doomscrolling: mourning and premenstrual melancholia.
okay. from dusk till dawn: shitposting your way through the abyss. void

Trigger warning: sex, suicide, moderate violence, crude humor.

 Hello. Thank you for your email. My Google Drive is the saddest thing in the world. We are in the midst of a paradigm shift and I’m choosing availability. Semi-passionate things that end badly are circulated within self-extinguishing stories. An economy of stress. All I want is for my ankles to be warmer. I woke up, I opened my eyes, and I scrolled all the way back. What did I do with those bloody desires? Summer went by and I have a cold burrito staring at me. I’m reliving my reveries trying to feel something. My brain wasn’t designed to consume all these layers of time and narratives and goodbyes. People just pass time now. The algorithm knows heaven on earth is doing the things you love with the people you love. This is how you make an experience that people remember. But my energy is way too valuable for that. With respect, I’m taking my heart off the table. It’s good to hibernate if that’s what you need. Stalk me anywhere you like. I do a lot of things I probably shouldn’t be doing, in a multitude of third places. Everything is transaction. Spiderman is the reason I’m not a believer. Last year I spent a million pounds on vintage wine. Now, strange, horny game ads are flooding social media. I just tap for more, ceremonially. Ten people were shot and no one died. One friend called me, and now is gone. The future is happening immediately. It tastes like I’m thirsty on a long car journey and the windows won’t open. I feel humbled by the desire to live, but in a hopeless way. Like that time I got into a fight at a hot dog stand, and thought that’s the closest I’ll ever get to being a man. All I want to do is tuck my phone in and take it out again. I think spring did it to me. Broadcast the real-time experience of that moment a woman realizes she either has chlamydia or is pregnant. I am dumping my diaries on my semi-anonymous social media following. And I like how this obscures everyone. The word diarrhoea has never been said to me so many times. The magnitude of environmental destruction undermines the value of planning long term in advance. Life is pure in its ignorance. I ushered into the chat and only found more sadness. And still it’s hard to be a goth. There are too many ways to send memes to each other. I couldn’t believe it really: one day he was alive, the next day he was dead. The unpaid labor of living through history together. The cloud is not a nebulous place. I’m just lost in a labyrinth I have created for myself. I like waking up to a crossword and a fresh cup of cold brew. The perfect diet for a supervillain. My mouth just went on a journey. I have manufactured a completely frivolous world for me to live in. A rabbit-warren an-architecture of croissants and crayons, where strippers are doing things I never thought were possible. Killing time with my own flock of melancholic mutuals. Bless their little cotton socks. I don’t really want to do things on Sundays unless it’s sex. My body is a prison. I can’t wait to take a shower and put on cowboy boots. What am I gonna do with this limb of glass? My screen is not opaque anymore. Shattered and fragmented like the parts of my psyche that I will never regain. I’ve never really tried to undo. Small everyday story replies are the heartbeat of my life. I am suffering from a severe cognitive dissonance that makes me want to do the same thing I do everyday again. But I’m stuck in the age of technological specification, and an apartment I can’t afford. After all, love is something that you grow in your server farm. Airdrop rejection is the worst feeling. I hope that doesn’t happen to me when I get older, that I look like I have another human inside of me who is approachable. Sometimes I just wish to be an idiot and scare people out at bars. See how much memory I have left. Instead, I feel energized by the ritual practice of reproducing my life as a connected chain of events until it’s a whole mood. Posting is not a solitary practice. It’s about a collective sense of online dysmorphia. It feels like it’s 5 o’clock in the morning on a lovely day. A great day to trample on the truth. When shall I post? Within the siloed environments of socio-immunological micro-climates, I need strategies to deal with the sugar coating on the cake of torment: distributed intelligence circulates different forms of intimacy, and they shapeshift. Do you trust me? I’m not playing. I’m just deconstructing myself on various devices. It’s a work of fiction. Any similarity to living accounts, active or deleted, or recent private chats, is purely coincidental. I was born and I’m still here. Accumulating little pieces of non-death: canned laughter, bottled tears; a picture, a film, or gut health videos on TikTok. I have the ability to get aggravated about anything. And it takes the age of the universe to reverse it. Expectations of explicitness are countered by murmured, enigmatic utterances, as we get older and older and older. And I’m waiting, waiting, waiting. I don’t know for what. Testimonials of survival. What is this ball of fire doing hovering in the middle of space? It could be a pathway of some sort, to test, reconceive and play the potential force of nostalgia against itself. Last seen just now. If it’s either sex or nostalgia, I’m choosing sex. I think I never told anyone. You can’t do it if you don’t have a bank account. The individual is monitored and mapped into the technosphere. Synced within a chronological sense of time that suggests a beginning, a story that unfolds and eventually, is deleted. In this onto-epistemological economy? I’m not immortal, and I don’t have time for this. This is not a decision I have taken lightly. If you require pastoral assistance please ask a stranger if they, too, feel like they are both the main character and the dominant narrator of their own life, and which implications this has on what it means to write history at all, and who is authorized to write it. I will respond upon my return. Thank you.