Everyone’s dealing with some shit.
This P. Diddy debacle is not only unraveling the black music industry, but it’s also messing with my mental outlook.
Here’s the thing about going down a rabbit hole. You have to go back up at some point, when the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party gets to be a bit too much, and you can’t breathe anymore.
You’re feeling like you’ll go mad, paranoid that they’re out to get you, too, just for looking and that this world is nothing more than a construct designed to keep you eating steak when you’re really a brain stem plugged into the Matrix…powering generations.
A.I. is here. It’s even offering to finish my sentences for me if I pause for too long. I can’t get away from it. On Instagram and Google smartphone, it’ll pop up, insert itself, set my alarm for 7 a.m. without me asking, look up Jaguar Wright and spit out a generic bio. I’m surrounded by robots.
If all of it’s true, the Diddy stuff, then nearly everything I’m watching on TV, in the movies, listening to on the radio, streaming, playing on the stereo — as I do the dishes, walk the dog, drive to Boise for my pizza fix — is what they, the unseen, unknown elite, allow.
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