Malls aren’t what they used to be.

Those standards that are meant to guide us, soon begin to confine us.

How the live-service model is hurting gaming.

It is truly fantastic that no matter where you are, there’s a good chance you’ll be recorded or photographed. You have no control, no say over this at all. The man, six stories up on the wrong side of the balcony, looks down to see a sea of phones. Suicide becomes a vaudeville act.

All life becomes mediatized, experience now consumable via multistimuli form. An experience is not lived through in these conditions, instead you live a life of a perma-voyeur. Simultaneously hyperstimulated and unsatisfied, two magnetized points through which you cycle through.

Pig Slop Part 2 (Remastered 3024)

The story goes like this:

Anyone else ever been jarred from what someone else has as their phone wallpaper? I have a bad habit of looking at other people’s phone screens on transit. I’m fascinated by it. Little glimpses into people’s lives.

I think my phone spends more time charging than it does vice versa. This is mentally sound. In fact, I don’t trust the battery status to just show me a green, yellow, or red to signify what my battery level is at. I want to see the exact percent I am currently operating at—how much abstract time remains for the object of my love and adoration to continue serving me.

The Spectaclist loves the news. They love popular culture. They love to consume, to watch, to stay up to date. They live in the now, present in contemporary understandings. Which could never be a futile feedback loop of hopeless misery.

The Pig Snob gets his chance at love.

No entertainment you consume can be digested into waste, it stays tumourlike. Keep gorging—your near future will resemble nothing human. What would your mirror reflection look like if it showed your media body? Your media mass index (MMI) will swerve higher than 25. You are obese on entertainment—your consumption is violence.

Is there a vitamin that can give me the sensation of rain. The equivalent of what vitamin D is for the sun. My seasonal depression seems to always point to the want that the weather is not gloomy or cold enough.

It really sucks that selling out is not really criticism that holds much ground these days. We live in the age of the entrepreneurial artist, the era of ‘getting your bag.’ We have gone full simulacra; popular artists now aren’t even artists; they are just ornaments and decorations on the product.

The consequence of our contemporary era’s understanding of the utilization of creativity is a desire for control over the emotional/material conditions of life that leaves a wallowing want for more. Contemporary mimicries of creativity are realized as an unauratic, surface-level embodiment of segments of meaning that lost their genuineness long ago—appearing, but like lensless spectacles.

Headphones render life itself into silence. You experience a deep sensorial and emotional inner life, but you withhold that, determining that this is a gift for yourself, allowing it to ring through your head as your ears follow suit. And when you’re forced to go out into the world without your trusty earsidekick—you struggle to rekindle what life used to sound like. An alien in your own commute.

This country needs energy. Imagine the things we could do if we all moved faster, if we all ran and sped TOWARDS change. We need to be running daily, no more walking, NO MORE WALKING. RUN to the polls, RUN to the grocery store, RUN to a psychiatrist and get a stimulant prescription. Run back a month later and ask for a HIGHER DOSE. Run a CELSIUS© down your throat. SWALLOW NICOTINE GUM WHOLE. We need to put our pedal to the metal and MOVE. We’re running out of time.

Multitasking Man is the embodiment of someone who has lost control to their infinite appetite for distractions. Multitasking work with entertainment. The behavior the symptom of a deeply addicted individual, one who lacks agency unless certain stimuli are fried to satisfatory numbess. Only the extent of your ever-dwindling agency is the determiner of whether you rise into productivity or continue swallowing water, sinking into stasis.

The balancing act between genuine and ironic bleeds into every interaction. But all these interactions fluctuate between wanting to express a deeply emotional part, doing it in a half-attempted manner, and then falling into the trap of self-ironic verse. The temptation to self-sabotage passion in the fear of not being heard, enacting the de-connective social act myself, not allowing the other to do it for me.

“No one does it like Sully!” “Mike Wazowski has done it again!” “Classic Mike!” shatters through my head like a sentient dental drill rebelling against its blue-gloved doctorate master. My 9-year-old Wazowski-beaten eyes slip down under their lids, and recede into my head hoping to escape—at least visually—the hell of this media connection.