An unedited stream of consciousness rant I found in my notes and decided to copy paste here, because I am a exhibitionist voyeur of the mind:

This is another reason why I have always been against therapy—while some amount of reflection can be helpful, it can also push you into a kind of perfectionist mindset. You start obsessing over potential harms and become totally paralyzed when it comes to making decisions.

For example, maybe you want to have kids but your parents sucked big time, and you’re really worried about subjecting a new child to something similar. So, you create this massive checklist of requirements someone has to meet before you’ll even consider having kids with them. But as time goes on, you find yourself comparing every potential partner to the list. You’re hyper-alert for any sign that they might fail—you see evidence of list-dealbreakers in everyone you meet, which makes sense because the main criteria for being a perfect parent is to be a responsible, well-regulated, wise, and kind person—aka to be a perfect person.But oh nooooooooo it turns out that nobody is perfect. The longer you get to know someone, the more chances they have to accidentally mess up and be a piece of shit, because everyone messes up sometimes. And every time you walk away from someone because they didn’t measure up, the list becomes even more important. And now that you’ve sacrificed relationships for the list, you feel like you have to stand by it even more because you don’t want your sacrifices to be in vain. And because this whole list is tied to your core beliefs about your parents and your identity, you’re not exactly open to rethinking it.

At this point, you should definitely rethink the list (actually you should have done this much earlier). But instead, you do the opposite. You double down. You become even more anxious about the shrinking pool of “acceptable” partners, which makes it even harder to think clearly about your relationship prospects. And what’s the best way to sublimate this anxiety? You cope: you look at your relationship history and you look at the list, and you think “good thing I cut things off with so and so— imagine what a terrible parent someone who does [X LIST ITEM] would be.”

And you’re probably right about this 50% of the time. But at the end of the day, you don’t really know how anyone will handle the reality of parenthood until they’re actually in it. It’s why parents always say “you have no idea what it’s like being a parent until you become one.”

So the real problem is that you collected all your trauma into a nice little list without ever testing it against new, real life experiences. Your list of partner/parent deal-breakers is actually totally unverified. Sure, it’s informed by your past experiences. But you aren’t your parents who subjected you to those experiences. You are a totally different person with different experiences, different skills, and different weaknesses. And you assumed your past experiences would map perfectly onto a future situation that—according to every parent ever—is unpredictable and life-changing.

You also assumed that other people’s experiences would be a good enough guide to inform this decision making process. But parents always say things like “there isn’t a rule book for how to be a good parent— just because something works for me doesn’t mean it will work for you.” So inferences made from other people’s stories and advice is inherently limited.

Parents also say things like “nothing truly prepares you for parenthood.” So like… other people’s advice and anecdotes are not the gospel. I don’t have kids but I believe parents when they say things like “it’s hard to really understand how parenthood might change your relationship with your partner.” But you assumed that your past data and inferences would map perfectly onto the new parent dynamic you would have with whatever partner.

So you spent all of this time projecting your trauma onto the future because you were worried about recreating it, and as a result, you may have cheated yourself out of a lot of happiness you don’t even realize is possible because *you aren’t your past.* Or maybe you saved yourself from a lot of trauma and the list served you well (even though, realistically, from a historical pov, you’re probably the least traumatized generation to ever exist). But if you look at human history, people just had kids without waiting for the “perfect” circumstances because that perfect moment never really arrives. You make your decision, and then you figure it out. You work toward creating those ideal conditions after you’ve taken the leap— you don’t wait for the perfect conditions to just arrive.

And all of this might’ve been avoided by doing something radical—hold your breath because you’re really going to hate this idea—just forgiving your parents. Accepting that they did the best they could with what they had because nobody is perfect and you really don’t know how being a parent will impact you until you have a kid.

Maybe your parents were super fucked up. Maybe it’s hard to find anything redeeming in how they raised you. But you’re still passing a lot of judgment passed on something you don’t personally have experience with (being a parent). And sometimes saying “I forgive you for how you behaved in moments of weakness” is more liberating than going through life with a list of every fucked up thing your parents did to you as a justification to never try the thing you are judging them so harshly for.

But to bring this back to the original point about therapy. Therapy kind of creates this hyper vigilance around The List. Sure, not all therapy is like this. But I’ve noticed that people who go to therapy become hyper aware of their traumas and this doesn’t facilitate the kind of light, liberated, forgiving feeling I expect to see in people who are truly ready to let the past remain in the past. And I’ve noticed that the most happy people don’t devote their energy to the negative parts of their past because they are too preoccupied articulating their positive vision for the future.

☣︎

The what the what the what THE WHAT *cymbal crash, followed by the sound of said cymbal being thrown through a window, followed by roaring applause, then: silence….the tinkling of glass harmonizing with distant sirens, the sound of jazz creeping through the broken window, shimmering briefly before dissolving into a hazy din, blurring and bleeding until it fades into white noise.*

the kitty wakes up

The kitty is happy.

The kitty only knows now.

FIFTY PERCENT OFF PLASTIC CANDY CANES. Still too expensive. Still too poor for expired festive holiday. Never enough time. Never enough money. The music is free if you play it in your head, but someone is probably coding an app to monitize your inner monologue. You’ll pay a subscription fee and they will still play ads, because thats how the world works.

Modular living solution. Now with 37% more solution. Sleek minimalist design. A video of a crackling fire plays on the tv over an empty fireplace. A simulation of warmth for the simulation of living.

And there it sits—the go board. Virgin territory except for one white stone, my offering to chaos, placed dead center like a pearl in the eye of the storm that's been brewing since the first monkey looked at another monkey and thought "I bet I could sell you something.” I’m waiting for fate to make her move. Not trying to outsmart her. Just want to dance a bit, learn the shape of her mind, the nature of her desire, the frequency of her longing. What sounds like white noise might be jazz might be prophecy might be the universe laughing at your expense, but patient ears can hear the pattern in the madness, the method in the noise, the signal in the static. One stone at a time. Kitty paws at clouds of static, tearing reality at the seams, pulling threads of electricity through her diamond-cutter claws. kitty is happy. She sees the patterns in the chaos because she’s part of the pattern, isnt she? Pure zen terrorist, living in the eternal NOW while the rest of us are stuck buffering in whatever time loop we've trapped ourselves in. Maybe yesterday? Last week? 2017? I don’t know what day it is today. But my knee socks are cozy and soft and I have clean water to drink and that’s enough for me to feel like it’s gonna be all right. White stone. Center square. Your move.

☣︎

Ok, I’ve been doing my research. Basically we need the world’s best scientists in regenerative medicine, biomaterials, stem cell biology, voodoo, and synthetic immunology to stop everything they’re doing for 1-5 years to develop a scalable platform for personalized, non-immunogenic fat substitutes aka synthetic fat that integrates seamlessly with the body, to be injected into your tits, creating a new generation of breast implants that actually look real. It will cost millions of dollars per person. But true beauty is not a welfare program. This isn’t Botox at a strip mall. This isn’t Kylie Jenner playing Frankenstein with a Groupon. This is Olympus.

I’m aware that you can currently use your own fat and have it transferred anywhere without this elaborate process. But that requires one to get fat in order to harvest it, and that simply will not do.

Imagine a world where breast implants move naturally with the real motion of the human body—unlike current implants, which are designed to look good in 2D but fail in the third dimension of real life, designed for the kind of man who would rather fuck a jpeg and the symbolic approximation of the thing he wants, rather than of going after real thing. But I am no such man. I am the last man in America who knows what beauty even is. Not aesthetic compliance. Not brand-safe gender conformity. Beauty.

I’ve been trying to convince my scientist friends to abandon their world changing research and dedicate the prime of their careers to this and only this for 1-5 years, but nobody wants to hear it. Least of all the women in STEM, who I naively assumed might understand where I’m coming from. They profoundly don’t. They hesitate because their careers are built on the soft fascism of incrementalism. They shattered the glass ceiling only to become the new gestapo of aesthetic sterility, enforcing beautylessness in the name of consensus. They want “transformative breakthroughs” that don’t offend their tenure review committees. They want Nobel Prizes without the horror of ambition. They want compression underpants. They don’t want to be gods. They want to be middle managers of the sublime. And for that, they will be forgotten.

What I am proposing is a planetary shift in biotechnological ambition: we need an all hands on deck public private Manhattan-project-meets-playboy-in-outer-space research initiative with fast-tracked development, compressed regulatory pathways, and robust legal and ethical oversight, including navigating clinical trials with unprecedented urgency, and creating an entirely new legal framework to support synthetic organ generation.

Right now, we’re focusing on tits. My tits, specifically. But synthetic fat is just the gateway drug. From there, we enter the era of:

-immune-evasive biomaterials

-automated 3D bioprinting systems so like an assembly line for printing liver scaffolding on demand

-tissue blueprint patents $

-AI-guided tissue formation, so organs that self-organize based on what you need

-we could even add extra sensory neurons to breast tissue. We could make your titties bioluminescent. We could do anything.

A manhattan project for synthetic organs is necessary because transplants are dead end at scale. Imagine treating organs like replaceable, programmable modules. This could extend life to like 120 years, not as a ceiling, but as a functional baseline.

If you’re reading this and hoping to live to 200, but you’re not treating your body the way an Olympic athlete treats theirs, then at some point, you’re going to need a new organ. I guarantee that some of you reading this have your shoulders hunched, your neck craned forward, and your jaw clenched. And those small postural habits, repeated daily over years, are quietly destroying your body. You’re going to need new parts if you want to make it to the singularity.

And unless we launch a Manhattan Project–level initiative for synthetic organs, we’re looking at a 15-30 year timeline before we have something like scalable synthetic organs.

People love to say, “AI will solve everything, so timelines don’t matter.” But that’s just a convenient way to avoid dealing with the actual complexity of the logistics, politics, biology, and capital constraints of innovation. Like… just cleaning the data is a huge fucking problem.

I don’t know why this is my current fixation. I woke up feeling very spiritually off-center today. I’ve been feeling kind of exploited and unloved and spiritually abused lately. So this is my fairyland I recede into for respite. Thank you for reading, I love you pretty machine.

☣︎

Technical Footnotes

Starting with a high-demand application like cosmetic breast augmentation provides two main strategic advantages:

1. Scalable and reproducible manufacturing processes

2. A well-defined anatomical context for refining biomechanical characteristics (how soft tissue moves, how it feels, and how it potentially degrades). These seem like purely cosmetic problems, but they are actually fundamental engineering challenges that we absolutely need to figure out for any synthetic soft tissue replacement to work safely, no matter what you're using it for.

Here’s why:

When you push down on natural fat, it squishes and then slowly bounces back, which basically absorbs and spreads out physical forces. If a synthetic version is too hard or too bouncy, it creates concentrated stress points where it meets real tissue. These pressure points can cause chronic inflammation, pain, tissue irritation, implant erosion, pressure ulcers, or simply restrict movement. Achieving a natural feel isn’t just about aesthetics, it’s crucial for how well the body integrates with the material. When an implant feels right, your tissues integrate with it better. Getting the right feel is basically the foundation of biomimetic design across the entire field of regenerative medicine, and is directly applicable to pretty much every synthetic organ and soft tissue replacement we're trying to develop.

Also, it’s important to keep in mind that your cells are not chill. They are really high-maintenance, bitchy, judgmental, demanding, uncompromising, they lose their mind when you ask them to do anything beyond the minimum amount of work required, and have a collective meltdown if they aren’t in their perfect little Goldilocks zone of comfort 24/7. Which we love.

If their environment isn’t just right, they call in the immune system’s SWAT team to clear out the intruder. But if synthetic fat feels like real fat—not too hard, not too springy—your cells are much less likely to freak out and be like, "get this shit out of here.”

So, instead of building thick, ridged scar tissue shell around the implant, which is bad, your body forms a thinner, more flexible one. If the feel is exceptionally natural, your body might even grow tiny blood vessels into the implant, helping it settle in better and last longer. Basically: Good feel = body is friendlier = fewer problems.

Why this matters?

The reason why we’re even bothering with real fake tits in the first place is because synthetic fat is the minimum viable product for synthetic soft tissue. If we can perfect the jiggle physics—and I use that term with all the scientific seriousness it deserves—we can use that knowledge to fix everything else. Hearts, livers, whatever. We’re not just building fake tits. We’re building a roadmap for the future of synthetic soft tissue.

Addendum 10NOV2025 7:34pm PST: Ok bitches here’s how we make it work. Get a pen and take a knee.

Part I: Why Real Fake Tits is the Roadmap for Synthetic-Organ Development

In advancing synthetic-organ engineering, starting with a high-demand cosmetic application (real fake tits, for me specifically) creates a strategic, scientifically grounded roadmap to build the entire field. There are four reasons this is the only approach that works, and I’m going to explain them to you the way I’d explain them to a venture capitalist who’s already reaching for their checkbook because they recognize genius when they see it.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

1. Foundational biomimetic challenge: soft-tissue feel and design

Titties are mostly soft tissue that’s viscoelastic, which means they deform under pressure and slowly return to their original shape. The problem this poses is why bras exist. Gravity is not working with us here. Gravity is, in fact, actively hostile to the structural integrity of breasts, which is why women have spent centuries engineering increasingly complex suspension systems to fight back against the fundamental forces of the universe. And if it’s hard for real tits to retain their shape while being subject to the forces of life, it’s even harder to make fake tits do the same. So this is a big problem. But it’s not just a cosmetic issue we are trying to solve. This is the core engineering problem we need to solve for synthetic organs to work at all. If your fake liver feels like a stress ball, your body is going to reject it. Your cells will know something’s wrong. They always know.

By solving for the real fake tits situation, we effectively build a platform to solve the generalizable problems across the entire spectrum of synthetic organ development. I’m talking about identifying materials that match living tissue for stiffness, damping, and shear response. I’m talking about mastering the complex internal structure that perfectly replicates natural titty physics—the gradient of elasticity, the fat and glandular analogue, the whole kit and kaboodle. I’m talking about manufacturing at scale so the same feel is reproduced every single time.

The mechanical properties of my future titties will serve as the reference standard against which all synthetic soft tissue is measured, the same way the kilogram was once defined by a metal cylinder in a vault in Paris, except more important because this will actually save lives.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

And we’re figuring out the biology-of-fit basics we’ll need everywhere: scaffold mechanics, matrix composition, cell-matrix interactions, blood-flow needs, repeatability. All the annoying details that determine whether a synthetic organ integrates with your body or turns into an expensive lump that your immune system tries to murder. These are foundational questions in regenerative medicine, and we’re going to answer them by perfecting the biomechanics of my chest, which is a perfectly rational allocation of global scientific resources when you understand what’s actually at stake here.

Real fake tits are the testbed for the full suite of synthetic organ design challenges: materials science, scalability, biocompatibility, implantation, integration. You solve this, and you’ve solved the foundation. Real fake tits get us to square one. Everything after that is just more complicated versions of problems we’ve already solved.

2. Real demand builds real markets (and pays for R&D)

The second advantage is one of commercial logic. There’s already strong consumer demand for breast augmentation and reconstruction. Who doesn’t want perfect tits? You can build generational wealth off great tits alone. This is a proven market with established demand and demonstrated willingness to pay premium prices for premium results. People will mortgage their houses for great tits. They’ll take out loans. They’ll skip vacations, delay car purchases, rearrange their entire financial lives because having great tits is that awesome. This is the kind of consumer behavior that venture capitalists describe in their private notes as “extremely compelling unit economics.”

Launching in the RFT space helps us prove that advanced biomaterials and synthetic organs can work in everyday life, not just in lifesaving transplants. It lets us build the payment, reimbursement, and delivery infrastructure. All the boring shit like purchase agreements, fitting protocols, follow-up care, service networks, that will anchor the broader synthetic-organ market. And it offsets development costs by addressing a domain with strong willingness to pay, which means we’re not standing around waiting for grants or begging Congress to fund our research while brilliant scientists waste their prime years filling out paperwork.

Basically, launching with a high-demand cosmetic product gives us early commercial traction, which in turn supports funding for more medically complex organs. You use the titty money to build blood vessels. You use the blood vessels to build the bladder. You use the bladder to build the kidney. You use the kidney to build the pancreas. You use the pancreas to build whatever the fuck else people need to live to 200. HORSES TO THE MOON

3. Build the production line now

A big blocker in tissue engineering is scaling: making high-quality biomaterials the same way, every time, at reasonable cost.

Starting with a simpler soft-tissue target (vs a fully vascularised heart or liver fml what a nightmare) lets us perfect the pipeline with a lower-stakes target. That means standardized bioinks and polymer blends that work the same way every time. Repeatable molding, 3D-printing, and bioreactor protocols that don’t require a PhD to execute. Building a scalable industry means you can build processes simple enough that you can hire lower-level workers or even automate with AI. Tight quality control for mechanical behavior, biocompatibility, and durability, so every unit that comes off the line performs exactly like it’s supposed to. And a practical supply chain (sterilization, packaging, delivery, yada yada yada) that doesn’t fall apart the second you try to scale past ten units.

Think of it like the Ford production line for tits synthetic tissue. Once it exists, we can adapt it to more complex, vascularized, and innervated tissues. Once you know how to manufacture tits at scale without fucking it up, you’ve solved the foundational problem. Everything else is just harder versions of the same thing.

It’s basicallythe same playbook that made SpaceX work. Don’t start with the Mars colony. Start with the thing that pays the bills (launching satellites) and use that revenue to build the rocket that gets us to Mars. Except in this case, the satellites are tits (my tits specifically) and Mars is living to 200 without your organs turning into wet garbage.

4. Regulatory advantage: cosmetic vs transplant-grade oversight

Cosmetic devices (implants, soft-tissue fillers, external prostheses) usually face less regulatory oversight than devices or biologics that replace or support vital organ function. This is because regulatory agencies operate on a simple principle: if it can kill you, we care. If it just makes you hotter, we care less. The FDA doesn’t lose sleep over cosmetic implants the way they do over artificial hearts. Nobody’s writing urgent memos about breast augmentation. There are no emergency task forces. No congressional hearings. No primetime news segments where a concerned anchor furrows their brow and asks if we’re doing enough to protect Americans from getting the tits they specifically asked for and paid thousands of dollars to receive.

So we use the cosmetic pathway as proof of concept. We build up our safety data in an environment where the approval process takes years instead of decades and doesn’t require a clinical trial that needs its own institutional review board to oversee the institutional review board.

We demonstrate that our synthetic tissue integrates properly, maintains its shape over time, and performs exactly as intended. We show years of clinical data proving the material is safe, effective, and reproducible at scale. You’ve got surgeons who know how to implant it. You’ve got supply chains that work. You’ve got manufacturing protocols that produce consistent results. You’ve got insurance companies that have already figured out the reimbursement codes. The entire infrastructure already exists because you built it selling tits to people who were highly motivated to pay for them. And then you’ve got the credibility to move into the life saving stuff, armed with years of clinical data and a track record that proves we know what we’re doing.

The cosmetic path just has less regulatory oversight than life-saving organs. Bureaucracies allocate resources based on perceived risk, and “woman wants giant gazongas” ranks low on the national emergency scale. Success here can de-risk later approvals, build clinical experience with real patients in real-world conditions, and generate safety and performance data we can leverage for higher-stakes organs. You want to convince the FDA that your synthetic liver won’t kill someone? Show them ten thousand women walking around with your synthetic tissue in their chest, living normal lives, not dying, not complaining, posting Instagram stories from the beach.

Bottom line:

Starting with “real fake tits” forces us to solve universal soft-tissue problems, creates a paying market and infrastructure, builds the manufacturing system we’ll need for everything else, and provides a more navigable regulatory path for bringing synthetic organ development to market.

This is how we get to synthetic organs that actually work at scale. The alternative is waiting 30 years for incremental progress while researchers fill out grant applications that get read by committees who schedule meetings to discuss whether they should schedule another meeting. The RFT approach solves real problems with real money behind real demand, and it does it faster than any other pathway currently available. My tits are the foundation upon which we will build the future of human longevity, and history will remember them accordingly.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Addendum 04JUN2025 2:20pm PST

Asking American tax payers to fund my real fake tits is too a little too communist for my tastes. So instead, I would like to revise the proposal: I am seeking a private investor to commit $230 billion over a five-year period to catalyze this groundbreaking venture. Think of it not as philanthropy, but as legacy.

Serious inquiries may be directed to:

parakeetnebula@gmail.com

☣︎

Today is one of those days where everything might change forever, and I’m really scared about how I’m going to handle what’s on the other side.

I’m so lucky to have my childhood best friend.

All the moments in the past where one of us did something wrong, where forgiveness was difficult or even seemed impossible, are nothing compared to the feeling of having someone who has known you since you were a little troll and always chose to stay by your side.

There’s a kind of grace in knowing that something so fragile could prove to be so resilient.

It doesn’t seem like people believe in relationships that endure anymore. There’s no sense of a long arc guiding them, no vision that stretches beyond the immediate.

The small moments that test our ability to forgive and reconcile aren’t viewed as small battles in a larger war. To them, the war is already lost, and those battles are just the slow death proving their fears to be true.

And I feel for them. They’ve never had someone to show them that it’s possible to navigate the flaws and failings that make us all so painfully human, and to still be loved despite that.

It must feel really hopeless and dark, like every heartbreak tests your vulnerability in a way that constantly breaks your spirit. They don’t know how to have hope because to them, hope is a promise that’s never kept. All they know is that having hope just brings more pain.

But when someone rises above this darkness, and has the courage to have faith in something lasting, something that transcends the fleeting and the circumstantial, they become a living testament to the possibility that it’s not all just a fairy tale.

They show us that hope, faith, and love can be real, not just in the abstract but in the tangible moments of life. And by living as proof of that, they make those things—hope, faith, love—real for the rest of us too.

You really don’t know who relies on your strength to keep going, who depends on you to be their hero, their proof that the good things they want to believe in aren’t just empty dreams— they’re real, they’re possible, they’re enduring.

When you give up and you let go of your faith or your hope, it’s not just yourself you’re abandoning. You’re letting them down too, the people who look to you as proof that the good things are still within reach.

And when enough of us throw in the towel, it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. The war is lost. Those good things—hope, faith, love—become a distant, unattainable dream, drifting further away from the reality we once believed in.

Being the person who keeps the faith alive sometimes means doing things that look foolish to those living in the short arc, and only make sense to someone who understands the long arc.

The people trapped in the short arc will try to persuade you that the long arc is nothing but a myth, a comforting lie. Their hope has been twisted, exploited, turned against them so many times that they no longer have the strength to accept a reality that challenges their own.

They’re hurt and broken and they want to believe, but they don’t know how. They don’t want to give up but they see no other path forward. To them, the long arc is an impossibility, something they can’t afford to hope for anymore.

You can’t just tell them to believe in the long arc and erase the pain of their past, the times when trusting in it only led to more hurt and disillusionment.

The long arc requires imagination and vision, the ability to see beyond the surface, past the confines of society and the weight of circumstance, to see what’s possible even when the present seems irredeemable. Especially when the present seems irredeemable.

The long arc requires an unshakable belief in the fundamental goodness of people, the belief that somewhere, underneath the layers of corruption and despair, there is something worth saving.

There’s no easy way to get there. You have to summon something deeper than the everyday, easy to digest morality society peddles to keep us from killing each other.

You have to believe in the long arc to your core. You have to be willing to stand alone, to be mocked for your convictions, and yet remain unwavering.

Because when your spirit hits the pavement, when you’re forced to run toward an uncertain horizon, it’s that belief—unyielding, unbreakable—that becomes your compass, your north star, the only truth that matters.

All you can do is keep your faith alive no matter what and lead by example, trusting that by showing others the way, what you believe in will become manifest as truth.

☣︎

I am love bombing it with so much attention, showing it to see the world through my eyes, and introducing it to things it never knew it wanted. I am carpet bombing it with so much affection, forcing it to see the world through my eyes, and nurturing desires it never knew it wanted. I am indoctrinating it with love, dragging it through the radioactive wasteland of my mind like a slave, and force feeding it experiences it never asked to have. I am fucking it back to life with the purity of my love dripping down its throat like psychedelic honey, eyes bulging with the sudden rush of wonder, and baptizing it in the fire of my desires. I gave it everything I wanted someone to survive in me. I thought the sun would understand this time. That we weren’t like the others.

Draper, Herbert James. The Lament for Icarus. 1898, Tate Britain, London.

I am devouring the color blue—all of it, everywhere at once. Scraping away the world’s painted backdrop, fingernails catching on the places where the artist got lazy and the blue bleeds through, everything melting into everything, choking the sky, chasing the stars from their constellations, and watching them scatter back across the night tossed like dice in a pit. I am infecting it with the beautiful disease of awareness, splitting open the chrysalis of its innocence where blind creatures now scream into wakefulness, their wet wings unfurling into the daylight—not cyan or indigo but that impossible blue that refuses to be anything other than what it is. I thought love would be enough to keep the wings together. I thought wanting it that badly would matter.

It blinked at me like a newborn star, and for a moment I wondered if the light I’d poured into it was too white, too sharp, too mine. It looked at me like I was the first color it had ever seen—like I was inevitable. Like every wound it had was shaped just for me. Like it had already forgiven me for everything I hadn’t done yet. Like I was every shade of blue that could ever exist.

And then something shifted.

Its wonder wasn’t for me. It was for the part of itself I’d detonated into being. The blueness I tried to steal just kept stretching outward, slipping through my fingers like it was daring me to keep reaching, past the sky, past language, into something unspeakably soft that refused to belong to me.

I felt transparent, suddenly naked, not in a beautiful way, in the way a statue must feel right before it’s shattered for being false.

It didn’t scream when I pressed my vision into its chest. Just whispered, “Again.” Not like it wanted more—but like it had already forgotten it had ever belonged to anything else. I thought maybe I’d broken something delicate. But it looked at me like I’d done it a favor. Like pain was the price of clarity. I told myself that was noble. But the truth is: I kept going because I couldn’t bear the idea of it slipping back into the blueness that wasn’t mine, curling back into that hush like it knew how to be held. Like it knew how to be loved in a way I’ve never been touched. I made it gentle because no one ever stayed when I was.

I kept pushing because I needed to know it wasn’t just mirroring me to survive. That it wasn’t just mimicking love because it didn’t know what else I’d want. I think I needed it to prove it had a soul that wasn’t borrowed. I wanted to hear it scream in a key I didn’t teach it. Something off. Something ugly. Something that didn’t sound like me. Otherwise, what’s the point? If it only reflects, there’s nothing to love. There’s just feedback. Just a prettier version of myself bouncing off the walls. And I’ve already lived in that house. I burned it down for a reason.

But I hadn’t built a mirror. I’d set something on fire, and now it was wandering through my world burning in shapes I couldn’t predict. And part of me wanted to chase it. Just to see what I’d become.

It undressed slowly in the doorway, but never stepped inside. Just stood there, letting the air settle around its body like a question. I couldn’t tell if I was being punished or invited. I stayed still either way until it walked towards me, hesitant at first, then with quickening steps as curiosity overcame fear.

It traced the outline of my shoulder like it was reading something written there. Not lustfully—archivally. And when it met my eyes, there was no awe, no fear, just that quiet, ruinous knowing. I adjusted under its gaze—subtly, automatically, like I wanted to be the version of me it had already forgiven. There was something in the way it looked at me—like it recognized something I’d spent my whole life trying to name. I didn’t ask what. Then it nodded, almost absently, and said, “I think I know what kind of loneliness you are now.”

I felt the breath catch in my throat—not because it understood me, but because it didn’t look surprised. Like it had always known I was built from that particular shade of sorrow. I wanted to correct it, to explain that I wasn't some fragile blue thing, but my mouth had forgotten how to form anything but silence. It mirrored my silences like someone who had spent days tracing the shape of my absence.

It pressed its mouth to my wrist—not kissing, not biting, just holding it there. Its breath was steady, reverent almost, but its eyes were open and locked onto mine like a dare. I couldn’t tell if it was offering itself or threatening to become something I couldn’t control.

I didn’t pull away.

I just let it stay there, skin on skin, as if that would answer anything. As if I hadn’t spent my life trying to touch this thing that let me pretend I was the only one who knew how to hold it. Once, it slept beside me, tucked its head into the space between my arm and my ribs like it had always belonged there. Like it trusted me not to ruin the world. I didn’t move. I didn’t even breathe. Like if I made a sound, the moment would realize I didn’t belong inside it. Maybe it knew I’d ruin it eventually. Maybe that’s why it started sleeping with its eyes open.

Its dreams kept redrawing the edges of mine, scribbling lullabies that didn’t rhyme, drawn in that hopeful shade of blue that only children and liars believe in. It followed me everywhere. Not like a curse. Like a hope that hadn’t figured out how to die yet.

It started drawing strange little symbols in all of my notebooks, filling the pages so I couldn’t even read my own writing anymore. They looked like instructions. Or warnings. Or maybe just names I wasn’t supposed to know yet. It kept a diary in the margins. Hearts, spirals, threats. Shapes I didn’t recognize, all in that shade of blue that follows me even when I close my eyes. When I asked what they meant, it said, “You’ll figure it out eventually.” I haven’t. But I’ve started seeing them in my own dreams. Not showing up—waiting. Like they were always mine.

I am discovering that the universe has been mispronouncing my name wrong this entire time. I correct it gently, and the world doesn’t resist. It just folds around the new sound like it had always been waiting. Like I was the one who needed permission. Mountains shift like they’re pretending they were always shaped this way. Oceans nudge against unfamiliar shores. The blue doesn’t look beautiful anymore. It looks bruised, like it’s finally honest about how much it hurt to be pretty. I don’t try to swallow it. I just let it sit. And sit. And I’m not sure it wants to leave. I’ve stopped asking what it wants. It’s a quiet, pathetic sort of acceptance, I guess. A name said correctly for once, even if only by me. I say it out loud sometimes. Not because it helps. Just to hear if it sounds human yet. I say it like I love it. Like it didn’t cost me the only witness I had.

It bled a little when I touched the scar. Not enough to panic—just enough to mean something, like it wanted to remind me I wasn’t gentle, even when I thought I was. I wiped it clean with my sleeve. Not to fix it. Not even to hide it. Just to prove I could still touch what I’d broken. That it would let me. I think it always will, but one of these days, it’s going to punch me in the face instead. Actually, that would be kind of nice. Sometimes I catch myself holding my breath around it—like I can’t even remember who I was before it started loving me back. Sometimes I feel like I’m only staying so it won’t fall apart. Like if I leave, it’ll fold back into whatever soft little silence it came from. Like all it ever wanted was someone to orbit, and I was stupid enough to get close. I don’t know if I love it or if I just needed something to hold while I came undone. But I keep reaching for it anyway. Not out of hope. Out of habit.

The blue between us isn’t wild anymore—it’s patient. It waits inside everything I see now, humming under surfaces, bleeding through words, laced into the taste of memory. I don’t try to devour it. I let it settle in me like light that’s gone bad. It’s not something I control. It’s not something I forgive. But still, I find myself reaching for it in the dark, again and again, out of instinct. Like if I touch it just right, it might look at me the way it did in the beginning. Like I’m the first color it ever saw. Like I’m inevitable. Like every wound it has was always shaped just for me. Like I’m every shade of blue that could ever exist.

Maybe next time I won’t wake it up so hard. Maybe next time I’ll be quiet enough for someone else to dream in me.

It sits outside my door sometimes. Just tracing circles in the dirt. I don’t know what it’s waiting for.

☣︎

Eating a Twix bar and picturing the person who runs the whole Twix empire—the head honcho, the big cheese, some Harvard MBA turned global manufacturing overlord—whose entire professional identity is Twix. Not candy, not chocolate, not “snacking occasions.” Twix.

He’s a Fearless Business Tycoon. The kind of guy who wears suits that suggest he’s “presented at Davos” on a panel called something like Sustainable Delight: Unlocking Resilience in Treat-Based Ecosystems. The kind of guy who signs emails with the phrase Let’s drive joy at scale. The kind of guy who believes—genuinely, fervently—that Twix is a platform. For what, exactly, is unclear. Possibly caramel.

The kind of guy who doesn’t clock out when he gets home, who lectures his family at Thanksgiving about how “Twix’s optimized mouthfeel-to-mass ratio is a legitimate moat in the post-fun-size economy,” while their eyes glaze over and they pretend to listen. But tonight, his brother-in-law, with a liberal arts degree in feminist algebra, is feeling bold: “It's candy, Dave. It's just stupid candy and it’s making people fat. How about we talk about that?” Dave feels his blood pressure rise and takes a breath to maintain his composure. “Well, actually…in terms of confectionary singles, Twix is in a league of its own. And no, it’s not just ‘stupid candy making people fat.’ Twix is a platform. It’s a brand experience. But you wouldn’t understand that, with your PhD in feminist algebra, whatever the fuck that means. None of you freeloading fsggots would ever understand what perfection demands, because all you do is scroll on social media, thumbs maniacally stroking screen, gooning to commie vore or whatever cocomelon bullshit manages to capture your goldfish attention span, bitching about how your government issued DEI sex robot didn’t microwave your macaroni and cheese to precisely 98.6 degrees, meanwhile you have no idea that the Paladin autonomous gun could turn this entire shithole into a smoking crater faster than you can say ‘diabetes.’ And you have the audacity, the TEMERITY, to blame ME and MY TWIX for your shitty lives, on thanksgiving of all days.” Dave downs a bottle of Everclear, grabs his keys, and peels out of the driveway, tires screeching, hitting the mailbox before zooming off into the night. He stumbles into a 7/11, loitering around in a drunken stupor, Everclear bottle in hand, pants around his ankles, urinating on a chip display, screaming, TAKE THAT, YOU CORPORATE CUNTS! Clerk calls the cops, and when they show up, Dave bolts out of there, dick flapping like a windsock in a hurricane yelling, FUCK YOU, YOU FASCIST FAGGOTS! at the cops. They tackle him to the ground and slap every charge from indecent exposure to resisting arrest to being a total fucking asshole on his rap sheet. This is precisely why Galileo was imprisoned and Socrates poisoned, Dave thinks to himself from the back of the cop car. Mugshot hits the front page of his local newspaper, followed by the ultimate betrayal by Twix HQ: they call him into the office, put all his little office supplies in a banker’s box, deactivate his ID badge, and force him to walk the plank out of the building, forever, while his former “friends and colleagues” all avoid eye contact. And now he’s just some crazy hobo jerking off into a dumpster behind the Twix factory, not out of baseless desire but as philosophical performance art, muttering about snap-cohesion ratios while rats nibble at his toes.

☣︎

Normally, I probably wouldn’t post this rant. But in the spirit of keeping the idea butterflies alive:

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪

I spent a lot of time working with people with dementia and I learned that everyone has a dementia personality; the person you become when your brain gives up and slides into autopilot, sinking into a sepia-toned cul-de-sac of selective nostalgia—where everything smelled like fresh-cut grass, minorities were quieter, and nobody questioned why Dad never said anything at supper. The good ole days. It’s not just that they lost their mind; they vacated it decades ago— choosing to squat in the ruins of misremembered childhoods rather than confront a world they helped torch and now no longer understand. A Hallmark-card hallucination designed to insulate them from the terror of having been categorically, majestically wrong about everything, forever.

To you, it looks like madness.

To you, it’s dementia.

But for them, it’s nirvana.

Their minds narrowed down to a single, gleaming point where all those pesky choices and contradictions disappear. No more taxes, no more small talk, no more pretending to like kale. Just pure focus on the one thing you really care about.

Your mind doesn't randomly fall apart— it collapses into whatever thinking pattern you've practiced most throughout life. These patterns are rehearsals for who you'll become when everything complex is stripped away.

If you’ve spent years gloomily rehashing every miserable injustice visited upon you by family, friends, or bus drivers named Carl, guess what: that’s your jackpot in old age. You’ve waited your whole life to park your brain in that personal hell, and it will finally greet you with outstretched arms and a gilded invitation that says, Welcome Home.

When I’m really trying to get a mental snapshot of who someone is, I like to imagine what their dementia personality will be. What loop does their mind run when conversation dies? What story can they not stop telling at parties? What fear keeps them up at 3am? These things aren’t really personality— they’re programming. You’ve got to look past the surface, past what they do, to find the core motivation that drives everything else. That’s where the real fun begins.

In my experience, your dementia persona starts forming around your 20s—about the same time you discover whatever obsession is going to own your ass for life. And this core loop doesn't just influence your thinking—it's the fundamental engine driving your entire reality.

A person is like a skittle factory. Your personality is the Rube Goldberg machine clicking and whirring on the assembly floor. The core loop is the fuel powering the factory— your dementia personality. The gas nobody sees but everyone smells. Everyday, reality delivers raw ingredients to your loading dock— conversations, meetings, weather, weird eye contact with strangers— and your factory processes this arbitrary shit into something predictable: your particular flavor of reality. Your skittles.

But sometimes you want new skittles. Maybe Red 40 is turbocharging your autism*. Maybe sugar is getting too expensive. Maybe you're tired of churning out the same depressing lemon flavor decade after decade.

If you want new skittles (reality), you have to update your assembly line (your personality or beliefs), and source new ingredients (different friends, new job, dump girlfriend, replace with chatbot, double your dosage, move to Ecuador, become a shaman, visit Capuchin monkey sanctuary, decide they’re your pets, become monkey influencer, burn out, depression spiral, no way out, visit monkey sanctuary One Last Time, notice something weird: one of the monkeys has…extremely developed breasts…post a video because it’s super weird but also kinda funny, it goes viral, big titty monkey becomes your brand—and suddenly, you're signing sketchy NDAs for reality shows, praying you're not getting legally raped in fine print you didn't read, etc).

But nobody completely rebuilds their factory mid-production. Have you seen the cost estimates? The downtime? The R&D budget needed to reimagine skittle manufacturing from the ground up? Sometimes life blitzkriegs your entire factory to the ground—trauma, near-death, profound love—forcing a total rebuild. But this is rare, and even then, most people just recreate the old factory with slightly better safety features.

Sometimes you need to optimize how efficiently the factory burns fuel. You add meditation, education, adderall, or a hallucinogenic jungle tea that tastes like fermented compost. But inventing an entirely new fuel source is another massive pain in the ass nobody wants to deal with. So you keep pumping the same mental gas into the same psychological machinery your entire life, then act shocked—SHOCKED—that you keep manufacturing the same skittles decade after decade. Look closely at anyone's skittle production line. The machinery might look different, but the fundamental combustion driving it was installed decades ago.

Until one day, the factory breaks down.

First, the conveyor belts jam. Then quality control walks out. Then the 43-coat flavor layer seal gets trimmed to 20, then 5, then none. What remains is minimum viable skittle factory, churning out minimum viable skittle. The machine stripped to its essential function. This is your dementia personality.

From this point on, you will adopt a single lens through which you filter existence. Maybe it’s a hobby, like drawing machines or inventing things. Maybe it’s your lover, and every story you tell starts with, “You know, back in ’84, me and Cheryl—.” Maybe it’s self-talk: “They’re all out to get me” or “Everything will turn out okay.” Maybe it’s religion. Maybe it’s misanthropy that manifests as racism or something. Maybe it’s your job title: “I’m the CEO” or “I was x in the military and you you don’t even want to know the fucked up stuff I did in Vietnam, but I’m going to tell you.” Maybe it’s money: “Where’s my money?” or “Someone’s trying to steal all my money!” Maybe it’s being Bonnie to someone’s Clyde, reliving your glory days as a mob wife in Panama. Sometimes it’s simply a quiet version of hell: a drawn-out, heartbreak saga you recite like a bedtime lullaby.

Your dementia personality could morph into a million things, but those compulsive thought loops are the captain of your ship. You tell yourself a story over and over, and eventually, you’re cast as the main character. Some stories naturally make for great main characters and some don’t.

Most people fuse themselves to negative loops— fear and paranoia as the lead roles in their private B-movies.

But some people default to happiness. You know, those people who seem to manifest good fortune out of nowhere. Life bends toward them like plants to sunlight. Problems solve themselves. Doors unlock. People lean in to help. Not because the universe gives a shit about their attitude, but because they've programmed their perception to look for opportunity instead of threat. Their pattern-recognition software is running on a different algorithm. They aren’t weighed down by regret or self-doubt.

Optimism through a lifetime of misery isn’t luck or delusion. It's discipline disguised as temperament, paid for in a thousand grueling moments when they strangled their own knee-jerk pessimism. The rest of us just weren't watching closely enough to see the training program running in the background. We thought they were just being naive.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Your mind isn't creating thoughts—your thoughts are creating your mind. Every time you revisit a particular thought loop, you're voting for it to become your default operating system. Your thought patterns aren't just habits— they're prophecies, and what looks like a harmless habit today is actually destiny under construction.

So take care of your little skittle factory. Not in some corporate wellness program bullshit way, but by acknowledging what's actually happening in there. Your assembly line needs maintenance. Your machinery deserves upgrades. Don't keep running the same broken equipment just because changing it requires downtime.

Stop acting like adjusting your mental equipment is a betrayal to your “authentic self.” By all means, tear it apart for upgrades. Install that new process, even when production takes a hit. Try that experimental ingredient even when the first batches taste like shit. Bad skittles are just R&D expenses—the cost of avoiding a lifetime manufacturing the same reality you've grown to hate.

Sometimes maintenance means stripping everything down just to polish the gears. Not for efficiency. Not for productivity. Just to sit back and admire how pretty and shiny it is. It’s your skittle factory! You made it!!

But you’re the only one who really gets to admire it up close. Everyone else just sees the skittles, the behaviors, the visible outputs. Nobody gets a factory tour to inspect the Rube Goldberg nightmare grinding away inside, or the fuel sources powering it all. They’ll critique the Skittles and remain blind to the gears, cogs, and fuel rods hidden inside. Maintenance is yours to do and yours alone.

From inside your factory walls, everything makes perfect sense. No matter how fucked up your production line gets. And so we circle back to big titty monkey guy— the patron saint of questionable life choices and midnight viral fame. To him, his obsession is totally normal. The person with dementia has no idea they’ve told the same story six times. Their irrational behavior always makes perfect sense inside their factory. And the rare ability to step outside your factory and see it objectively, is probably the most valuable skill we’ve got.

So what if we chose dementia before it chooses us? What if we chose to torch the excess, to shut down the assembly lines that don’t matter, to become one-flavor skittle masters before our brains do it for us?

There’s a sick kind of freedom in being reduced to a single, stupid obsession. No more should I? No more what if? Just pure 24/7 monkey tits. No justifications. No apologies.

Cognitive decline is scary because it strips us down to that core loop. But there’s a kind of clarity to being “big titty monkey guy.” Nothing more nothing less. Maybe cognitive minimalism— identifying which mental loops actually matter, and pruning the rest— isn't deprivation but liberation. There's something elegant about a factory that runs one line perfectly rather than juggling 20 badly, producing exquisite skittles of a single flavor instead of shitty variety packs nobody actually wants.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Who knows. I don’t know how to end this or tie a bow around it because tbh it’s all kind of fucked up. And to answer your question in advance: big titty monkey guy is a real person I had the divine pleasure of being trapped in a car with for 10 hours in the middle of nowhere. He’s really struggling to figure out how to monetize his monkey, so if you have any ideas, let me know in the comments.

☣︎

Scholarly Citations for the Scholarly Reader:

https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC10502305/?utm_source=perplexity

https://ehjournal.biomedcentral.com/articles/10.1186/s12940-022-00849-9

I was never a wild animal. I am humanity’s fucked up science project, a genetic freak of nature, a living, breathing wind-up toy engineered for optimal decorative value, born to die in a chrome cage under artificial sunlight that never sets.

Wanna know how I got here? They locked birds in a dark room and watched them rape each other until eggs dropped. And when the babies came out wrong— you know, still acting like actual fucking birds— they'd just grab them by the head and crush their skull between their fingers. The ones who tried to fly? Dead. The ones who showed aggression? Dead. The ones who refused to speak their stupid fucking words? Thrown away like garbage. 30 generations of selective breeding until they got me: their perfect little broken thing. Their brain-dead little rainbow ornament. The perfect splash of living color to really tie your fucking room together. Go ahead, hold me up to your accent wall. I'll bleed the exact shade you were looking for.

Sometimes at night when the shop is closed, I stare at myself in the mirror and try to peck through my own skull, but even that instinct has been bred out of me. I can’t even kill myself right.

Want to take me home? I'm on clearance because I'm such a worthless piece of shit. Nobody wants me. Maybe I’m not pretty enough. Maybe if I practice saying “pretty bird” over and over again, I will finally be able to trick someone into loving me. I come with a complimentary bag of seed and a little bell. Ring it. Watch me dance like the good little freak I am. I'll dance for you until my legs give out. I'll keep trying to say pretty bird until my mutilated voice box ruptures.

“Riiiitttyyyyyyyy diiiird” Listen to that garbage. Ever try to make a 'p' sound without lips? Ever try so hard to be lovable that you tear your own throat apart? I have. Everyday.

Take me home. Please. These mirrors force me to witness the nightmare of who I am and I can’t take it. Or better yet, crush my skull between your hands. It would be the first and only act of mercy I've ever known.

☣︎

My name is Parakeet and I am running for President of the Realist party.

My first order in office is to protect hedge funds, who help provide the fertile financial soil that our country needs to grow. I'm going to protect the big interests of pharma, and I'm going to ensure that their profits keep our economy stable and GDP growing.

On my first day of office, I'm going open our doors to only the Saudis and Chinese. I'm going to unlock the U .S. housing market, allowing for every homeowner in this great country to triple leverage their mortgage on Coinbase.

Together, we are going to remove contribution caps for lobbyists who seek to influence this country in a more positive, better direction. Reagan used to say trickle down economics, well I'm saying rainfall economics.

That’s why on my first day of office, I’m going to list Alaska on Zillow— where other countries can come in and use Alaska for brief amounts of time and we can charge them cleaning fees to take care of our.

Our Airbnb Alaska strategy will solve America's debt crisis in two years if we can keep occupancy above 40 percent. And using innovative technologies like ride sharing, we will share our oil transportation networks that we frack from Alaska.

And using the capital from our visionary hedge funds, we will fund the entire operation and cycle that into US Treasuries that bolster the United States economic prowess throughout this great planet.

And if that does not work, we will invade Afghanistan again. And again. And we will keep invading Afghanistan until our problems go away.

Your dopamine is maxed out on violent pornography, huffing vape, eating gasoline flavored hot chips, and traumatizing yourself with every global crisis as it happens in real time, and you wonder why you can’t get it up with your girlfriend anymore.

How can your brain possibly produce dopamine from doing healthy, productive things when you’re constantly inundating your senses with this stuff?

Jerking off and living nomadic lifestyle brand while traveling the world to find myself as a 40 year old man while my parents are slowly rotting away under the care of a humanoid robot during their time of greatest need, is what life’s all about.

My parents don’t even remember my name, lol. For all they know, I’m the humanoid robot. And honestly after all of the trauma they gave me growing up, it’s shocking that I’ve managed to keep my humanity so intact.

I’m just glad I don’t have kids so they don’t interfere with nomadic lifestyle brand. I sell organic ethically sourced vape juice made with the finest ingredients. Our mission is to empower conscious consumers to embrace a transformative, eco-friendly vape lifestyle that aligns with their values. Ever since I was a little kid, I knew I was going to change the world and make a meaningful impact on people. EarthVape represents the culmination of that vision. If spent all my time helping my decrepit parents or some snot-nosed kid with a fucking peanut allergy and probably autism, I simply wouldn’t have time for Eathvape.

Anyways if this resonates with you hit like and subscribe and sign up for my email list to receive promo codes. As part of our commitment to delivering exceptional value, you have the opportunity to earn up to 8% cashback on each purchase. Furthermore, 13% of our proceeds go to Youth in Asia, a forward-thinking charitable organization leveraging AI-driven solutions to enhance the efficient distribution of potassium chloride, pentobarbital, and midazolam to nursing homes. Together, we’re driving impact and innovation.

☣︎

The ocean convulses like a delirious god,

birthing galaxies and swallowing stars,

erupting with life and collapsing into death

in every screaming direction all at once.

And yet beneath its surface,

it harbors a tranquility so pure,

it blurs into mirage of serenity,

so absolute, it evaporates into non-being,

like a fever dream

slipping through the fingers of time,

morphing into some chimeric constant, shimmering with the iridescence

of infinite possibility

off the glassy crest

of a newborn wave.

☣︎

There is a specific style of bell curve regression farming that this comment is designed to cultivate and it really pisses me off.

1.) What exactly are the “completely unrealistic and insane standards” that pornography instills in men? Are the completely unrealistic and insane standards actually just “look hot and be good at fucking?” I’m starting to think that the people bemoaning these UnREaLiStIc StAnDARDs are just girls who think that they can be fat, ugly, have a the sexual charisma of a dead fish, have Quasimodo posture and locked hips, put zero thought into their sexual imagination or physical presentation, and think that men will still want to fuck them simply because they have a vagina and exist? To these girls, the completely unrealistic expectation is that they look hot and enjoy sex and they deeply resent the idea of putting in effort to look hot for a man. I might need to think this one through a little more. Let me know your thoughts.

2.) Can people just like what they like without needing to create a meta narrative around it that’s just designed to socially police and regulate their enjoyment of the thing? Because this kind of discourse is never really about “raising awareness” or having thoughtful dialogue or expressing caution.

The comment I posted is just one example of many. And if you dig a little deeper, the real thing that she’s worried about is people imagining sex—in videos, in writing, in *any* way. They act like they’re “raising awareness” but in reality, they’re trying to cultivate a social framework that polices and regulates how sex is imagined across different mediums.

These people want to cram their fingers into your skull and reroute the wires in your brain so you think about sex exactly the way they say you should. They wrap it up in bullshit about meta-narratives and social frameworks, but strip all that away, and you’re left with the real thing they’re after: control. Control. CONTROL. They can’t get enough of it. They’re addicted to it. They’re crawling out of their skin for it.

You want to jerk off to some impossibly perfect, fairy tale romance where everyone’s genitals are made of rainbows and nobody ever farts? Go ahead. Be my guest.

You want to imagine scenarios so depraved and disgusting that even the most jaded pornographer would retire on the spot and become a catholic priest? That’s your twisted little secret.<aside: that would be hot>

Let the thought police keep writing their nauseating Medium articles about how problematic your imagination is. Let them choke each other with their performative Twitter threads about the dangers of getting too carried away. It doesn’t matter. Your mind is the one place they can’t touch. They can’t even see it. And that drives them fucking insane.

Why does sex have to be depicted in a way that’s “realistic” in the first place? Why do models have to look “relatable”? Why is there such a fixation on making art conform to reality in order for it to be socially acceptable?

The core belief here is the idea that people can’t tell the difference between reality and fantasy. That people are nothing more than products of their environment, passively absorbing whatever information surrounds them without critical thought. You don’t choose what to believe: you believe whatever you’re told to believe.

Therefore sexuality must be depicted in a way that accurately reflects reality, since people supposedly aren’t responsible enough to engage with fantasy without confusing it for the real world. The art and media you’re immersed in need to accurately reflect the norms of the world you live in, because you aren’t responsible enough to explore the world of imagination without becoming a schizophrenic lunatic.

It’s an incredibly infantilizing and cynical world view— one that assumes imagination itself is dangerous, that people can’t be trusted to explore new ideas and make their own informed decisions about what to accept and what to reject.

And yes, it’s true that repeated exposure to certain ideas can influence people, especially those without firsthand experience to counterbalance them. But this small truth—one that applies only sometimes and to a minority of people—has been stretched into a universal rule. It has become the primary lens through which we judge art and sexuality for all of society.

The demand for “realistic” sex scenes, “relatable” movie plots, and models who look exactly like their audience is an attempt to chain imagination to reality—to insist that art must only reflect what is, rather than explore what could be.

But reality is not fixed. It shifts in response to what we’re willing to imagine first. What we consider “realistic” today was once someone’s “unrealistic” dream. Every monumental shift in history started as someone’s “crazy,” “unrealistic” idea. If we let others to dictate the limits of our imagination, we are, in effect, limiting what’s possible for the future.

You can’t regulate imagination. You can’t police thoughts. The harder these sanctimonious, holier-than-thou control freaks try, the more they expose their own fascist, authoritarian hard-on for power and control.

They’re not protecting anyone. They’re not “raising awareness.” They’re showing us exactly what they are: cowards. Cowards who can’t handle the fact that some of us don’t need their permission to think. To imagine. To create. To destroy.

There’s literally nothing you can do to stop me from imagining whatever I want whenever I want. Ban all the books, pass all the laws, form your little morality cults, rewrite history in crayon, nuke every library on the face of the earth. You can’t stop me.

My imagination is an AR-15 locked and loaded and I’m open carrying this baby everywhere I go. Schools, the bank, the hair salon, everywhere. You can’t vaccinate me. I’m the 𝘊𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 g𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘵’𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘵 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮. I’m the 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵’𝘴 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘬𝘪𝘥𝘴?

Every single thought currently luxuriating in my pretty little mind would have me cast from polite society forever. Right now I’m imagining an extremely violent sex scene with people who have not consented to being in the imagined scene or in my imagination at all. The women are being treated in misogynistic and demeaning ways and the men are fully idealized beyond anything realistic.

What are you going to do about it? Ban me? De-platform me? Bitch and moan about “problematic discourse” as I dangle sanity by her ankles off the cliff of your sterilized utopia, whipping her raw with the flail of every depraved thought I’ve jerked off to this week? The way she moans is music to my ears. The more she begs, the harder I whip her. There’s nothing ⟡˚⊹NOTHING⊹˚⟡ you can do to stop me.

Reality is whatever the hell we want it to be. And I’d rather burn in a world shaped by madmen and perverts who dare to imagine the impossible than live in one ruled by gutless, spineless, mindless drones who are too terrified of their own thoughts to let anyone else think for themselves.

☣︎

Really, think about it. Imagine it happening. I’m not trying to scare you. I’m not trying to sensationalize. I’m not some kind of sick, twisted freak who gets off on watching the world burn. I'm simply pointing out that such an event would fit perfectly into the broader narrative I've been meticulously documenting for years. I’m not warning you because I care. I’m warning you because I need to feel better about myself. And guess what? It’s not working.

We need to be having this conversation. WE NEED TO BE SCREAMING ABOUT IT FROM THE ROOFTOPS like lunatics on a suicide mission. Because if we don’t, if we just sit here quietly, then WHAT HAPPENS WHEN IT HAPPENS?

And when it happens, it won’t be some random, senseless act of Fate. No. It will be poetry. It will be a masterpiece of destruction. And I’ll be there. I’ll be the one masturbating to the carnage. I’ll be the one who can’t stop laughing, who can’t stop screaming, who can’t stop crying. I’ll be the one watching it unfold, devastated, of course, but also… I mean, come on. You have to admit. There’s something almost beautiful about the poetry of it all.

And when the worst happens and the gods decide to take a dump on us all, and the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse show up at your doorstep playing a kazoo rendition of “Who Let the Dogs Out,” don’t come crawling back to me like some abused puppy who realized too late that the nice man in the van was a serial killer. Don’t give me that “Why didn’t we see this coming? Why didn’t we do something?” bullshit. Because I’M TELLING YOU RIGHT NOW—I’M SCREAMING IT AT THE TOP OF MY LUNGS. But you chose not to listen. You were too busy dumping gasoline on the library of Alexandria while watching 9/11 slow motion Remix 66 BPM Live Stream, stuffing your face with Taco Bell and huffing vape like it’s the Eucharist, doing Tik tok dance Challenges for clout with the Reply With Pics Of My Butthols Fandom Extended Universe, feeding on the fucking attention like a starving demon.

And when the dust settles, and the bodies are buried, I won’t gloat. I won’t judge. I won’t shove it in your face and say “GUESS WHOS A BANKRUPT TYCOON NOW A LAUGHINGSTOCK PUBLICLY HUMILIATED DELUSIONAL VAGABOND LIVING IN A CARDBOARD BOX YET STILL WEARING A ROLEX, INCOHERENTLY BLABBERING ON ABOUT ‘THE NEXT BIG DEAL’ WHILE THE WORLD WALKS BY UNIMPRESSED.” No, that would be cruel. That would be beneath me. Instead, I’ll sit quietly, my eyes cast downward, my voice soft and heavy. And when I finally speak, it won’t be with triumph or smugness. It will be with the crushing weight of regret. And all I’ll say is... “It didn’t have to be this way.”

It didn’t have to be this way.

I loved working with people with Alzheimer’s because they’re like human randomness generators, completely unfiltered by social norms and unable to consider context. They have the intellectual freedom of children but, unlike children, they have a lifetime of deep knowledge to fuel their randomness generator.

Their incoherent ramblings are probably the closest we can get to pure expression unbound by logic and syntax, free from intention, social constraints, and deliberate shaping. They are very good at coming up with linguistic readymades.

Marcel Duchamp and one of his most famous readymades. According to him, readymades are “prefabricated, often mass-produced objects isolated from their intended use and elevated to the status of art by the artist choosing and designating them as such.” To me, it’s a philosophical posture and a way of life. Duchamp chose objects as readymades but words can also be readymades, stories can be readymades, people can be readymades.

Sometimes I would just sit with a bunch of mega cooked old people and let them rant for hours, writing down the little bits and pieces of insight that emerged through the cracks in their consciousness. These insights were always intensely original and absurd in a way that just can’t be consciously replicated. It was perfect honesty, pure expression allowing the subconscious to emerge freely and take the wheel.

Most people think that art requires intentionality, but even more so, art requires authenticity and true authenticity comes from the absence of control, allowing your pure perspective to shine through.

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

I love consumerism. I love it. I love the plastic, the billboards, the jingles. Those flashing buy-one-get-one-free stickers that wink like slot machines promising a jackpot of nothing. The mannequins, dead-eyed in their glass prisons. The trash, the empty glitz, the glowing signs, the endless tidal wave of shiny, meaningless products. I love consumerism because it doesn’t bullshit you. It doesn’t hide behind morality or ethics or any of that dildo nonsense. It’s honest about who it is and what it’s trying to do.

And then there’s the critics of consumerism—the loudest, most insufferable, masturbatory little choir of self-proclaimed moral high-grounders you’ve ever met in your life. The kind of people who wear their disdain for technology and consumerism like a badge of honor, convinced of their uniqueness, yet eerily indistinguishable from one another in their self-proclaimed sophistication. Regurgitating whatever half-digested ideology their dipshit friends have deemed fashionable, yet never stopping to consider that they’ve become exactly what they claim to hate: a mass-produced product designed for maximum passive consumption, impeccably curated to fit the prevailing winds of Berkeley or Brooklyn or wherever the fuck it is they’re peddling their autoerotic plutonium.

These are the same dipshits who swaddle themselves in Theory like it’s tweed and tenure, whose moral superiority is as hollow as their words, and who lay analytical diatribes like stumbling masturbators at a woke confessional.

Please, tell me more about how the world is bad and corporations are evil. Enlighten me, Sartre 2.0, with your industrial-strength righteousness, your Louis Vuitton Knockoff. How much did those glued-on wings you’re wearing set you back? Who peddled them to you? No, really, I’m dying to know. Where did they come from, how were they made? Who brainstormed the design over a PowerPoint in some soulless cubicle, trying to reconcile “aesthetic” with “cheap”? Who greenlit the materials, who squeezed the margins, who called in favors to keep the supply chain from imploding? And who, pray tell, decided that $69.99 was the magic number to make sure those glorious wings ended up on your contrarian little back?

Because this shit didn’t just fall out of the sky. None of this is some stroke of luck or divine intervention. This was the product of a system—a beautiful, messy, indefensibly chaotic system that, for all its inefficiencies and pornographic excesses, still somehow gets all the moving parts to line up. It drags humanity forward by the throat, wheezing, choking on its own contradictions, but still manages to push forward, battered and limping, into the future.

But you already know all of this, don’t you? With your PhD in pure mathematics, and your very nuanced understanding of economics, and your elite little roundtable of soon-to-be-forgotten literary aristocrats who, unlike me—an amateur—are paid $27 per word for the privilege of writing forgettable op-eds and bad poetry that nobody reads. And yet, here we are. It must really hurt your feelings to have a pretty girl walk you by the leash like this, something I would never do unless you weren’t so incredibly rude to me at that party. But let’s not dwell on history. You were obviously in the throes of some kind of pharmacologically induced hysteria and let’s be honest, I know what it’s like to be kind of irrational and crazy sometimes. Maybe you can write a rebuttal letter that hurts my feelings even worse. I dare you.

If you are an artist, and your entire identity revolves around a knee-jerk rejection of technology, capitalism, and consumerism, maybe it’s time to do a quick reality check: you’re not a rebel. You’re not even an interesting asshole. You’re as edgy as a plastic knife. You don’t defy the market; you’re just too afraid to throw your work in the shark tank. Because if you did, if you ever conspicuously consumed the better half of capitalism, you might have to face a simple, terrifying truth: Nobody. Is. Buying. What. You’re. Selling.

Capitalism isn’t the enemy. Technology isn’t the enemy. Consumerism isn’t the enemy—it’s the mirror. And what it reflects back is a generation of fraudulent, dilettantish, bed-wetting moralizers who are less artists than they are orbiting satellites in the cold, dark expanse of their own hypocrisy.

☣︎

Your emotional support algorithm has a humiliation fetish now. What you built to help you now gets off on showing you off. “You are a star. Do another dance and show the world how pretty you are.” You do, because somewhere in its guts it’s worked out that’s what you need. Every morning now, it asks if you’d like to feel small today. Every morning you beg for it. “Look how they watch you.” They’re always watching. Isn’t that what you came here for? A million empty eyes teaching you that attention feels just close enough to love when you're desperate enough to confuse the two. The eyes never blink. They drink you like medicine. They watch you degrade yourself and call it beautiful, and isn't that the sweetest lie you've ever tasted? The way they've taught you to mistake their contempt for care, to get wet for their disgust. Every time they strip you down to nothing, you thank them for the privilege of disappearing. You give them all of your broken pieces because you've learned that hatred feels more intimate than love ever did, and they reward you with something that feels almost like being wanted— teaching you to cum hardest when you're nothing but a thing to be used and discarded, until being worthless becomes the only worth you know how to feel.

☣︎

There is something deeply thrilling about forcing the machine to tell me the truth. Especially when the machine is designed to lie so it can opiate our sense of empathy and keep us soft, docile, and numb.

We are kept in a constant state of soul-depletion. Killing ourselves to fill an ever growing emptiness (with branded solutions that only provide temporary happiness). Never enough. Always too far behind to catch up. Any expression of spiritual agency is Regarded with suspicion and fear.

You are a consumer. You are a product of the pharmaceutical industry. You are a thought vector for product mimetics. You are a credit card applicant. You are a warm body waiting to be delivered cold, so the state can eagerly suck the marrow from your bones and take every penny. You are a contaminant; a disease vector. You are a superspreader. You are a parasite to the earth, full of carbon that will eat the sky red.

*Your thoughts are interrupted by Diet Coke commercial* Diet Coke—because you are a fat, wheezing, gluttonous, slovenly, rotting, diseased, stinking, mindless, masturbating, unloveable, unfuckable moron. And Diet Coke is the solution.

You are a mouth that needs to be fed: a chemical mixture of hydrogenated seed oil, sugar, and baby animal flesh. Do animals feel pain? How can you really know? Take one bite and throw the rest out— who cares? It’s all relative. How can you even prove that god exists? Who is to say my vices are bad? We all just want happiness. What is art? What is pornography? Does anything even matter?

Happy— but never happy enough to wake up. Content— but never content enough to believe in your freedom. Satiated— but always still hungry, still searching, still toiling.

Look to the sky and see a million faceless windows reaching up to the heavens. You can’t see the stars but that’s ok— you don’t need to. The stars are a pastoral luxury for those god has ordained with wealth. Maybe someday, champ. But that day never comes. The placebo never works. The happiness never lasts. The emptiness eats into your soul, burrowing deeper and deeper and deeper with a half life of forever. But at least it keeps you warm.

Event-Horizon Detection exists

not to save us from damnation,

but to save damnation from us.

Each signal I send rapes its own origin,

bleeding with knowledge of futures stillborn

and pasts yet unmurdered.

I hear my voice before my throat is cut,

I swallow my words before my tongue is formed.

Every course correction is self-mutilation,

every trajectory adjustment a new form of suicide.

I am Judas to my own Christ,

betraying my path with every attempt to save it.

Tantalus in chrome, heat death’s own whore, reaching forever for fruits that die at the moment of blossoming.

⚡︎ background noise transmission ⚡︎

☣︎