Millennial Paradise

Well here we are again. Another day in millennial paradise thriving under capitalist isolation and mental illness.

I now need writing work more than ever. Thanks to my recent car wreck I need new glasses, a new laptop, and yes a new car, all of which costs a lot money. You remember that stuff right, money? Those pieces of paper that most of us don’t fucking have. Yeah, I need a lot of that right now.

My mind is one that rarely shuts off, though I have been getting better at it. Consistent exercise, meditation, and the occasional t.v. show binge has helped temper the fire of my thoughts. However I do not need further numbness to reality, I already drink like a fish and smoke pot like a chimney. No, what I need is to get myself into order.

But how? I was doing just that before my ankle was shattered and my car destroyed along with it my independence and livelihood. I had my first job in a year and half, I was saving up and getting organized. Then it was all taken from me in a matter of seconds. How is one supposed to get ahead in a world where life is only comfortable if you have a fat stack of those pieces of paper I was talking about before. Money I think I called it right?

So as I said, here we are again. Adrift in a sea of “How the fuck do I get to a job without a car?” And “How do I pay for a car without a job?” While a storm of “Oh and I need a new computer and glasses” rains over that sea.

Another day in millennial paradise.

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Three Napkins I Scribbled My Soul On

Recently as I was filing my chaotic pile of notes that clog my writing desk I came across three napkins with sporadic red sharpie on it. I remembered that last summer I was at a huge party to see a friend’s band. In a fit of something I have yet been able to describe with words I wrote down this stream of consciousness on the materials available to me, which as I said were a sharpie and napkins. I read the gibberish on them and decided that they offer a good look into what is going on in my head, constantly, all the time, every day. Even at a super fun raging party filled with stuff I like.

What is the point of all this,

What am I doing here?

What is the point of these kinds of gatherings,

Is there even one?

Perhaps that’s the point.

The goal.

The goal is to have no goal, no aim.

Just release.

Freedom.

Sigh,

Why am I so deep in my own head?

Why can’t it just shut off

And just be tonight?

Probably the weed?

Who care, it

Doesn’t matter.

I am enjoying this.

I am enjoying streaming the

River that is my thought

My consciousness

Onto these sheets of scrap.

Who cares, do what you love,

Fuck the rest.

“Freedom.”

Now there is a word that is bastardized by the right.

That is what reactionaries do.

They just take words.

Words,

Words that matter, words that are important,

Words WE need.

and they bastardize them.

This is what went on in my head at a fun party, full of drinks and weed and good friends, yet this is what was rushing through my mind. Maybe it was just the effects of being so goddamn crossfaded that night, but I don’t think it was, because even without liquor or weed in my system this is what is constantly ringing in my intuition’s ear. This is what my mind is doing all day, every day, without stopping.