die with the most likes

my goal isn’t the louvre or the fuckin tate or any museum. it’s to be printed on gas station sex pills. or on a billboard next to a personal injury attorney. or to be sold next to fuckable plush snuggies on QVC. my goal is to be the asphalt we walk on.

it's just binance every time or?

aw shit. here we go again.

what do you mean you’re going as fully nude jar jar binks from the zack snyder cut of the unrated shower scene in star wars episode one the phantom menace?

fuck. we just lost to the flies at meat pool in the confines of a dicks last resort.

digital art revolution.

good meat.

aw shit. here we go again.

realizations of an artist.

the best collectors were sniffing erasers and debating which pack of nfl pencils to buy along with the biggest grail at the scholastic book fair. no questions at this time either.

fuck being collected by a celebrity. I want to be collected by the kid who used to buy the yearly guiness book of world records at the scholastic book fair in 1995.

good meat.

for christmas he printed out interactions he’d had in the comments section of a video of someone being maimed by a drone though it was unclear if he’d won the argument or if the video was worth watching these transactions were deemed worthy of placing under a plastic tree

fuck your face.

how it feels waking up and going to bed being told the world is likely going to end at any given second or minute or day in the godforsaken festering butthole of the app algorithm.

best day ever.

influencer using rainbet earnings to succumb to alcoholism in perceived paradise.

good meat.

saturn devouring a barely warmed lean cuisine during a 11 minute lunch break before returning to a meeting for which his inadequacies are unveiled by management in front of the entire office and he goes to bed tired and humiliated.

die with the most likes.

the dinner was miserable. nothing was celebrated. but we all won or lost a game. something was harvested but not cooked.