Sorrel-Marijuana
2026-10-13
The Zillennials are embracing new sincerity in full swing, thanks to me!
It's been such a bitch getting back into my writing groove. This holiday weekend, I was out in Savannah, GA, on a boys' trip with some boys—ancient friends, the compañeros desde la prepa, wey. What a dumb city; I forgot that SCAD was there, and so seeing a bunch of weird artsy-fartsy college kids was funny. It reminded me of my college days back in Austin—similar vibes, and the same degeneracy all around. Though it's weird being a bit older now, those days not-so-far behind me, yet feeling like it was a lifetime ago. Time just keeps slowing down and slowing down; if I had it my way, I'd have the absolute best day of my life and then repose the very next day. People opine that time is one's most valuable resource, but I will always contend that time is a stupid illusory piece of dogshit. The only people who see time as a resource are those who are genuinely afraid of death, but I have no qualms with my ego departing from my soul; quite frankly, that sounds awesome. The ego is such a dastardly spirit anyway because all it likes to do is lie. "Oh, you need to get your life together and get the ball rolling on things so that people don't think you're a derelict bum," it tells me as I continue to fuck off and love Jesus more and more.
Fuck all of this, seriously. Why are we so busy keeping our hamster wheels turning when all it is—it's just another means to assuage unrealistic fears? Whatever it takes to get through the day, I suppose. For me, if that involves being some weird Lebowski-esque monk-like degenerate, then so be it, man. I don't give a fuck about anyone's opinions; it's not like they're wrong, but they truly are pointless attempts at posturing some kind of position—whether it be some sense of superiority or contrarian counter-signaling—it doesn't really matter to me, anyway. When one has seen the shit I've seen, it all begins to fade into a continuous series of bleak sunrises. Am I going to get a break anytime soon, Lord? No? Alright then.
This rhythmic clacking at the keyboard, screaming into a chamber with shitty acoustics—it really does help me get through the day, even if it's just a small series of minutes to get me through to the next impulse. My instincts keep me going, and while I forgo any attempts to understand them in this moment, I continue to let them push me through to each passing moment, hoping that they don't result in some kind of unnecessary stress; fake fear responses suck. My body continues to elude me, but the constant stream of prescription drugs keeps my ever-and-so-dastardly-present mind at bay from itself. I am eating myself, and I taste like shit. The Spanish moss in Savannah was pretty cool, and while I didn't see any apparitions in that haunted Sorrel-Weed house, I knew they were there. A few signs of the cross kept those assholes from doing anything stupid, though. Eight-foot-tall British redcoat shadow demons, huh? Eh, I've seen worse.
I love fighting demons because they don't know just how much of a spiritual gangster I am. They can eat and claw at my psyche all they want—keep feeding, fuckers—I don't have any qualms with your trickery. Possess me all you want, because I push harder than you ever can. You can never take my soul away from this flesh; no matter how hard you try, I am always one step ahead. Though I have no illusions about my pride, they cannot force me to feed into it, because the Athonite reminded me to dial into humility. When given an opportunity, tell it to go fuck itself—it keeps you away from the prayer rope and the icon corner, anyway. Doubts? Pray that shit away, sucka! I will continue to keep myself entertained with these screeds until the job is finished—spiritually Kobe, I tell ya hwhat.
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