/siberia/ - Off-topic

Whole world's gone to shit.

Every corner of every city in every country in every goddamn crack and corner of this god-forsaken planet is caked in filth:

the filth of the trash, the filth of the forgotten, the shit smears and the fuckin' wastewater warlords of the street.

The type of cat who commands you to share that cigarette "let me hit that shit"—the one from the pack you dared to think "I should just fucking quit" before buying, because the cash flow is light.

About as fuckin' light as the rivers and the creeks flowing right now in the pre-summer heat.

Ain't no more spring. Just heat. Just hot. Just concrete. Just a motherfucker who might get got.

That's the time of day now.

The type of heat that soaks into the scalp and massages the anger muscles so deeply, you have to wonder who will die in the dead of summer—which is still months away.

Consume.

Work.

Consume.

Die.

Fuck that shit—dance!

We at the club! Take that smartphone and pocket that shit. Burn your own memories into a brain that's yours and not due for a software update.

The body is fuel for a machine that does not care if it burns, in a system that burns the world—so burn some calories in the fucking club.

Aren't you happy that you got to make the king of your consciousness another $100,000 on your $7.25 an hour shift?

Aren't you jealous that you don't get to have a $7.25 an hour shift?

I mean, we've got to get those birth rates up, but we've got about one-third the amount of profitable things to do for the wage slaves we're breeding.

Birthing motherfuckers just to be killed.

Whole world's gone to shit.

It's hot out here and we had to pawn some shit to get into the club, so you might just get snuck outside the Cowboys here in Lake Charles. You might just get got.

Don't give a fuck.

Don't spill shit on this $7 white tee—I'll end your life over an hour of mine.

Well, after taxes, after the gas, after the cost of living. That $7.25 an hour? Shit's more like $4. More like two hours of my life for that G-Man tee.

Fuck you.

Judgement of those who are too pussy to be in and out of the club with the 99-brand shot bottles mixed in the Gatorade in the gallon jug in the car.

You think we can afford the $7 shots? We can barely afford to dance.

Danse macabre, because you might not come home tonight.

Humid night air. It's been hot all damn day and someone might just get got.

Whole world's gone to shit.

Delta bayou shit. Industrial smog and backwoods choking the lungs.

Cheap South American-moved weed because it's a drive from Colorado, and brother, the Gulf is right there. They bring, we slang 'em, and smoke some of that shit too. Too stressful to not try that supply.

Whole world's gone to shit.

One hundred feet of coastline a day. How many bodies in the city streets, dripping blood the same way the mud drips into the oceanways, never to be shoreline again?

Young men with a future as short as the river is long.

Whole world's gone to shit.

You think I'm not about to dance in this motherfucking club? In this motherfucking apartment? In this motherfucking motel? At this bus stop? In the bando? In the parking lot sprawl of a civilization that worships the concrete the same way I'm about to worship that jug of cheapest fucking vodka you can imagine and the gas station blinker yart?

Fuck you.

The whole world's gone to shit.

We're a long way from getting your shoes, phone, and coat taken on the school bus home. I don't even ride that bus, and you won't be seeing me on it again—but I appreciate that shit not being Apple-locked.

Wipe me down.

We jugging that shit for the money to g e t i n t o t h e c l u b. Surviving past 17 cops, a pat-down, a metal detector, and the rest of the panopticon.

So step and dance, because you're already dead.

It's the gangrene of the world gathered in the place, baby girl.

The whole world has gone to shit.

-Erik Houdini