The universe unfolded recently into a fucking fly trap with razor sharp teeth and a digestive tract that starts in the mouth cavity, digesting before the prey is fully bitten by the first strike.

One bender to inaugurate the return to mediocrity in the same fucking neighborhood, notch. Probably an entire day's worth of Rick and Morty, 'nother notch. Significant damage to psychic state- undecided.

At present I'm without actual sleep since Sunday morning. It is now the evening of Monday the 21st and I've successfully destroyed the only human relationship of any measure that can be accounted for as a connection of discernible substance and the fucking 'l' on this shitty broke-dick computer's keypad doesn't respond to keystrokes of less than 200% striking power. I have completed the nylon cord rosary with an excruciating amount of effort and number of tries with the use of a shoelace from old work shoes bought already old and used. I miss my girlfriend's cat. My girfriend does not appear to be fully cogniscent of the fact that I am long gone and has made at the very least a slight effort to avoid thinking about what it is the hell that I'm doing, the emotional fallout of which is the direct effect of choosing a partner who was not romantically sophisticated or spiritually hewn to my life's path so much that she would feel even an approximation of what I am swallowing on a daily basis. Certainly not now, if the tears she claimed to shed when she was wherever the hell else she was during our last week together were literal, and not feelings transliterated as tears in that proto-metaphorical way that women describe facts of the heart.

I am shitting fire and radioactive abortions of human digestive dividends, using mostly Chipotle napkins to wipe afterward and trading the benefits of soap for lots of hot water with routinely administered 'shower beers.' I waver between catatonic despair and dreamy insolent fancies, either directly correlative to my level of inebiriation, or so I would like to conclude but now can't in good faith given that at present I appear to be lucid but with a morphine-like sheen of alcohol coating my brains, which is having a static preservational effect over my conscious state much in the same way you believe you're doing fine when your brain is shutting down pain receptors in the last moments of life draining out in the aftermath of a traumatic injury. Somewhere in the area is a kid who waits tables at the Greek place just a few blocks away on the West side of the intersection between 45 and University, possibly still mutterin off-handedly about the drunk asshole who ordered a pointless salad and a Manny's, got through possibly a full third of the salad, seasoned his plate of food with what should have been two mouthfuls of brew and bolted for the door, nearly taking his chair all the way outside with him, potentially without paying. Mental illness as a prospect and a curse making me an agent of sin is in my thoughts as a result of unspeakable deeds I can't commit to this message.

I have no one I can call a friend in this world, I will never have a real shot at marriage or children with the best candidate I've ever known; these also function as dodged bullets currently screaming in the other direction as I had talked myself into eating those lead slugs because of some conservative familial sensibilities I have likely acquired through osmosis after many months of following the Jordan Peterson phenomenon. This, at the core of the hypocrictical nucleus that may very well be what is driving me insane, what has always driven me insane, is forever contradicted by my occasionally bizarre and once-in-a-while grotesque internet fixations.

However it may turn out that this spiritual project I have undertaken pans out, I have completed a rosary from nylon parachute cord and a shoelace that secured the feet that have carried me now through one year of professional restaurant serving. The concept of divine enrichment has expressed itself in signs and invocation, good and bad, speaking to me from billboards and through the people that, as fate would have it, are paying my bills. Today a creature actually named Benjamin Buttin was openly hostile at one of three lousy tables, all full of people who could not be bothered to give me the time of day, unless it was direct instructions or to insult my intelligence.

Dan Harmon, Justin Roiland and the creative team at Rick and Morty have been a gust of levity and an inspiration for days now while I have toyed with oblivion in this dank dorm box, the legacy of my week hanging sourly in the air or cast about the floor, marked Rainier. Even the fucking clothes I've been wearing are all brutally epidermally tainted with the musk of this unimaginative bender. Somewhere nearby is a phone I am ashamed to admit I have been checking faithfully since yesterday morning, at the kickoff of this strange drunk waking daymare that has been the last 36-40 hours of consciousness, punctuated by stabbing pains of shame and sadness, formatted by a barely mitigated alcoholic bender I've already stretched over two working shifts, including the commutes to and from downtown, with really no more food than has been necessary for me to walk and formulate intelligible words.

Today I drank vodka on the job. Tomorrow I meet with Erika to celebrate her promotion to ex-significado relative to my wretched person. Somewhere nearby, that phone, the fucking refurbished computer phone I am not even able to admit I am paying for, is not ringing. The billboard one week back read, 'Winner.' Today I met the true-crime version of Benjamin Button, and some words later observed on a letterboard read, 'Tbey Shall Not Grow Old.' 'Replicas,' Spiderman: Into the SpiderVerse,' 'Mary: Queen of Scots,' and 'Adult Life Skillls.' It's no longer possible to pretend that this 10-year pasttime obsession with committing the idea of my being a writer to life and doc is anything but a defense mechanism against my own now-freshly smoking crater of voided self-esteem, which is worse than if it were a douche hack's conceit projected in order to appear and, more importantly, feel unique, envisioned and nobly at odds with my situation, which has circled right back into the hell of boozily squandered time in the one neighborhood or borough least likely to be of any use to a failed student man-child like myself: the U-District, where my soul went to die once and got lost in playback mode.

Now the people I pass on the street are so conspicuously youthful that I now move in a state of awareness heightened by the fact that they might as well be alien children, which always and only informs this policing of behavior I find myself doing, not actually because I am drunk, but because they are cold, indifferent children of the late nineties and informed mostly by the debate over rationality (post-truth) while yet outrageously well-informed and plugged in to a degree that historians will refer to as an ironic mentative decadence. There is no way that I am imagining their strange globalized para-cultural disdain for all things I would call recognizably American and which they would call maybe 'cis' or 'binary,' which is really just an incidental rejection of the constraints of the reality that the news and political figures consistently sell despite the all-but-crumbled facade that used to be a societal artifice we could all get behind and just be glad that we aren't being terrorized when we weren't truly ever, but were instead being controlled in an amniotic fluid of neoliberal prejudice distilled through a war culture we all successfully pretended did not exist.

Today a mob-generated real estate robber baron and anti-intellectual clown sits in the chair formerly at the locus of international affairs on a global scale and he has (momentarily) better-informed opinions about whether the Fourth Reich needs to be led by American forces, intelligence, privately contracted armies and loaned assets in the imperialist crusades of the 21st century, while yet insisting that disruption and rancor are tools to be used to leverage extortion against the American beltway Left in order to wall fucking Mexico off now two years from their most violent year in recorded history. None of which, inexplicably (as it is in opposition to the catastrophic portent of the Trump administration not to mention that beltway events are absolutely more compelling than almost anything in theaters or on net telly) anybody can amywhere be even bothered to be generally apprised of, which is the worst thing now that the intellectual revolution has been hijacked by the drean team if feminazi Democrats recently elected to the house and senate, composed of female 'poiticians' who genuinely believe that their vaginas and hastily scripted post-modern rhetoric can be loaded into a superweapon that will impeach Trump, annihilate all testosterone on the continental United States, while ending poverty, making a pan-gender equilateral of all workforce compensation and reverse 'climate change,' whatever the Christ that's supposed to be. It seems nothing less than a gavel-pounding announcement of the dissolving of our cognitive root structure- or we have reached our limit as a thinking mass of citizenry and are devouring ourselves in internecine culture wars as an organic conclusion to Western civilization. This causes me no kind of discomfort, certainly no emotional anguish, to consider and in fact I am grateful that I will not be, as it turns out, launching a family, into such a maelstrom of rancor that can only be the precursor to actual civil war. It should however be stated that the civil war is already in motion with boots on the ground, if only metaphoricaly- though that could not be argued compellingly following Charottesville, or, hell, since the era of the mass shooting kicked off with the Virginia Tech massacre, the first widely disseminated high-body-count event I can recall with a killer who was an irrevocably mysterious figure, a loner who had suddenly become a weapons expert, much in the way the Aurora shooter would had to have been for the narrative to hold together.

The modern Manchurian candidate, if it could ever be allowed as a theory in popular media for these bizarre zombie killers, is not an assassin but a berserkang death machine who almost always commits sepiku-by-bullet and who cannot be enshrouded in a respectable fog of mystery in this the age off the Net. But these are all an argument against the gnostic worldview of inquisition for the average plebicite droid, woke Left proto-fascist gender-smashing brown shirt (who already has their architecture of bureaucratic or antique cultural villainy to rhapsodize over[thus shadow-legitimizing a conspiratorial view of their own]) or the semi-conscious centrist User who now adopts Trump-hate as a default middle ground position. All is politicized and the personal is partisan, oriented in groups based on identitarian notions or dietary preferences or whatever-the-hell earns the rank of category- and this is where the real evil of tu quoque, with personal incredulity, leading to black-or-white attribution error by way of false cause 'you disagree that there is value to this wave of female democratic politicians being The Answer or a meaningful victory because they are women, and I don't see how you could disagree therefore(impossbly) you are a Trump supporter.(potentially a Conservative, quite likely a sexist) This twisting abuse of logic completely derails at the end with attribution of being on the side of depravity, even though Trump does not exist in that false dichotomy of the black-or-white red/blue assignation and the opponent(me) is thus politicized, lecherously. I don't imagine that this kind of loathsome mental incompetence has ever actually been mainstream, but due to strawman attacks on credibility and even gaslighting, if media figures and politicos could be held to the level of authority which would conceivably threaten an opponent's ability to justify their own use of logic based on facts, which is an evil of the first order that must be contended with and addressed in every conversation about the current executive leadership now that those ostensible figures of authority routinely distort truths or invent narratives to satisfy this war on whatever it is Trump is supposed to represent(answer: our own failures, personal and on up) and upon rationality itself.

Importantly, Donald Trump is likely having his children taught Mandarin despite his faux-tough talking with the trade dispute, but is not trying to tell anyone that Barron Trump is whatever gender, age, race, species or amalgamate of such that the child says he is because The Donald's hypocricy is strategic and necessary, not (ultimately) emotionally-based insolent disregard for the nature of empirically-contestable notions of what is real. Even if he has a record for embellishing or being statistically fallacious with his arguments or apparent sensibilities. The most important thing about The Don is that he's an animal of business, which means that he ducks and weaves in order to win contractually his battles, not because he could ever be made to care about being literally right about anything. These generally accepted complaints about his character are quite possibly his greatest asset as it produces the net effect of him being misunderstood as an empathic creature.

Trump cares not one fuck about anything except blustering his way to victories no matter how dubiously those potential successes may benefit him. It has never been more enjoyable with less energy invested for me to watch people tear their hair from their scalps over nothing or over issues and contests of relevance, but for the wrong reasons. And so, I have indeed politicized, but only ironically, which is exactly how to enlist the interest of a disinterested or -disenfranchised party who has no real stake in such games and power plays, which is only true for people considered to be on the poverty line, like myself, who are perpetually at the mercy of forces they cannot control, no matter what horseshit plebicite droids and centrists might have (been socially engineered to) tell themselves is the power of voting locally, or getting involved, whatever-the-shit. Give me a fucking break, or throw me a bone, but don't push your droid logic down my throat as a means of apologizing with with logically unsupportable platitudes that you did not think of yourself and which only serve to allow your justification about why it's OK not to fret about things that are fret-worthy, like a socio-cognitive civil war on reason itself buried under a thousand tons of blood-stained partisan rhetoric about the sancity of American foreign interests dressed up in a 29-year-old socialists friggin' party dress. Fuck.

If there's one thing that the world is not experiencing that is proportionately unjust to the degree that it should be experienced is the fact that a gnostic mental framework is being fought and asphyxiated by this war on Reason. I have accepted divinity but not the divine right of kings, for even if there were any true kings, or hell, fucking queens, left in this god-deserted world, they themselves don't realistically grasp that ancient concept of divinity, though their handlers and banking magnate controller Archons just might. Where is the threat if anything like the Illuminati could be a cogent body or institution, or even a thought-form that colors the actions of any institution? If there's anything to fear, it's Crowleyist materialism informed and guided by star magic, like Knowles suggests. The idea of a wide-scale congregational Satanic/Mithraist movement infiltrating the masses as a psychological operation, as just more but yet most insidious social engineering, then it's yeoman's work, because that would take too much effort. No, it's just the death-fixation of a species in decline.

Civilization's culture-makers and the plebes who buy and Use are just catching up to the project that the Crowleyites purveyed and the Operation Gladio imperialists of the 20th century unwittingly promoted by holding the world hostage with the threat of violence and economic overthrow whenever outright slaughter and occupation is strategically bankrupt or prohibitively expensive: we have warred for a hundred years now to crush socialism only to see it emerge from within the Left, which is only unconscionable if history isn't taken into consideration, which it never is when the average plebe is asked to consider the Peterson position that the blood-drinking Nazi state machine was built in the vacuum of Hitler's Leftist(radical secular nationalist) overthrow. Yes, Shield really has been Hydra all along.