I am getting sick of idiot advertising copywriters who invent markets to sell to manufacturers. They wish there were such things as aspirational bogans to make their own bourgie worlds a little less haunted by the spectre and FUCKING STENCH of bourgie guilt. Get your eco-bags and overpriced designer, thrift-shop clothes, and fuck off.
Copywriters are worse than tobacco companies; they are little tobacco machines. Every addiction is a cigarette. Every jaggard draw on their fucking Marlboro Light cigarettes is followed by half-open knowing stares. Red, red eyes look painfully, look, they look like you would at a shameful scar, of something half-forgotten and better not remembered, but they gaze out there, upon the world and full moon night craziness thinking in greeting card ESP.
Their fingers agitate, endlessly, occupied. Must stay occupied! Occupied by an invasory force! They collaborate with the enemy. Look! They look! Occupied. There is no resistance; resistance is futile. Except ifÂ ‘resistance’ constitutes a market. Agitate. Endlessly. Without resistance, like a ball bearing.
Finally, lungs are full, full of the world’s poison. After a trace, a deposit, a secret sliver, it begins to escape, through silent, creeping trails of smoke that whisper secret nihlistic magics of gradual, eventual abolition. They want you to believe that their nothing is of the highest order, highest! Pursue the order! Highest! Pure! Highest!