"Don't freak out, bitch. Just be Steve, Gay Anthropologist!"

I, too, am a notebook guy at the freak show, or, as I say of myself at circuit parties: "Don't freak out, bitch. Just be Steve, Gay Anthropologist!"

This is what I do now in the world that has become a circuit party. I don't go to circuit parties, I don't need to. The world is a circuit party I haven't been invited to.

Mostly, I just want to apologize to the other species stuck on this planet with us while we circle the fucking drain. DOLPHINS, CRUSTACEANS, BEES, BATS, BUTTERFLIES, and BIRDS! I'M SORRY WE'RE TAKING YOU DOWN WITH US! I'M REALLY SORRY!

Try to feel as I do, that the planet will heal after we're gone. We can't kill the planet. We can't kill the planet. After the various other species have achieved ascendance and recreated-rediscovered poetry over and over again and done a better job than we ever did, after that, when this planet is a burnt-out cinder circling a sun about to nova, we won't even be a memory.

Remember that, Donald Trump--and the rest of you fucktard idiots--not even the insects will trouble themselves to ever even remember, or know, you ever even fucking existed, you vile excrement.

And that's all we have time for! HAVE A GREAT DAY! :o)

Now. Watch this shit: