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.