Look at me. I'm covered in helicopter landing pads; electronic warfare security labyrinths; automated gun emplacements; mined no man's lands; miles and miles of electrified razor tentacle tangles; rapid deployment kennels full of napalm spitting/shitting neomutts; overpriced food courts where all the different franchises all taste like they're cooking in one big pot; all the locals are aspiring stand-up comedians; the social media feeds are all synched to these admittedly kind of impressive 3D printer micro-manufacturies that pump-out many-limbed ambulatory physicalizations of psychopathologies round-the-clock which tend to get into big bloody maul-battles with the neomutts; and the whole thing is wrapped-up in a fake folk history concocted by a buncha Florida Men-lawyers, lobbyists, consultants, political strategists, real estate developers, shartcuterie arrangers-sequestered inside a conference center kitbashed from a dead mall recently converted into a combination office space/fundamentalist church space which is constantly being invaded by trendchasy YouTubers attempting to fuck with phony dead mall nostalgia-when I was a teenager we hated the mall, we wanted to burn it down, that shit was corporate skullduggery palace of illusion to the max-which is what I eventually wound up as anyways, so go ahead film every part of me. Cut it to some vaporwave. I can even recommend tracks. Some men become their asshole fathers. I became an entire hyper-commercialized lifestyle redoubt sector. Which is like becoming all of the asshole fathers at once, all wadded up and sutured and fused together, with all of their dreams and paranoias and bigotries and pretensions and entitlements and burst-bulging prostates and private security details ballooning the resource expenditures-the more you spend the more you save, I guess. May as well believe it. And it's just . . . okay. It sucks. But it doesn't hit like full-on proper suck. Everyone is just full of shit enough to know that they are, indeed, full of shit, and so it never quite tips over into auto-destruct disaster. Everyone has a perfect, slimy, law school product congruence with the ambient suck vibe of universal duplicity-that's how I would put it. I'm like a militarized golf course with a bad case of rabies. It's definitely not how I saw myself working out, but it does sorta work. If I had thought to keep the receipt, I would totally refund myself.
