A doctor told me it was low grade Tourette’s, the internet diagnosis is autonomous sensory meridian response, a memeable quality with millions of streamable views. For me, it’s a course of soft lighting extending from skull’s base to skin’s pinnacle, every cell it touches rippling and vibrating in queue with tsunamic pace. It’s some kind of sight to see, I’m told, but I wouldn’t know, my eyes always close, my mind suddenly severed from all its endeavours. They call it disorder in some circles, but I’ll happily be broken if that’s what it means, let the electricity have me.
I like to tell people that Petey is the tequila of people, every ounce should be taken with a grain of salt and makes you feel like you’ve sucked a lemon, but I often think of him as the keeper of uninteresting facts. He’s the kind of person who describes mainstream memes without ever going dank or touching on the topical and approaches interaction with a wilfully ignorant disregard for conversational flow or other people’s patience. If it weren’t for the digital world I’d picture him surrounded by reams of nostalgia and newspaper clippings, forever entombed in irrelevant minutia.