SHOCK.THE.SYSTEM. Member/Developer. Let's flip the track. Bring the old school back.
Grant
You say you want a revolution
👤About Me
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Accomplishments
Became A Member Of SHOCK.THE.SYSTEM.
Became a member of SHOCK.THE.SYSTEM. on 08-21-2023.
My Wall
Flair
Flair
Whatever people say I am…
Go ahead. Put that poster up on your wall. Print out the picture—those two girls from Ghost World, peeking from behind the bush. Throw on that band shirt. Let them know you're the real deal. Rock and roll, through and through.
You stare at the Ghost World picture with Enid eyes—not Rebecca’s.
You’re the one who leaves. You’re never satisfied.
Chat with a good friend about the best movies on an internet messenger.
One of the rare ones. The kind who gets you.
The kind who’ll destroy you later.
Look at the clock. Turn up the music.
Someone cracks a joke at your expense. You lean into it hard.
You beat them to the punch—turn the joke inside out before they can savor the sting.
You turn back around. Look at the screen.
The future blinks at you.
They say in six months, your job will be replaced.
Nah. You’re good.
Who are you, and what have you done with me?
TJ's latest era is his best
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Burn down the Disco
Burn down the Disco
“I wonder to myself…”
What if?
What if the anxiety disappeared? That’s heaven.
What if the anxiety disappeared? That’s heaven.
The constant hum of fear —
joblessness, homelessness, starvation —
it gnaws like rats in the walls
of a vulture capitalist’s summer home.
joblessness, homelessness, starvation —
it gnaws like rats in the walls
of a vulture capitalist’s summer home.
What’s the point of living
if living feels like dying?
if living feels like dying?
I’m a post-scarcity society.
A smoking revolver.
A gas can soaking the dance floor.
A match.
A smoking revolver.
A gas can soaking the dance floor.
A match.
And the noose swinging from the rafters.
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Low Definition
Low Definition
There was a time when movies made us.
When TV shaped our nights.
When games lit our eyes up like fire.
When stories gave us meaning, purpose.
Now?
We scroll.
We post.
We shuffle.
We vanish.
What defines me now but this static I pour into the void,
day after day,
hoping someone reads it,
knowing no one does.
You're not a savior.
You're not a prophet.
You're not the one who wakes them.
Let them sleep,
content in their curated existence.
Let them dream in low definition.
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The Menu
The Menu
They hand you a laminated menu. Two choices. Red or blue. You ask if there’s anything else. They smile like you’re stupid.
“These are the only options,” they say, like it’s natural. Like it’s always been this way.
Both are bland. Both are cold. Both are owned by the same kitchen in the back, run by people who don’t eat what they serve.
You point out the grease. The mold. The roaches crawling in from the floorboards. They call you a radical. A conspiracy theorist.
“You must pick one,” they say. “It’s the only way to be part of society.”
So everyone sits. Everyone chews. Everyone complains about the taste but keeps coming back.
They don’t realize they could
flip the table.
They could burn the kitchen down.
They could grow their own damn food.
But that would mean standing up.
And standing up is scary.
So they sit.
And chew.
And swallow.
And call it freedom.
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