Dopamine is Dead. Long Live Dopamine

Meditation, meat prices, and the temporary death of joy

Five minutes ago, I’d felt fine mostly

I’d just left the gym and strolled over to the local shopping centre. The journey there was mostly uneventful. I passed three or four Asian food peddlers and a couple who looked about as close to a mob hitman and his wife as I’d ever seen.

He was big, fucking dangerously big, but not gym big. I’m not afraid of those big gym guys. They’ll all drop the same when you smash their knees sideways. But this guy was big with an oversized pasta and chianti gut, silver suit over a wife beater, gold chain, receding hairline and Italian sunglasses. He was the type of guy that would crush your skull multiple times with a fridge handle and not blink an eye.

And his wife was stunning in that rich, Italian way. Far too beautiful for a hairy ape like him. And far too tempting to the eye. And my eyes seem to have a mind of their own when it comes to such things.

So I did what any sensible person seeing a dangerous looking man with a hot wife walking towards him would do. I crossed the street. It didn’t ruin my day at all. I went about my business, the business of going to the supermarket.

Which brings me to this moment

And this young checkout chick is just standing there adjusting her glasses and nodding as I go about my supermarket rant.

“Tell your overlords that if they can afford to triple the prices of the most essential service, food, and if they can afford to install security gates and swollen-balled goons to harass slippery-fingered old ladies, and if they can afford to install the same military grade surveillance technology used by the Israelis into all their stores, then they can afford to upgrade their mobile phone coverage.”

But the louder I shout, the more the circle spins on my internet banking app and the more the chick nods wildly.

“Yeah, the coverage in here is shocking,” she says.

I appreciate her. Not one sir-can-you-keep-your-voice-down, just total empathy for a fellow human in this fuckhole situation we’ve found ourselves in as regular citizens at the mercy of corporate giants whose level of care for their customers is equivalent to the price of Tesla shares fourteen minutes after the first warheads hit.

I stop, take a dry, dystopian breath, thank her and tell her I’ll buy my budget fucking steaks and Greek yoghurt somewhere else, perhaps somewhere where you don’t require an attendant to come over and sign out the meat so you can purchase it.

I’m in the foulest fucking mood today. My wife reckons it’s because I’m back on the creatine. She is wrong. It’s because my dopamine is getting fucked in the arsehole by Zed like Marcellus Wallace ’cause I finally gave up caffeine. For real this time.

And yeah, I hear ya while ya sit there sucking on your fourth gay latte of the day: Frank, why the fuck would ya do that?

And I’ll tell ya. It’s because caffeine is the kind of chemical that holds you hanging mid auto-erotic asphyxiation about four inches above the right zone for proper meditation.

It gives you this constant subconscious tension in your balls that stops you from resting fully. And you only know that because after three weeks of feeling like you’ve been spiked by a man named Paul at your local, you actually start to feel like you can relax properly for the first time in decades.

And now I’m into the second week

Day ten to be precise. The first week you fall asleep. The second week your dopamine shuts down and you find no joy in anything. Everything and everyone annoys the shit out of you.

And the day hadn’t started that well. I’d watched some dingbat with dreads on Instagram talking about how to improve your gut biome and he just looked like the kind of fucking loser that would know fuck all about that. And I realised that in the year of our Lord, 2026, you just need to ask ChatGPT to write you a fucking script then read it online. Everyone’s a fucking expert now. It’s pathetic.

And a short time later a guy, on Instagram, was walking around the countryside with a backpack. And he was talking about the number one way to lose weight. He said it was called “rucking.” And he was referring to walking around with a fucking backpack. So I commented.

You don’t have to fucking brand everything you cunts. It’s not rucking. It’s just walking.

And I proceeded to get a moral telling off from Instagram which created in me the type of rage that begins revolutions.

And yeah, it’s the eve of the full moon and that always has some unexpected effects. All my writing projects have been on hold since I was paralysed by the caffeine detox. And the fact that I had bacon for breakfast this morning. I heard that certain traditions don’t eat it ’cause pigs’ feet look like the feet of the devil. But that’s not it. It’s the fucking nitrates. They make you feel like you’ve been spiked by some guy called Spike at your local. Why do you think there are so many successful Jewish people? Don’t overthink it. It’s not political.

It’s because they don’t eat bacon in the morning.

I go and sit in my car feeling like Michael Douglas in Falling Down

And I realise that character must have been in week two of a caffeine detox.

I entertain a fantasy about smashing the security gate at the supermarket and then lecturing the judge during my trial for criminal damage.

And I start the car to get the air con running because it’s over forty degrees in this damn parched fucking country.

“People are stealing our meat, Frank. What do you expect?” says the ghostly lawyer for the supermarket in my head when I quiz him about having to sign out the meat.

“You tripled the prices for no other reason except tripling the profits. What did you expect?” I shout, locked into my internal car fantasy, eyeballs rolling into the back of my head. “You’re fucking responsible for families living on the streets. If I were a terrorist, I’d fucking blow up all your stores.”

I come back to the car with a bang and take a sip of water. This caffeine detox is no joke. I’m desperate to see what is on the other side. I’ve been promised stable energy, a new presence, better anal orgasms, less grey pubes, the list is endless. I’m like a child in the hot queue at Disneyland. It better be worth it.

I pull out of the car space backwards, not forwards like one of those ball-lickers who reverse into car spaces. And I think about the Mayor of Barcelona who has banned Airbnb because he is trying to tilt the rental market back in favour of the people. And I think, at least they’re doing something. Not like Albanese and his gang of muppets.

Oh yes, Frank, you’re right. I’m voting One Nation at the next election.

Is that true? And you think those fucking fish and chip loving racist fucks are gonna do better despite having absolutely zero experience running government? When will you realise that it doesn’t matter who gets in. It’s the fucking system that’s…

I’m yelling at the traffic lights now. I need to be out of this heat and back home. Perhaps I should just have a coffee.

And a homeless fuck comes up with his bucket of water and dead squeegee. And history tells me I’m gonna run this fuck over. But I don’t. I stare at him with his filthy face and his greasy, cum-stained T-shirt that says something about visiting Hawaii and Aloha. And I give him the thumbs up instead, because I remember the ten dollar note my wife left between the seats for emergencies.

He squirts the hot water on the window, second-hand cigarette butt hanging from his yellow gob. And I start laughing. Because he’s real. This fucker is real. And almost everything that has happened to me this morning is not. It’s all in my fucking head.

You know what, coffee? I’ve spent over ten grand on you in the last three years. And why? Because you maintain this fucking lie that we need you so we can wake up and do important shit like writing and fucking.

But fuck you. I’m done, you cunt. I’m going to Disneyland and I’m gonna suck fucking Mickey Mouse off while Minnie watches.

The light turns green. And he finishes his job. I hand him a crisp blue tenner. And he starts yelling and dancing around like Kevin Bacon. I smile and drive off. And as I look back at the whirling, stinking dervish in the rear view mirror, I feel a mild tingle in my wet head. At first I think it’s heat stroke, but then I realise it’s the dopamine banging on the fucking wall like the bleeding hearts and artists.

And I know for sure that when I reach Disneyland, you’re gonna start reading some real shit right here.

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