Sucks to be you, honestly. I mean, really. I wouldn't trade places with you for all the bananas in China or wherever they grow mostly in, or even a lifetime supply of those ridiculously expensive artisanal donuts. (*cries in Arabic* i didn't know simple things makes me happy WTFFFFFfFFFFfF)
Would anyone judge me if i say i was listening to 'beat it' by Michael Jackson all day?
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"MY BARBER(me) GOT ME FUCKED UUUUPPPPP" going to have that kinda experience in a few weeks
do people not realize the sleep you lose is lost forever and everytime you go through long periods of messed up sleep schedule it will have long lasting effects
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when Mitski said nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody ooh nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody no body no bo dy no bo dy no
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why everyone's trying to look smart and intelligent? can't we just be dummies together? Like the more you try to seem intellectual the more you look silly
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Today's nap... or whatever that was... has left me deeply unsettled. It wasn't a dream, not in the conventional sense. It was more like a recurring audio hallucination: me, endlessly chanting 'Marco' into the psychic ether, with absolutely no reciprocal 'Polo' forthcoming.
The weirdness isn't just the lack of participation; it's the implication. What does it mean that my subconscious, that swirling vortex of repressed desires and half-digested memories, refuses to engage in such a basic, fundamental act of call and response? Am I, at some deeply subconscious level, fundamentally unconnectable?
Perhaps the 'Polo' I'm seeking isn't an external entity, but an internal state – a missing piece of myself that I can only access by repeatedly, and futilely, shouting into the void. Maybe the whole point isn't to find Polo, but to become Polo, to embody the echoing response that the universe so stubbornly refuses to provide.
Or maybe, just maybe, it's a sign that I need to lay off the cheese before bed. But honestly, the existential terror seems like a more plausible explanation... And im thinking abt accepting sleep after 1,209,600 seconds or smth
The weirdness isn't just the lack of participation; it's the implication. What does it mean that my subconscious, that swirling vortex of repressed desires and half-digested memories, refuses to engage in such a basic, fundamental act of call and response? Am I, at some deeply subconscious level, fundamentally unconnectable?
Perhaps the 'Polo' I'm seeking isn't an external entity, but an internal state – a missing piece of myself that I can only access by repeatedly, and futilely, shouting into the void. Maybe the whole point isn't to find Polo, but to become Polo, to embody the echoing response that the universe so stubbornly refuses to provide.
Or maybe, just maybe, it's a sign that I need to lay off the cheese before bed. But honestly, the existential terror seems like a more plausible explanation... And im thinking abt accepting sleep after 1,209,600 seconds or smth
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when do i get to that point in my life where i'm not constantly thinking "i'm running out of time"
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