The Purpose of the Machine is Death
It’s just, you know, you have your whole thing, I said. You have your job, your education, your girlfriend, your house. You have shit. I don’t have shit. I failed university twice, I’ve just lost the only job I’ve had for more than 6 months in my entire adult life, and it turns out I carried water for a guy who fucked all of us. I broke up with F, and I’m never going to get a girlfriend again. I’m too old. I’m 25, and I don’t drink. I’m never going to get a girlfriend again, because I’m a fucking loser. All I get is girls in “open relationships” wanting to cheat on their boyfriends. I’m in fucking constant pain and it’s never going to get better because I can’t drink. I have nothing. I don’t have an identity. All I have is this.
He said, yeah I see what you mean.
Paris is smoking hot. Spain hot, Italy hot. Too hot to do anything during the day. I sit in the shade with a Portuguese psychologist I met two days ago, discussing the science of symbolism. He has never read Wittgenstein. He’s having a fight with his girlfriend, I don’t know what about. I can just tell from their body language. Yesterday he read out a declaration of his love for her on a stage in front of a hundred people, forfeiting the competition to use the moment to show her how…
