Against all odds

In the front seat of the car, thinking I can't hear them, they talk, like I'm not there, saying, "against all odds, too", like in addition to this guy they're talking about being an entitled asshole, he's also comically short, for a man, as we all know, so you'd think, he wouldn't be allowed to be with this poor better woman, but against all odds, here he is, and now we're talking about him, and how he better smarten up, cause there's a line for that lady. Also, the guy is not really grooving with our substance abuse cult like we would like, so we're taking his inventory. All that said, the cult is relatively benign, sometimes beneficent. And necessarily omnipresent, aside from the five-to-thirty percent we all leave, after taking what we need. But it's gonna take someone really special, for me to have any likeness to that fellow shortie's life, what he takes for granted, in this cult we're all in - a very special woman that I just must forget about, entomb my awareness of anything in the gravity well of that possibility, you have to forget, close your mind. Oh, really though, you don't have to do anything but you're responsible for everything. Everything.

I love every one. Not everyone. What I love is every one of those things that I made myself, created, like I'm some nothing-burger mother, but I'm also a god, I'm 100% responsible for what I said, what I did, what I made, I'm legally responsible for this self's behavior. I'm held to account, and yet I take my job lightly, go about it as if I'm in contempt for the whole thing. I will create myself company and love that alone, as a substitute, for lack of chemical reaction with outside matter. I can't justify it, and it's impossible to explain, especially to You, I'm deciding, cause you can't explain anything to me, beyond the nothing you said. I hate job interviews. And don't let me know I'm being evaluated as a man with value to this woman, garroted with a grid of razor-wire criteria, over the hour. Never again. Never subject self to opera seria inquiry... never submit to chemical scrutiny - never assent to that essentialist stress-test. I never have to go to school again, non serviam. My only service is to the sucking black vacuum outside, loyal service. I'll coldly purge the botched interaction, but keep a copy safe, three sub folders below absolute zero, in its own climate-controlled microverse, accessible, ♫ always-already ♪, except when I forget

always-already - fuck you I won't do what you tell me! I'm sinking back into the story that was my whole universe. All fronts colliding and crumbling, sometimes it's good for things to crumble. But crumpling is not as good, implosion not so good, it comes from a real place, like that character played by David Cross in that Mr. Show skit said, oh, CAN... I have this chair, then? Seriously?" I need a keyboard to pound on, nothing else matters, it's all insectile owners of the vacuum outside, they suck like an electrolux, escaping air is lox for those alien lungs, a tax on laxatives for the initiation of constipation for the foundation of pretending to have a purpose, the basis for the base, the moonrock dust-like base of the whole edifice. I fought hard to get to this place, so since I'm here I might just loop around the lazy river for an interlude I can stretch indefinitely, can will time to slow, wrap its passage around a finger of mine, and sniff it all up, just right, dinner time, let the sterile context depreciate steadily and remain master, controller coffers fine, don't need a bake sale.

A peak for no reason... vapourizing rocks, becoming the elemental head of Crevelent. No valent electrons, no immediately available ointment of contentment. Contempt for all others. Familiarity breeds contempt. Multiplies hatred. Ultimate familiarity with self is a bottomless wound of narcissism, ultimate narcissism is hatred in the most informed sense. Everything which is the case is my hatred for this you-self in my dream. Maybe that's why I need sensory deprivation. The senses disappoint me, like they've not allotted me my lot in life yet, maybe on the other side of this yet is a yeti that will look like me and offer me a | neeeeeew drug * * da * da * dadada | one that won't try to bite * * da * da * dadada * * * * * * |  * one that won't chew a hole in my socks  * * * | one that will make me fe-el * * aaaaaalll-right. Alright, ♫ Always-already ♪, it's beautiful, this thing you call *it*, this black rainbow you've made. That's you, that's how you wanna go out, you wanna euthanize your younger self, re-arrange episodes like a god-like analogy, do some hands-on management of your past, cause this mission requires time travel or is it just a hallucination, or a delusional extrapolation? There's no cross pollination, there's radiation blasted space-exposed moon dust.

So if politics is the art of the pragmatic, as well as the possible, I suggest we agree on a contract to prop up an evidence-based survey that says sensory deprivation is the thing. The thing to drop like a drip of awareness in the waters where the ghostfish bite. No bait, no shutter, shutterbate, yes, chatterbate, yes, calibrate, Manifest Dust in E. Dusty mind, mind to mind, dusty, misty, dim, mindful of that mind, dim, done. Drank You-self Drunk. You skank sell-out. That's not something I would say. That's not me, that's a character I'm playing since I'm an irony bro. Ever since 2001, when everybody was abandoning irony, I was tripling down on it, and I've been nothing but a collection of characters, sometimes re-encoded by a barely seen alien power that taps into my viral channels.


                                    Expect delays.