If I ever articulate some wisdom about anything - or a TESCO meal deal - I find that with every permutation, however long or hydroponic, pithy or USB-compatible, there are always well-meaning hamsters ready to perform a dubstep remix just in time for spring. "Our" lexical landscape is so fragmented that the conscious manifestation of N.O.N.S.E.N.S.E has become a sign of health: chatting shit is like a confession or a prayer - a therapeutic abdication from narrative warfare, tribal dogma, and constantly checking the time. If we are drowning in signal already, why not, at least, make it more FUN? Become a Sith Lord! Make origami! Express despair, irony, and your hair!
To some, FUN is an elite privilege - a grotesque bourgeoisie excess. Dopamine. Distraction. Amen? No. Fun is health. Fun is a way of life. Fun is the opposite of suicide - fun is the crinkle of autumn leaves under Sisyphus' calloused little pinky toe.
When you play serious and sensible and try to "connect" with people you still get blended, bubble-wrapped, and labelled with the wrong ingredients, anyway. You're too old for that! Why not sparkle, gyrate, and die 12.5 deaths for every full moon instead? The ladies dig that. Of course I love the god damn hell out of you little shits so SHUT the FUCK up I'm not suggesting we should abandon investigative journalism. It's about caring more, not less. But nevermind, you DJ, you Judge of All Things, you hamster YOU... mesmerising FRACTAL of UnReSoLvEd ChilDhOod trauma!
Alas, I am a noise in a noise: an aromatic, romantic, retarded triple agent - a not not NFT demigod to unlock the easter eggs of существование. If you can't enjoy a tea party with plastic dinosaurs, you can't laugh from your belly, or wonder, or love, or defeat the machines.
*poof*
We are sand, blowing in the wind, who can either laugh at ourselves or shrivel slowly into the ultimate mediocrity of death. For the sake of beauty, of your rooftop garden, of exotic new OOO's and AAH's, embrace the awkwardness of life! Relax! Breathe! Hug me! Hate me! Grow up! O gods of serious silliness, help us to dream again, to have more than a fackin' 2-bit imagination, to tell stories around fires and create terribly gorgeous worlds for our children.