So, so fucking tired.

How come the universe lets you have crazy dreams all night as a method of processing the sub/unconscious, but doesn’t let you have a goddamn night’s rest?

Huh, universe?

Am I sick of people or what?

Thanks, local mayoral and council candidates, for weeding yourselves out with your pro-AI data farm stance.

I was having trouble sifting through who’s what, and now I know.

There’s a few names off the list.

Fuck AI.

For the record, AI companies – none of you have any permission to use any of my work ever, for any reason, under any circumstances.

Or you can, but the cost is a billion dollars a word.

In other words, fuck you.

Target: 1700 words
Written: 1832 words, novel: Father Lightning

Read: Armada, Ernest Cline
Comics: Invincible 141-144
Music: Half-Hour Of Power, Sum 41