We chase the fix, the squirt of endorphins, a rush, an escape from reality's clutches. A new orgasm and more orgasms, a better pill, a sip with new taste experiences, just something to take us away from the question: What the fuck am I actually doing here? Joy in medieval bread; grains last a long time, today it is selfies and likes – an overweight engineer in Privilege Land, a sultry screen draining the soul of life. We let ourselves be fed with illusions, supplements and pills, chicken feet and carrots, median pressure, colonic irrigation, omnipotent gods and placebo effects. Median pressure vaginally. Same-same – a biochemical deception we call serotonin happiness. Melatonin for the night. Seeking tryptophan. "I think, therefore I am," but what if we can exist without the fix? Be in the moment, not like a zombie hunting for the next one. The online fixers. A kind of online hedonistic and liberalistic happiness-smith with drivel-humanist values in a cultural delivery so adapted that most people can join in. Digitally, at least. It is the pure digital genie of Aladdin's lamp gushing out, allowing us to be exactly the extravagant and interesting person we want to be and try to portray in an illusory well-being. We run from responsibility, because it is easier to close our eyes, but the truth bites – illusions are slowly crushed, and there we are left with ourselves. Outside the reserve. The end of survival. I have lost illusions, self-deception, taken responsibility for my own history, shed the costume, and suddenly the power of the gods was weak, the archetypes hanging in the wardrobe. And money owed to me by the Danish National Church. This underlying libidinal need for an illusion. A piece of clothing for every rigid cultural pattern. My housewife archetypes. The Tunika archetype. The adapted and invisible one. The champion, the artist, the athlete, the caregiver, the mother, the helper, the self-conscious one, the rebel, the queen, the boss, the spiritually seeking one, the sexy one, the visionary. I have more. The whole wardrobe was packed. I own no more than the present moment, no more cups, no more stories. Only the raw, unvarnished reality, and a wildness that laughs at the system. I am not my past, not my relationship, not my illusions. I am just me – a civilized homeless person, temporarily houseless with spices, a drying rack and a mattress topper in the car. No fixing.
