Sitting on the toilet seat in my bathroom smoking weed and cigarettes while reading Baudrillard, as my teenager sits on my bed playing Minecraft on my realm with their friend who is pretending to be a famous British streamer.

And writing. Writing this nonsense about nonsense for no reason, while thinking of the hyperreal, as it spreads across all of what once was real, consuming and destroying and replacing everything in its wake. I don’t even know if I care anymore, because what is the point if we are all just being dragged and drugged by inertia and dopamine away from the real, the tangible, and into the hyperreal?

This is my horror. This is why the only safety I can imagine is a log cabin deep in the woods, on hundreds of acres, with a good source of fresh water and fish; a river or a large and clean lake. Nowhere else is safe, and even there, buried in the depths of the woods, no doubt I would soon begin to see drones advertising VR, or the Metaverse, or AI, or Elon’s Next Big Savior Tech.

Soon after, I’m quite certain, the government, in their great “concern for my welfare,” would forcefully move me to some infested rat hole in an overcrowded digitally run city, and have me prescribed daily doses of VR (under threat of confinement in a psych ward) to cure my delusion that reality has inherent value, simply for being real. Simply for the truth of it. We are all well and truly fucked, my friends, and I’ll toke and smoke to that.

2/11/2022