A Path to Cynicism: Or, How I Survived the Middle Class

Ever wonder what the most forgettable corner of the world looks like through a dense haze of chemicals and remorseless violence? Or, what life is like on a permanent caffeine high of life-shattering proportions as it whirls by on a slipstream of vehement spatial decomposition headed straight for the core of the human imagination? Consider these queries and ponder your way into resolution as you dive headfirst into the unforgiving muck of the east coast's own Eden, a paradise to the methodical ignoramus isolated by any resemblance of culture and left to rot in its own industrial runoff. Believe it or not, people actually live there among the burnt-out and skeletal remains of a city, and I believe myself to be the first to have survived an extended period of contact with them and later managed to relate it. I stand to reason that the following vigorous, immersive documentation of the evolution of the most impotent microcosm conceived by structural engineering as I remember it should serve some manner of science, and maybe even succeed in getting the thing dismantled. Following the trail of the apathetic infection all the way to the lower hemisphere had proved necessary, but it possessed its own cache of toxic disasters, not that I couldn't have known. I wish I could say that this isn't their story, all the terrible people and things encountered in my experiential expedition, but it kind of is. Maybe you've even searched for a cathartic remedy for all your repeated outbursts about reptile zoos and autocannibalism like me, and somehow your wound up here by mistake? I guess if you're looking for the product of 110 days of sleep-deprived mania expanded into one long case of medical negligence, complete with an entire archive of horrifically bad ideas and the consequences of their execution, then you're pretty much on track.