Jereme Dean lives in an old people home. He eats frosted flakes out of a bonsai bowl. His head is very ordinary, but once someone said, “Hey, Jereme has a weird head huh?” So there is that. He also has a nice blog. This is his two-minute mind:

What time is it?  This line needs to move faster.  What is that guy doing with his fingers?  I miss her.  I wish I could tell people how I feel about her.  The cashier has nice tits.  I wonder what the last sunset of earth will look like.  I wonder what the last thoughts of Aldous Huxley were as his fragile mind was soaring and his body was falling down.  How many times did I masturbate this morning?  I think it was 5.  I jerk off too much lately.  I need to get to the casino.  I think Sartre needed a fucking hug as a kid.  He would have been a lot different.  Lonely people are always intelligent.  They have to be or who would keep them company in the recesses of their own mind?  I have a fetish for hips.  A woman’s hips are like no other pleasure.  Tits aren’t bad either.  I would be a good killer.  I can become severely detached and objectify people.  I would name off what object I imagined them to be in my mind.  Glasses.  Watch.  Pinecone.  Mango.  I think I am fucked up but can’t really tell.  My dick hurts now.  I want to touch it but…

Why is this lady looking at me with a weird facial expression?

Shit, I have been talking under my breath again.

She knows my dick hurts.

I need to escape.