Sorry I can’t be friends with you anymore. I scanned your brain when you weren’t looking and it doesn’t have enough synaptic electricity. I’m trying to claw out of obscurity and I could snorkel in your dimness for centuries and never gain a thing beyond the odd sublime neurochemical lightning strike but mostly tons of brain damage. You need to work on yourself. I love you.

I’m only friends with people who emerge monkeylike from a clearing in the jungle, throw a coconut at my head, and, seeing me turn, retreat back through the vines. If you don’t have an insecure attachment style, get the fuck away from me. If you’re not building an audience, get the fuck away from me. Don’t you understand I can’t fit under the sun?

The urheimat of youthful meaning was at summer camp when we went to a public pool and I came back to the change room as dozens of pimply, mentally handicapped teenagers with shaved heads milled around naked, groaning. We all had the same tighty whiteys deposited on the benches. I had to choose a pair, but I chose wrong.

This clinic has a policy of diversity and tolerance for inappropriate behavior. If you lash out at an administrator, bark like a dog, graffiti Ted K quotes, or lunge at the doctor, you will not be removed from this clinic. You will not receive a warning. Just be yourself.

Between the Austrian painter and Bill Gates date-raping his rusty-shotgun-beaten Clifford the Red Dog wife with antibiotics, nothing happened. But things are happening again in 2026: I emailed Jeevacation because my mouth was astral-projecting light.

The most beautiful sentence in the English language is “I like your music more than the other guy’s.” As soon as I saw how women were ashamed of their husbands, I couldn’t unsee it—neckbeard nectars tapped in wintry forests. In your dream, my death was accompanied by the wailing of virgins and the tearing of hair. Mao Zedong rinsed his teeth with green tea.

I am 100% pure Etruscan except for the 1% Roman colonist that gives me my funny name and that’s the source of my family curse and disquiet and that keeps me up at night and is my only source of hope.

I can’t credit your transcendental empathy for all creatures due to your collecting government assistance. I can’t credit your tragic faustian hunter sense due to no one liking you. When I showed you the footage of your crimes you went nonverbal. Let me explain evil in 2026. Let me describe a guy. Sixty-four years old. Semi-high hemoglobin A1C. Big-boned, wears athleisure selectively. Makes $101,000 per annum as a lecturer–entrepreneur. Online certificate in Creativity. Round-framed designer spectacles. Smiles, grins, has borderline personality disorder. A middle-class Steven Spielberg, noble, subtle, capable of petty cruelty. Round-framed designer glasses.

In this plant nursery we’re oversocialized like a Swabian prince’s schlong. If you’re building an audience, you’re already dead.