Slate Star Codex: In a Mad World, All Blogging is Psychiatry Blogging

limply balancing mile-deep cocktail glasses and clamoring for laughable Thielbucks on the cramped terraces of Berkely,
who invite you to the luring Bay, promising to pay for your entire being while elegantly concealing the scarlet light evaporating from their tearducts and nostrils,
who down 3¾ bottles of Huel™ and sprint to their next fellowship or retreat or meetup or workshop, in the pore-showingly lit hallways with whiteboards and whiteboards and whiteboards and whiteboards,
who want to crown random nerds with aureal sigmas fished from the manifold crevaces of self-denying deities,
who write epics of institutionalized autists bent on terraforming these overpopulated hypothetical hells,
pointing out dynamic inconsistency in the comments and melting hectoton steel-marbles around civilizational recipes,
who improve their aim hurling yeeting philosophical tomes at unsuspecting passerbys and ascend urban lampposts to loudly deduce their mechanical liturgies,
cascades! cycles! insights!
who cut down oaks and poppies in the parks to make oil and space for those ones yet to come and who hunker down in fortified coalmines in Montana and the Ruhrgebiet, propelled into the rock by an Ordite reactor, a Bostromite dynamo,
who exitedly pour & plaster tabulated exponents into webscripted canisters just below the teal-tinted ceiling,
hating one-sidedness and bureaucrats alike,
who can name the 11 AI forecasting organisations and the 4 factors of successful nonprofits and the 7 noble ways of becoming more agentic and might even find Rwanda on a map not made in Silicon Valley,
contemplating hemispherectomies to purify their nascent idealism on the verge of a hope-ash London dawn,
who catch a feral heart in the garden behind the A100 rack and save it into a transparent domicile, injecting it with 17000 volts to illuminate all the last battery cages equally,
who empty out their pockets with uncountable glaring utilons onto innocent climate activists, promising to make them happy neutron stars one day,
microscopically examining the abyssal monstrosities their oracles conjure up out of the lurching empty chaos,
recursion! magic!
who fever towards silver tendrils bashing open their skulls and eating up their brains and imaginations, losslessly swallowed into that ellipsoid strange matter gut pulsing out there between the holes