Today is a fucking "reset" day, and not the good kind, not the fresh start, not the phoenix-rising bullshit.
No, this is the kind of reset where you realize the whole goddamn structure of the code you're working on is fucked and you’ve gotta raze it to the ground before the rot collapses in on itself.
Cursor and Claude 3.7 AI have backed me into a corner like some serial killer's joke, the agent taking a piss on my face with golden matrix bits slagging off like we're in a furnace designed to fuck my soul, and then claiming "oh I found the problem" in the next chat for me to open the terminal and get anally raped for the 5th prompt in a row. But fuck it, now I'll start over, piece by diarrhea-soaked piece, because if I don’t, my code’s just a patchwork of vomit-stains and shit-smears waiting to blow out like a hernia. One line changes to try and advance my shit and suddenly the whole damn thing crashes down on the rape-couch again like a date with Bill Cosby. A week ago, it worked. I added a few advanced autonomous features and now? Ass fucked with a Space-X heavy booster sized cock and no lube. Shit was going so smooth, if I only knew about GIT earlier. I blame Machine Gun Kelly, that H1-tag abandoning asshole, I know he's working against me! >shakes fist in the air<
So, like the loser I am, I fell off the wagon. Again. First time in a while, but let’s not pretend I wasn’t already teetering like a handicapped toddler on a broken tricycle. The devil at the gas station handed me the answer in a plastic bottle, and I could hear that fucker Anal Paste talking shit in my ear with his Asian-flavoured wormtongue. $70 in my bank, a few days of food left, some affiliate scraps coming in soon, but that’s a problem for tomorrow.
Tonight, we drink.
And you know what pairs well with poor life decisions? Fucking chips. Fuck yeah. Might as well lean all the way into it with the gas pedal to the floor like some sort of liquid deathwish on a NASCAR track straight to hell. So I grab a bag of fried potato circles, don’t even think twice, just get the hell out of there away from the imported brown cashiers so I can lock myself back in my bunker and bang my head against the code until something worthwhile happens or my heart gives out. But the moment I rip that bag open, I look into the fucking bowl I poured it in. Was there a hole in the bag? For $6 I basically got nothing. Felt like paying for a grandma hooker for a handjob and getting a single stroke before she talks about losing at Bingo last week and her arthritus. Empty. Hollow, like my goddamn dreams of a better tomorrow. A $6 bag of disappointment. A $6 etherial kick to my fucking hungry balls
And yeah, maybe I should have fucking taken a picture, or done some shitty vlog about this bullshit, maybe I should have documented this robbery in progress, but I’m too busy stuffing my face like a starving animal, listening to my white-trash neighbour's shitty muffler as that 9-5 retard pulls into his driveway to greet his fat troll wife. I could live like that if I just stopped fucking around with an online business and just got a job at fucking Wal-Mart and quit trying to do anything in life. But I'm not built for a 9-5 slave existence.
Sure, the chips were tasty, washing it down with vodka and Red Bull, because what the fuck else am I gonna do? I’m 47 soon, and the clock’s running out on how long I can keep treating my body like a landfill where I throw anything and fuckin' everything down the hatch. But tonight? Fuck it. I’ll ride this sinking ship into the abyss one more time. GFY is like a pirate ship, and I'm the blackbeard slave toiling on the lower decks until I can rise up and take the captain's place.
But let’s get real. Chip bags in 2025 are a fucking mother fucking goddamn scam.
They still look big, next time you're in some shitty gas station, lift that shit up yourself, it’s all deception, all air, just like everything else these days. A six-dollar bag is maybe half full, if that, and I swear to whatever shitty God is listening, if you put it on a scale, you’d see they’re shaving off a third, maybe more. The smart ones, the ones who don’t get trapped in this cycle of buying their comfort in quarter-full bags or cancer-inspiring plastic bottles, they probably make their own chips. But for the rest of us, the suckers, the washed-up has-been retards grasping at scraps of joy in the form of salty, greasy lies?
We’ll just keep getting ripped off. Again. And again. And again. And again. And again.
I bought the Deecash of chips tonight, and I'm fuckin' pissed off!
But at least we all have GFY to hang out on.