

DWARF    CAN’T  MATTER    ? IN     FEEL      I AM THE LAW        FEEL ME     JUST A STEALTH

MINE    ONE HOUR    THEIR BUILDINGS     THAT SHUT YOU PUT        BURNING ER 13TH SEA

OUR    ALL FEMALE POPES    EVERY FUCK ONE OF YOU THIS TIME M. LUTHER

HOUR            PUT A PHONE                THEY WOULD DO

I’m a big fan of sad pop songs. If it’s some obscure alternative ‘high art’ whatever, then it is what it is, but if it’s something like 

My name is Luka

I live on the second floor

I live upstairs from you

Yes I think you’ve seen me before

If you hear something late at night

Some kind of trouble, some kind of fight

Just don’t ask me what it was

It makes me think of sweatshop workers writing ‘help’ on a t-shirt tag or something, but you never know. You could be hoping for a sliver of genuine human emotion and torment in a wasteland of songs revolving around themes such as i have the most expensive car in the universe. I have the tightest bitch in the universe. I have the biggest dick in the universe when all it amounts to is some test screened, corporate-approved banal drivel with safe and generic sad themes. Another nice thing is Dimitri from Paris, with samples taken from instruction tapes for language learners and the like. Proto-vaporwave that weaponizes those saccharine voice recordings and disposable elevator music.

MADE IN THE USA. They export this shit. This is from the protests in Egypt. Bonus points if it’s made using slave labor. I like how the canisters are propelled with enough force to deform the metal, yet they deliberately aim them at protesters like it’s nothing. Metal bullets with a thin rubber coating. ‘Beanbag rounds.’ More like metal projectiles held together by a piece of thin fabric. It’s not a war crime if it’s not an officially recognized battlefield, so fire your gas canisters away. DHS wants you to think they’re helping by trying to disfigure your body permanently. 

We tread through unmarked sacred burial grounds of the first nations in a state park for the perfect Instagram selfie. Go viral with TikTok videos where a Holocaust denier juggles on top of the Berlin Holocaust Memorial. Take a shit on Everest and die. Sell your nudes outside of a nuclear reactor because the fame is worth more than the radioactivity that plants little bombs in your brain. Aren’t we on the same side? No, fuck your oat milk. There’s no ethical consumption under. I take my coffee black, always have. When I worked at a local coffee shop, we decided it was pointless to have milk, because it would always go bad, and people always want a different variety of this nasty white shit. If you can’t drink your coffee black then you don’t know how to make coffee. Just like how you cook rice on the stove instead of using a rice maker. How many times do you wash your rice before you cook it? Without oat milk, there’s no ethical consumption under cashew and dairy milk. My therapist recommends that I start a food diary and begin with logging the organic non-GMO salad I bought for two dollars because I’m too depressed too cook and I work six days a week still not enough money to afford an apartment in one of the cheapest shithole cities of this screwdrivingbloodypowerfuck country. It’s encased in plastic and you have to peel off a plastic wrap to get to the salad. And I get it, that protects you from someone ejaculating or spitting onto your kale and pomegranate seeds, but I can’t help but wonder how many microplastics I’m consuming. Is it true that the amount of microplastics we consume each week is the size of a credit card? No, that’s not poetry. I’m swiping my plastic to exchange my invisible money to a corporate entity that pays its essential workers twenty five cents over the minimum wage as if that’s a sign of solidarity and putting that plastic right back in my fucking mouth, but I’ll shut the fuck up about it. Is Oat Milk killing the dairy industry? Swear that when I have my legs up toward the ceiling while I’m jacking off and I shoot my load over my face and into my mouth that my vegan cum tastes better than your Big Mac jizz. Is that classist? I hope my cock gets cancelled soon because I’m sick of being a slave to it.

Old school jazzy hip-hop, that cassette decay bleeding through the speakers, and there’s a war outside that nobody’s paying attention to. Apartment 1. Taped to her cracked window, a poster with the words ‘The Slaughter of Black People MUST Be Stopped By Any Means Necessary!’ All across the alley, papers glued to the wall of the mayor’s face. ‘Vote Out Boot Licking Cunt.’ Justice for A-Z. When I enter, she reaches for her gun out of a natural flight or fight mode. “Don’t you get drug tested for your job,” I slur, pacing around the living room table and glaring down at her stash. Make-up kits scattered with bags of coke and pills of whatever and pipes and straws and razor blades and. I chop up, line up some blow, and bang. “Nevermind. You, out of all people, probably know best how to pass that shit.” Youth probation officer with a drug habit and CPTSD from being sex trafficked as a child. Whether you have a non-profit or government job, you’re fucked. Here’s some public housing. Here’s some Section 8 in a slum. She complains about clients and I do the same. We’re trying to find solutions for our kids while fixing ourselves up. “Getting really sick and tired of feeling powerless,” I preach to the choir. “All these middle and high-schoolers, they’re obsessed with the sisters. They get sex and drugs, sell it around the school, drop-out, fight back, and get hooked before becoming one of your clients.” And one of the sisters indeed went to prison for selling nudes a fourteen-year-old boy that accused her of rape. But the other girl is still on the loose, posting TikTok videos of her twerking and drinking heavy liquor with her younger friends. Who knows, maybe Daddy raped them as a kid, or they’re just natural predators. Before I knew what they were, they’d act like literal children. Coloring books and hugging stuffed animals and sucking their thumbs. That’s before I found out they were hanging outside of schools and offering young boys a chance to rebel. “There’s this kid.” As I’m speaking, she’s taking one dab of shatter after another. “And I knew him from my Synagogue. Not really, not that much, but he was a good kid until his parents got divorced. Him and the father went into the towers. I’d try to mentor him, advocate, because, you know, that’s my job. Then those girls fucked him up. No matter how many times I warned him, he kept going back.” Finally, she says something. “Gonna rain all night.” Where’s your justice. For anyone. Why are we so afraid of protesting in the rain at night? How do the police manage to arrest over three hundred people in the matter of an hour and fit them in holding cells?  That coward of a fuck shot himself in the woods of Oregon instead of facing the charges that would most likely give him three years or a few months on probation for killing a black kid. Good riddance, I think. You want justice, but there’s no justice in a system born from trafficking. Justice doesn’t exist. Nobody deserves anything. Everyone deserves everything. 

His desk was cluttered with disassembled wristwatches, multimeters, precision screwdrivers. Discarded armbands littered the floor like a writhing mass of maggots. Sunlight was seeping in through horizontal slits lining the street-facing wall just below the ceiling. Wei Hsien’s capsule “apartment,” like most of them, didn’t have a real window, but fiber optics carried real sunlight into his humble abode, giving it a cozy touch. “Pickup derively? Pickup delivery? Pickup or delivery? De-li-ve-li-ve-ry? Pickup delivery?” – he muttered to himself, liberating the battery from another watch like a pearl from an oyster. “Pickle delivery, yes?” – he started making fun of the voice on the radio a good hour or two ago. By now, the words had completely lost any meaning, and there was never any radio to begin with. It felt like picking at a scab in his mind until it was bleeding. A mantra for a world where enlightenment was a DLC and salvation had a QR code. A mantra rattling in his head like a ricocheting bullet.

He touched the battery with the probes of his multimeter, nodded to himself satisfied with the reading and set it aside on top of his ‘good stack’. The truth is, he had no interest in watchmaking. Not one bit. Everyone knew buying watches in bulk was cheaper than buying replacement batteries and the batteries were what he was after. Before he retired, he was an Amazon warehouse worker and like most of them, he had a chip in his head telling him which packages to pick up and where to place them – saves time, very efficient. When your contract is severed, they don’t take the chip out; they overload it to render it useless and leave it in your skull to make sure you can’t leave the company and go work for their competition utilizing similar tech unless you’re willing to spend the equivalent of a sports car on invasive surgery. 

And that’s a good thing. A very good thing. A very good thing indeed. Maybe the best, yes? With the wireless module and induction charger burnt out, it can’t phone home and be used in its previous capacity, and once the juice runs out it can’t be recharged anymore. It remains dormant and waits for better days like any retiree. The debug port still works though, it just needs external power, yes? If you know the right people or the wrong people, they can bypass the damage and hook you up with a mod that accepts 4.88 mm silver-oxide batteries just like these. If you’re short on the money and don’t mind being left with a sore hole in your body, you can always pay with your bone marrow, plasma, CSF, or your backdoor and your dignity, yes? The chip uses an encrypted protocol for communication – something to do with corporate espionage. No one has figured it out. The DIY mod lets you flood it with garbage data using any old flip phone. Newer stuff won’t work – something to do with FCC regulations. 

It’s the cheapest drug there is. If you’re unlucky, it will send you into a seizure. Maybe you’ll choke on your tongue or drown in your puke filling your lungs, maybe you won’t. If you’re lucky, you’ll experience images, scents, sounds, emotions, yearnings – sometimes it’s abstract patterns and the smell of burnt toast, sometimes it’s memories from your childhood, sometimes it feels like you need to shit real bad, sometimes you get an inexplicable urge to smash your coffee mug against the wall or pick your nose hair, but sometimes you see something they didn’t want you to see.

Staring at the ocean, his father says, ‘Remember days like these. There won’t be many beautiful ones to come when you’re my age.’

Hypnotize, oversize,

Emphasize, socialize,

analyze, Recognize.

I’m glad you realize. (Realize)

I’m glad you recognize. (Recognize)

Fertilize, energize,

Brutalize, circumcise,

Paralyze, Advertise.

I’m glad you realize. (Realize)

I’m glad you recognize. (Recognize)