The Logistics Of Sodomy

 

I don't know how I got here. I woke up in a labyrinth of screens. Everybody is famous, everyone is a star. At least, in their own minds. Social media is a market place, welcome to the bazaar, everyobody is a sex toy, an accessory. For sale or rent. This world is being sucked out of it's ass. Entertainment monopolies are destroying culture in every sense. 

I'm not rich enough to afford mental breakdown. Are we that broken form the internet? The planet is getting fist fucked, but for a beautiful moment in time, we created a lot of value for the shareholders. What a magnificent abomination the west is... Filled with ultra fucked numb puppets with delusional princess syndrome, that find everything disgusting and all around offensive. A Kardashianized zoo that craves subconsciously to be atomic dust. 

You're not special. You don't deserve anything. If you don't get it through your thick skull, that happiness, harmony, self-fulfillment or whatever word you use on Twitter these days, comes from the collective good. But this isn't fun, is it? You want a private, customised future. A trailer, of a movie that you' ll never watch, of a life that will never be. But it's yours and only yours, and that's what counts. Class conflict used to be classy.

Let's sabotage ourselves and fuck things up again, and see what happens. We are living in a simulation and someone turned the ridiculousness setting to max. Mental illness is a hell of a drug. We are all actors in this life.  It's just that most of us are underpaid for the role we play. Are you ready for the Post apocalyptic rape porn? I'm still alive for reasons I don't understand. I didn't expect anything and I'm still disappointed. Sick and tired of parasites asking why it's hard to find a good host. I'm not angry. I always hated  tantrums Network style. Another thing, that the second it came out, it was already branded, packaged and advertised. What is your favorite brand of chaos? Here, try our new flavor, the furious prophet, with a twist of lemon. I'm not pissed, I'm not even dissapointed anymore.  I'm bored, friend.

I'm sick of your stories

of your reels

of your quotes

of your travels

of your TikToks

of your hashtags

of your captions

of your genders

of your racism

of your irony

of your vibes

of your post post everything

of your meta nonsense

of your filters

of your austerity

of your European Union

of your preaching

of your cancel culture

of your OnlyFans 

We're fucking ostriches, with our heads so deep in the sewer, that the stench seems like the fragnace of heavens. In the meantine, let's play capitalism, like it's another season of Friends. Nobody is laughning, nobody is entertainted. And the landlords of the planet are puzzled. Why do the peasants don’t like my vanity projects? I specifically ordered them to like it. Anyway, our research team will make a better update for your digital dystopia. Keep on doing the dirty work, the heavy lifting and some day, the crumbs will fall at your feet.

We're not even extras in the global orgy. We are the domestic staff. Be a good slave, work endless hours, give us your money, give us your kids, give us your data so we can buy and sell you for the sixth time, and maybe you'll get a handjob. Isn't this fun children? No, it never was. We've reached the end of meaning. There's never was one, but we've passed the point of overanalyzing  nothing 200 miles ago. If Dante was alive today, he'd blew his brains out to stop the headache from your whining. Because our stupidity is the real hell.

Life isn't  another version of all those awful indie dramadies that play at the Sundance Film Festival. You know the ones, they're always a horrible combination of Wes Anderson, twee, and bad alt-rock music. Nothing feeds our souls, they're shrinking, weathering away from thirst. We are just commodities, polluting the Earth. A dumpster on fire. So keep on praying to whatever god you came up this week, for the world to end, because it won't get any better. Pray for rain. I don't know why I don't know why. Receptors overloaded, they burst and disconnect, 'til there was little feeling, please work with what is left. I'm bored beyond redemption. 

Pray for rain and fuck these double dildo acrobat and carpet cleaner influencers

fuck your life coaches

fuck your toxicities

fuck your self-improvement

fuck your therapy

fuck your astrology

fuck your sexism

fuck your pretentious art

fuck your political correctness

fuck your clickbait

fuck your double standards

fuck your fake news

fuck your narcissism

fuck your tattoos

fuck these dysfunctional insecure actors and actresses

thanks for coming to my Ted talk.