in 2019 i was preparing to host a themed party to raise money for some dumb college art bullshit, talking themes with my crew: harmless bedroom pop fan (20, f, usa) and pickup artist ex marine (26, m, rotating cube in his mind).
the exmarine looks me in the eye and says: how about epic mustaches.
i recoil in horror as i reconsider my entire life, the vain pursuit of fashion and "hipness" and the libidinal death drive of youth culture being swallowed whole in a accelerationist dysentery-loop. i immediately understand why mark fisher killed himself.
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