Skittle Factory Dementia Monkey Titty Monetization

I’m implementing a new method for improving my productivity and it’s ruining my life, my sleep, my peace of mind, everything.

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