of the zoomer elect, he's blasting music in a waymo and the adderall is wearing off, finding the redundant steering wheel unaesthetic and emblematic of something and that something isn't good. a rotting city of zombie restaurants filling plastic bowls: ethnic food that all tastes only like america - one individuated only by his tap, its name unworthy of his remembering, the bowl delivered by a temporarily embarrassed eloi at exactly the moment the car's hideous hr-woman voice informs him he's arrived. a paper bag in hand now, tipping out of habit, a choice made by his fingers and not the mind, longing for the delivery robots he grew to love in that strange two months in shenzhen (of all that he loved there it was an expatriate that had him crying at the airport, had a kind stewardess discreetly passing him tissues, has him almost tearing up again now even thinking of them), looming over this whole situation the siren song of the soviet-era GABAergic in his left pocket, gifted to him a week prior by a blonde of indeterminate gender who exists in a state of superposition with their partner - in disambiguating one he would the other. he remembers finding them both beautiful, a mixture of youth and artifice, a cargo-cult transhumanism showing the first signs of becoming real - or maybe it's just the xenoestrogens. surrounded by friends now he feels alone. the fear of an inverted alzheimer's - of the world becoming incomprehensible and their youthful minds no longer worthy of it; this looms over their conversation - which is always the same conversation, always an exercise in applied theology: now being the era of gods. small gods but give it a year. everyone is exceptional. everyone is broken. everyone is like this city, succeeding despite themselves, despite the rot, despite the blatant self-destruction that borders on a Potlatch-like ritual demonstration of relative potency. and those who fail? those who go home, who fall off, those who kill themselves instead of just whinging constantly about their desire to do so, those who can't handle their drugs or their hours or their competition or that unreciprocated infatuation they know will be the ruin of them, who can't become what this city needs them to be? they were deluded. the ides temporaria. it's best not to think of them at all. they didn't make it, he decides. but I will.
@CallofDuty Yo @activision @Warzone2News I can’t start any games, it’s stuck trying to fill every lobby but the number doesn’t go up. And in multiplayer it gets stuck in connecting