Johnny's muddah wat a gal

Frustration of stuck is the all enveloping sense of repetition. Same moments played out against the same backdrop, same cast, same lines, like a rehearsal of events taking place right before the real deal. The main line entry. These are the realities of self-aware megalomania, drudgery to exit fullscreen postponed thanks to SoMeTM brought to you by the SUCKerBerg and JOOGLE straipping you in tight in the contraption of REAL-sim making you live a thousands lives a day, touching hundred skins, kissing a billion girls and riving a rourand raris. Megalomania is the act of internailized self-grandeurizing, believing you are meant for bigger things, that the stars and pixels will plotter out to manifest the stage and a rip in time-space, hand stretched down picking you up for insertion on that global plane, all spotlights aimed at ya, world is listening, Trump taking notes, Taylor Swift holding your coffee.

The mind is a pretty thing, a noxious device entangling in webs the freethought seldom spawned, killing it by starvation and vitamin D deficiency, hidden below layers upon layers of literal filth that someone injected into your retina against your will, but with your active consent. I mean fucking hell, guy. Fucking bloody hell we’re under siege. Our souls are conscripts on an astral battlefield without trenches, without an enemy, border or chain of command accountable for the progress and strategic direction necessary to win this bloody mess. In our lifetime we will not succeed. We will be forgotten in a foxhole on some nameless plateau owning nothing because they took from us everything for the ‘war effort’, never intending to resupply your empty pockets and stripped-bare back with warmth, ammunition or arsenic pills. Treason is no foreign concept, mutiny a certainty on paper but when the words are whispered, loins swelling, who is the object of our joint hatred? Who is the incompetent tart responsible for this mess? I'll tell you who. It’s me. Daytime me, me eternal, me of yesterday, and yah muddah. I beg ya Johnny, don't make ya muddah cry.

Prompt: Johnny don't make ya muddah in scales of red