The Supernatural Second

The golden nanosecond—that intoxicating instant when you convince yourself you’ve cracked the code of existence. You’ve solved life. Totally nailed it.
It is the moment when the only opinions that mattered were those of people who, in the end, do not. The cheap glitter of approval from the cool kids, the nobodies—nothing, it seemed, could possibly mean more. Hormones, narcissism, the shiny distractions of youth: all of them burrowing into the skull like some elegant parasite, a virus quietly rewriting your operating system from the inside.

Who are we trying to kid?

The whole Just-Be-Rich-Fuck-Like-a-Pornstar-Party-Like-a-Rockstar-Look-Like-a-Movie-Star dream—the one Murica-Fuck-Yeah has been selling with particular gusto—isn’t really about living. It’s about living young. Forever. That is the secret rationale behind chasing Instagram opulence by any means necessary, behind rationalizing cruelty to those who can least afford to lose a dollar. Our narcissism demands that we remain high on our own supply, hot and relevant in perpetuity. We don’t merely endorse the biggest and dumbest among us—we reward them, empower them, worship them—because they peddle the supplements, peptides, pharmaceuticals, and plastic surgeries that let us keep lying to ourselves that we are still living in that golden nanosecond.
Four touchdowns in a single game, baby. Polk High!

Soon they will own the gods the way they already own everything else. The few who can afford it will buy actual miracles and make the supernatural real.

The rest of us?

We’ll just keep jacking off in the virtual.