bubl

 "You've got a job to do," I tell myself, in somber tones. 

But the world is fucking scary.

Why wouldn't I get hermetic? Like I was at a certain age, after childhood, before adulthood. When the world is so scary and crazy, and the most scary thing is the trajectory. Why would I not give myself permission, to cloister myself, and my pug, and avoid the world, the crazy. Like as if I've got some kind of duty to that world I never made. Like I should want to make a mark. In that world? Maybe I should let testosterone ebb away to lacunae, replace nothing, leave a negative legacy, and funnily enough, be something with my pug for as long as that lasts. Maybe as long as I last. We last, together, for as long.

What job? What drugs could I get on to make a revolution fun and easy? Haven't found any. Fun and ease can be found, for a little while, but won't revolutionize shit. It's a well trodden path, the rut of shitty mud from factory farm runoff. With my pug, I can make hilarious conversation from an rfk jr impersonation riffing on brain worms and hormones and commenting on the increasingly crazy and scary world through a porthole on a cruise ship. It can be intoxicating and analgesic being with pug, softening the sharper edges of the scary. Because there's cope in this two person hermit shack. She can describe her doctor's ear in poetic holophonic display that feeds me chronenbergian visions remotely bypassing bio-port. We can talk about Belize. You best belize it.