25Paris, France
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My self-summary
I like cats, but I could spend my whole life without one.
I like women as much as I like cats. Which is not to say cats and women are the same thing. Cats are better.

There's a time I thought I wanted to be boring. Then I became boring and I thought I was going to stay that way. Now I'm troubled again and I wish to be boring. There's a stillness in the mind now that inexplicably moves upon itself in a way I couldn't describe. A silent churning hidden from sight. I want distraction from it, yet there's nothing I wish to do.
Nothing I want to see, nothing I want to say, nothing I want to do, no one I would like to meet or talk to. I leave this here as a bottle in the sea to be found by an anyone who's more of an idea, the template of a blank psyche, rather than actual human being. I could go out, get a bottle, not in the sea this one, and put to sleep the disharmonious coexistence of the self with itself, bothered by a resting state without cogent plans, or needs, or wants, biting its own tail and thinking to itself the tail is another thing, or another of it, or something else entirely.
The bottle would cut the tail, or knock out what is playing with it. But not tonight, tonight I experience this incredibly small discomfort that is the whole world to me in this instant. I bear with it, because why not? It is a rare thing for people, to have the world be infinitely bearable to them.
What I’m doing with my life
There's this statue of a woman, the ancient kind, unmoving but as if imbued of the dynamic nobility of something more than life. She's wearing a bedsheet and making it look like fashion. But it's her face, slightly grinded down by the elements that strike me on this grey afternoon. The nose eroded, the eyes set deep as if drying like old raisins or outright disappearing. Those eyes that may or may not be there are looking at me from above, and I see a skull in this woman's face. The skull is staring at me, I see my death. I stare back while walking past, and shiver a bit.

Then I go to work.
I’m really good at
There's a reason we say mindset, and not mindcast. The mind isn't forever cast, stuck in a single shape, it is forever made and remade. It is set, again and again. To a degree, you can force yourself into setting your mind differently, which may be what all those self-help books are about.

It's hard, it feels artificials, and it doesn't work perfectly.
But it's a start.

Unhappiness often exists in the perceived gap between what we are and what we think we should be. I'd like to tell you there's nothing you should be, but then you'd stay shit all your life. So maybe unhappiness is the number one drive for self improvement. If unhappiness doesn't vanish after having self-improved to the fullest extent of your possibilities, see your local shaman to get your chakras in order. Alternatively, a noose.
Favorite books, movies, shows, music, and food
She crouched down near the large drainage grill embedded in the pavement, her eyes dropped down along the grey wall trapped below, her eyes dropped down and got lost in light swallowed and saw nothing but an end of sight.
She stood up and felt without eyes even though her eyes didn't really fall, back there. But a part of her that sees did, and was still there in the darkness, suspended in mid-air with the day above and some damp and foul unknown below.
Conversely in her head, a sample of sewer air, a part of that space was now existing at once where it was and in the humid cavity above her neck. This was a small thing to carry, not even a somewhere, a something that was barely there, removed, irrelevant, just a square of obscurity above a non-place of pipes and concrete.
Perhaps it wasn't even really there in her head, but seeing it and projecting herself down, slithering through the small holes in the grill, she had recognized a quality of that nothing there she shared.

And she couldn't go back to what she was before knowing.
Six things I could never do without
There's this expression: having your shit together. Well my shit is scattered. In the history of mankind, never has been a shit so far from being structurally united. There's fragments of my shit in each of the 38 corners of the universe. I love it.

Half convincing pseudo intellectual bullshit.
I spend a lot of time thinking about
Okcupid's algorithm is hot garbage. I'm incredibly friendly and polite. I'm like a teddy bear that smells bad and swears a lot.

So I figure the way things are going the world isn't going to be either an utopia or a dystopia. The traceability on people is going to be mad, and a list of mankind will exist in server farms somewhere. People are going to become first and foremost existences in the cloud. Dating profiles, job profiles, government profiles. Identity is becoming and will become more still something external, or at least seen as existing externally. Identity is a patchwork of feelings, a cluster of ideas going around in your brain. But more and more, it is a cluster of ideas going around in the mental space of machines. It isn't tragic overly exagerated stuff à la black mirror, but it needs to be mentionned that there's like a dispossession there, or rather a surrender. I am not so much talking about the façade aspect of social niceties, the fakeness of those new relationships. Rather that the human mind, in this constant man-machine interaction, will lose a sense of self gained with introspection to gain something that is fabricated to be seen. Identity projected outward instead of being something in itself for oneself. Something to market, something to mold and shape. Not something defining you, but something being defined by your imagination and your dreams, by pictures, postures, music, words, most of which aren't even your own. Something you pick and choose, clothes of mind.

Technology is making and will increasingly make of us narcissuses, with the very vital distinction that the water reflecting us will be of our own making. Taking in the view of our own soul depicted in the skynet by ourselves, for ourselves and others to fathom. But beyond the similarity that can be found with that myth, there is the notion that life will become first and foremost something to be shown and paraded around and that the self is primarily something to be strung out for all to see. What we would see would be existences lived outside of themselves, projected rather than experienced, images having more importance than the flesh of being, and the recording, the thing recorded and the act of recording itself etc etc

hurr durr am smart
On a typical Friday night I am
I go to the train station and I watch people. I walk downtown and I watch people. I don't learn anything new. If someone looks interesting, I follow them a while, never women though. The last person I followed was a very old guy, he looked interesting but then he spent ten minutes staring at foldable knives in foldable knives magazine. I felt cheated.

I try to understand how we can all exist simultaneously, it seems to me there's altogether too much life happening at once in all those heads, and all of those happening outside my view. I try to understand why we are appart, to distinguish if there's something more between us than what the senses allow.

Then I go home and get drunk.
The two of us