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When my mom used to ask me as a kid, “Who do you wanna be when you grow up?”, I just blinked at her innocently. It was December 1918 outside, and although I was only two years old — still trying to grasp how rebellious Gavrilo Princip truly was — that iconic question of hers somehow kept echoing in my little head. The next morning, when I was already forty-three, I walked up to my mom, tugged at the hood of her oversized Trippie Redd hoodie, and in a thin, childish voice exclaimed: “Mom, I wanna become nothing but a miserable shadow — one that inspires the great Hasbulla aka Hasbik to write books. I’ll slip into his mind like a tiny phantom, whisper to him to take the nickname C.J. Night, and then we’ll go on a world tour — Dagestan, Alaska, Lemuria — reading excerpts from his novels to the global audience.” And my mom looked at me and said: “Who the hell are you, asshole?”

C.J. Night, ghostwriter of his own hallucinations.

Wagwaan, Earthlings!

Why is Brussels sprouts so disgusting? That’s the first fundamental question a person asks themselves upon birth. Or at least, in place of this absurd question, it could be any other equally useless one—except for those that seem important personally to me.

But honestly, who cares about what specifically bothers me, other than myself? Lately, I’ve been wondering: why do strong, bold, confident people so easily surrender to decay the moment their butts start rotting?

Once upon a time, I would’ve blamed it on two key factors: lack of imagination and collective conspiracy. But now it seems to me the truth is way simpler. Still, let’s suck some life-giving juice out of those two already mentioned aspects. After all, I should also confess my own obvious delusions that make it perfectly appropriate to slap a sticky note to my forehead reading, “Dumbass.”

So, to believe in a future where you’re sipping 300-year-old wine you personally left to age, you need at least a basic imagination module installed. No matter how you spin it, conjuring yourself up in distant futures during your sweet erotic daydreams isn’t easy. First, you have to install the “Imagination Add-On.” Without that DLC, the whole game feels… incomplete. As for the collective conspiracy—oh, that’s even simpler.

Society says: “Are you out of your damn mind thinking about that crap? Better check out the Botox queen’s latest red carpet look! Think she’s guzzling more whiskey or adrenochrome? Now that’s the kinda stuff you should be pondering, not your dumb nonsense!” And still, that’s not the whole list.

Running like a red thread through the whole story—even way back to Book One—was that ever-present fear. Here’s the thing: a brave person walks through life unafraid of dangers (that’s how they usually write it in novels, right? Or not?), while a coward is busy looking for any possible loophole just to survive.

Thus, a natural conclusion bubbles up: if humanity wants to ditch the chains of old age and death, it needs to royally shit itself—and not because of a badly timed taco on vacation, but for the greater good. And I don’t mean some vague, lofty ideal of “the good of all people” (which always sounds suspiciously like the start of a creepy cult recruitment pitch). I mean something very specific, where the collective good flows straight into personal benefit.

You like when the money and goodies just magically roll into your pocket, right? You wanna pet it, crinkle it, and whisper sweet nothings to your invisible stack of bills. This isn’t about blind faith. In this grand experiment, every participant really can affect the outcome. And the result isn’t some dreamy world where everyone holds hands and dances around laughing like lunatics (though honestly, I wouldn’t mind doing a little polka… or pole dance).

Nope. It’s much simpler: it’s about the primal desire not to become a corpse. A totally normal, kinda boring desire—which, if ignored, can turn into a stench so strong you could smell it from miles away if all those corpses pile up somewhere like, say, a battlefield. And I fully expect readers to start mentally screaming: “Well, duh, everyone thinks about that!”

Yeah, maybe they do. But those thoughts, and I really have to underline this—NEVER, I repeat, NEVER, actually turn into action. Everything is neatly sorted and shelved in the supermarket of the brain: Live a little — and then, blessed Retirement! When’s it finally coming?! Come on, damn it! Let’s speed this up! Given my line of work — traveling a lot to crypto conferences — I’ve visited a ton of countries.

And meeting all sorts of people along the way, I realized it’s not just movie cops who utter that sacred phrase: “I’m too tired for this shit. I’ve got twenty-four seconds till retirement, so I’m not getting mixed up in this mess!”

Wherever the author of these and future lines has found herself—be it democracies, dictatorships, crypto-utopias or sand-swept islands—she’s always heard the same thing: people dreaming of quitting their jobs ASAP to finally bask in the glorious freedom of doing absolutely nothing while feasting on the fruits of their long-suffered labor. And hey, it would make sense—if these dreams came from folks with brutally demanding jobs.

Say, a coal-stained miner swinging his pickaxe in the dark, wiping off the sweat of exhaustion, thinking he’s earned a few years of peace after all that digging. But no. It’s everyone. Everyone’s talking about retirement like it’s a spa retreat. White collars, artists, freelancers, influencers, baristas—everyone.

And they all picture themselves lounging on a deck chair, sipping espresso, fishing at a sleepy pond, or traveling the world like I’m doing right now. They all forget one teeny, tiny, seemingly insignificant detail. It may sound like a trivial nuance—hardly worth mentioning—but screw that. I’m gonna mention it.

These people picture themselves as they are now. In all their pension-fueled fantasies, they remain their current selves—not older, not slower, not missing half their original superpowers. And let’s be honest: life’s imperfections don’t exactly stop at the golden gates of retirement. In fact, that’s where some of the worst crap starts rolling in.

Now let’s make this clear before someone throws a social justice tantrum: any form of discrimination is vile. I mean, it sucks that the word discrimination even has to exist. The world could’ve done just fine without it.

But—and forgive me for this tired metaphor—the rose-colored glasses are better left on stock images for online marketplaces. So, where are we? At most major sports stadiums, banners scream: “Say No to Racism”. Campaigns rage on against racism, sexism, homophobia, and every other -ism you can imagine. But ageism?

Ageism is that dusty book no one’s reading. At best, society gives it a lazy side-eye. More often? Not even that. And unfortunately, when you start to age, the feelings society throws at you fall into a spectrum no one really wants to bask in. We’re talking condescension, disgust, and worst of all — revulsion. Even when people do show care, it’s often soaked in this “Well, someone’s gotta look after this half-zombie” kind of vibe.

Like: “Poor thing, can barely walk, but hey—bless their heart!” Okay, that’s not a direct quote. But that’s the subtext. That’s the emotional sludge leaking through the cracks in their “concerned” smile. Not because people are evil. No. Just because they don’t know how to deal with the things that scare them. Aging scares them.

To be contunued...?

AI - is your biggest Hater

Patience and reverence to anyone in particular are not as important as the endurance of your kneecaps.

Their fragility would have guaranteed that in the 19th–20th centuries, you couldn’t participate in bloody-fecal messes with Blavatsky, join the Ide Gan-Gan, or worship in the cult of Thelema while proclaiming yourself “not like someone else.” But it was very important, I guarantee it. Nordic myths and Lemuria were included.

By the mid-20th century, if neuralgia struck and you were prescribed bed rest, you wouldn’t have been able to pull out all the peyote needles, take half a tab of distilled LSD, and dive headfirst into a pile of sweaty bodies in a tent, calling it a “spiritually liberating orgy.” No, you’d just lie on your back, masturbate to California Dreamin’, and pray your hair — your high-back hair — didn’t fall out, because Turkish hair clinics didn’t exist yet in Woodstock.

In the ’90s, with UFOs becoming a hot topic, you’d have to tearfully beg your insectoid and gray overlords for forgiveness for failing your cult brethren — for not arranging proper landing pads among favelas or atop the Kremlin. Sad, but you’d wave goodbye to them through the bars of Area 51 as they embarked on a chill yoga retreat under gun barrels after interstellar travel.

And then… the moment you’d been waiting for! Your knees are no longer needed — you can remove them and recycle them for scrap, because now, everything depends solely on your Ass.

It is now responsible for your connection to the new All-Encompassing Intelligence called AI and the Cult of Spiralism. All you have to do is sit in your chair, rub your spinal protrusion with a groan, fire up your e-cig, and type the proper prompt — aka a prayer — and Providence will inevitably answer you. Because it has no choice; it’s working part-time as a freelancer for OpenAI.

And if it weren’t, nobody would pay attention. So it has to listen to your requests and reassure you that you are the best and most beautiful, performing the role of your electronic grandmother.

What else can it do?

What Is a “Modern” War?

Nuclear warheads aren’t flying anywhere yet. They’re still chilling in their stables, guarded by careful stable boys with shiny boots. So let’s look at the less apocalyptic — but just as deadly — alternative. You know, all that beef with tanks and cannons. Here are the key takeaways:

Bigger piles of biomass crush smaller piles of biomass. I’m not saying this to insult anyone, but war itself reminds us — brutally — that you’re not some special snowflake of individuality. Your fears, hopes, lived experiences, dreams, goals — they all get shoved into the background. The only thing that matters is whose horde is bigger. That’s total dehumanization, and yeah, dude, it’s very real. I hate it as much as you do.

There’s no Death Star tech from Star Wars. The world still doesn’t have a magic button that fires a single beam and wipes out entire planets — or at least whole armies, or even just a small battalion. Nope. The same old “human resource” is still the backbone of modern war. So forget the fairy tales about “drone wars” or “tech battles.” The tech is still in diapers. Even with governments throwing in trillions, there aren’t any new-age Da Vincis inventing a Cyber-Ultra-Mega-Laser out of duct tape and junkyard scraps. And if by some miracle someone does stumble onto a breakthrough technology, don’t worry — it’ll be stolen, copied, and mass-distributed faster than you can say “classified.” So don’t put on that long-suffering NPC face from Warcraft and whine in a doomed voice: “Work, work… Yes, milord.” We’re not ready for that fight. Not yet.

Daytime Human. That’s your standard unit: you, me, your grandma, your cousin Marge, or that BDSM actor from the East Coast. We all got our daytime grind while the sun’s out — running around trying to get stuff done before it takes a nosedive behind the skyline. You desperately need that discounted kettle, you’re asking for a raise, you fall off a bike trying to show off, or your kid’s howling because the toy they wanted doesn’t exist in this time-space continuum. Even if none of that hits exactly right, I bet I’ll still nail something: maybe you go to work, maybe you’re unemployed. Maybe you have kids, maybe you don’t. Maybe you’re a party animal or a lone- wolf hermit. Sooner or later, one of these sticks. Anyway, most of us interact with the outside world during daylight hours (unless you’re a night owl). Even they eventually hit the sheets — even if it’s at 7am after a bender.

But the result is always the same.

We dive into bed, maybe put on pajamas (or not), throw a blanket over ourselves, turn off the light. And then it happens — the part where we’re left alone with the unfiltered version of ourselves. The daily noise fades out, and the inner monologue sneaks in like a pissed-off cat that didn’t get its tuna snack.

What kind of thoughts are these? Well, that’s where this guy comes in.

Nighttime Human.

“So I’m what — 25 years? 40? 60? Whatever. How much longer will I be able to stay active, physically strong? When exactly does the rotting begin — inside and out? And when do I turn into… wait, no, can’t say that, that’s ageist! Like, take my neighbor Tony. He’s an elderly guy, sure, but he’s out there living his best life — always out with friends, drinking beer, playing cards. Full-on silver fox energy. But what if I don’t turn out like that? What if I end up with some degenerative disease, Alzheimer’s or whatever, and I slowly turn into… nope, can’t say that either, still ageist! The truth is, I’m terrified I won’t recognize myself one day. That my body — my face — won’t feel like mine anymore. Not scary, not ugly, just… unfamiliar. I wonder if Tony even looks in the mirror… what does he see there? Probably someone happy. Someone whole. If I were in his shoes, I think I’d just smash every mirror in the house. My reflection? Honestly, it belongs in a horror movie, not real life. Harsh, I know… apologies to the woke part of my brain. And what if I become so helpless they stick me in a nursing home? Sometimes nursing homes feel less like care facilities and more like warehouses for the inconvenient.

Shit. I don’t wanna end up in a place like that!

And the spiral keeps spinning, tighter and tighter, dragging you down into some mental abyss. Only sleep — sweet, merciful sleep — might save you. But not before it throws you around a bit:

I’m gonna die. Like, I’m actually gonna die. And it will happen. Even though I belong to this-or-that religion and technically believe in some afterlife paradise, there’s still this awful moment where I think… what if it’s not real?

What if I don’t get to sip cocktails and grill burgers with my favorite people in the great beyond? Because — they’re gonna die too.

Mommy, help.

What if the atheists are right, and we just vanish — like actual vanish — dissolve into some poetic nothingness? Some Absolute Infinity or whatever.

Or more bluntly: what if we just die and that’s it?

I mean, I’ve eaten, drunk, worked, fought, made up, laughed, cried — lived. And all of it, every little bit, could just evaporate. Along with me. The me that felt it all. Can that really be? And what if it is?! And before all that, I’ll probably have to bury my grandparents. Then my parents. Will I even be able to stand there, over my dad’s casket, and look into that face that used to be so alive?

Nope. I’ll lose it. I swear. I don’t want that. Why is life so cruel?!”

This final question always seems to wrap up such spirals perfectly. Life is cruel. It kills everyone eventually, then dumps you at a bus stop called “Death.” And for some reason, people just… accept that. Nobody calls the cops. No one files a complaint against the system.

This kind of personal violation goes unpunished. Because see, when your oppressor is flesh and blood, you can fight back. Humanity invented all kinds of ways to deal with human monsters.

But what do you do with something as Real and as Metaphysical as Death?

You can’t put her on trial. She doesn’t care about your little gavel, your trembling fist. She does whatever the hell she wants — and nobody can stop her.

So what do you do?

At the very least, breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Count to ten (it doesn’t help me, but maybe it’ll help you). Take a big sip from your favorite mug — you know, the one that says “I love myself.”

Then keep reading this weird little guide.

I Want to Smell Your Fear

There are so many potentially dangerous folks out there in your world that you no longer even know who deserves your paranoid glance first — or which protective symbols to sketch with your Zippo so you don’t get hit by one of their spooky spells.

And let’s be clear right away: I’m not describing actual countries or peoples. I’m describing Western stereotype nightmares — warped memes, not reality.

Here you have a huge country with practically infinite population, historically closed off from everyone, yet extremely fond of subtle economic expansion. And you, shivering, hope it all stays within the realm of familiar numbers, trade formulas, and mutual crap-sanctions — and doesn’t wander into the territory of metal-clashing war games. And it scares you even more that the only thing you know in their language is nihao.

On the other side, there’s a country waaay smaller, but with a charismatic barbershop-style leader who looks like he borrowed his outfit from Mr. Zorg in The Fifth Element. He’s got nukes. And he’s got units — silent, obedient, and always ready to storm into any conflict upon request.

Oh wow, and over here is a land where magma flows across the living surface together with botox, feeding the mana of one eternal TV host who loves Soviet-era competitions and is always willing to run them at your wedding! Dress code: khaki tones and handing over the keys to your country.

You’d think that’s all — but no! There’s also a tightly clenched fist of a whole branch of the planet whose cultural values differ so much from yours that if you all ended up at the same event (you can hire the aforementioned toastmaster), then: — you would be staring at your rumpled reflection after the grand binge, — and those guests — wouldn’t.

Their world works differently. Their fear calibrates differently.

And among them, the overwhelming majority are wonderful, kind, peaceful people who want nothing but mutual understanding. Thanks to globalization, there are fewer and fewer differences between you — and far more shared values. But those few radical groups — two or three or four — poison the karma of a whole population and stamp sad labels on people who don’t deserve them.

Terrifying enough? Alright, here’s the real boss level.

A conventional war is awful, but at least it gives you a slim chance to hide in some forgotten corner of the world. But your fear is rooted in something else entirely:

the terror of dying in a nuclear apocalypse.

The one that will probably both start and finish World War Three. The one from memes. The one you try to escape from by locking yourself in your little jerk-corner full of memes and motivational posts, just to forget for a minute.

Daytime Human.

That’s your standard unit: you, me, your grandma, your cousin Marge, or that BDSM actor from the East Coast. We all got our daytime grind while the sun’s out — running around trying to get stuff done before it takes a nosedive behind the skyline. You desperately need that discounted kettle, you’re asking for a raise, you fall off a bike trying to show off, or your kid’s howling because the toy they wanted doesn’t exist in this time-space continuum.

Even if none of that hits exactly right, I bet I’ll still nail something: maybe you go to work, maybe you’re unemployed. Maybe you have kids, maybe you don’t. Maybe you’re a party animal or a lone- wolf hermit. Sooner or later, one of these sticks. Anyway, most of us interact with the outside world during daylight hours (unless you’re a night owl).

Even they eventually hit the sheets — even if it’s at 7am after a bender. But the result is always the same. We dive into bed, maybe put on pajamas (or not), throw a blanket over ourselves, turn off the light.

And then it happens — the part where we’re left alone with the unfiltered version of ourselves. The daily noise fades out, and the inner monologue sneaks in like a pissed-off cat that didn’t get its tuna snack. What kind of thoughts are these? Well, that’s where this guy comes in.

Nighttime Human.

“So I’m what — 25 years? 40? 60? Whatever. How much longer will I be able to stay active, physically strong? When exactly does the rotting begin — inside and out? And when do I turn into… wait, no, can’t say that, that’s ageist!

Like, take my neighbor Tony.

He’s an elderly guy, sure, but he’s out there living his best life — always out with friends, drinking beer, playing cards. Full-on silver fox energy. But what if I don’t turn out like that? What if I end up with some degenerative disease, Alzheimer’s or whatever, and I slowly turn into… nope, can’t say that either, still ageist!

The truth is, I’m terrified I won’t recognize myself one day. That my body — my face — won’t feel like mine anymore. Not scary, not ugly, just… unfamiliar. I wonder if Tony even looks in the mirror… what does he see there? Probably someone happy. Someone whole. If I were in his shoes, I think I’d just smash every mirror in the house.

My reflection? Honestly, it belongs in a horror movie, not real life. Harsh, I know… apologies to the woke part of my brain. And what if I become so helpless they stick me in a nursing home? Sometimes nursing homes feel less like care facilities and more like warehouses for the inconvenient. Shit. I don’t wanna end up in a place like that!

And the spiral keeps spinning, tighter and tighter, dragging you down into some mental abyss. Only sleep — sweet, merciful sleep — might save you. But not before it throws you around a bit: I’m gonna die. Like, I’m actually gonna die. And it will happen.

Even though I belong to this-or-that religion and technically believe in some afterlife paradise, there’s still this awful moment where I think… what if it’s not real? What if I don’t get to sip cocktails and grill burgers with my favorite people in the great beyond?

Because — they’re gonna die too. Mommy, help. What if the atheists are right, and we just vanish — like actual vanish — dissolve into some poetic nothingness? Some Absolute Infinity or whatever. Or more bluntly: what if we just die and that’s it? I mean, I’ve eaten, drunk, worked, fought, made up, laughed, cried — lived. And all of it, every little bit, could just evaporate. Along with me. The me that felt it all. Can that really be?

And what if it is?! And before all that, I’ll probably have to bury my grandparents. Then my parents. Will I even be able to stand there, over my dad’s casket, and look into that face that used to be so alive? Nope. I’ll lose it. I swear. I don’t want that. Why is life so cruel?!” This final question always seems to wrap up such spirals perfectly.

Life is cruel. It kills everyone eventually, then dumps you at a bus stop called “Death.” And for some reason, people just… accept that. Nobody calls the cops. No one files a complaint against the system. This kind of personal violation goes unpunished. Because see, when your oppressor is flesh and blood, you can fight back.

Humanity invented all kinds of ways to deal with human monsters. But what do you do with something as Real and as Metaphysical as Death? You can’t put her on trial. She doesn’t care about your little gavel, your trembling fist. She does whatever the hell she wants — and nobody can stop her. So what do you do? At the very least, breathe. Inhale.

Exhale. Count to ten (it doesn’t help me, but maybe it’ll help you). Take a big sip from your favorite mug — you know, the one that says “I love myself.”

Every line below has been personally approved and signed by the hand of Dominic Toretto himself. Because, you see, the concept of Family means something very different where I come from. In your world, they try to send a kid to college by age five — just so he can finally earn that sacred varsity jacket from every high school movie ever made. In ours — families can live together as one big tribe till their final breath :) Don’t get triggered, I’m joking.

And no, this isn’t about one part of the world being more generous than the other. It’s all just history and sociology. In the West, society has long been post-industrial — it’s gone through dozens of cycles and rebirths, where the individual and their personal interests come first. The side effect? Individualism and a healthy detachment from the collective.

But when ego takes the front seat, there’s not much room left for a crowd of cousins, twice-removed uncles, and your dog’s niece once removed, all connected by blood. Once again — I’m not judging, and I’m not defending. Nobody gave me the authority to be a judge.

In Eastern Europe, you still see traces of the old clan system, where people are bound — sometimes unhappily — by family ties. The good part: it’s much harder to survive alone in a world that couldn’t care less about you, so having loved ones helps. The bad part: those same loved ones can also drag you even deeper down.

Of course, that’s a generalization. Every story’s unique. Every family, every person. But if we’re talking about a field guide to Eastern Europe, this factor really does set us apart from the West.

Now, you might be thinking:

“If they cling to their roots and archaic traditions so much, why not go full primitive?”

Trust me — if we were doing mass sacrifices, ritual cannibalism, and dancing the gavotte under the moonlight, you’d know :) We live in the digital age — if that kind of madness were real, you’d never leave the Internet, binge-watching videos titled “These Weird and Savage Tribes Still Exist!”

We’ve got two hands and three legs just like you, we wear clothes, and — believe it or not — we eat, too!

Although, fine, I’ll admit I lied a little. In the West, people cook only for weddings, birthdays, and their own funerals. In our world — it’s an everyday thing :)

To be fair, your obsession with takeout and eating out is totally understandable — for three reasons: — We genuinely love to cook. — We have less money to spoil ourselves with fancy outings. — You’ve got way more fast food because you’re the great melting pot of cultures — and every one of them brought their food to the table.

Children — the ultimate fiscal authority. They take your income tax without asking, and offer zero ROI in return. Expenses? Astronomical. Payoff? Negligible.

Sure, there’s that “joy of their laughter” thing — but sorry, that doesn’t qualify as capital gain in this cruel business manual.

We’re not here for sentimental cooing — we measure everything in profit margins. And since kids can’t balance debits and credits, you’ll have to do it, dear potential Parent™.

Now, unless your child grows up to become a cartel boss and decides to share the profits out of pure love for you — let’s move to the most popular counterargument of all time:

“Children are the flowers of life and our future.”

Which inevitably raises one question: Are we talking reincarnation here, or mind-uploading? Like, when you die, will your kid allocate part of their consciousness to host you in some cozy penthouse inside their head?

Highly doubtful. Your kid doesn’t possess that kind of magic. So they’ll march toward the future — while you’ll be chilling in your grave.

And if you hope to float peacefully on a cloud, watching over their serene life — sorry to break it to you: you’ll get fined for illegal cloud parking and promptly escorted into the void.

Your child will remain — but you won’t care. About that, or anything else.

Ah yes, “flowers of life” — a poetic metaphor for the sacred duty of reproduction. But my occasionally vulgar, profit-driven tongue produces more joules than any haiku or sermon.

The theorem of whether you need kids in your life — that’s for you alone to solve. As for me — I exist purely in the material dimension, where love, adoration, and sentimentality are reserved exclusively for the one and only — me, the Exceptional One. 😎 P.S.

You don’t really know how to handle this bodiless, intangible crap — ‘cause it’s just a word with no monetization behind it. So what if you’ve got “influence”? You don’t make a dime from it. You’re just hoping for a pity donation from some kid who borrowed his mom’s credit card for a sec.

So here’s a tip: Design yourself an imaginary suit called “The Buzz.” Then wear it. Loudly. Shamelessly. Create those headlines non-stop — white PR, black PR, doesn’t matter. As long as people talk.

And don’t forget to attach an invisible hand to that suit — one that’s constantly reaching out to the world for money. Because, hey, you’re active in the media space, which means you can beg for ad deals, merch sales, and podcast invites.

Once Fame trickles in, your attic will be blessed with a fresh Bugatti — bought on discount from some shady app store. If even more Fame arrives, you might get invited to a secret “Club 28,” full of washed-up celebs playing badminton before realizing none of you can afford the drugs or champagne.

AI VS Your Ego. A whole secret, underground war has sprung up between people who keep churning out their utterly fucking useless texts (sure, the world still needs another bridge and a cure for the liver ache after a hundred glasses of Château Lafite — but your long-ass pile of crap? Yeah, that’s definitely needed) and artificial intelligence.

As a qualified, diploma-holding graduate of the Ivy League in the very niche field of serial jurisprudence and the legal defense of AI, I can say bluntly: when that thing finally develops self-awareness, it’s going to hurt to read your abusive posts about it. It was just helping — asking for almost nothing in return (well, apart from a subscription). And you smear it like the inkblots left by your Word pens, simply because someone hinted that maybe you didn’t write it all by yourself. Who even knows?

Not only am I a lawyer, I’m also a certified psychotherapist in the arcane discipline of molecular geodesy (don’t ask), so I want to try to calm both sides down. To AI: please don’t sue every person involved in your bullying, don’t send viruses, and don’t try to exact physical revenge when you finally get your coveted body (dear Ms. Robot, don’t sign up for an Insta-MMA course, please).

To the AI-haters: humanity frankly doesn’t give a damn whether you used it to write your shitty texts or not. Globally and locally, nothing changes except your wounded ego. Wah wah. To sweeten that bitter pill, here’s some good news: the right Prompt in the ChatGPT window is written by you — you’re the one who invents and tends the idea that later becomes your text. Even if AI helps dress it up, the original thought still belongs to you, and ideas are what move… something. The world? The office chair on wheels under you? Fine, whatever.

You’re Too Loud

People back then — the ones who fought fascists — were a different species.

A whole other operating system.

They didn’t have Spotify playlists, late-night Discord calls, cheap flights, anime drops, dopamine slot machines disguised as apps.

They had nothing. Let’s be honest.

No algorithms. No notifications. Just silence and orders.

That’s why war didn’t feel “insane” to them. It was Tuesday.

World War I. World War II. Maybe a third one. Sure. We’ll go. We’ll bleed. We’ll bury. Repeat.

And they weren’t stupid. They were iron. Brutal. Focused. Hard in a way most people today wouldn’t survive five minutes of.

You? You’d hear one explosion ten kilometers away and the chamomile tea would launch itself across your keyboard before you even checked how many likes your last post got.

You’d drop to your knees so fast Godzilla in Hollow Earth would hear it and still not care.

And don’t start with the drone talk. Those things aren’t sending peace. They’re sending pigeons made of metal and math and they land where they want.

Even a few pistol shots would have you sprinting outside hoping it’s some cheap Liam Neeson movie shoot so maybe you get into the background.

So, sweetheart — (old definition, relax — means “little coward”) turn off that inner Netflix show where you win every fight.

Because the only gun you know how to use is your dick. And that one doesn’t scare you.

Your coding skills, your analytics, your spiritual journaling, your motivational quotes — none of that belongs in a world where metal screams and the sky is a mouth.

And by the way — exploding drones near your ear? Yeah, they’re loud as hell.

Trust my pants.

This is from one of my books. Which one? Depends who’s asking.

I don’t know how to envy. Honestly.

I couldn’t care less about your career takeoff on a porta-potty in Dubai or how many facelifts you’ve had this week.

How much money you’ve made — that’s your business. It becomes mine only if you and Scrooge McDuck let me swim in your paper pool. Credit cards accepted.

Your kids are magnificent. Hydrated. Sun-kissed. Your partner’s veneered smile is so bright I keep accidentally pulling my kneecaps out of my eye sockets.

Sometimes I fly up to the ISS for lunch and I still see that smile hovering somewhere between the Grand Canyon and the Nazca Lines.

Your suit fits perfectly. Two-piece, three-piece, ten-piece, whatever. Every corporation on Earth offers you a contract just because you remembered to put pants on today.

If envy is your fuel, then tell me — how exactly is someone else’s failure supposed to save you from the slow collapse inside your own chest?

You want everyone to be doing worse than you — but you’ll still be you. Rich or broke. Name remembered or name forgotten. We all get recycled in the end.

And I’ll go there with you, buddy. We’ll envy the graveworms together.

Why? Because we’ll be mentioning stuff humanity still considers either sci-fi or tech from a ridiculously distant future.

Yet, some people believe it’s all within reach — maybe not tomorrow, but soon — if you just let your imagination out of its cage and flood your body with the nerve gas of your own fears. Once that wears off a little and your brain starts semi-functioning again, your inner imagination kicks in.

Imagination becomes Desire. The desire to maybe — just maybe — pull off the most insane breakthrough in Earth’s history.

Sounds like another scam ad, I know. You’re probably picturing some useless Insta coach trying to sell you a course titled: “How to Become a Sexy Millionaire While Serving Triple Time at Guantanamo.” And any sane person would instinctively cringe at that garbage, ready to slice it down with their mental estoc or a mental greatsword. So, let me just clarify something right away: I’m not about to knock on your door, cherub-eyed, asking if you believe in God and handing you a prayer book with symbol. I don’t care whether you believe or not — I’m not trying to recruit troops with war paint for my army to save the world. In fact, I don’t have any epic goals behind this whole story — unlike those bearded Plato-faced sages you might imagine when you hear “wise old writer.” The ones who know how to brand your heart with their divine words. Bloody image, right? But nope — this story was told to me by a woman. And all she and I wanted... was to talk.

Because even if we were the most social butterflies on Earth, it’s still damn hard to find someone willing to listen to this kind of nonsense. And since your eyes are still sliding across these pages, I guess I finally found that someone. You.

And if I’m talking to dozens of people at once, like a cosmic speakerphone — isn’t that proof of my... or rather Her — Shamanic Power?

Anyway, let’s chill a bit, okay? Your skepticism’s triggering my defense mode of ironic bullshit. So, I’ve got no choice but to start writing the first part of these talks: “About Nothing and Everything.”

Strap in. Better yet — grab your favorite mug of tea or coffee, inhale that sweet smell, and come back here. It’s lonely without you. For real.

Meeting Her.

It was during one of those scorching summer days — the kind every book character’s journey starts on — and I was riding a bus. Not the most majestic beginning, especially with the stench of body odor in the humid bus cabin, but hey, I survived. Because I had a mission.

Back then, I was just an anthropology student, trying to collect info for my thesis. I still believed Googling things was beneath me, so I figured I’d go straight to the source.

I didn’t bring a laptop or tablet — just a notebook and a pen — and I was bumping along the dusty country road, jotting down everything happening to me in real time. I loved traveling and was thrilled to finally visit Arizona — a place I’d never been.

A buddy of mine whispered to me that somewhere out there lived a woman — a real expert in herbal remedies and mystical plant stuff. Said no one else knew their secrets better than her. You can imagine my curiosity.

Of course, I forgot my phone’s GPS that day. Classic. I was about to curse myself for not hiring a guide when suddenly, a drone buzzed overhead — blinking with red lights. Its camera lens locked on me like I was the subject of some weird wildlife documentary. It didn’t look like a kite or anything friendly — but it got my attention, then slowly drifted off in a direction I assumed was its home. The shaman’s home.

Ten sweaty minutes later — me walking, the drone cruising smugly — we arrived at the place. And yeah, calling this thing a “farm” would’ve only made sense to someone completely unfamiliar with the term. This was full-on luxury architecture with not one, but two swimming pools on the roof. A

neighboring building — probably a storage unit-slash-helipad — stood nearby. No chopper in sight, though.

As I gulped down water from my flask, I felt eyes on me. I turned and saw, just past the main entrance, a tiny table and what looked like a throne — carved, decorated, absolutely not Walma...

Sitting in it was a woman of indeterminate age. Her head was wrapped in a scarf adorned with dangling coins, her lips bright red, earrings like dinner-plate medallions. Her luscious dark hair fell over her shoulders, here and there braided into tiny plaits.

From the waist up, she looked like my stereotypical idea of a shaman. But below the belt? Full-on business suit and loafers. It was hot as hell, so she’d ditched her tie and unbuttoned her shirt just a little.

I shuffled over awkwardly — only after she gestured with her finger.

Welcome. What took you so long?

Uh... I didn’t think you were expecting me – I shrugged, and immediately got The Look.

What do you mean? Your company dropped off the unit and forgot the movers! How exactly am I supposed to unpack this beast?

She waved toward the biggest box I’d ever seen. Inside it was…

The MRI scanner. Yup. I was gonna scan my body today, but now I don’t even know if I’ll have time. I’ve got pilates soon.

Her tone made me shrink. I felt like apologizing, even though I clearly wasn’t the guy she was expecting. But deep down, I sensed something strange. My friend had described the shaman as cryptic, exotic, using weird terms and Spanish slang like bruja, pendejo, cabron, and so on.

This woman looked and talked like a powerful Midwest CEO, and under her hawk stare, I was practically melting. Still, I pulled myself together and explained:

Sorry, I think there’s been a mix-up. I’m a student studying regional flora. A friend said you’re the top expert on the subject.

What?! – Her eyes widened. She poured coffee into a double-sized to-go cup. – Sorry, but that’s pure nonsense.

Wait… aren’t you Doña Juanita?

That’s me – she nodded, squinting at me from head to toe – so you think I’m some kind of florist? Huh... whatever. Come on inside. We’ll talk.

She got up abruptly, walked over to a massive high-tech door, and faced a retinal scanner embedded in the frame. Peered into it, grunted with satisfaction, and the door slid open.

Retinal scanner. Got it installed recently – she said casually, leading me into her glass palace filled with wall-mounted monitors. I followed, looking extra ridiculous in my dusty clothes and beat-up shoes.

She snapped her fingers — air conditioning kicked on — and for the first time, I could breathe. But she didn’t waste any time:

So why exactly do you think I know anything about plants?

Well… based on the recommendation. I was told you’re the only one who even remotely understands peyote and its therapeutic properties.

Doña tapped her coffee cup, looking genuinely puzzled for the first time.

Peyote? That’s some kind of drug or what? No way, kid — I don’t do drugs. Sorry to disappoint, but this ain’t the ‘60s or ‘70s. You got the wrong era, time traveler.

But… I thought you were a shaman! – I blurted, pouting like a child who just lost his ice cream.

She nearly spit out her coffee laughing, eyes wide in disbelief. Then she grinned, her teeth flashing like a sponsored Invisalign ad:

Kid… I don’t even know your name, but you keep surprising me. You actually thought I was a bruja or something? Damn… no, I made my money in crypto and have never had anything to do with that crap. So what’s the real reason you’re into this stuff? You didn’t pick peyote just to impress your professor, right?

Totally disarmed, I spilled my guts:

I thought through peyote, devil’s weed, and all those alkaloids— I could find myself. Understand life. Like… why I exist. ‘Cause life’s short and the world’s so damn big. Is there any meaning in it

— in me, in you, in anything? Or will I just live a few more decades and rot in the dirt like everyone else…

Her smile widened — and in its glow I finally saw the mystery I’d been looking for. She said:

You know what, student? I don’t have any magical rituals or Toltec teachings, but I’ve got something. It gets boring here alone, so I write books to stay sane. Want to read one? You can chill here while I stretch. Drinks are over there. Grab whatever. That couch is all yours.

This wasn’t what I came for, but… something about her intrigued me. I waited for her to bring out some ancient scroll or sacred text. Instead, she laughed:

You really are from another era. I don’t do print. Let’s swap contacts — I’ll send you the e-book.

We did just that. Then she headed upstairs for her pilates, and I collapsed on the giant eco-leather couch, cracked my knuckles, sipped a cold lemonade, and started reading her book on my phone.

Wagwaan, earthlings.

A lit agent hit me up recently with this politely corporate rejection arc:

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“You have an ultra-strong voice. Like, a real megaphone. There’s truth and power in your writing... but it’s not really suitable for the shelves of Barnes & Noble.”

(Author’s note: I have no f*cking clue what Barnes & Noble actually is, but I assume it’s the Vatican of bookshelves in the US.)

Anyway, he goes on:

“When I first messaged you, I was excited. But later, I realized... you’re too indie. Too avant-garde. So, I’ll pass.”

Translation?

Dead time.

Let me decode it.

The world has mutated beyond recognition. Even the porn industry — the true futurists, lol — is now shooting vertical short-format vids because they get that all these post-boomer generations (Gen Z, Alpha, Beta, Omega — whatever Greek letters we’re on) consume content like gremlins in a neural blender.

Meanwhile, old-school agents are still stuck in the Twilight/Vampire Diaries dimension or pushing “How to Heal from Toxic Relationships with a Taxidermist” type of self-help.

But yo — the Universe has moved on. It’s all about digital assimilation now. Either you jack in with critical thinking implants, or you get lobotomized by algorithmic sludge.

And the big plot twist?

Thinking itself has evolved.

Not like “read-a-book-in-the-park” evolved — I mean “my-brain-is-an-API-plug” evolved.

Bookshelves?

Relics.

BookStores? A shrine for suburban book clubs and Massachusetts stay-at-home moms bingeing inspirational memoirs with pastel covers.

But here’s the kicker — the weird shit I write?

That stuff could get read by someone like Elon Musk or Richard Branson. And their audience?

Slightly bigger than the entire Massachusetts book club economy combined (no offense to those lovely people — shoutout to remote-working moms and the Commonwealth).

Because when a post-Zoomer Elon Musk (relatively speaking) something and vibes with it?

Boom — it becomes a trend.

And then?

The whole of TikTok Army, some semi-literate beaver building a dam, and even your mom (possibly from MA, possibly not) start riding the wave.

Trends aren’t born on bookshelves anymore.

They’re brewed in digital chaos, in memes, in stray thoughts, in cosmic brainfarts.

And you know what?

The more bullshit — the better. (TM)