Freeze-Up: A Satire

Indecisive beginning. Essence of misunderstanding exponentially increases to the dismay of the unknowing working class, creating self-aware techno-lucidity and initializing subcultural apparition-spawning of French continental philosophers with desecrated legacies. The intoxicated background noise commentary chattering and hammering on without awareness of playback riffs on mass shootings, global warming, and fascism without assisting in its ceasing, and the self-made pseudo-schizo academic figurines summon intermediate reversals of entropy that project gossamer nano-web-illusions, broadening their vocabulary in the process, amping up their superegos in the clinical shadow of normal life to proceed towards the finish line of life without an acrid depressive doubt of being cancelled by self-unbirth-wishing Gen Z shells. The Old Ones watch on retroactively and propose hyper-whatever-the-fuck as a device for human beings to proudly equip, accidentally slo-mo torn to shreds by disciplinary monofixation, redacting any chance of being booked into the near future. BwO what's this? Deliberate sensory overload untimely dies and enters the elite symposium, reviving the arrow-time pharmaneutical disinfo campaign of being "pilled". Sooner or later, when one of a million in a wealthy generational pentagon of academic cuntlifers suggests eugenics as a solution at the aforementioned triennial Dream Slaughter Conference, he steps down and courageously demands a swirlie, out of delta-wave embarrassment, from a book-judged-by-cover marginally-marginalized reverse aristocrat bookworm teen. Hypo-capitalist abattoir condos are finally built out of aphorisms strengthened with cum, and a priestly orthodox subject, standing by a particularly erect-gentrific apærtment, engraved with the words "blackpilled boomer" on his forehead is captured in split-second surveillance news blasted with cyber-gratified AmeriKKKan intuition.

At this stage, the author is submerging her head in the pithy gelled acned slime of her hands, and the ghost of Bill Burroughs is seen patting her on the back, saying "Great job, sport. I can tell you now, the folks at home will get it."

The issue with both volumes of Capitalism & Schizophrenia by Dolce & Gabbana is that their primitive droning-on drive is conspiciously trapped by intention, rather than unlocked and freed into the real world, yet the books are simply boring, and their sorcery is best given to successive academic industry plants, because once it gains meta-irony the inanity of such a statement means it doesn't have to be said. If they had been wiretapped before they got a chance to write their PDFs, we would have seen radical direct action at the hands of the European police state, and the absolutely irritating aesthetic-brand Internet slack-pseudo-schizo homo pussy leftists would no longer own glitch art generators as private property. This reality has yet to exist, but the post-human principle, with its drive towards altering reality by suggesting what you want to happen to people who can make it happen for you, is starting to chthonic-catatonic overwhelm itself (think macro-generational ether-trauma) and hide in its techno-shells at the illuminating sight of deeply evolved cultural technology – like satire. "The price to pay for existence is eternal warfare." Neo-Hashshashin cores of spatially transfinite headspace erupt in militaristic harmony and simultaneously weep pure decay. Having never read Neuromancer, but liking the prose, a hidden cognition of the author arises and holds itself steady through the blistering intellectual turmoil.

Believe the hype. Move slow, think fast. Text gains sample-rate quality assurance delirium and terminally flinches and chatters, and the metaphor completely breaks when ether-rhetoric sloganeering enters the battlefield. Use big words, me big think, haha. The measurement of entropy dawns upon humanity as an antídotos (or prescription med) to cerebral future melancholia. The silver curtains are drawn, and the resolution is set in place to hope for a less miserable technological revolution, something stronger than a decade culminating in the word "incel" floating in a Bad Alchemist's power-corrupt scrying bowl (As above, never below; a misfortune induced by post-academic hubris.) Sleeping in grey noise and waking up to the hallucination of a utopia. Moral of the story: never make a persona the only meaning of a polemic.