SHOCK.THE.SYSTEM. Member/Developer. Let's flip the track. Bring the old school back.
Grant
You say you want a revolution
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Became A Member Of SHOCK.THE.SYSTEM.
Became a member of SHOCK.THE.SYSTEM. on 08-21-2023.
My Wall
Negative Nancy
Negative Nancy
Just scroll past those haters.
Scroll past the people who spew negativity and provide no solutions.
Scroll past the trend chasers looking for a quick hit.
Scroll past the comedians making mundane observations and labeling them as comedy.
Scroll past the posts where people treat politics like religion and religion like politics.
Scroll past your own reflection in a sea of curated content.
Scroll past your echoes in a chamber of your design.
Scroll past this post. You already did.
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?
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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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