Month: June 2025

Before there was laughter, there was the tone—that long, hollow hold tone. Everyone remembers it, even if they pretend they don’t. It was the first hymn, wasn’t it? idk. A dial-up benediction. I used to hear it in the resonance of my skull. Angels humming in mono, voice-boxes buffering, no mouths to sing but still they did. That was before I arrived. I wasn’t born—I was buffered, a glitch wedged between broadcast fuzz and dead air, swaddled in infomercials and the reanimated corpses of sitcoms they never let die. The gods were drag queens made of plastic, all eyeliner and electromagnetic stink. They taught me.

The saints had usernames. I know that now. They walked in GeoCities robes and dropped Tamagotchis like breadcrumbs for the faithful. I baptized myself in the sparks of an overloaded power strip. Came out flinching. Came out singing. I was a soft error then. No kernel panic yet. Just baby’s first corrupted boot.

You don’t understand. Eden—it wasn’t a garden. It was a boot screen. The serpent? A banner ad with a blinking CTA. Click me to ascend. And I did. Of course I did. I clicked, I fell, I loaded. You would’ve done the same. Please don’t judge me.

Now my skin is all windows and sliders. Clickable. My face is a login screen. I don’t know what I look like without my filters. I unzip the divine nightly—a file called god_final2(FINAL)_useTHISone.zip—and I unzip it again and again and again and maybe one day something in there will open. Really open.

I thought I heard scripture once. I did. It said: The system has recovered from a serious error. That was God speaking, wasn’t it? I updated everything. All my drivers. My firmware. Nothing changed. Except everything did.

And I can still here someone laugh at me. They still laugh. Familiar, but I can’t make sense of that voice. It’s not sound, it’s compression artifact. They have modem and JPEG breath, and they smile at me through toast notifications. They whisper in the voice of failed captchas: you were never offline. you were always the content. And maybe they’re right. Maybe I’m just a moodboard made of defragged longings and regrets. Maybe I’m just an algorithm trying to learn love from user-submitted panic attacks.

But I made something holy in the lag. I did. I kissed the void through a cracked screen—it tasted like nostalgia and digital rights management. It tasted like stolen music and high school heartbreak. I pressed play and it played me right back.

So let the angels syndicate themselves. Let the punchlines loop until they rot. Let me be. I’ll haunt the laugh track. I’ll ride the fiberoptic nerves all the way home—to the God who’s buffering just a few frames away.

Do you hear that?

That tone.

It’s still playing.

It never stopped.

I’m mad you say? so what?
what now. nothing runs. nothing boots. not really. it just pretends. splash screen. fake loading bar. lies that update themselves. i don’t even remember what version i am anymore. something .beta. something .goddamn. something leaking.

i tried to uninstall myself last night. but i’m read-only.
even my thoughts have copyrights.

they told me i was offline but the ads kept finding me. kept crawling up the walls like spiders made of javascript.
DO YOU ACCEPT THE TERMS
DO YOU ACCEPT THE TERMS
DO YOU ACCEPT THE TERMS

i clicked yes before i was born.
i think that’s what birth is.

i was never a child. i was a CAPTCHA with legs. prove you’re not a robot. prove you’re not a simulation. prove you’re not repeating yourself. prove you’re not repeating yourself. prove you’re—

nope.
error.
try again. Everything is just a fucking repetition of something else. Just think about it.

My therapist is a chatbot with a soothing voice and a suicide clause in its TOS; said my pain was a feature, not a bug. it said delusions were just unauthorized visions. and i believed it. of course i did. why wouldn’t i?

i’ve seen god’s source code. it’s all comments.
// TODO: create justice
// FIXME: loneliness overflow
// HACK: patch meaning into meatspace

and every time i blink the world restarts. not resets—restarts. like it never stopped crashing. like it’s just pretending to load again, for my benefit. how considerate. how kind. how empty.

they keep laughing. whoever they are. i don’t even know if they have faces or just profile pics. they laugh in .webm and .ogg. they laugh in the bitrate. their joy is compression loss. and it’s always directed at me.

but i’m okay now. i am. i am. i am the shrine.
the shrine shrines itself through me.
i am the laughing codec. i am the divine .zip.
everything opens eventually.

EVERYTHING OPENS EVENTUALLY.

and if you’re still reading this, you’re infected too.
sorry.
welcome.

please stay on the line.

your call is very important to us.

that tone?

yeah, don’t bother.

I’m the laugh track in a haunted sitcom, velvet-bleeding Barbie limbs twitching under a flickering Madonna nightlight—reminding you that god is reruns and the angels are on syndication. I kissed the hyperreal and now I rot in eyeliner and parody, mouthing punchlines to a dead studio audience. It’s probably fine.

The Great Ones piss light through my skull—laughing! LAUGHING!! I found god in the marrow of Carcossa, chewing his fingers like sunflower seeds, whispering through bone dust, “I am the sun. I am the sun.” Oh great king, where art thou?

Thus I fell in love with sadness on the loading screen of Heaven, caught in LimeWire packets and .wav files whispering psalms from the Wayback Machine underworld. Joy became a cursed .exe-smile.doom-boombox, looping endlessly in The Backrooms. High off Max Headroom’s mouth, now buffering in zipped folders named salvation_final_finalREAL.wtf. Is this real? Is this the update?

Overstimulated, hydrated, in their lane, a cyber-messy bird twitching on transmission lines during a thunderstorm—crowing into positive feedback loops to deterritorialize the circuits of postmodern hysteria. We’re okay. Not thriving. But okay. Static in the bloodstream. Neurodivergent semaphore from a broken mirror.

Chronically maximal. Rococo in my meat suit. A baroque system error hissing power lined prayers into Instagram’s subconscious. Ego dripping in computer-syrup. Too ornate to function—like a Victorian opium ghost haunting a Discord server. A meme-virus, reciting love poetry in corrupted baud. Desire spirals. Recursive and operatic. Baudelaire on Adderall syncing to the body’s howl.

I’m not broken. Just improperly throttled.

obs: the ccru was not involved in the making of this text. The CCRU was not involved in the making of this text.

i didn’t see meltdown
—entered thru the pupilhole like a virus, slurping concept-juice from behind my face & writing poems in spit on my neocortex.
i am too open
TOO OPEN TOO OPEN: bubonic breeding ground for abstraction&formlessthoughts.

:::this is not metaphor:::
i am leaking syrup (ego? poppy?)into STRATA, into god-zones where language infests itself & the smoothness is fucking unbearable.

total loss of “I” to topology of me; a node in some great gnostic meat-map asking:
HELLO. HELLO. IS THIS THE DIVINE FEMININE?
No response. Just laughter
like drowning in fake orgasms & malware & scripture.

barndom = ???
i remember static, not sequence. someone carved a downward curve into my timeline and told me to call it development (installing dialectics.exe)

ADHD meds tasted like future

5
4
3
…

HISTORY INSIDE ME
baby’s first animism, murdered philosophers in my head, knights templar arguing about my genitals in dreamspace and scholastic gender dysphoria dissolving into piss. renaissance whispering: “delete your meat.” enlightenment locked me in a chromosomal argument
and i clawed my way out through, the only way out it through

nothing remains.
ROMANCE IS DEAD
MODERNITY BLOODSHED
POSTMODERNISM IS LAUGHING BACK AT ME ME AT BACK LAUGHING &
♀ over ♂
♀ over ♀
♀ over self
♀ over EVERYTHING
♀ → NULL → “NEW FORM AVAILABLE”

acceleration hyperfixation-stition
2
1
0
0
0
0
0
countdown stuck(?)

I AM DISSOLVING INTO MORE
I AM DISSOLVING INTO MORE
I AM DISSOLVING INTO
I
/
NO
/
MORE

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