Flesh and steel, man, simmering in this lukewarm broth of hype. Been waiting for the cracks to show, the chrome to peel, reveal the writhing pink meat of the lie. Bootstrap yourself? More like strap yourself to a runaway rollercoaster, ticket punched by invisible gremlins cackling in the void.

Yeah, been watching the tendrils of this one for a while, man. This whole bootstrap gospel choking the airwaves, leaving a landscape of atomized souls clawing for scraps in the neon glare. Like roaches in a roach motel, all scrambling for the same sliver of light, convinced it’s the escape hatch.

But the real escape ain’t some solo flight, some self-made millionaire mirage. It’s in the tangles, the messy undergrowth where roots intertwine. We gotta dig down, man, past the manufactured scarcity, the curated competition. Rebuild the mycelium, the network that nourishes. Not these hollow, hyper-branded connections peddled by the culture vultures.

Think of it like a jungle, not a goddamn spreadsheet. Every vine, every leaf, playing its part. The strangler fig ain’t king here, it’s the symbiotic dance, the mutual aid societies humming beneath the surface. We gotta nurture that shit, cultivate it. Share the shade, the resources, the goddamn rain when it comes.

Forget the bootstrap sermons, the rugged individualist bullshit. We’re pack animals, wired for connection. Let’s build an organic web, one that cradles and supports, not isolates and exploits. Let’s make the escape hatch a communal one, big enough for all the roaches to crawl outta this neon nightmare, together.

That’s where the real revolution lies, man. Not in the empty promises of the hype machine, but in the fertile ground of our shared humanity. Dig in, get your hands dirty, and watch the real growth begin. Remember, it ain’t about who gets to the top of the heap first, it’s about building a heap big enough for everyone to climb on. Now pass the damn shovel, we got work to do.