Egghead: Or, You Can't Survive on Ideas Alone

by Bo Burnham

If I had a million dollars, I would pay your mother to have sex with me. Afterward, I would probably invest the remaining nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred ninety dollars.

Life has no meaning. No point. Happiness is a chemical coincidence and nothing else (still “else” though nothing to begin with). Value is a vast vault of black, a black that dictates lack. Oh, and that accidental rhyme just then meant nothing. Why are you color-coding things? WHY?! What’s the point, fascist? For more, check out my blog.

attach a beach to the top of my hourglass.

Well, man, you know what they say.” No, I don’t. I don’t know what they say. I don’t even know who they are. Who is this they? They seem pretty smug. They seem to think they know shit. Fuck them.