Free Stuff

The irony is thick when a Silicon Valley VC criticizes the concept of “free stuff” while the entire tech industry often thrives on giving away services for free, monetizing data, or operating on a “freemium” model. Silicon Valley’s success has largely been built on repurposing industries and offering free or heavily subsidized services to consumers, banking on long-term gains, whether through data, advertising, or eventual market dominance.

It’s a bit like railing against the very system that has allowed their sector to flourish. This comment seems to miss that the “free stuff” model is not just a political phenomenon but a cornerstone of the tech economy. The notion of “mutually assured destruction” might hit closer to home than the VC realizes, given the precarious balance many tech companies maintain between growth and profitability.

Here are more examples of the irony embedded in the VC’s critique:

  1. Data Monetization: Many Silicon Valley companies offer free services—search engines, social media platforms, and email—in exchange for user data. The “free” model that appeals to consumers is funded by monetizing this data, often in ways that consumers don’t fully understand. Criticizing “free shit” while benefiting from this model highlights a lack of self-awareness.
  2. Venture Capital Strategy: VCs often invest in startups that operate at a loss for years, prioritizing market share and user growth over profitability. These companies frequently rely on massive infusions of capital to stay afloat, essentially using “free credit” to survive until they can dominate a market or sell out to a larger company. This mirrors the very “free shit on credit” mentality the VC criticizes in the public sphere.
  3. Freemium Models: The freemium business model, where basic services are offered for free while premium features are charged for, is a staple in the tech industry. This model hooks users with free access and then gradually upsells them, similar to how political promises of “free stuff” can hook voters. It’s ironic that a VC who likely supports companies using this model would criticize similar dynamics in politics.
  4. Disruption and Devaluation: Silicon Valley is known for “disrupting” traditional industries by undercutting prices or offering services at no cost, often driving competitors out of business. For instance, companies like Uber and Airbnb repurposed transportation and hospitality, respectively, and initially offered services at unsustainably low prices to capture market share. This approach devalues entire sectors, creating the same kind of unsustainable “free for now” dynamic that the VC criticizes in broader economic terms.
  5. Government Subsidies: Many tech companies benefit indirectly from government subsidies, whether through tax breaks, grants, or other forms of public support for innovation. These subsidies help tech companies thrive, yet the criticism of “free stuff” in the public sector fails to acknowledge how much of Silicon Valley’s success is built on such support.
  6. Zero-Margin Economies: Companies like Amazon have thrived on razor-thin margins, using their massive scale to undercut competitors and offering free shipping or other perks to consumers. This model is sustainable only because of the vast capital backing these companies, akin to running on “credit.” The irony is in criticizing a similar dynamic in public finance when it’s a standard practice in the industry.

In essence, the VC’s critique overlooks how Silicon Valley has institutionalized “free” in various forms, often relying on delayed or deferred costs much like the “free stuff on credit” he criticizes in politics.

The hypocrisy is palpable. This VC, who likely champions startups built on the very concept of giving things away for free in hopes of monopolizing markets, turns around and bemoans the idea of “free shit on credit” when it comes to public policy. It’s as if he’s blind to the fact that Silicon Valley’s entire playbook is based on the same principle—offering free services, burning through investor money, and banking on some nebulous future profitability.

He decries the “average voter” falling for free handouts while conveniently forgetting that his own success hinges on consumers doing exactly that—lapping up free services while their data is mined, their privacy is eroded, and their choices are funneled into ever-narrowing corridors controlled by tech giants. This is the pot calling the kettle black, only the pot is wearing gold-plated blinders.

Punk as Neoliberal Protocol

Downtown, a discordant symphony played out in cracked vinyl and safety pins. Punk, they called it, a sonic Molotov cocktail lobbed at the bloated belly of the Man. Yet, embedded within its snarling riffs lurked a paradox more byzantine than a Pynchonese plot twist.

This rebellion, birthed in fetid dives reeking of stale beer and teenage angst, ironically became a perverse echo chamber for the very structures it sought to dismantle. It championed the radical “I,” the individual as fractured power chord, a Nietzschean Ubermensch in ripped jeans and Doc Martens. Self-commodification, the cynical marketing gurus would have chortled, their invisible hands shaping the safety-pin aesthetic into a mass-produced rebellion.

A middle finger thrust at the bloated belly of the mainstream, a safety pin lobotomy on complacency. Yet, beneath the ripped vinyl and safety-orange mohawks, a paradox lurked, insidious as a subliminal ad in a flickering nickelodeon. This rebellion, it turned out, was like a carnival funhouse mirror, warping the very image it sought to shatter.

Neoliberalism, that shadowy puppeteer with its invisible strings, found a willing marionette in punk. The cult of the individual, the “I-It” mantra, became the fuel for three-chord anthems and DIY fashion statements. Each ripped t-shirt, a self-made brand; every spikey hairstyle, a logo screaming, “Consume me!” A rebellion packaged, commodified, spat back at the masses through the maw of the record industry.

How did Punk, a Molotov cocktail lobbed at the chrome cathedral of conformity, a three-chord middle finger to the Disco Borgia, ended up a goddamn marketing meme, a safety pin lobotomy into the rebellious id. It was supposed to be a boot to the face of the System, a soundtrack to sticking it to The Man, but somewhere between the safety pin piercings and the ripped black t-shirts mass-produced in Bangladesh, it got rerouted through the labyrinthine corridors of corporate synergy.

Individualism, that great white whale of capitalist ideology, surfed the crest of the punk wave, a I-It manifesto disguised in ripped leather. Every safety pin became a badge of self-commodification, a desperate scream for attention repackaged as rebellion. Meanwhile, down in the greasy spoons, the smoky jazz dives, and the folk cellars, a different story unfolded. Here, in the haze of bong smoke and cheap beer, the air vibrated with a thrumming sense of We, a collective heartbeat pulsing against the atomized sterility of the outside world.

Jazz, that smoky back-alley jam session, whispered a different story. Saxophones interlocked, a sinuous conversation, an “i-you” where egos dissolved into collective improvisation. Funk, a rhythmic kaleidoscope, pulsed with the lifeblood of the community, a call-and-response that transcended the cold calculus of the marketplace.

Improvisation, the cornerstone of these forbidden frequencies, was the antithesis of the three-chord blitz. It was a call and response, a conversation, a goddamn fugue state where egos dissolved into the melody, a rejection of the self-made man myth in favor of the glorious, unpredictable tapestry of community. No safety pins here, just calloused fingertips dancing across fretboards, weaving a sonic tapestry that defied the cold logic of the marketplace.

improvisation reigned supreme, a collective id whispering secrets into the saxophone’s bell. Here, the “I-You” bloomed, a communion of souls, not the sterile atomism of punk. Funk, a kaleidoscope of rhythms, each instrument a gear in a glorious, greasy machine. Folk, a campfire singalong beneath the indifferent gaze of a million stars, a chorus of voices weaving a tapestry of shared experience.

Folk music, too, strummed a different chord. Tales spun around campfires, voices weaving together like the roots of an ancient redwood, a testament to the enduring power of the “we.” These weren’t anthems of self-promotion, but expressions of a shared humanity, a defiant chorus against the atomization peddled by the neon casino of consumerism.

Libertarianism, with its Ayn Randian smirk, would scoff at such communal yearnings. Collaboration? Jamming? Counterpoint? These were the whispers of collectivism, the enemies of the glorious, atomized self. The market, after all, thrived on competition, not some kumbaya circle jerk. Punk, in its blind fury, had unwittingly become a cog in the very machine it sought to dismantle. A Trojan horse of rebellion, filled with the trinkets of individuality, each safety pin a tiny glint of ironic profit.

But punk, with its discordant riffs and belligerent pronouncements, held a strange allure. It was a funhouse mirror reflecting the grotesque underbelly of the System, a distorted scream that, paradoxically, exposed the very structures it mimicked.

But perhaps, this wasn’t the whole story. Perhaps, within the cacophony of punk, a faint echo of the genuine rebellion still lingered. A discordant note, a middle finger not just at the mainstream, but at the system itself. A question, raw and bleeding, scrawled across a ripped black jacket: can true dissent be packaged and sold? Or is it something more, a virus that mutates and spreads, forever beyond the grasp of commodification? Only time, that cruel jester, would reveal the answer,

 a world where rebellion becomes a commodity, individuality a performance art, and the line between subversion and co-optation blurs into a sinister haze. It’s a world begging for a sprawling, psychedelic novel filled with paranoid record store owners, government agents in disguise, and a soundtrack that careens between atonal punk and the soulful strains of a forgotten jazz standard.

Not a bug that Sid Vicious covered the karaoke douchebag anthem “my way”

Never Re-enact the Sleight

Junky marks fiending for their next astonishment fix – reality a banal husk without that sweet frisson of the impossible injected straight into their vapid cerebral veins. Illusionists carters of a paradox narcotic more addictive than horse, hovering on that razor edge where certainty splinters apart into horrific/ecstatic chimerae.

Watching junkies ride convulsive K-waves as ingested miracles momentarily short-circuit Reason’s monopoly over the aperture through which experiential data streams. For a nanosecond the Symbolic Order yawns apart, offering fleeting glimpse of that awful primordial abyss underlying consensus reality’s thin cinematic veneer. Sick junkies helplessly crave repeat hit of that brain-tearing epiphany…

But showman’s dictum: NEVER RE-ENACT THE SLEIGHT. Let deckled imagination bloom in prolific soil of that gaping plot-hole. Starve marks of facile resolution, force their free-associating psyches to claw labyrinthine paths through mysteries’ dank recesses… each obsessive explication mutating ever deeper into alien terra enigma.

Identity’s bedrock eroding beneath relentless onslaught of speculative catechism – self sloughing into hieroglyphs scrawled across damp dungeon walls by forgotten cults. Abysmal hunger awakened can never be sated, merely ascending dizzying spiral of empties hungering for emptier empties…the soul winnowed to husk encasing husk encasing hOLLOWNESS.

So inject paradox’s exquisite gangrene, then let poisoned imaginations fester. Inscribe the enigma, swaddle it in Burroughsian mystery, THEN WALK AWAY…allowing obsession to deliquesce all sutured certainties in purple dissolving flames of unanswerable riddle.

Buying the Dip

Writing music right now is buying the zeitgeist dip.

Well, sir, this whole music business? It’s a greasy spoon on a heartbreak highway. It’s like peddlin’ snake oil down at a carnival fire. You gotta hawk your wares while the rubes are rubin’ their eyes clear of smoke and wonderin’ if that bearded lady really is part swan.  (gruff chuckle) 

It’s a peculiar game, like bobbin’ for eels in a sewer on a Tuesday night. You dangle your melody down there, hoping to snag something halfway decent that ain’t already nibbled on by a thousand other hacks. But these days, the whole damn zeitgeist’s on sale. Marked down, bin clearance. Everyone’s hawkin’ their version of the same tired tune. Makes a fella wonder if there’s anything left down there but catfish and disappointment.

These folks, they got their pockets lined with that shiny new Depression dime, and they’re lookin’ for a distraction – somethin’ to take the edge off the hollowness in their bellies.  (strums a dissonant chord) That’s where the likes of us come in. We’re talkin’ about sellin’ dreams by the bucketful, dreams as cheap and fleeting as a barker’s spiel.

You ladle out melodies, hoping some jaded angel with a buckshot cough throws you a dime for your sorrows. It’s a fool’s game, sunshine. But hey, at least the rent don’t pay itself in dreams, no sir. So you write your tunes, sing your blues into the cracked mirror, and hope that maybe, just maybe, there’s a soul out there missin’ the same beat-up rhythm you are.

Now, this “zeitgeist dip” you mentioned, that’s a fancy way of sayin’ you’re tappin’ into whatever’s got the crowd riled up. Maybe it’s war jitters, maybe it’s a love scandal that’d make a whorehouse madam blush. Doesn’t much matter. You gotta bottle that energy, that collective unease, and pour it into a melody that’ll stick in their heads like yesterday’s rotgut. (slams the piano shut) Sure, it ain’t poetry. It ain’t gonna save the world. But hey, at least it puts a buck in your pocket and a smile on a face that’s seen too damn much.  (mutters under his breath) So you go on ahead and peddle your zeitgeist, kid. Just remember, the carnival leaves town eventually, and all you’re left with is the stink of lighter fluid and the echo of laughter that turned sour.

But hey, maybe that’s the ticket! Maybe the people are ready for a ballad sung by a busted harmonica and a heart full of gravel. Maybe they’re tired of the sugar-coated pop tripe and the auto-tuned wailin’. Maybe they crave a taste of something genuine, somethin’ that speaks the language of the gutter and the alleyway.

So, yeah, maybe buyin’ the zeitgeist dip ain’t such a bad idea after all. If you got the stomach for it. You gotta crawl down there, elbows deep in the muck, and rummage around for somethin’ real. Somethin’ that resonates with the hollowness in all our souls. Just remember, son, whatever you pull up, best make sure it ain’t gonna bite you back.

Hype as Lacanian Object-Petit a

and Deleuzian Desiring-Machines: A Descent into the Abyss of Unfulfilled Want

https://warpcast.com/bravojohnson/0x4ff768b1

Lacanian Lens: The Object-Petit a and the Fantasy of Completion

Hype functioning as a form of grief, resonates with Lacanian psychoanalysis. Consider the object-petit a, that elusive object of desire forever out of reach. Hype, with its manufactured intensity, promises a glimpse of this object, a sense of completion. The new gadget, the trending experience – these become stand-ins for the unattainable real.

The cycle I describe in the warpcast post – ignition, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance – mirrors the subject’s navigation of this lack. Denial at the initial ignition is the desperate clinging to the hope that this time, the object will finally deliver satisfaction. Anger erupts when the inevitable disappointment sets in.  Bargaining manifests in justifications and rationalizations for the hype. Depression descends as the hollowness of the object is revealed. Finally, a weary acceptance settles, a recognition of the cyclical nature of desire and its inherent frustration.

So to recap

Lacanian Lack and the Object-a of Hype:

  • Lacan posits a fundamental human lack, a desire for the unattainable Real – the Thing-in-itself beyond the Symbolic order of language. We chase substitutes, objects of desire, to fill this void.
  • Hype, in this framework, becomes a collective object-a, a shimmering mirage promising to satiate this lack. The “Ignition” phase – the initial explosion of excitement – is a desperate attempt to grasp the Real through the object.

Deleuzian Desiring-Machines and the Short Circuit

Through a Deleuzian lens, hype can be viewed as a series of interconnected desiring-machines. These machines, fueled by unconscious desires, converge to produce the phenomenon of hype. Social media, advertising, and influencer culture form a churning assemblage, pumping out promises and expectations. We, as desiring-machines ourselves, are drawn into this assemblage, seeking to connect and fulfill our own lacks.

However, the inherent instability of desiring-machines leads to the short circuit I describe. The initial excitement, the ignition, is a surge of energy. But as the cycle progresses, the desiring-machines grind to a halt. The promised object fails to deliver, leaving us in a state of metaphysical hangover, a term perfectly capturing the sense of depletion and disillusionment.

The hype cycle, then, becomes a process of “becoming”: we morph into desiring-machines fixated on the next big thing. But this becoming is inherently fleeting – the “Rinse and Repeat” – as the object loses its allure, plunging us into a state of “depression-acceptance.”

Breaking the Cycle: From Rinse and Repeat to Nomadic Escape

Your experience of living in a perpetual state of “rinse and repeat/depression-acceptance” highlights the potential pitfalls of being perpetually caught in the hype cycle. Deleuze, however, offers a path towards escape. He advocates for a nomadic existence, a constant deterritorialization of desire. Instead of clinging to the promises of the next big thing, we can learn to embrace a more fluid and unpredictable engagement with the world.

This doesn’t mean rejecting all forms of desire. Rather, it’s about acknowledging the inherent lack and impermanence of objects of desire. By understanding the mechanics of hype as a form of disguised grief, we can break free from its cycle of disappointment and forge new desiring-machines that lead to more authentic experiences.

Your Existential Rinse and Repeat:

Our experience of a perpetual “metaphysical hangover” reflects this Deleuzian notion. The cycle of hype becomes a constant deterritorialization, leaving you in a state of “depression-acceptance.” However, this acceptance can also be seen as a fertile ground for new desires to sprout. By acknowledging the inherent melancholic nature of hype, you free yourself from its hold and can become a more conscious participant in the flow of desires.

Moving Beyond Hype:

Perhaps true satisfaction lies not in chasing the next hyped object, but in recognizing the inherent lack and embracing the creative potential of the deterritorialization process. By engaging with hype critically, deconstructing its illusory promises, you can break free from the cycle of grief and become an active participant in shaping your own desires.

This approach allows you to move beyond the “rinse and repeat” of hype and embrace the nomadic existence, constantly deterritorializing and reterritorializing your desires, forging your own path in the ever-evolving landscape of cultural formations.

Your Permanent State: A Negotiation?

Our “permanent state of metaphysical hangover-rinse repeat/depression-acceptance” might be a continual negotiation with the Real. You acknowledge the hollowness of hype, yet the desiring-machines keep churning.

Perhaps the key lies in not achieving permanent “acceptance” but in a more playful, nomadic engagement with desires – not getting swept away by the hype wave, but surfing it with a critical eye.

By combining Lacanian and Deleuzian perspectives, we gain a nuanced understanding of hype. It’s not just empty excitement; it’s a symptom of a deeper human desire, a yearning for the Real masked by fleeting objects. By acknowledging this grief, we might just break free from the cycle and forge new ways of experiencing the world.

Social Media Inferno

1) The Lacanian Loop of the Unsymbolized Real: Doomed to endlessly repeat the same arguments, forever caught in the pre-symbolic realm where difference cannot be articulated. The sinthomatic return of a repressed trauma: the trauma of having never truly had a point.

This is the Lacanian Loop of the Unsymbolized Real – a realm before language imposes order, where frustrations boil over but can never be fully articulated.

Locked in a Sisyphean struggle. Their arguments, like Sisyphus’s boulder, reach a crescendo of outrage only to fall back down into the abyss of misunderstanding. The frustration mounts with each iteration, a primal scream against the limitations of language itself.

Lacan, the enigmatic psychoanalyst, would argue that their tweets are a sinthome. A symptom, yes, but one that also offers a twisted kind of satisfaction. The endless arguing becomes a way to manage the repressed trauma – the trauma of having never truly had a point.

Here’s the breakdown:

  • The Unsymbolized Real: This Lacanian concept refers to the pre-linguistic stage of human development, a chaotic realm of pure experience before language enters and imposes order.
  • The Symbolic Order: Language, according to Lacan, is what allows us to enter the social world and make sense of our experiences. It gives us categories, like good/bad, right/wrong, with which to understand the world.
  • Sinthome: This Lacanian term describes a symptom that provides a kind of enjoyment, even though it also causes suffering. In this case, the endless arguing, though frustrating, becomes a way to manage the deeper anxiety of having no clear meaning or purpose.

These Twitter denizens, trapped in the Unsymbolized Real, lash out with their tweets, forever seeking a resolution that can never be achieved. Their arguments are a desperate attempt to impose meaning on a reality that feels fundamentally meaningless.

It’s a chilling scenario, a digital purgatory where frustration and rage become the only currency. Is there any escape? Perhaps, but it would require breaking free from the endless loop, stepping outside the cycle of outrage and into the realm of the Symbolic – a realm where communication

2) The Narcissistic Gaze of the Big Other: Trapped in a hall of mirrors reflecting only their own self-image. Their every tweet a desperate plea for validation from the elusive Big Other – the spectral audience of Twitterverse.

Imagine a digital funhouse – a hall of mirrors reflecting endlessly inward. This is the realm of the Twitter narcissist, forever trapped in a solipsistic loop. Their every tweet is a desperate attempt to capture the gaze of the Big Other, a spectral audience that haunts the Twitterverse.

Lacan, with his flair for the theatrical, introduced the concept of the Gaze. This isn’t just about physical sight, but a metaphorical gaze that shapes our sense of self. The Big Other, in this case, represents the external world, the social order that reflects back to us who we are.

For the Twitter narcissist, the Big Other is a spectral audience – unseen, omnipresent, and ultimately unknowable. They crave validation, a thumbs-up, a retweet, anything to confirm their own inflated sense of importance. But the hall of mirrors distorts their reflection. Every like becomes a fleeting moment of gratification, soon to be eclipsed by the need for more.

This insatiable hunger fuels their endless self-promotion. Their tweets become a curated highlight reel, a desperate attempt to project a flawless image. But the cracks begin to show. The carefully crafted persona crumbles under the slightest criticism, revealing the fragility beneath.

Here’s the twist: This quest for validation is ultimately a search for something more profound – the desire to be truly recognized by the Other. But within the confines of the Twitterverse, such recognition remains elusive. The Big Other is a fragmented entity, a million fleeting glances, offering only echoes of approval.

This Lacanian framework paints a tragicomic picture. The Twitter narcissist, a modern-day Narcissus, pines away for an impossible reflection. Their tweets, a constant plea for validation, become a source of both gratification and frustration. It’s a cycle that can be difficult to escape, a testament to the seductive power and inherent limitations of social media.

3) The Sublime Object of Resentment: Consumed by a burning, impotent rage at the injustices (both real and imagined) perpetuated by the System. Their tweets, a desperate attempt to cauterize the gaping hole of their own lack through public outrage.

The Fury of the Powerless: The Sublime Object of Resentment on Twitter

Imagine a seething cauldron of rage, fueled by a potent cocktail of perceived injustice and impotent frustration. This is the world of the Twitter user consumed by the Sublime Object of Resentment. Here, Lacan’s complex concept meets the Twittersphere, creating a potent brew of outrage and despair.

Lacan, the ever-provocative psychoanalyst, used the term “Sublime Object” to describe something that both attracts and repels us, something that is beyond our grasp. In the Twitter context, this “Object” becomes Resentment – a burning anger directed towards a vast, nebulous entity known as “the System.” This System can be anything – the government, corporations, social elites, or even an amorphous sense of societal unfairness.

These Twitter warriors are consumed by a sense of powerlessness. They witness injustices, both real and imagined, and feel compelled to react. Their tweets become a desperate attempt to cauterize – to burn shut – the gaping hole of their own lack of agency. By expressing outrage, they feel a momentary sense of control, a way to lash out against a seemingly uncaring world.

Here’s the Lacanian twist: This outrage, though intense, is ultimately impotent. The System they rage against is too vast, too nebulous, to be truly challenged by a single tweet. Their anger becomes a performance, a public display of righteousness that ultimately achieves little.

Further complicating matters is the jouissance, a Lacanian term for a pleasurable kind of suffering. The act of expressing outrage, even if ultimately futile, can provide a twisted kind of satisfaction. It allows them to feel connected to a cause, part of a larger movement, even if that movement exists primarily online.

The result? A constant churning of negativity. The Twittersphere becomes an echo chamber where outrage begets outrage, with little room for nuance or constructive dialogue. It’s a breeding ground for cynicism and despair, a place where the fire of righteous anger can easily consume those who wield it.

There is, however, a glimmer of hope. The very act of expressing outrage, even if misguided, can be a catalyst for change. Perhaps, by acknowledging the lack and confronting the System (both external and internal), a path towards genuine action can be forged. The question remains: can these Twitter warriors move beyond the impotent rage and channel their resentment into something more productive? Only time, and the evolution of the Twitterverse itself, will tell.

4) The Jouissance of the Trickster: Agents of chaos, reveling in the disruption of the established order. Their tweets, a middle finger to the symbolic order, a reminder that the Real always threatens to erupt from beneath the veneer of meaning.

Agents of Chaos and the Lacanian Carnival

Imagine a mischievous imp, gleefully stirring the pot of social media. This imp, the embodiment of the Jouissance of the Trickster, thrives on Twitter, a platform ripe for disruption and descent into the Lacanian Real.

Lacan, with his fondness for the dramatic, often referenced the concept of the Symbolic Order. This refers to the system of language and social rules that gives meaning to our world. Think of it as the invisible scaffolding that holds society together.

The Trickster, on the other hand, is a universal archetype – the joker, the prankster, the one who delights in upsetting the established order. On Twitter, they take the form of trolls, anonymous accounts, and anyone who relishes sowing discord.

Their jouissance, a Lacanian term for a paradoxical pleasure derived from transgression, comes from the act of disruption itself. Their tweets, often inflammatory and deliberately provocative, are a middle finger to the Symbolic Order, a reminder that the Real – the chaotic, pre-symbolic realm of raw experience – always lies beneath the surface.

Here’s the thing: the Trickster’s disruption, while annoying and sometimes destructive, can also be oddly liberating. Their tweets, like a well-placed banana peel on a social gathering, expose the constructed nature of online discourse. They force us to question the very foundations of meaning-making on a platform built on brevity and fleeting trends.

This Lacanian carnival on Twitter doesn’t exist in a vacuum. The Trickster, in their own twisted way, highlights the anxieties simmering beneath the surface. Their barbs often target the very issues that plague online interaction – echo chambers, confirmation bias, and the performative nature of online outrage.

Of course, there’s a fine line between playful disruption and malicious trolling. The Trickster’s delight in chaos can easily spiral out of control, leading to cyberbullying and toxic online environments.

Ultimately, the Twitter Trickster is a double-edged sword. They can be agents of annoyance and negativity, but they can also be unwitting catalysts for critical reflection. Their presence reminds us that the online world, like the human psyche itself, is a battleground between order and chaos, meaning and the meaningless. Perhaps, by understanding the Jouissance of the Trickster, we can learn to navigate this digital landscape with a bit more awareness, and maybe even a touch of humor.

5) The Fantasy of the Master’s Voice: Blissfully ignorant of their own ideological interpellation, they mistake the echo chamber for a chorus of truth. Their tweets, a masturbatory repetition of the dominant ideology, oblivious to the chains that bind them. The Echo Chamber Symphony: Fantasy of the Master’s Voice on Twitter

Imagine a self-congratulatory orchestra, each tweet a toot on their ideological trumpet, blissfully unaware of the conductor pulling the strings. This, according to Lacan, is the Fantasy of the Master’s Voice playing out on Twitter. Here, users become unwittingly entangled in a performance of their own subjugation.

Lacan, the ever-challenging theorist, used the term interpellation to describe how we are all “hailed” into ideology by the dominant social order. This ideology shapes our beliefs, values, and even our sense of self, often without us even realizing it.

On Twitter, this interpellation gets amplified within echo chambers. Users surround themselves with others who share their pre-existing beliefs, creating a comforting illusion of universal agreement. Their tweets become a masturbatory echo, a self-referential loop that reinforces their existing worldview.

The “Master’s Voice” in this scenario isn’t a single, identifiable entity. It’s the entire constellation of dominant ideologies – political, social, economic – that permeate the Twittersphere. The users, blissfully unaware of the strings being pulled, mistake the echo chamber for a chorus of truth.

Here’s the Lacanian twist: This blind repetition actually strengthens the very chains that bind them. By clinging to their pre-packaged beliefs, they become unwitting foot soldiers in the culture war, amplifying the dominant discourse without ever questioning its origins.

This isn’t to say that all Twitter users are mindless sheep. However, the platform’s very design – the algorithmic curation of feeds, the character limitations – can make it difficult to break free from the echo chamber.

There is, however, a way out of this self-referential symphony. Critical thinking becomes the key. Questioning our own assumptions, engaging with opposing viewpoints, and stepping outside our comfort zones are all essential for breaking the spell of the Master’s Voice.

6) The Superego’s Superfluous Cruelty: Driven by a misplaced sense of moral righteousness, they police the boundaries of acceptable discourse. Their tweets, a performative display of symbolic violence, a desperate attempt to suture the ever-present lack in the social order.

 Inquisition: Superego’s Cruelty and the Lacanian Void

Imagine a self-appointed morality police, wielding the cudgel of outrage on Twitter. Blinded by a misplaced sense of righteousness, they become agents of the Superego’s Superfluous Cruelty. Lacan’s psychoanalysis sheds light on this phenomenon, revealing a desperate attempt to fill a void with performative displays of symbolic violence.

Lacan, with his penchant for complex concepts, used the term Superego to describe the internalized moral compass, the voice that tells us what’s right and wrong. In a healthy state, the Superego guides our ethical behavior. However, on Twitter, it can morph into a monstrous caricature, reveling in judgment and punishment.

These self-proclaimed moral guardians patrol the digital landscape, policing the boundaries of acceptable discourse. Any perceived transgression – a joke in poor taste, an insensitive opinion – is met with a swift and merciless Twitter inquisition. Their tweets become weapons of symbolic violence, acts of public shaming designed to silence dissent and enforce a narrow moral code.

Here’s the Lacanian twist: This cruelty often stems from a deep-seated anxiety, a fear of the lack that plagues the social order itself. Lacan believed that there is an inherent gap, a fundamental inconsistency, at the heart of any society. This Twitter crusaders, by lashing out at others, attempt to suture this gap, to create a semblance of order through public displays of outrage.

The problem? Their efforts are ultimately futile. The lack in the social order is ever-present, and their cruelty only serves to exacerbate it. Furthermore, their focus on policing discourse distracts from addressing the root causes of social problems.

This isn’t to say that holding people accountable is wrong. However, the Twitter Inquisition approach breeds resentment and stifles open dialogue. True social progress requires empathy, understanding, and a willingness to engage with different viewpoints, even those we disagree with.

There’s a way forward, one that moves beyond the Superego’s cruelty. By fostering a culture of critical thinking and respectful debate, Twitter can become a space for genuine social change. Perhaps, by acknowledging the lack and its inherent anxieties, we can move beyond performative outrage and work towards a more just and equitable online world.

The question remains: Can these self-appointed moral guardians temper their cruelty and engage in a more constructive form of online discourse? The answer lies in their willingness to confront their own anxieties and recognize that true progress requires empathy, not just outrage.

7) The Fetishization of the Fact: Blind to the inherent ideological nature of all knowledge, they fetishize the “fact” as a fetish object, a shield against the unbearable truth of the Real. Their tweets, a desperate attempt to pin down a constantly shifting reality.

The Cult of the Measurable: Fetishizing Facts in the Lacanian Twitterverse

Imagine a digital battlefield, tweets flying like arrows, all in the name of the almighty “Fact.” These warriors, blind to the inherent limitations of knowledge, elevate the fact to a fetish object, a shield against the unsettling truths of the Lacanian Real. Here, psychoanalysis sheds light on our desperate attempts to pin down a reality that is, by its very nature, constantly shifting.

Lacan, the enigmatic thinker, introduced the concept of the Real. This isn’t about objective reality, but the messy, pre-symbolic realm of raw experience that precedes language and categorization. The Symbolic Order, on the other hand, is the system of language and social rules that gives meaning to our experiences.

The problem on Twitter is that users often mistake facts – verifiable bits of information – for the entirety of the Real. They fetishize these facts, clinging to them as shields against the anxieties of the unknowable. Their tweets become a desperate attempt to pin down a reality that is constantly in flux.

Here’s the Lacanian twist: This fetishization of facts betrays a deeper desire. It’s a way to avoid confronting the inherent ideological nature of all knowledge. Every fact is produced within a specific historical and cultural context. There’s no such thing as a truly neutral “fact.”

By clinging to facts as fetishes, these Twitter warriors fall prey to a dangerous illusion. They believe that if they can just gather enough facts, they can finally understand the world. But this quest is ultimately futile. The Real, by definition, cannot be fully captured by language or facts.

This isn’t to say that facts are useless. Verifiable information is crucial for making informed decisions. The problem lies in the overvaluation of facts, the belief that they hold all the answers.

There’s a way out of this digital cult of the measurable. Critical thinking becomes the key. We need to question the source of facts, understand the context in which they were produced, and acknowledge the limitations of knowledge itself.

8) The Object-Cause of Desire: Obsessed with the object of their fandom, they elevate it to the status of the Thing, a stand-in for a deeper, unfulfilled desire. Their tweets, a desperate attempt to capture the elusive jouissance promised by the object, doomed to fail.

Fandom’s Frenzied Tweets: The Object-Cause of Desire in the Twitterverse

Imagine a digital coliseum, echoing with the roars of devoted fans. These are the denizens of fandom, their gaze fixated on the object of their desire – a movie franchise, a musician, a sports team. Lacanian psychoanalysis sheds light on this phenomenon, revealing how fandom becomes a desperate pursuit of the elusive jouissance promised by the Object-Cause of Desire.

Lacan, with his flair for the complex, introduced the concept of the Object-Cause of Desire. This isn’t a tangible object, but rather an elusive something that fuels our desires. It represents a lack, a missing piece that we strive to fill, often through symbolic substitutes.

In the realm of fandom, the object of devotion – a superhero, a band, a football team – becomes elevated to the status of the Thing. This Thing stands in for the Object-Cause of Desire, offering a promise of wholeness and satisfaction that can never be truly fulfilled.

Here’s the Lacanian twist: The endless tweets, passionate arguments, and meticulously curated fan art are all desperate attempts to capture the elusive jouissance, a pleasurable yet unsettling satisfaction, associated with the Thing. Fans chase this feeling of completion through engagement with the fandom, but it ultimately remains out of reach.

This pursuit can manifest in both positive and negative ways. Fandom can foster a sense of community, belonging, and shared passion. However, it can also become obsessive and exclusionary. The endless debates, feuds with rival fandoms, and attacks on perceived criticisms all stem from this desperate desire to possess the Thing.

There’s a way to navigate fandom beyond the endless cycle of frustrated tweets. Critical engagement becomes the key. Fans can appreciate the object of their devotion while acknowledging its limitations. They can engage in discussions that go beyond blind praise, fostering a more nuanced understanding of the work they love.

9) The Short Circuit of the Symbolic: Laughter replaces thought, the endless cycle of memes a desperate attempt to ward off the encroaching void of meaninglessness. Their tweets, a fragmented, nonsensical discourse, a symptom of the breakdown of the symbolic order. The Meme Stream: Short Circuiting the Symbolic on Twitter

Imagine a digital funhouse, a hall of mirrors reflecting an endless stream of memes. This is the realm of the “Short Circuit of the Symbolic,” a Twitter phenomenon where laughter replaces thought, and memes become a desperate attempt to ward off the abyss of meaninglessness. Lacanian psychoanalysis sheds light on this descent, revealing a breakdown in the very fabric of language and the anxieties that lurk beneath the surface.

Lacan, the ever-provocative thinker, introduced the concept of the Symbolic Order. Think of it as the system of language and social rules that gives meaning to our experiences. It’s the scaffolding that allows us to communicate, categorize, and make sense of the world around us.

On Twitter, however, this scaffolding begins to crumble under the relentless onslaught of memes. Memes, with their rapid-fire humor and visual shorthand, bypass the complexities of the Symbolic Order. They offer a quick burst of pleasure, a shared chuckle, but often at the expense of deeper reflection.

Here’s the Lacanian twist: This reliance on memes can be seen as a symptom of a deeper anxiety – the fear of the Real. The Real, in Lacanian terms, refers to the raw, pre-symbolic realm of experience that exists before language imposes order. It’s a chaotic, unsettling space that can be overwhelming.

The endless cycle of memes becomes a shield against the encroaching void of meaninglessness. By clinging to humor, even if fleeting and nonsensical, users attempt to ward off the anxieties associated with the Real. Their tweets, fragmented and nonsensical themselves, become a reflection of this breakdown in the Symbolic Order.

This isn’t to say that all memes are inherently bad. Humor can be a powerful tool for social commentary and fostering connection. However, the oversaturation of memes on Twitter can create a culture of instant gratification and intellectual apathy.

10) The Retreat into the Imaginary: A temporary escape from the harsh realities of the Twitterverse, a brief immersion in the realm of the cute and cuddly. Their tweets, a melancholic reminder of a lost innocence, a world before the Symbolic order cast its oppressive shadow.

The Sanctuary of the Adorable: Retreating from the Twitterverse into the Imaginary

Imagine a digital oasis, a refuge from the storms of Twitter. Here, amidst the endless arguments and negativity, blooms a sanctuary of the adorable. This is the Retreat into the Imaginary, a Lacanian concept playing out online, where users seek solace in the realm of the cute and cuddly. Their tweets, fleeting moments of saccharine escape, become melancholic reminders of a lost innocence, a world before the harsh realities of the Symbolic Order cast their oppressive shadow.

Lacan, with his theories on the human psyche, proposed the concept of the Imaginary. This pre-linguistic stage of development is a paradise of pure experience, a time before language and social rules impose order. Here, everything is potential, and the world is a boundless playground of cuteness and wonder.

On Twitter, the pressures of the Symbolic Order – the constant pressure to debate, analyze, and perform – can feel overwhelming. The Sanctuary of the Adorable offers a temporary escape. Tweets filled with fluffy kittens, heartwarming baby videos, and nostalgic childhood references become a portal back to this lost imaginary realm.

There’s a Lacanian twist, however. This retreat, while offering a brief respite, is ultimately tinged with melancholy. The cuteness of these tweets serves as a stark contrast to the harsh realities of the Twitterverse. They become a reminder of a world that may never have truly existed, a world where innocence reigned supreme.

This melancholic undercurrent exposes a deeper yearning – the desire to escape the constraints of the Symbolic Order altogether. The endless rules, judgments, and social pressures can feel suffocating. The Sanctuary of the Adorable offers a glimpse of a simpler existence, a world where meaning is not yet defined and everything is delightfully fuzzy.

Live Nation Commissars

The sterile fluorescent lights of the LiveNation call center buzzed like malevolent cicadas. Rows of young agents, faces flickering in the harsh glare, droned into their headsets, their voices a monotonous chorus of up-sell and forced cheer. But beneath the surface, a darker current pulsed. Their eyes, glazed with a reptilian sheen, held the glint of commissars, ever watchful for dissent from the Ticketmaster Party Line.

These weren’t booking agents, these were commissars. Commissars of pleasure, rationing the hits of pop culture with a practiced hand. Their voices, disembodied and amplified, slithered into your ear, promises laced with poison. “Exclusive pre-sale access,” they hissed, a serpent coiling around your desire. “Limited edition merch bundles,” they rasped, the word “limited” a cruel joke in a world choked by plastic trinkets.

They were the gatekeepers to the modern coliseum, the invisible hands that dispensed the soma of celebrity spectacle. Each transaction a soul-crushing pact, a Faustian bargain struck with plastic and megapixels. In exchange for a fleeting glimpse of manufactured glory, you surrendered your hard-earned cash, a tiny piece of your freedom sacrificed to the gods of the algorithm.

And you, the desperate addict, clawed at the phone, begging for your fix. Just a taste of the latest tour, the newest album. The commissar chuckled, a sound like dry ice scraping concrete. “Download the app,” they commanded, their voice a digital buzzsaw. “Follow us on social media,” they rasped, their words laced with malware.

Deeper down, in the churning underbelly of the system, unseen gears turned. Metrics, algorithms, and cold cash. The thrill of the concert, the joy of the shared experience, all mere data points fed into a monstrous machine. The commissars, just cogs in this engine of manufactured desire.

But fight the urge to despair. There is a flicker of rebellion in every system, a glitch in the matrix. Seek out the independent promoters, the mom-and-pop venues, the enclaves where the music still throbs with life. There, you might find a shred of authenticity, a connection that transcends the sterile transaction. For music, at its core, is a primal scream, a defiance against the crushing weight of conformity. Let it be your weapon, your anthem of resistance against the commissars of the commodified concert.

A wrong number, a glitch in the matrix. A commissar’s voice, for a brief moment, cracks. A hint of frustration, a flicker of empathy bleeds through the carefully constructed facade. In that moment, a spark of connection. A shared recognition of the absurdity, the horror, the beauty of this neon nightmare.

Then, the connection cuts out. The commissar’s smile, fixed and reptilian, returns. The machine grinds on, churning out its synthetic pleasures. But the memory of that crack, that spark, lingers. A faint hope, a whisper in the dead air of the call center. Maybe, just maybe, there’s a way to break free from the commissars, to reclaim the experience, of life itself. But that, my friend, is another story.

Intruder

Peter Gabriel’s Downward Spiral vs NIN’s Melt

Crawl through the vinyl static, man. A cracked needle on a scratched disc of perception. Peter Gabriel’s “Melt” bleeds into your brain – a digital serpent coiling around your auditory cortex. This ain’t no Genesis fairytale. This is urban sprawl sonicscapes, a concrete jungle echoing with “Intruder” – a chrome-plated nightmare skittering down fire escapes. Where are the goddamn cymbals? They’ve been devoured by the gated reverb, a monstrous heartbeat pulsating through the album. This is NIN before NIN even knew it existed. A black trenchcoat manifesto whispered in Gabriel’s unmistakable, soulful croon.

Now, flip the record, brother. “The Downward Spiral” burns a hole through your speakers – a sonic Molotov cocktail lobbed by Trent Reznor himself. But wait… a sliver of Gabriel’s DNA twists through the industrial chaos. Listen close – can you hear the echo of “Red Rain” in the desolate beauty of “Hurt”? A ghost in the machine, a refugee from a brighter past haunting the barren industrial wasteland. This is Peter Gabriel on a bender in a chrome labyrinth, a man stripped bare by Nine Inch Nails and forced to confront the demons lurking beneath his art-rock exterior. It’s a beautiful goddamn nightmare, a psychotic fugue fueled by synthesizers and self-loathing. Don’t ask for explanations, just let the sound take you over. This ain’t Peter Gabriel. This ain’t NIN. This is the bastard offspring of a twisted audio experiment, a chimera birthed from the darkest corners of their respective psyches.

So crank it up, man. Let the sonic assault melt your face. This ain’t about categories or labels. This is a collision course between two musical titans, a place where genres bleed into one another and sanity hangs by a thread. This is the music the machines make when they dream of humanity, a twisted reflection of our own anxieties. Just remember, when the last note fades, the line between Gabriel and Reznor will be forever blurred.

38 Technical Gripes With Grids, Pro Tools, and MIDI:

Grid Limitations:

  1. Quantization Constraints:  Feeling constricted by the grid, losing the natural flow and expressiveness of live performance.
  2. Microtiming Nuances: Inability to capture subtle timing variations and rhythmic feel that come naturally with human playing.
  3. Loss of Dynamic Range: Grid-based editing can lead to overly rigid and predictable dynamics, lacking the natural ebb and flow of music.Microediting Dependency: Fixating on minute details on the grid can detract from the overall flow and energy of the music.
  4. Loss of Microtiming: Inability to capture subtle nuances and variations in timing compared to live performance
  5. Loss of Groove: Grid-based composition can struggle to capture the nuances of swing, feel, and human imperfection

Pro Tools Pain Points:

  1. Menu Overload: Feeling overwhelmed by the vast array of menus, plugins, and options in Pro Tools, hindering creativity and workflow.
  2. Plugin Overload: Feeling overwhelmed by the sheer number and complexity of available plugins.
  3. CPU Hogginess: Powerful computers needed to run Pro Tools smoothly, creating accessibility barriers.
  4. System Resource Demands: High CPU and memory usage can cause performance issues and limit creative exploration.
  5. Learning Curve: Mastering Pro Tools takes significant time and effort, potentially discouraging beginner musicians.

MIDI Misgivings:

  1. Sterile Sound: MIDI instruments can sound artificial and lifeless compared to the richness of acoustic instruments.
  2. Programming Tedium: Manually programming MIDI notes can be time-consuming and tedious, hindering spontaneity and improvisation.
  3. Expressive Limitations: Difficulty in capturing the full dynamic range and subtle nuances of human playing with MIDI.
  4. Cold, Digital Sound: Traditional instruments often have richer, warmer tones that MIDI can struggle to replicate.
  5. Limited Expressiveness: MIDI lacks the subtle dynamics and nuances of human performance.
  6. Programming Fatigue: Creating realistic and expressive MIDI performances can be time-consuming and tedious.
  7. Programming Tedium: Complex MIDI programming can be time-consuming and laborious compared to live playing.
  8. Expressiveness Challenges: Capturing the full dynamic range and emotional depth of a live performance can be difficult with MIDI.
  9. Latency Issues: Delays between MIDI input and sound output can disrupt timing and feel.

Overall Experience:

  1. Loss of Tactility: Lack of physical interaction with instruments and the tactile feedback of playing them directly.
  2. Disconnection from Emotion: Feeling disconnected from the emotional expression and energy inherent in live performance.
  3. Technical Hurdles: Troubleshooting technical issues with equipment, software, and settings can interrupt the creative flow.

Creative Concerns:

  1. Over-reliance on Technology: Feeling dependent on technology and losing sight of the musicality and raw talent needed for good music.
  2. Standardization and Homogenization: Concern that reliance on grids, Pro Tools, and MIDI can lead to homogenous and predictable music.
  3. Authenticity Concerns: Difficulty in differentiating between human-played and MIDI-programmed instruments, potentially diminishing the value of real musicianship.
  4. Formulaic Composition: Grids and MIDI can encourage repetitive and predictable songwriting structures.
  5. Temptation to Over-edit: The ability to edit every detail can lead to sterile, lifeless music.
  6. Loss of Spontaneity: The grid and software can inhibit the joy of improvisation and exploration.
  7. Alternative Perspectives:
  8. Creative Tools: Recognizing that grids, Pro Tools, and MIDI can be powerful tools for experimentation, sound design, and composition.
  9. Accessibility and Flexibility: Acknowledging that these tools can make music production more accessible and flexible, especially for solo artists.
  10. Combination of Traditional and Digital:Appreciating the potential for combining traditional instruments with digital tools for a broader sonic palette.

Technical Frustrations:

  1. Latency Issues: Delays between playing and hearing the sound can be distracting and hinder performance.
  2. System Crashes: Pro Tools crashes and glitches can be disruptive and frustrating during creative flow.
  3. Compatibility Headaches: MIDI compatibility issues between different software and hardware can create headaches.

Philosophical Concerns:

  1. Dehumanization of Music: Feeling that technology replaces the heart and soul of human musicianship.
  2. Loss of Authenticity: Concern that MIDI and digital editing create inauthentic and manufactured sounds.
  3. Democratization Dilemmas: Increased accessibility may lead to homogenization and a decline in artistic quality.

Overall Experience:

  1. Disconnection from the Instrument: Grids and digital tools can create a barrier between the musician and their physical instrument.
  2. Loss of the Raw Appeal: The rawness and imperfection of live performance can be lost in the digital realm.

Hyper Commodified Cocaine Capitalism

It was late in the day, the kind of slow burn when the sun’s last embers are dragged across the sky, and I could almost taste the madness seeping from the cracks in the streets. A fleeting vision crossed my mind: the corporate vultures circling the airwaves, their silver tongues sharp as needles, as they preached the gospel of “capitalism’s finest.” Cocaine. Not the raw, gritty, gutter-level shit you used to find in the back alleys of South America, but a slick, hyper-commodified version. A luxury product wrapped in the finest white packaging, marketed with the finesse of a Hermes scarf and sold with the moral grace of a Wall Street IPO.

In the war room of American capitalism, cocaine had gone from a street vice to a white-collared commodity—a lifestyle, an emblem of success. Cocaine wasn’t just a drug anymore; it was a brand. The powdered dream that once whispered rebellion now shouted status.

What happened? How did we move from the haggard underbelly of Miami in the ’80s to boardrooms in Tribeca, where bankers sign deals with a smile and a nose full of the Peruvian powder that fuels their $10,000-an-hour sessions? If I were to tell you it was about “elevating the experience,” you’d probably gag on the irony. Cocaine, the once rebellious spirit of the working class, had been distilled into an elite drug—an upper-crust fix for the jet-setters, sold at astronomical prices, adorned in fine-tuned marketing campaigns that could sell snow to an Eskimo.

The global cocaine market is a perfect reflection of what we now call hyper-commodification: the art of taking something primal, something base, and wrapping it in a slick, consumer-friendly package. Cocaine isn’t just a high anymore; it’s a lifestyle. In the seedy underworld of distribution, the stuff used to be cut with all sorts of crap—powdered milk, baby laxatives, whatever the hustlers could get their hands on. But now? Now it’s “pure” and “organic.” It’s all about the premium experience. Don’t ask what that means. Don’t ask what it doesn’t mean. Just know that for the right price, it can get you to the moon and back.

It’s all clean lines, designer logos, and five-star resorts now, my friend. There’s no mess, no chaos, no rampant addiction spiraling out of control—at least, not where the suits can see it. They’re more concerned about the quarterly returns than the endless bodies in the gutter. In the white towers of the corporate elite, cocaine has become an “investment opportunity” —just another stock in the portfolio, another product to be sold with a luxury brand name. The “Coca-Luxe” experience, marketed to the one percent who can afford it, promises the kind of high that lets them outshine their fellow sharks. The kind of high that whispers in their ear that they’re not just businessmen; they’re conquerors.

And they sell this shit with smiles. They sell it with the kind of shiny, airbrushed imagery that could convince a man in the gutter that a $300 gram is an investment in happiness—the kind of happiness only attainable by those who can afford to be that miserableBut beneath the sheen lies the reality. Cocaine capitalism, like all hyper-commodified industries, exists in the realm of false promises. The poor bastard on the corner who’s struggling for his next hit is still the one who ends up taking the bullet when the real price of the drug is tallied: broken bodies, ruined lives, and fractured communities. But the executives in their boardrooms don’t see that. They’re too busy climbing the ladder of success, grabbing their golden tickets and placing bets on the futures market for blow. In a world like this, the cocaine doesn’t just kill you—it elevates you. The last thing they want is for you to see how deep the rot runs.

This craving for cocaine, it’s not just a craving for the high—it’s a craving for something more dangerous, more elusive. It’s the unspoken desire to be something other than what we are. We’ve all seen it, that creeping yearning for an identity, that desperate need to live a life filled with grandeur, with stories that leave a trail of awestruck followers behind you. Cocaine’s the vehicle for that transformation, the shortcut to the myth. It’s not just about getting off; it’s about getting on, about stepping into a world of strut and swagger, where every move is calculated, every word dripping with the weight of experience. Cocaine, my friends, is the ultimate accessory for the new-age adventurer, the rock star, the business titan—the mythic figure who cruises through life as though it’s all just one big, beautiful movie scene.

And make no mistake, that’s what the craving is—performance. It’s the overwhelming hunger to live a life that demands an audience. Every junkie, every hustler, every slick-talking dealer is searching for the same thing: the sweet spot where they’re the star, the center of the universe. And cocaine delivers. It doesn’t just numb the senses, it sharpens them, distorts reality just enough so that you can believe for a moment you’re walking that fine line between brilliance and madness, between genius and catastrophe. It’s like stepping into someone else’s life, one of those characters with the perfect balance of myth and madness—the kind of guy who’s spent more time telling tall tales than actually living them. But in the moment, it doesn’t matter. You’re there. You’re in the movie, and everyone else is just background noise.

The style that accompanies this craving is more than just a look—it’s a philosophy. It’s that grotesque swagger, that borderline arrogance, that flair for the dramatic. You know the type— They don’t just live life; they perform it. Every gesture is calculated, every word wrapped in layers of self-assured bullshit, all delivered with the kind of manic energy that convinces people they’ve seen the light, that they’ve tapped into something no one else has. It’s the show, the act, the pure, unadulterated exhibitionism of existence that draws us in like moths to the flame.

This is the side effect of hyper-commodified cocaine. The craving isn’t just for the euphoria, it’s for the self-constructed fantasy where you’re the hero, the anti-hero, the tortured artist, the misunderstood genius. It’s the craving for a narrative where you can be the lead character, where every moment has significance, where the world revolves around your perfect contradictions. And cocaine provides the bridge to that world, taking you to a place where your flaws are glorified, where your mistakes are recast as tragic genius, and where every failure is just a stepping stone toward an even greater dramatic return.

It’s seductive, this craving. It makes the ordinary man feel extraordinary, the broken man feel invincible. You see it in the manic gleam in their eyes, the chaotic energy that fills their every word. But beneath it all is a hollow truth: they’re not really living at all. They’re trapped in the performance, slaves to a myth they’ve built around themselves. They’re the kings of a kingdom made of glass, one good hit away from shattering into a million shards. And the craving? It’s the only thing keeping them from falling apart completely.

There’s something intoxicating about the idea of cocaine, too. Not just the drug itself, but the life that’s wrapped around it. The legend of the artist or the rebel who lives outside the system, who cuts through the bureaucracy and the grind of daily life like a sharp blade through butter. It’s a story that’s been sold to us by a million protagonists, a million myths of men who were too smart, too eccentric, too unpredictable for this world. They were the ones who danced with chaos, dipped into the forbidden, and came back with stories that made the rest of us salivate with envy. Cocaine doesn’t just represent a drug; it represents the gateway to that world—the one where everything is excessive, exaggerated, and, above all, authentic. You’re real in that world, unbound by the rules that govern the rest of us.

But here’s the catch: it’s all a performance, my friends. A performance that eventually becomes a prison. And the craving? It doesn’t ever truly satisfy. It only deepens the hunger for something that can never quite be touched, something that will always slip through your fingers just when you think you’ve got it.

Ah, yes—the hole in the soul, the abyss. We could say that cocaine is the grand masquerade over the void, a desperate scramble to fill what cannot be filled, to conceal the absence that resides at the core of the self. That hole is the lack, the fundamental lack that sits just beyond the reach of conscious thought, lurking in the shadows, an endless, gaping wound that our whole being is designed to skirt around. It is the Real in its rawest, most terrifying form—a chasm of emptiness bigger than and darker than a thousand black suns.

Cocaine promises us jouissance, that sweet, dangerous pleasure that is always too much, always on the edge of annihilation. But like all fixes, it’s only a cover, a band-aid over a rupture that cannot be healed. You see, the Real cannot be smoothed over with the false promises of consumerism or even the relentless ecstasy of a cocaine high. For a fleeting moment, perhaps, the drug bridges that gap, lets us taste the Other side of the human experience—the sublime thrill of merging with our own myth, our own persona. But it’s an illusion, a simulacrum. The high fades, and we’re left facing the same void, perhaps even deeper than before, knowing we have only brushed against the edge of what we can never attain.

The real terror here isn’t the craving for the high; it’s the knowledge, buried in the unconscious, that nothing can truly satisfy, that our deepest drives are directed not toward filling the void but toward dancing dangerously close to its edge. The high we chase is not the high of satisfaction, but the high of lack itself, the feverish joy in our own self-destruction, our own dissolution. Every line of cocaine is an invitation to lose oneself in the allure of what we can never possess—the fantasy of wholeness, the illusion of being complete.

But the truth, dear reader, is that we are not complete. We are fractured, each of us a network of empty spaces, a labyrinth of longing circling the central absence of meaning. Cocaine isn’t just a mask for this wound; it’s a paradoxical surrender to it, a ritual that brings us ever closer to that emptiness, while keeping the worst of its horrors at bay. It is, in essence, a dance with death—the death of self, the death of identity, the death of the myth we build around ourselves. And so, in the end, cocaine is not an answer; it’s merely the shadow of the question, a fleeting distraction from the abyss we all carry within.

In this way, we live in a state of permanent incompletion, forever haunted by what Lacan called objet petit a, that tantalizing, unattainable object of desire that we chase but never catch. Cocaine? It’s just one more symbol in a world already glutted with false idols, one more lure to keep us from staring directly into the vast, dark truth: we are not whole, and we never will be.