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.

Growing up I’ve been told countless times that a mark of a great artist was the ability to capture an essence. In philosophy, an essence is the attribute that makes a thing what it fundamentally is. When applied to art, capturing an essence means conveying the intrinsic nature of a subject, whether it's a person, object, emotion, or idea. Essence gives art a sense of authenticity and depth that resonates with viewers on a profound level. Art that captures an essence is a reflection, art without essence is mimicry.

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.

The following is an e-mail that was sent to us from a reader in response to 3 previous works.

We publish the aforementioned letter as a warning of the perils of a lack of critical thinking and open-mindedness.

“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.

Consuming short-form content is a process of self-harm. Drawn-out long-form suicide, via short-form bursts of unfeelable pain. The most shameful form of suicide. It is the slow death of your attention span, a slow descent into mental/emotional subordination, the process of losing a temporal grasp of your life. Waving a dilapidated goodbye to your newly disfigured consciousness as you surrender fully to The Entertainment.

Every month I am greeted by a new, increasingly worse UI. Everything degrades, everything rots. But iTunes’s clunkiness and customizability felt more physical if that makes sense. It was pleasantly cumbersome in its depth of options, a right click would lead to 20 different selection bars, each with their own drop-down menus of possible query. Spotify on the other hand, feels like an attack on the intelligence of anyone who uses it.

I recently went to go watch the Bob Marley: One Love movie in theatres with my mom. We wanted to go watch the movie as she would play me Bob Marley’s music when I was growing up, playing a big influence in both of our lives. We thought it would be a great mother-daughter bonding moment. Boy when I tell you that movie, much like every movie I watch in theatres, left me flabbergasted after watching it through.

We’re just pigs at a trough, slopping and having our snouts doused in industrial brown liquid that we not just consume, but find the meaning of alienated life through. And now in the age of fandomization, we pigs can use the internet to tell TV writers and content creators what WE want our slop to taste like! Happily mixing our pigshit in with the slop already fed to us.