Work took me to a sparse apartment in one of New York City’s most dangerous neighborhoods, as evidenced by a crime scene right outside, but I felt fairly safe by staying inside with the door locked and lights on. When morning came I was joined by my team, a rag-tag group of folks, young and old, and one of them, a tall Kramer-type with a curly blonde afro, came out of the bathroom allowing me to go in next to shower and change for a final visit to the client today before returning home. I removed my pants, my only pair for the trip, and set them down but noticed there was water, no, urine pooled on the tile, and appalled as I was by the behavior of our resident hipster dufus, I had to prioritize drying them off in what little time I had. Dabbing it with a towel wasn’t likely to be effective, as wet as the jeans became like they had been submerged.
An excerpt from one of several pinnacles of the franchise, accomplishing in a single 45-minute episode what the new series cannot in two season-long arcs. Talk about boring! Fuck Akiva Goldsman, everything that hack touches is shit.
Define it as the perception of sound without a corresponding external source, and I’ve had it all my life, that noise I’d just assumed was from the pressure exerted upon my skull I could hear in the silence, caused either by the tides within or the radiation that’s only become more pervasive since the Zenith in the other room. But last week I woke and it was louder, I couldn’t yawn it away, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t afraid the cracks were finally starting to show… What am I saying, they’ve been here all along, it’s the damn burst I should be expecting. The soundtrack I had always imagined to be from Curb Your Enthusiasm (or Joker) was instead replaced by the low hum of machinery in the background at a deserted facility, designed by David Lynch. It’s let up somewhat, I’ve noticed it dissipates almost entirely after exercise or orgasm, or I’ve grown to accept its symphony with the computer fan, cracked skylight, WiFi and what I presume are the reverberations of my crumbling reality.
World’s gone to shit at the mercy of Blofelds who must not have left any would-be usurpers unattended with their attractive assistants (my single-line treatment for a Lex Luthor-centered film would be for him to be frustrated by the one he can’t just shoot dead), and I’m Vana’diel-ing it in Hisui this time, delighted that the Switch firmware had extended its Bluetooth connectivity to include headsets, though the immersion is not without effect upon my psyche: I dreamed of a new generation of Pokémon but for adults, which I suppose already has candidates, and one that resembled Team Rocket Jesse could read my mind by enlarging her anime eyes. Seems directing lascivious thoughts toward her prevented aggroing.
to draw the reader’s attention to this otherwise personal subject of insecurity
but instead learned that social media influencers took torn jeans 
