Sometimes I fade, like Bod. Then proceed to get away with things. Stealing time, treating myself. To a glorified journal entry. This pigmy thing in New Jersey. The stink of mob corruption. Never bow to the mob. It's a slogan I will appropriate. Then drop, like a baseball, suddenly losing my courage of convictions. Cause, dialectics.
Learning Dialectics. Stinks like Dianetics. Scientological snake oil I can get drunk on to feel good. Maybe keep feeling good, maybe it would almost work. But they aren't cranks, they say. I believe them. They explained why the author of the pamphlet called the big bang theory erroneous. What he was calling erroneous was an outdated and simplified version of the theory, with metaphysical flaws. He wasn't taking issue with the well-conceived implications of data on cosmic microwave background radiation. I assume.
I'll take it on faith that they have faith. In some sort of anachronistic pseudoscience. That is a way. To what, I don't know. What happens when tactics change? What pain for gain calculus in a revolution? John Brown gun club. There are ppl who talk about it, and then there are ppl who do it.
When I fade, like Bod, I don't have to be paranoid anymore. I can settle scores, take what's mine. Grab what I can grab, while the grabbing's good. Who knows when I'll get an opportunity again? Maybe never. So, gotta be clever. Nature loves courage. And cleverness. Evolution is clever like that. It's not a blind idiot god, that's just what it wants you to think.
Why does communism attract such pale losers? You know why. Because, chads, the philosophy of winners is our poison. Dialectically, though, we're hoping for a win. Speaking for myself, at least, I wouldn't say no to establishing a new establishment. At the very least, gooey billionaires melting down on Piers Morgan should be overthrown, soon. Like, now.
Why are tech-bros so disgusting? Am I just jealous I can't make it into the cyborg imperium, so I'll insist the grapes are sour? Maybe it's all on rails, I was fated to think that, because of the dialogue-tree that was my life's path, and my insistence on selecting option C every time, to prove some point. To scorn IQ. To not want to know. To be skeptical of quantifying intelligence. But that skepticism is also anesthesia, if not a general anesthetic, at least a topical one. It works for the moment, anyway.
Fucking moldbug. Why does my friend have to be into moldbug, what does he see in that freak? I'm not gonna read the wiki entry on him. I'm going to lean on lack of curiosity, it's a trustfall into voidful bliss, warm negative space. Here, you read it. I don't want to know about Iran's mothership. I don't want to live in a Chief Wiggum spinoff.
Imma join the party. I'm a caviar communist. I'll eat my cake and have it too. I'll pay dues but keep the expensive vaping habit anyway. Maid is still my retirement plan. I have the creepy feeling that I'll suffer a thousand indignities, each worse than the last, before it gets to a point that I'll have the cojones to consummate the death cafe ritual. It's a rite, too, it's my right. Given to me by the constitution I wrote. A google document, you could add to it if you cared to. Write me right out of existence. Groan.
