A Lovecraftian Meditation on the gripping Existential Horror of Americanism as seen by an Old Stock Yankee to the tune of Primus, which assuredly one is told; sucks – or, an exercise in fatalism encapsulating the gnawing dread of metacognition that your life is a scripted drama and you are a mannequin – or The Black Pill.

The Sperg Box

Forgive the pompous title, I was thumbing through an old book of Dali and considering the dynamics of how my high school gradually numbed my initial horror reflex and conditioned it to gradual faux-appreciation at a painting of a perverted little Bohemian Spaniard who may have shit himself and touched it with his fapping hand. Let the people($) say: this is the new America, which the failures of foundry have courted. Speaking of the suppressing of the gag reflex… Let’s take a stroll down The Street, and see if we can meet Lovecraft’s ghost on the corner of Oak and Pine. Will the wonders ever cease? For this to work, take roughly eleven minutes from the diminishing returns of your time on this Earth to listen to the following songs. (I listen to the latter on my morning commute to work, most days.)

American Life

Those Damned Blue Collar Tweakers

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