On the bus asking “by show of hands, who else is sweating through their jeans right now?” Little to no response outside of a few accusations of perversion which I expertly dodged by getting off at the next stop. Marx wrote about feeling like an alien, or becoming one
Whenever I live alone my meals become single-item
20 pieces of bacon. A litre of milk. 2 pounds of strawberries. 8 eggs sunny-side up. 3 glass coca-colas.
The prep-cost and time-cost of cooking is simply not worth it.
Doomscrolling is gambling for revelation, pulling the lever of an infinite slot machine, persuaded that after a billion worthless posts, the next one will finally justify all the others.
Love is the only monarch whose sentence is exile, but accompanies the condemned wherever he goes, a tyrant that banishes us from its grace yet refuses to leave us alone, it casts us out of its kingdom only to haunt every road thereafter.
Dreamt of a backrooms giant humpty dumpty going around with a hammer cracking people's skulls. Tried to get AI to draw it but forbidden. It hit me: only human artists can draw horror now. It him me further: individual humans will be pushed to specialize in the collective shadow