The Altered Man’s Journal, Pt. 6

it’s like a sermon. And here we sit, another weekend long awaited, on these couches consuming us as we consume our rewards for another completed week of the arduous and mundane. Another one down for the count (who’s keeping count?). But we couldn’t wait for the weekend to wait for us to begin rewarding ourselves, as is typical behavior for us quick-to-trigger-the-reward-pathway-kids. Spoiled. Undisciplined. And we pay for our impatience, burned out too quickly to properly milk this unscheduled downtime; hell, it’s only 20:19 on a Saturday, and already we’ve been reduced to the dreaded loop of couch-locked silence. And so dearly will we pay for this pattern down the road, cognitively scorched in due time. Three final white lines are laid out in parallel on my cell phone’s screen and a cylindricated electric bill is pinned under the edge of my laptop to keep it from unrolling. My Beomaster 2400 sings Zappa’s Apostrophe (‘), and he’s the most enthusiastic one here;

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