Anti Coping Mechanism

Best forget. Let it drip off your memory. Remember forgetting. Bring it up. Yearn, and scorn another one for yearning. The scorn yearly catalogue. Best ulull. Remember when ulull was cool? Remember what that means? No. Just something that particular flange would say. Dead weight. Ungutton. A glutton for the non get.

Got greedy. Got over the nervyness, now I want to keep going.

There was a long moment where it seemed, all coping skills were absent. Familiarity does breed contempt. If I had any true understanding of kosmic justice, I'd consider myself lucky it lasted as long as it did. The great delusion. Nymph grace, pennies from heaven. Heaven is actually dingy and disgusting, but it is the source of true love. Love so bright that it makes kaleidoscopes in your head, so you don't see the STD-ridden grime of its surface. True love is truly love. Lovingly true. Whatever tautology you want. Delusion. One of the cruelest and most blatant state boundaries yet. I'm left with nothing but a plague. Thanks, beautiful. Oh well, I'll pass along your genetically defective message.

Anyway, I'm going to stop milking it, cut myself off the sympathy mainvain, the pity feeding trough that was lean and malnourishing anyway, not enough to feed a prodigal son, and pretend that I'm alright, cause I might as well be, in vain life drama, some synthetic opiate that barely gets you high. But gets self high enough to keep going. So I'll say I'm alright, pretend there's nothing to cry about, cause I can't anyway, I guess it means I'm the cold hearted bastard I really want to be, cause it's what all the cool kids are into these days, and I'm still a kid really, wanting to be cool. So I'll purge associations to what extent I can, but not resist so much that it persists, the addictive substance that has been cut off from me, the withdrawal from a person. I'll just roll with the nu-paradigm shallowness, say the whole thing is cosmetic, my delusion lasted longer than the others'.

Consign it to youth's final luxury, or the first of many, although I jettisoned idealism long before. And anyway, it should all be taken with a gram of soma and banged with a gong hit, recorded for the midnight special special edition collector's VHS box set. And anyway, it's been overdue, and grotesque, and I deleted all the jpegs that jogged my memory as to what void i should be fixating on, and I'm left with those such as Aki, and Katsu on my desktop, and that's good enough for me, sick of being Mr. Hair, I might as well let that go as well. Yeah, asceticism would be great for me, as long as I can have my drugs. Cause I'm not really a drug whore, but I play one in reality. Yes, I love being slutty for chemicals, they can take control of me. And I love donning my labcoat costume, and calling it all an experiment. A BS in pharma-porn. Well it is all just an experiment. And nothing more. "Nothing more" being a judgement call, but it's all a chemical experiment. It is. With superstring pullers. I only said that to sound charmingly vintage in 2025. They'll have more sophisticated niches of charm by then. That's all they'll have, when the oil runs out. Charm will be the currency, the gold standard, of the post apocalyptic future. Regardless of all the bullshit implications, and flimsy models I'm imposing. Like when I was running through the jungle. Failing to cope. Hoping for some kind of mechanism. Crossing the river, bleeding from two holes in my body, one from an arrow through the, uhh, pancreas or spleen, or one of those organs down there, and the other from a spear through the chest - but I walked it off, I barely feel those wounds anymore, we've got a new beginning to seek, in the jungle, nevermind those spaniard ships. Hey, the rest of them hit ALT-D and self destructed, they were predators with fetid honor, whatever. I'm Jaguar's Paw. People make mystery science theatre commentary after everything I do. They put words in my mouth. Which were better than my script. Exit with caution.