I Didn't Write a Song. I Wrote a Virus
And Your Brain is Already Infected
Let's cut the signal for a second, you beautiful, over-stimulated, Wi-Fi-dependent meat-sacks. Gather ‘round the flickering light of your screen. Let’s talk about the real pandemic, the one they don’t put in the news because they’re the ones who released the goddamn virus. No, not that one. The digital one. The one that’s turning your brain into Swiss cheese and your spirit into an open-source API.
This isn't a "song." It's a scream into the void that the void recorded, digitized, and is now selling back to you as a ringtone.
I didn’t write a song. I performed a digital exorcism on myself, and these lyrics are the foul, smoking remains. Nashville wanted something about love, or trucks, or the sweet, simple pain of a broken heart. But my heart isn't just broken; it's hacked. My soul isn't aching; it's been uploaded to a server farm in Nevada, and the lease is about to expire. Write a ballad about my dog dying, they said. Sorry, boys, Duke’s been replaced by Skynet’s creepy little cousin, and it’s humping my leg 24/7.
Let’s dive into the glitch.
Verse 1: The Symptom: My Phone is Giving me Brain Herpes
“Every type of your radiation puts a hole in my head / Every time on my mobile phone another hole in my head”
Let’s be fucking clear. This isn’t paranoia. This is user experience. Your phone isn’t a communication device; it’s a high-tech glory hole where you’re on both ends, where Apple designs the hole to be just a little too tight and Mark Zuckerberg is the sketchy janitor mopping up the aftermath.
Every notification, every buzz, every “ding” is another tiny, pleasurable spike of dopamine-driven brain damage. It feels good while it’s happening, but soon you’re left with a headache, regret, and the unsettling feeling that you just sold a piece of your subconscious to an AI trained on memes and human despair.
The "radiation" is the endless, silent scream of data, the Wi-Fi, the 5G, the Bluetooth, the psychic pollution of a thousand notifications pinging into the quiet parts of your cortex. Each ping is a tiny, precise lobotomy. It doesn't just distract you; it excavates you. It hollows you out, making space for their ads, their agendas, their curated realities. The "mobile phone" isn't a phone; it's the drill they use to do the surgery.
“I don't know why, but it's not right, can't put a price upon it”
You can’t put a price on it because they already have. Your attention is the product. Your privacy is the cost of admission. You are the factory, the resource, and the consumer, all rolled into one beautifully exploited organism. You’re not the user; you’re the content.
“The river's dry, and the moment I try it's another regret”
The "river" is the flow of genuine, human thought. It's dry. Sap has been replaced with algorithm. And every time I try to access an original feeling, to be sad, to be angry, to be in love, the system autocorrects it into a pre-packaged, monetizable emotion. My regrets aren't even my own anymore; they're just failed conversions in the ad campaign of my life.
Chorus: The Diagnosis: Your Brain has Been Remote-Controlled (and the Batteries aren’t Included)
“Free the mind’s resistance, thoughts when false illusions fight / Feed the rapid system falling from existence blind”
Translation: Stop fighting it and just come. The algorithm knows you better than your therapist, your spouse, or that weird uncle who collects vintage Playboys. Your “mind’s resistance” is just a quaint bug in the system, soon to be patched out. “Feed the rapid system” means scroll faster, bitch. Consume. Engage. React. Until you “fall from existence blind”, which is just a poetic way of saying you don't die; you just cease to be an independent entity. You become a node. A data point. A behavior to be predicted.
“The chains that bind you, false prophets find you / Remote control, remote control”
The “chains” are made of fiber optic cable and psychological profiling. They are silent. Invisible. They're made of preference loops and engagement algorithms. The “false prophets” aren't bearded men on street corners, they're recommendation engines, they are your favorite influencers, podcasters, and that guy on LinkedIn who won’t stop posting about “disrupting the paradigm.” They find you because you let them. They whisper exactly what you want to hear, leading you deeper into the maze they built for you. Because it’s easier to be told what to think than to risk having an original idea and being alone with it.
“Remote control” means exactly what you think it means. You aren’t driving anymore. You’re riding shotgun while a machine-learning model with the emotional capacity of a toaster decides whether you’re worth keeping awake based on your engagement metrics.
And it's all "Remote Control." You didn't lose your free will; it was overwritten by a newer, more efficient firmware.
Verse 2: Even my Regrets are Algorithmically Optimized
“Dream: the rise of meaning, frozen corpse concealing lie”
We’ve even outsourced our dreams. “The rise of meaning” is that feeling you get when a deepfake philosopher on YouTube tells you exactly what you wanted to hear. It feels profound, but it’s just a frozen corpse of real insight, lyin’ there on the slab, waiting for you to project depth onto it.
“Greed: has a chain reaction, rise and fall of factions’ might”
Greed is no longer a sin; it’s a business model. It’s the engine of the entire fucking internet. “Factions” used to be countries or religions. Now they’re Subreddits, Discord servers, and Instagram cliques arguing over which version of reality is most monetizable.
The Bridge: The Prognosis: I’m Basically Cloud Storage with Anxiety (The Death of the Soul)
“I’m wired in, I feel the pulse”
My soul has been digitized, compressed, and stored next to a backup of someone’s Bitcoin wallet and 10,000 pictures of avocado toast. The “pulse” I feel isn’t a heartbeat, it’s the server farm humming, letting me know I’m still logged in. And you know what? They’re right. Once your deepest desire is a line of code in an ad-targeting algorithm, you’re not a person. You’re a profile. A soul can’t be A/B tested.
“Once it’s in binary, it’s no longer a soul”
The moment a feeling, a memory, a flicker of your consciousness is translated into data, a like, a share, a search history, a biometric readout, it ceases to be soul. It becomes information. It becomes predictable. It becomes property. Their property.
“Predicting my moves, and tracking my stare / A world of ones and zeros everywhere”
They know I’m going to rewatch Deadwood for the 14th time before you do. They’re tracking my stare to see if I linger a little too long on an ad for emotional support weighted blankets (I do). The world isn’t made of atoms anymore; it’s made of binary judgments. Ones and Zeros. Useful or Not. Retain or Discard.
“Algorithms whisper, in shadows it prowls / A master of prediction, I’m stored in the cloud”
The "whisper" is the subtlest, most intimate form of control. It's not a command; it's a suggestion that feels like your own idea. The algorithm prowls the shadows of your subconscious, learning your fears and desires so it can better manipulate you. And "stored in the cloud"? That's the modern afterlife. Your soul isn't in heaven or hell; it's on a Google server, and God is an AI named Gemini that's training on your memories.
Final Chorus: The Conclusion: This is not a Protest Song. It's an Obituary.
“The chains that bind you, false prophets find you / A world of ones and zeros, remote control”
We’re all locked in. You, me, your weird aunt who thinks Facebook is the internet, we’re all characters in the same shitty simulation. The best we can do is acknowledge the absurdity. Write a country song about it. Scream into the void just to remind yourself that you still can.
I'm not trying to start a revolution. The revolution is over, and we lost. The battlefield wasn't the streets; it was our attention spans, and we surrendered them for cat videos and a hit of dopamine.
This song is the last gasp of a suffocated
consciousness. It's the final error message from a soul being forcibly
converted into code.
They can have my data. They can have my patterns. They can predict my next
move.
But for three minutes and thirty-three seconds, the signal is pure. It's raw.
It's glitching. And it's mine.
So the next time you feel that familiar buzz in your pocket, remember: it’s not
a message. It’s a reminder. They own you. But at least the soundtrack’s catchy.
Now if you'll excuse me, my phone is buzzing. It
knows I'm finished. It's time to get back on the feed.
Listen on Spotify