Tormented deputy Tate Smith left a note, dejected and deep down with the "inner anxiety", saying something, almost a Dear John, the modern Dear John that is, "by the time you read this..."
"my young king, I'll be more awesome still, by the time you read this. Also, Levin is practicing his English language skills. Dwight is slaying on Mahjong Solitaire Adventure."
"Or is it Mahjong Solitaire Avenger? One never quite square gets the frame of these things, I fear:the appropriate context."
Picked-over and put upon, that Tate Smith, in the back forty telling the cows dirges of the "struggle", and the "inner anxiety", and, as mentioned prior, the snow cone, the gaping paper cone like a hungry mouth on the beach sand.
*In one day, total Spotify streamings of Taylor Swift's Tortured Poets album roughly equaled the all-time number of streamings for Roberta Flack's hit single "Killing Me Softly With His Song".
In five day's Taylor Swift's song "Fortnight" has been streamed over 60 million times on Spotify, compared to 37 million all-time Spotify streams of Bob Dylan's version of "All Along The Watchtower".
*Meta pocketed 13B$ in pure profit Q1 2024, but investors squirmed at talk of increased costs in Q2. "Fortune favors the brave", it seems, is a saying that only favors hedge-fund rapists and gold speculators, the fair weather frat boys of the investing ecosystem.
As posted here, I've "chatted" with the llama3 AI on the Meta platform, and it seems, no matter what we discuss, it always seems to come back to something of "resilience": as I might say, "push on, young king."
A mixed bag. Accordingly, Whatsapp Business("you've come a long way, baby") has added more to the bottom line of Meta, but Meta anticipates spending more on AI infrastructure....
Look at this up here. I was looking at book one of Sun Tzu over the weekend, and he was caterwauling about compartmentalizing, subdividing vast armies into various smaller and smaller units, until finally, a Murtaugh and Riggs: battle buddies. Like weeks into days, into hours in minutes, seconds, flecks of an eye lash.
Subdividing little sushi of a bit, there, young king. Radial, and all, gravitational around central points, and all: nuclei, and the ultimately the super-gravitational monsters Jupiter and the Sun, to piecemeal the thing into "manageable bits"--why it almost makes me think of Dwight, again.
Like the proverbial "fat dude with the candy", Tate getting played-off in public because, "ha ha, she care!!". "Fat dude with the candy" is the government housing version of "the White Man from Town", of course, and the "dandy with the book-learning". Tate just has those feelings about feelings, things in heart, folding intricately like the finest origami, but still scarcely having any significant bearing on reality.
Until she records an album, that is.
"Put it to it, young king. Ain't that girl fubar, young king?" Traded a handful of her inner anxieties for so many millions--a fair trade a wot for the one who is willing. It's almost like sports betting, but more oriented to the self-absorbed, those feelings on top of feelings--feelings about feelings, and perpetually consumed by her love life.
Not a criticism, but an observation--indeed, what is art but to make us feel something?
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