The yellow aura
spiraled my night elf hunter avatar
as the DUN-DUMM
of false accommplishment
incited my addiction to
instant gratification.

I had just Leveled up.

The quest giver
gave me a choice

****** boots
Or
a less ****** Dagger

I took the ****** boots
because
**** the system
they looked cooler.

I was going to stomp cave spiders anyway,
what's the point of relinquishing
looking **** fine.
for an extra Attack Point?

****** Boots.

****** boots ALL Day long.

A naked human avatar
dances
facing a naked gnome
Named: "Buzz Lightyear"
He is Also dancing,
at crotch height.

This is Typical starting zone
foolery

I stayed up
watching Toonami all night
Naruto, Bleech, Inuyasha.
I could tell the sun came up
not because there was a window in my Kitchen,
there wasn't.

Tom and Jerry came on.
everyone knows
when Tom and Jerry came on
you were no longer pulling an
"all nighter."
You're pulling a
"Drink enough Soda
to get through the rest
of the day-er"

My entire diet
these past two days
has consisted of Gushers & Vault
because
Clearly Coca-Cola is superior
to Pepsi.

Therefore, Vault
was superior to Mountain Dew.
Which is the typical choice drink
of my internet brethren.

I don't know why I dyed my hair black nobody online could see it
But it made me feel
more
like my Night Elf Avatar

I wanted long white hair
I realized that's impossible
in 6th grade
So I Bought & Settled for Black
At least I could be like
"L" from death note,
Long sleeve white shirt, jeans
with no shoes.

I could also be
any other black-haired charecter
From any other angsty Anime
Because of course I loved angsty Anime
Because I held my cell phone like "L"
From Death Note.

I always dreamed
of this singing venus fly trap.

A Fuzzy Memory with a lost Origin
I realized seven years later
the Singing venus flytrap in my head
was AUDREY 2
from Little Shop Of Horrors.

Netflix reunited us in College
Audrey 2 finally Serenaded Me.
I listened with Voyeuristic Intentions
As memory saprilings grew
into the full songs
relieving the void in my soul
Lingering for a Man to be attacked
by a singing venus fly trap
in his own kitchen.

But only once,
Because I firmly beleived
movies should only be seen once
until I stopped
dyeing my hair black.
Despite watching Space jam
more times than any kid born in 1995 Should have
but still
all the kids born in 1995
watched space jam
more than any of them should have
because they were born in 1995.

Apparently
when I first saw little shop of horrors
it aired just before osmosis jones.

I love osmosis jones
almost as much as I love
Buzz lightyear, of Star Command

Buzz lightyears robot companion XR
reminded me of Cyberchase
and to this day Cyberchase
is the best show to watch
when you have no idea
who Gilbert Godfrey is.

Zoombinis is better
than oregon trail.
and also better
than Tom and Jerry.
but not better
than leveling my night elf Hunter.
Named:
"FEED ME A PIZZA!"

I think I spent more time
getting my Zoombinis
to look just right
then I Spent deciding
what outfit to wear

Routine
Black striped Hoodie
Unwashed and worn every day
Grey skulls all over it, because
of course it had grey skulls all over it.
Black pants.
Black socks
No actually, THESE black socks.
Okay, got gushers
and my Coca-Cola.

I now take as much time
to choose my outfit as
designing the perfect Zoombini.
however I have yet to replace
my legs
With
a skateboard.

I think that every grade before sixth grade is fourth grade
and 6th grade is basically 7th grade
which is to say my memory skips them both
to remember ending eighth grade

I miss being cool on the Internet
Whilst lame and forgotten in real life.

like black sock
wasn't quite as good
as that other Black sock.

I wanna go back.
To the seperation
Of who we pretend to be
Vs. who we actually are.
To be dramatic again.
incomparable.

An ideal self on the internet
Who is obviouslly not the real you
is decades more comforting
than Some Characatureized
Facebook Profile.

Today I was offered a choice

Work A minimum wage job
or
continue my useless college degree.

I decided to write a poem, because
**** the system.
If I am to Decide where to respawn from
Let it be poetry.

There is no spiraling Yellow aura
or DUN-DUMM

Sometimes there is snapping though.
Or a lost memory
of A singing venus Fly Trap.

I am a pretend person.
An avatar
just now, I have skin.
You can touch me
I breath without a Macro
or even pressing any keys.

I cannot bring myself to
Watch Space Jam again.
I can Identify Gilbert Godfrey's voice.
I will buy my children zoombinis
And it will collect dust
When all they want
Is to watch the fifth Toy Story movie
Way more than any kid born in 2020 should.
And all the kids born in 2020
Will Watch the fifth Toy Story Movie
Way more than they should
because they
will have been born
in 2020.

And I will rant
about the Missing LGM
and Warp Darkmatter
betraying Buzz Lightyear
By joining Evil Emperor Zurg
So Buzz was forced
to get three new Partners
Princess Mira Nova
Audrey 2
and Osmosis Jones.
because I will have Forgotten
Booster & XR.
Because Booster and XR
Never made a ******* Facebook Profile.

Nobody exists anymore.
We are all represented by our avatars
holding ourselfs up to the standards
of our photoshopped reflections

Being disappointed and overwhelmed

I Take pills to forget that I am
Acting Like myself
but can't find any evidence of Existing.
Besides these memories
of who i used to be.

I want my internet persona
to be nothing like me
So that I may focus on myself
in the real world coherently.

I want thick black lines
dividing mental Venn diagrams

I want Tom and Jerry
To signal me
That it is morning, again.

"But what if we're wrong?"
It was silent
But her thoughts echoed around in my head as we laid on top of her pickup truck
I swatted at the eighteenth mosquito chewing on my leg
I don't want this to be love

We were tangled up in the acoustic music they play on the radio on Sunday mornings
She was trying to dream up something clever to write about
And I was pretending I could learn to play guitar through osmosis,
As if blending myself in with the harmonies, finding her in every lyric, and sheer willpower would give me wings or at least magic guitar hands

She set the alarm, checked it over and over
She was not going to be late for her first day
I told her I'd be asleep when she got home, she told me she knew
I told her to wake me up

I wasn't looking for perfect
Perfect really only applies in first year physics courses
After that, we learn to fall in love with "rough around the edges" or "unique" or "unfinished"
As if their life is a puzzle that we need to complete
Just so you know, it isn't

She bought me breakfast and dropped me off
She used to tell me she loved me, but I know she didn't
She does now, so she doesn't have to say it anymore
When I said, "love," before, I didn't really mean it
Not like I mean loving the garden on the balcony of her apartment or thunderstorms in May
Even if I was a puzzle that she completed (and I'm not saying that I am), we didn't need any glue to fit perfectly

psychosis and osmosis....
   one the soul, the other
simply water...
      in dictionary
verbatim:
the passage of a solvent (ego) through
a semipermeable membrane (body) from
a less concentrated (thought) to a more
concentrated solution (soul) until both
solutions are of the same concentration (now) -
    and the end of a romance is?
the so called "madness"
becomes a topic less and less used
by writers of fiction,
  it becomes genuine,
it also means fiction parasites,
poets included, don't dare to tread
into a goose-march stepping into this Hades....
    you don't come round these parts by
yourself... unless you're hoping to
end up dead... or trapped by a dialectical
spiderweb with talking spinders...
       you dont get to type  this ailment out...
not in the same way you write the
word osmosis....
but then again, in the west you get to
be a victim of a crime: the criminal
       gets all the perks and you get
   Belgian mud to sniff,
while a monarchy gets to celebrate
its 65th sapphire encirclement...
               psychosis should be as clear as
osmosis...
                 in that we need water....
                    obviously very few people understand
this...
                dein die kopftod...
   i call an end to romantics with "madness",
well... given cancer has the prioraties...
                so the crowd might
congregate at Golgotha...
                  i say: walk the, ******* crab!
side-ways, yes, side-ways,
   like imitating suicide on a ledge....
you made enough money from the diseases,
true when under the scalpel:
dis- (negated) -ease (do i need
to exfoliate this?) -
                   i can only see a death of making
certain diseases a case for the worthwhile tale
of selling novels...
            i can't imagine exploiting
the said diseases... but if i was born with
a capitalist conscience, i'd hardly think of
possessing a conscience...
               i'd say death to the romance
of establishing a literary subject...
              i'd prescribe the Koran...
           as odd as it might sound...
you don't really hear how
psychosis can really be stated lorem ipsum
ad hoc...
   the first you hear is
         the miser medatitive attempts in
the medium, precipitating into paranoid
schizophrenia... no more medical than it is:
politico-journalistic...
                 psychosis and osmosis...
what's the difference... one engages the soul....
the other... water...
the ending is the same -osis...
   a verb, an activity self-explanatory
in a name... easily digested via journalistic
sensationalism...
        it becomes a death then the "mad" onces
realise you're herding them into a novel
and rather run a half marathon for
  the cancer victims...
   then ***** begins to turn sticky....
                 the hierarchy of diseases emerges...
cancer pharaoh... alongside the other adverts
for flu, smomking and lesser diseases...
then they tell you how Muhammad treated
the lunatics like modern Islam might deal with
Sufis...
                   some would care to say:
these people, are, not, money-dispensing
machines!
                        but then again...
who gives a ****... i don't even know or care
if you're conscious,
    i know that conscience is not part
of your consciousness, then i'm treating you
are semi-coordinate,
   probably sleepwalking through your so
called life...
   madess has no romance for a novel,
but since you testify to people being mad
only via a model... i can't but expect your novels
to later come from glamour models
writing their ghost-biographies...
   ghostwriters... auto- not near
unless bound to refining a.i.,
oh don't worry: only books written
as books necessarily sold...
                      this has gone beyond pimping
the pompous... it really has...
                  i can't even be prone to pomp,
i can't believe in writing a book
like i might don a cravat or a beefeaters' uniform...
      books have nothing
      grand about them...
writing them we're cheap ****... very much akin
to the last ruke on the chess board:
      lifestyle journalists with  a steady income
from being printed in newspapers...
did you know robots will replace 250,000 jobs
bound to the NHS and Whitehall?
    better write scrappy, ******-doo....
they might think you're human...
           then i guess it only sounds as the prompt:
write doubly human...
   for the added effect...
             write like those employed by newspapers,
esp. the opinion columns...
can shove it up their *****...
   drink theoir gin & tonics...
think their opinions,
   and replace their premature / non-existent
dialectics, by crushing ice-cubes with their teeth.
    i can only claim being human
by not romanticising "madness"...
                         i think it's a tabloid
venture that's, well... deservedly in need of a novel...
  i can only suggest the alternative:
stop the romance of "madness",
            and stop desiring to write novels about "it",
before you turn and realise
that your sanity was prone to stage
           the alternative... zeitgeist and insect
"typo" homily.
oh, it's there... but no one thinks those people
are half-as-cult-like as they,
         there's no "secret" / shadow bribing
someone from both ease, and from seeing
an ease for dis...
                     it's just nice, seeing people pray,
kneel...
                 play into the hands of a puppeteer...
who may or may not exist...
counter to all the intelligent arguments:
try merely existing, rather than living...
  try to state i think therefore i am:
            and move it away from forgetting
that you think, and simply live...
             most people who express life
hardly ever think...
                   well... you can't see thought:
meaning their life is not so cyclic
and at the same time limited...
               cogito ergo sum is equivalent to
Zeno's paradox...
     to occupy yourself with thinking
          is to de-occupy yourself with living...
you can try to prove with thought that you
exist, but in that same instance:
your thought means less and less...
since by thinking occupy a finite space...
   and with life about you taking its course...
your cogito becomes trapped in a noumenon...
since that your self cannot
                    express a phenomenon...
given the number of example trapped
in the category of **** sapiens,
this is as natural as taking antibiotics for
a flu... only that it's purely cognitive...
or rather: cogito per se...
            cogito per se ergo sum quasi se...
given non cogito est pseudo cogito ergo sum...
   mind you: there's no pseduo sum...
we already rule given we can't
turn into the abstract burial ground of hindus
that's a fire... and how we have strated
to build up a phobia for being taken into the earth
for insect food...
   even the pagans believed to give the body
a soul, a fire burial...
   if that practice remained, there would
be no reference to monotheistic ****...
       or we would turn into Chinese omnivores...
i find it bewildering that the Hidus and Chinese
have been so ****** patient with us...
count to 1 billion in English...
  years... probably another 1000 years to
reach that number of snooker-player plumbers
and carpenters ready like vulchers...
  cos we really needed that "perfected" aesthetic
of a web-page to really, really clog our brains...
thinking that it wouldn't precipitate into
a loss of body, a sudden loss of body,
  and the emerges of youth with mental illnesses
akin to premature depression, when depression
was the disease of the old, in the gravity cursing
toward, for ****'s sake! Homer!
    yes, the Greek poet!
                  how can you suddenly expect
to make mentala illness a myth, + a taboo...
when you prescribed people gym memberships...
and a complete lack of manual labour,
having exported it to China...
  the ******* on about?
      we're suddenly the new Marxist theory samples...
brains in pickle-jars...
     completely spineless!
                 we wanted both mind and body...
instead... the powers-at-be... told us:
you only need a mind... no body...
   body belongs to hamster... to the gym...
  well... but i really wanted to think crap and hammer
in nails all day... no can do... Chinese have it...
well...
                 what's the point now?
how else would Islam, not be agitated in prescribing us
a war?
           i still find it bewildering that the Chinese
and the Indians (2 billions, and counting)
are so patient with us...
                   still... you want to know why
there's an escalation in youth mental illness in the west?
you gave their bodies to the Chinese...
  no way in the world can their minds (including
my own) ever reach a plateau of an Einstein that
would be satisfactory for the authorities,
to move away from Einstein... and establish
a telekinetic norm (as seen on adverts).