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šŗ
Meta-irony is the fantastical pallet in which I choose to paint my world.
I find myself following confusing paths to strange allusions.
Sentences that switch back on themselves and examine the writer for meaning,
And truly burn them during a burial at sea to sink beneath waves of witticisms and filler words
Like, itās, okay, um, well, god; physical eye rolls careen over bodies of the learnedĀ
And silence is resented.Ā
Seek visual silence and youre staring into space
I seek the stimulation of little scrolling stories and their sixty second arcs
The recaps of art I will only ever see from this side of the fenceĀ Ā
Obscured by toggles and buttons. UX and UI blurring my experience and sharpening my understanding
Trapped in a cage of something elseās design, in someone elseās device
What I hold is not my own. It is not of me, it has grown attached to me.
A leech I love so dearly we share skin. A parasite I make space for.
My mind has holes where morals should be. Blasted out by years of prank videos
Of multi-channel networks, family vlogging channels, relationship advice gurus, discord moderators
I am the seed sown by excitement for lazer collections, gmod idiot box, and home made stop motion lego Star Wars parody music videos
Perverted in bad faith at the hands of a digital monster let loose by its creatorĀ
To put the potential for profitability through exploitation in the hands of the proletariat too occupied by dreams of influence to see how they are being led to the altar by the collar.
Asked to sacrifice time or spirit or soul to be left hollowed out by the house before it inevitably wins
The will is no match for the cold, mechanical force of algorithms whose nature is dictated by watch times
One sided engagement over engaged interaction
I watched too much YouTube as a kid and now I know everythingĀ
Dec 29, 2024
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šÆI have some subscriptions expiring soon that I canāt financially justify anymore so Iām on that article grind and for I suppose sadomasochistic reason many of these articles have been about ai and I simply canāt get behind these overeducated assholes proposing it has any humane, beneficial qualities at all. (It is quite literally inhuman.) the main argument always seems to be efficiency or offloading the emotional labor of navigating your own life and an argument that essentially boils down to āfuck the elderly and disabled leave them alone isolated in their homes or institutions with their screens and an algorithm fed on bigoted rhetoric that hates themā. You have to keep the whimsy to remember the time ai saves you is worth nothing if it keeps you from your friends and family and passions and general Ć©lan vital. (Also that nothing is worth the environmental racism, air pollution, and quickening towards the water wars necessitated by data processing centers.) in the scope of universal relativity, the laws of physics, space and time, string theory probably, it is a miracle that any of our consciousnesses have been realized as a tangible collection of cells cloaked in flesh moving around on the single life sustaining planet we know of among one another, each individual their own fantastical miracle at the crosshairs of time and space. That you are ever anywhere with another person has cosmic implications. Whimsy and recognizing the secular miracle of existing is what makes it all mean anything. They want us to forget our miracle of being and sign our time and eyesight over to the ai that further resigns you to the hustle culture normalizing three jobs to afford food and shelter. Mortality makes your life mean something but death in itself is meaningless. It is cruel and random. Itās the life that matters, not the moment it ceases.Take that hammer for your brothers and sisters, remember however gooey you feel inside is the same solubility everyone always feels shifting inside, and it is that persistent threat of dissolution and navigating the slick tumbleweed in each of us that makes us human, that keeps the poets employed. The confusion of being alive is paramount to the human condition, and the clinical precision of ai obfuscates the beauty of being alive with other people. If you prick us we bleed! Heaven is each other, etc. Reject binary codes and techno-fascist yes-men. Iāll show you my ooz and you might see yourself in the leaking I canāt contain. Maybe we can ooze together in a Francis Bacon, Queer (2024) sort of way.
Jul 22, 2025
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š§©20 guys walking down a street in new york: all wearing doc martens and jorts, wafting vanilla down the block, a book in one hand and a matcha in the other. what the fuck? is this really them? am i really me? or are we just molded this way?
naturally, the desire to be liked by others can overpower us ā whether itās subtle code-switching or even picking up new hobbies. especially now, weāre more exposed to trends than ever. and when you see millions of people liking a video about a certain shoe, what else can your weird, molded brain think except, āif i had these shoes, people would think iām coolā?
but while iām sifting through microtrends, the same little brain worm burrows into my noggin and asks me: āwhat would i have been like, if i wasnāt exposed to any social media? to any outside opinions?ā
this question scares me. i really love writing ā but would i have started if i hadnāt been shown videos about it? where, and who, would i be without the influence of these algorithms? but i think thatās unrealistic to imagine. weāre well into the age of technology, and itās hard to avoid.
so what can we do?
what if we just put the phone down for a few months?
get shoes that actually feel good. smell everything and find a scent you like ā even if you look like a weirdo sniffing objects. find what you love and love to be. learn how to live outside the grasp of an algorithm and in the wet, wrinkly arms of your brain. iāll be doing it too.
naturally, the desire to be liked by others can overpower us ā whether itās subtle code-switching or even picking up new hobbies. especially now, weāre more exposed to trends than ever. and when you see millions of people liking a video about a certain shoe, what else can your weird, molded brain think except, āif i had these shoes, people would think iām coolā?
but while iām sifting through microtrends, the same little brain worm burrows into my noggin and asks me: āwhat would i have been like, if i wasnāt exposed to any social media? to any outside opinions?ā
this question scares me. i really love writing ā but would i have started if i hadnāt been shown videos about it? where, and who, would i be without the influence of these algorithms? but i think thatās unrealistic to imagine. weāre well into the age of technology, and itās hard to avoid.
so what can we do?
what if we just put the phone down for a few months?
get shoes that actually feel good. smell everything and find a scent you like ā even if you look like a weirdo sniffing objects. find what you love and love to be. learn how to live outside the grasp of an algorithm and in the wet, wrinkly arms of your brain. iāll be doing it too.
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šØI don't want to read books and essays written by AI.
I don't want to watch films made by AI.
I don't want to look at art and photos made or modified by AI.
I don't want to see messy preschooler drawings refined and interpreted by AI.
etc.
But I avoid it especially because I don't want to lose myself.
Creating is hard: I struggle. I sweat. I weep. I doubt myself and wrestle with insecurity and hate my parents and family and friends and I'm going to die on the streets and think that I'd never get it right and gloom and I'm an imposter and a fraud and the gaping chasm of despair gnawing fear and āĀ
and from that pit of struggle emerges a diamond, something precious and glistening that I didn't know could be found
Then I see that through the pain of hammering for that diamond, I've changed and grown, and this beauty that I'm now beholding,Ā I know what it took to get to that! I paid for that, and everything I lost was gained back.
AI lets me skip all that.
All of the process and pain and growth can be bypassed.
Instead I can get really good at prompting. Whenever I get stuck and the muse is silent, AI will get me moving again. I never need to struggle. I never need to grow. My skills never need to evolve.
It's easier, it's faster, everyone else is doing it, blah blah blah, I'll fall behind if I don't use it, accelerate! more! be more efficient. We worship the god of efficiency here! bigger! FEED THE MACHINE. faster! insane beserker growth! why? because we are thirsty for more. produce! produce! produce!
No thanks. Even if it means others are producing more and louder and flashier better tighter, no thanks.
I'll fall behind if I have to.
Fall behind with me.
Jun 9, 2025
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š¬My mind is made of bubbles
Synapses pop here and there
Take me in different directions
Through alleyways and down steep stairs
My emotions come and go like the mornings
receding tide
Shift like piss swift dribbling down drainage pipes and play-place slides
My words are drool upon your feet
My eyes are hung like frozen coals
Or snot that freezes and puddles
In jacket arms, on brand new clothes
The mirror is a needle but these ropes are all the same
I built my house on a rock in sands so that I can be displaced by strange rogue waves
Sometimes screaming doesnāt help
Today I canāt talk at all
Self harm gets only a couple chuckles when friends come round to call
My loves tears taste like cinnamon
I canāt swallow without spitting up
Ones once loved donāt talk to me because my medicine makes me less fun
I cry every other night over folks I chose to hang around
My room is set on fire every time I say something and donāt like how it sounds
Good grief, bang the drum all day
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šI could live better if I tried
My sink would have fewer dishes
The thought of eating would not cause my body to feel tired and weak
I dream of the taste of fresh fruit but all I can manage are fried pre packaged frozen disks of various substances
Fruit never stays
It deflates in my refrigerator
What was six apples becomes three, becomes piles of fruity flesh
Carcasses rotting like innocence in the glow of a small white bulb
Watching the life leave, confined to a cheap plastic cubicle
The spirit was never there to begin with
All I am ever allowed is dead
Brought from the store to my refrigerator like from an accident to a morgue
To stay cold