Business is a disease infecting my soul like the heartbreak of psoriasis. The virus is clever; not only does it allow you to reproduce fully, but it even allows you to survive in some reduced capacity as a worker drone. It infects early in the teen-age years so that it can’t be readily distinguished from the multitude of other desires begging for your attention and sweet caress. It’s a disease of the soul, like alcoholism, like HIV; it infects the pleasure center, so that you want it even though you’ve already got it. You want it even though it’s bad for you. Business is a monopoly game, in your dreams, building empires and getting you out of jail free, just like Thailand. When rich people here get busted, they run for office. Business is the opium of the rich. Business and sex cancel each other out. The more I get of one, the less I need of the other; same with opium. The pleasure centers are the same, though no evidence of cross-tolerance. They all affect your ability to have a good shit. I’ve tried going cold turkey from business, but stuffed in whole-wheat bread, hold the mustard. The results are inconclusive, maybe too lofty an approach. Probably better to try sex as a substitute, a sexual maintenance program. Sex in the morning is the real thing, the hard-on you’re stuck with, rank like the smell of bacon to a vegetarian, the dark side of appetite. Good sex is like a good shit, nature’s dirty secret. Opium will plug you up like sticky rice, something like sticky mind. The antidote is physical work, high fiber, and fear. That’ll clean you out and get you up.