Ok.
Now I need to want more—
And that is what alcohol was good for..
Because Ye Gods, I don’t want more of this place.
MORE AND MORE AND MORE AND MORE..
As my hard drive fills up with pictures of barbies and the accompanying sound of their tears and ecstasy’s..
Haha, I work eighty hours a week for fake relationships with algorithm bots.
Ok, that seems manageable.
I could vote republican for that kind of life.
This is my real strategy for my time off—————
Nothing.
Too want more of this place is to want to be a Junkie.
It is to want more crack, meth, and heroine.
It is to rock William S. Burroughs and Hunter S. Thompson.
Trainspotting.
John Coltrane.
Charlie Parker.
Matt Durand.
Grateful Dead.
But I don’t.
Too want more of this place is to cut myself.
Do not cut thyself :
Into the blades —
Slam the needle in,
Blood.
I have never been so happy not doing anything.
Eighty hours of not even work but constant stimulation.
The vacation is not to have more stimulation,
But to make the stimulation stop.
To make the simulation stop.
It’s just manifest destiny bro.
Chill the fuck out.
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