Goose bumps light up my body. Skin nerve cells fire signals directly to my brain, bypassing the analytical mind. The hypothalamus dumps the oxytocin, inhibiting fear and lowering cortisol. The body washes itself in this anti-inflammatory chain reaction. Our respiration and heart beats are now synchronizing. The brain piles on with a release of endorphins to soothe the psychological pain of our separation. New powers are now in control. Let them run in glory.
In the sacred week between Christmas and New Year’s, tech entrepreneur Bryan Johnson sullied millions of minds with an 800-word X post that functioned as soft edging smut. Inspired by the return of his girlfriend after a long trip, he assumed the perspective of an optimized specimen waiting in his chamber for an Uber to drop off an age-gap baddie. Johnson’s self-fic prose poem should concern anyone invested in the art of letters. Why? It’s not the prose. I can actually find some merit in the prose. It’s because the muse is taking control of the means of production. Bryan Johnson—the man who transfused his son’s blood, dumped his fiancé when she was diagnosed with stage III breast cancer, and takes 54 pills every morning—is poised to be a major literary inspiration of our contemporary age. The longevity bro is the Dracula we deserve.
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