Cobalt-Alkali child mined phones, mother got raped for me to have it in my hands. I knew this as fact and still chose to use my iPhone 14 Pro, so it must be why the skin on my fingers have been cursed with the ugly disfiguration caused by stubborn eczema, and arthritis in my thumb when I type in my notes on a late night, on my side, under duvet covers, because I’m a whore for ease and comfort and thought and colorful images whenever I want to have them. Let me enjoy all this in bed, I tell the Father.
My capitalist-culture induced ADHD has been tearing me apart, and it’s only yesterday that for the first time in memory have I deactivated or logged out of all my social media accounts at once. I’ve been playing this game since the age of fourteen. The amount of time I had been alive without it had to elapse after the fact for me to finally shut it down, turn it off. Run with the bees, or some awkward white-woman coded liberal saying for, “taking a break” from electronics, despite technology being the natural habitat.
It’s a bit of an aesop’s fable this, what doing without what you felt was so good to have to begin with, and coming to confront the curses it’s scarred you with when without. Have you ever posted a photo with a caption on instagram, and then have to focus your mind away from thinking in instagram captions for the next good bit of your conscious day? What is that, there must be phenomenon that can be cited to explain that. LinkedIn posts are worse, but less intrusive. Probably because they tend to be longer than a single sentence. My life, lived. Or a phrase.
Clandestine operations on the mind must be countered with clandestine operations. It’s corporations and all types of evil against us, including the bad habits and negative qualities we’ve accumulated over time. Half the battle is seeing the convolution and dissonance. Spotting the neurosis. I’m f*cked with neurosises, may I say. It’s made it’s way to the base core of my sacrum, what I am trying to get undone. My future partner is probably f*cked with them too. Hidden-beneath-the-surface erotic neuro-typical fantasies could not be the most destructive self-abasing-excusing way to be. A paper coffee cup with plastic lid in hand is necessary. Every time the steaming fluid passes through the plastic opening I flourish my gut with microns of the stuff. Let’s do this over and over again, together, love.
Honestly I must be hating, right? Till I start over and realize I’ve stepped proximally three paragraphs from the most concerning part of all this (refer back to how it started), and have just tempered the harshest part with loose fizzles of destruction that compose pretty much all of our society, because it’s proximally miles, tens to thousands, away from the heart of the real pain. Existing as an extremity of grief is a little condescending actually, embarrassing if not really humiliating. It’s living with shit comfortably, a far push from tolerating. Every sick cell and sack of this society has made generic the gross, and we even celebrate it in advertisements. God bless the advertising industry. There is nothing telling us to get back in touch with nature, our ourselves, only outsource our means for some trick we can play on our hearts. Sauvage. I want it. And a Big Mac. and if you stopped eating that, there’s a giant steak on a bill board somewhere, eyeing you, and not the other way around.
Again, I’m hating. What’s there to hate, what’s so bad about all of that. We live in cities now, thing’s are industrialized. I personally like the assortment of large pack nuts I can procure from Costco. I need them, practically, considering the diet I need to be on to live a half productive life (macadamians, brazil, pecans, even). I don’t know, something about that feels short sighted too. Like if I unstring the thought as it exists in it’s present condensed form, I’ll find much more to hate on. This isn’t as neatly connected, but remember the whole Chiquita banana company thing. The banal brutality of it. For fucking bananas. Actually, real bananas don’t even exist anymore– they’ve been replaced with an invasive species because they are more akin to what’s attractive on an advertisement than the ones that had the anti-microbial properties to keep the fake bananas out. But man intervened to f*ck it up. If you don’t believe me, check out ‘That’s so insane’ on instagram. Corporations strike again! It’s like every rabbit hole is actually a funnel from satan. Very few things in this world are good, true, and honest, and stay that way.
The TLDR is, I want to hate more, but I haven’t done my research.
I don’t know how I ended up here. I’m not being ewed and milked by desires exploited to me on a screen. A slower tempo to life is setting in. A voice in the back of my mind is asking to me f*ck something, I still don’t know if that’s normal or not in the way that it occurs quite randomly. High T, or am I fucking weird? I have no shortage weirdness, which I want to let from myself and I imagine it would ooze. Besides that, I feel like a still water.
My fingers are f*cked, I itched the hell out of them last night. It was orgasmic. So goes Satan. I want to go out and buy a cover for my phone, to hide it’s ugly cracks. Gloves, for the ugly cracks on my hands. I’m making quite the case for why I’m scum. And even the most saintly people have iPhones. So who the f*ck am I to sh*t on myself out of some righteous impulse. I’m all twistered and puckered up. Knackered by the confusion enthralled on me, by our lovely running and pumping and f*ck me I want me society. It’s me, I am society.
If it’s one trait I’d like to enlist for myself, it’s accountability. A f*ck ton of it. I’ll take it like drugs, little pills, like zinc picolinate looking little things, so cute, so easy.
FRICTION, TILL DEATH 