Took a loan from the IMF and all I got was this lousy T-shirt

Uh. The sky is heavy and crunches everything into me. I am the image of the ideal American-boy. I wear a “Bush did 9/11” trucker hat everywhere I go. My tongue is made of a strip of the gadsden flag. My lashes are thin shavings of the bullets that shot through Malcolm X’s flesh. My teeth are stained with Iraqi oil. My nails are painted with the blood of every species we have crunched out of existence. My bones are held together with Agent Orange. My intestines are crawling with tiny shriveled corpses. My skin has the texture of an AirPod. My hair is falling out like a fountain and I think that I can touch God. It’s over. But you are indifferent to all of it. Because, like, it’s all just plastic, and it’s all just gonna sit around for the next billion years. Lol. We are caught between the stars and the screen. And AI-generated birds are sucking my intestines out of my mouthhole. Yum. The birds are made of molding pizza boxes, weed baggies, Plan B, syringes, viral TikTok books, SAG-AFTRA writers strike signs, cigarette lighters, boxing gloves, rocket fuel, unpassed Congress bills, rotting pig flesh, guitar picks, metal water bottles, almond packets, pussy hats, New York pigeon feathers, obsidian crystals, X-ray machines, lexapro pills, moondust, Green Party political pamphlets, frozen sunflowers, other things. But. I want my final words to be in emojis. The whole world smells like Elon’s farts. I peel back every layer of the universe and what’s left is a mountain of hard frozen bodies giving each other blowjobs. I sail away towards the sunset on a cruise ship funded by cryptocurrency billionaires. West Africa has got to get their shit together, bro. Every single tree on the planet will be scrapped and sold for parts. I’m gonna explode! China is on my hitlist, Russia is on my hitlist, uh every single country is on my hitlist (except Israel and Saudi Arabia). It is my destiny to live forever and ever and listen to Jane Remover’s entire discography over and over and over. My fingers are committing suicide. Soon they will be reborn as green strips of computer code. Soon they will be reborn as take-out chopsticks. Soon they will be reborn as Cheetos puffs. Yum. They have to make electronic clouds to fill up the air now. I am fresh out of the womb and have already founded twelve blockchain companies– what’s your excuse? My excuse is that I start crying uncontrollably whenever I have to create another account for a new website. Sorry. Yeah. The whole world is jerking off to dead Ukrainians. The whole world is nothing more than a trust fund baby’s art project. The whole world should be sold to a private American contractor. Every Disneyland must be bombed. Every US military outpost must be consecrated as a holy site. And everything melts until there is nothing left. Like an aggressive flash of energy and orgasm and it all just implodes into a billion tiny starportals. Cool.