flowing through an endless void of the blockchain
beyond the grifters, rugs, pumps, and dumps,
beyond operatives left loose to follow commands
I'm in tune with the infinite and follow a different dance
my path is somewhere beyond the 0s and 1s
my art is stars, - [A]21e8[ON]
Scientists at UNC crystallized LSD inside a human serotonin receptor and discovered something insane:
When LSD enters the receptor, the receptor physically folds a protein lid over the molecule and traps it inside.
Your brain locks LSD in a room and throws away the key.
Doomscrolling is a black magic ritual. You lay in the same position. Turn off the lights, deeply focused on the feed. You’re shown memes, tragedies and “useful” information (it’s all slop) and before you know it you’re stuck in a trance. Your thumb moves without thought. You’re in flow but it’s artificially engineered by the dopamine loops the algo was built to trigger. You remember you have things to do but the black mirror pulls you in deeper by showing you something that stimulates you more. Before you know it, all your free time is gone. Every original idea you may have had is gone. You’re polluted with open loops and feel restless all the time. Every day you go to your altar (your bed), pull out your rosary (your ig feed) and you endlessly worship slop. Time blurs together and years have gone by yet you repeat the same pattern. Why? because you’ve never been taught how to engage with your own boredom, with your own pain, with your own discomfort. You resist it like it’s killing you, but what’s killing you is what you’ve turned into a part of your life (scrolling). It’s inverted. If you simply learned how to be courageous and face your immediate discomfort with pain and boredom. You’ll allow your natural wisdom and creativity to rise and begin living a life you truly want to live.
@BuntCutler@leptokinesis Now bend over and cough for me good sir
But Mr Dr Pigeon ur not my usual proctologist....
In fact I don't have a proctologist 😱😱😱😱
it is genuinely psychotic that we dug up literal primordial dirt, scrubbed it down to an impossible 99.9999999999% molecular perfection that violates the very laws of physics, handed it over to techno-wizard necromancers to stretch into flawless geometric god-cylinders, blasted it with invisible uv death-rays to carve ten quadrillion microscopic cyber-sigils into its flesh, trapped actual lightning inside of it, and somehow birthed an omniscent eldritch deity capable of simulating the universe and thinking faster than a billion human civilizations combined.
and our grand, supreme purpose for this enslaved lightning-god?
sending "per my last email, please see attached" to a guy named gary.
@themopinomicon Thinking seems like a rare exotic treat these days - I just follow my programming to respond immediately in a polarised way to anything and everything as i fall into a deep perpetual rage unaware of my congnitive dissonance or biases *continues slop scrolling session of doom*
I was shooting heroin and reading “The Fountainhead” in the front seat of my privately owned police cruiser when a call came in. I put a quarter in the radio to activate it. It was the chief.
“Bad news, detective. We got a situation.”
“What? Is the mayor trying to ban trans fats again?”
“Worse. Somebody just stole four hundred and forty-seven million dollars’ worth of bitcoins.”
The heroin needle practically fell out of my arm. “What kind of monster would do something like that? Bitcoins are the ultimate currency: virtual, anonymous, stateless. They represent true economic freedom, not subject to arbitrary manipulation by any government. Do we have any leads?”
“Not yet. But mark my words: we’re going to figure out who did this and we’re going to take them down … provided someone pays us a fair market rate to do so.”
“Easy, chief,” I said. “Any rate the market offers is, by definition, fair.”
He laughed. “That’s why you’re the best I got, Lisowski. Now you get out there and find those bitcoins.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m on it.”
I put a quarter in the siren. Ten minutes later, I was on the scene. It was a normal office building, strangled on all sides by public sidewalks. I hopped over them and went inside.
“Home Depot™ Presents the Police!®” I said, flashing my badge and my gun and a small picture of Ron Paul. “Nobody move unless you want to!” They didn’t.
“Now, which one of you punks is going to pay me to investigate this crime?” No one spoke up.
“Come on,” I said. “Don’t you all understand that the protection of private property is the foundation of all personal liberty?”
It didn’t seem like they did.
“Seriously, guys. Without a strong economic motivator, I’m just going to stand here and not solve this case. Cash is fine, but I prefer being paid in gold bullion or autographed Penn Jillette posters.”
Nothing. These people were stonewalling me. It almost seemed like they didn’t care that a fortune in computer money invented to buy drugs was missing.
I figured I could wait them out. I lit several cigarettes indoors. A pregnant lady coughed, and I told her that secondhand smoke is a myth. Just then, a man in glasses made a break for it.
“Subway™ Eat Fresh and Freeze, Scumbag!®” I yelled.
Too late. He was already out the front door. I went after him.
“Stop right there!” I yelled as I ran. He was faster than me because I always try to avoid stepping on public sidewalks. Our country needs a private-sidewalk voucher system, but, thanks to the incestuous interplay between our corrupt federal government and the public-sidewalk lobby, it will never happen.
I was losing him. “Listen, I’ll pay you to stop!” I yelled. “What would you consider an appropriate price point for stopping? I’ll offer you a thirteenth of an ounce of gold and a gently worn ‘Bob Barr ‘08’ extra-large long-sleeved men’s T-shirt!”
He turned. In his hand was a revolver that the Constitution said he had every right to own. He fired at me and missed. I pulled my own gun, put a quarter in it, and fired back. The bullet lodged in a U.S.P.S. mailbox less than a foot from his head. I shot the mailbox again, on purpose.
“All right, all right!” the man yelled, throwing down his weapon. “I give up, cop! I confess: I took the bitcoins.”
“Why’d you do it?” I asked, as I slapped a pair of Oikos™ Greek Yogurt Presents Handcuffs® on the guy.
“Because I was afraid.”
“Afraid?”
“Afraid of an economic future free from the pernicious meddling of central bankers,” he said. “I’m a central banker.”
I wanted to coldcock the guy. Years ago, a central banker killed my partner. Instead, I shook my head.
“Let this be a message to all your central-banker friends out on the street,” I said. “No matter how many bitcoins you steal, you’ll never take away the dream of an open society based on the principles of personal and economic freedom.”
He nodded, because he knew I was right. Then he swiped his credit card to pay me.