[<<][BEN - go to the WHITE TEXT below (in the paragraphs)]


[06:31]; Geometry has much to do with the violative implication you may feel if you betray the expected, pre-existing or default orient that you entered the establishment with; i.e. if you entered by yourself, you are expected to sit alone. If you enter with accompaniment, you will sit at a table that suits this exactly with no expandability (or it doesn't, and you just have to bifurcate your friend circle into two separate rectangles because the design language of the establishment doesn't wish to accomodate your five person party). In essence, I feel the antidote to the aggressive isolationist effective control-thru-implication is for establishments to use circular tables, not two-seat rectangular mini-tables. These, or even rectangular tables of four seats (even if they're curved at the points), have four vertices; its the physiolinguistic equivalent of wheel spikes. Its needlessly aggressive and it contributes to the deterioration of social fabrics, as it deters people from interacting.
In the same conversation of objects containing/facilitating the desires of only the most reptilian and high-sat personnel of authority, I should mention the benches or raised planes of concrete on street corners in urban areas which have been modified to have spikes, as a homeless deterrent. Its one of the flagrant impersonal, inhumane but practical images/implements of industrialization.

If you're reading this, hi Ben.
You don't need to watch the whole video.
If you care to, click the blue timestamp and humour maybe a minute of the video - this is only if you want to have context for what I've written above in [red], which is more for me than it necessarily is for you. But what I invite you to do is to read what I've put below (in the remaining white and yellow, and even gray if you have the patience).

- if you consent to it, I may send you things in this format periodically. Its things like these that I spend some fraction of my time making, and I'm not displaying it to you like a monkey would a coconut in an attempt to impress you, but rather to accomplish two things - to give you an idea of what I do with (a percentage of) my time, and also to exchange ideas with you in a way that fleeting verbal interaction doesn't support.

In a world as on fire (the burning happened in the 1980s through 2000s, as the chemical changes to our national body was, while destructive, somewhat beautiful) rapidly decaying as the one we inhabit in 2026, with rapid interrelational fermentation and putrescent gas buildup amidst its anatomical chambers which used to be fluxed with media such as The (local) News(TM) or M.A.S.H. (centralized entertainment to serve the semi-homogenous constitution of a country), we've now polluted these hoses complacently with the, unlike the coming example, actually hazardous ingredients of what is likenable to middle school lunchroom-crafted stinkbombs of disharmonious smells and textures; disgracefully cascading cultures atop one another in cartons akin to rooms (chocolate milk (black contingency), corn (indians of course), a chunk of cheese pizza w/ tomato sauce (wops), carrots (mexicans?), croutons (semites), you get the point) - its actually as perfect an analogy as my analogies go as there's a long underscored speculation / conflict of interest on the strategic inflamation of African Americans by semites, and the "chocolate milk", the substrate of this disgusting cocktail, is a package totally under the management of "croutons"./ spaces, whether they're defined by the walls of Postall (with you, myself and a South African man you are so enamored with, and I pray to God not again the wife of this African) or the shiny floor of the DMV. So when I paint an image like that, you might understand why in 2026, a young, predisenfranchised white person may be more aligned with the ideas of "hate" figures like George Lincoln Rockwell, as they've (I have) essentially been brought up in a maligned, insect infested and odorous society, with framed newspaper clippings all over the place encapsulating its picturesque state fifty years prior touting its remarkable cleanliness, simplicity, and pleasant smell - luxuries of a society not compromised by long unsmacked feminine governance.
If you caught the parenthesization of hate in the last sentence, you may be able to appreciate that ideas are nothing but; one can assign a foul connotation to them by prefixing it "hate", like "hate-speech" or the like, but ultimately, they are innocuous, supposedly protected assemblies of thought and observation with the potentials for malice and/or altruism and/or whatever else. But I know you to not be the kind to widen your eyes at my mentioning/synthesis of politically incorrect material.

[27:13]; You have said before that you "want so much for you(me)" and have pointed to my act of perhaps clumsy selflessness in my readiness to spending(-ing) an hour or two hours after work, on days I may not have been obligated to, in order to accomplish what you'd argue is my duty to satisfy during my logged hours and my decision not to is some huge transgression which speaks to grand immaturity, or what I'd defend as my tailored delivery means of getting done something consequential, voluntarily - which is really all that matters. What gets done is important, not when or how. The policing of how and when things are achieved would decouple nearly everyone we'd acknowledge as having done decently with their spent time in this mortal coil from such a view. No, the possession of the crop, the nectar of toil is all that matters, to men and women unalike. And while I'm not the possessor of such yeilds, I manage to achieve what you cannot for whatever reason you might cite - too few hours worked = inexperience, yet you don't wish to increase the amount of time you work despite your identification of the deficit. I've inherited a problem in you, in that you stifle my paychecks by occupying a two day slot, and yet I cannot effectively do with the freed resource what I wish to, which is to supplement my formerly contenting pay here with pay from elsewhere, to someone I want to appease and extract through this time some grade of experience and give back a feeling of dependability. You're a tumorous cockblock. Anyway, you insist that there are better things I should be compelled to do with my time, and yet you fail to realize that, for one, there aren't, and secondly that you're just antagonizing me.

Annoyed at the conversation Ben and I had yesterday morning (today is Sunday); when I was attempting to defend my attire, which is always comprised of blue jeans and a blank t-shirt, I brought up the dress of CEOs for some reason. I walked into what Ben was to say next like a street pole, as he predictably seizes on these comparisons that place you in the manure and whomever you mentioned in the clouds. He retorted "Well they're CEOs, they can do that!", and "You're not them", which is just so obvious. Correct, I am a 23 year old man who works two jobs, uses his free will to wear what I deem inoffensive clothes, almost as an apology for my enduring hairstyle. Its becoming ridiculous how much flack I'm getting for my hair - and certainly, its the tumor-stomached former white collar scorpion born in 1949 who externalizes his identification of it as a problem. And while I insulted him in the former sentence, I suppose I can appreciate his vocalizations of these idiotic ideas rather than keeping them internal, deciding not to share solutions with me. I earnestly respect him for taking it upon himself to attempt to aide me, but I'm stuck between a rock and a hard place - I wish to be as aware as possible of the positions and dynamics external to my own, but I also have little regard for those positions as I feel justified in discarding the ideas of hypocrites and whores. It overloads me at times, the perceived waves of negativity which pour in because of the nerve-laden protrusions of my identity (not trying to paint these as phallic, but maybe you can consider the secreted disgust impulses I do feel as originating from an inflamed ego) being chaffed by the brushings past of outside forces.