We need to talk.

I became the Philosophical Zombie...

...and in the process proved it both right and wrong...

Oh fucking hell... shit's getting real. What is this 'we have to do something' that is so often thrown around? None of us have the resources that are really necessary, everybody is distracted by survival and their own issues... I know that it's not hopeless, but it sure seems like it. Right now, unimaginable horror is going on all over the world, but we sit in our reality bubbles just trying to function. How do we break the cycle? How does this end?

Look, people, there is a conspiracy. This rote human activity which defines all collaborative processes has somehow been surgically removed from the quotidian like a slice of some luminous pie, and placed beyond the remit of the canny. In other words, it is akin to the idea that an excursion to buy milk, bread and a gigantic dildo is the realm of the fantasist; to even suggest that such an excursion may take place is the raving of a paranoiac. To wit: the concept of conspiracy has been altered and alienated by the social engineers to make it appear fruity when in fact it is as much a part of human activity as masturbation and just as habitual.
You must come to terms with it in the same way that you have the fact that the sky turns dark every night. It is a fact of life to become accustomed to; to know intimately, but also to regard as regular, familiar, like a table.

What the fuck has happened to my picture?

Another thing that I shake my head at is this no-conspiracy movement arising within the ostensibly open-minded activist community, where any mention of conspiracy is handled with fraught emotion rather than the lucid everydayness which seems so obvious to me. Hey, 9/11 was an inside job, that's all there is to it. No need for a heated argument, I'm simply correct. To question the fact of conspiracy is as troubling to me as one who questions my eye colour or date of birth, that is to say not at all. I'll hardly take seriously these puffed-up and intellectually constipated servants of an obsolete orthodoxy.

You know what I'm sick of, O Bard? All these would-be critics who come to the likes of Finnegans Wake or Sein und Zeit and proclaim it mental masturbation. It highlights this phenomenon of the intelligent idiot, the intellectual dolt (I count Bertrand Russell high among these) who fail to recognise genius because they lack the necessary spiritual groundwork which is a prerequisite for appreciating this order of literature. A kindred ignorance is found in those who deny conspiracy.

Fucknuggets of twoof?! lol
:)

Not you Bard, you're not a fucknugget. Everyone else.

I'M A WRECK!
Listen to the song, fucknugget!