Okay, so now it's my sixth day at bootcamp and I'm learning the house vocab, which I actually love, because it's like a language for people who can't afford feelings. "Doomflow" means you're speaking fluently about extinction without alienating normies. "Going third-dimensional" means worrying about rent, labor law, or whether the stipend will hit before your credit card payment. "P(clout)" is the probability your apocalypse video outperforms thirst traps. "Alignment edging" is spending six hours outlining a video and never posting because the hook is not yet corrigible. "Tamping" is whatever you do, daily, to the part of you that wants what it wants, so it doesn't show up in the metrics. Nobody defines tamping. Everybody does it. What nobody logs is that it compounds: the flinch fires before the thought does, so you never catch yourself not-thinking it, and then the not-thinking spreads to whatever's parked next to it — the email, then the inbox, then the name, then the app — until you're steering around a whole district of yourself the way traffic steers around an accident, and the house calls the detour discipline. "Tumescence" is imported — the cloud bank of the mind, the buildup of the unexpressed. The house borrowed it from the trial last summer, the way the house borrows everything. In my field the word is latent. Also, "going third-dimensional" turns out to be a legal standard: the government told a Brooklyn jury, in this courtroom, in three-dimensional reality, money exists, and money matters. So every time we say someone went third-dimensional, we are quoting the prosecution. Nobody forces you to become content, you know? They simply arrange the world so content is the most rational response to pain.