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16
Or Kill Me / Antipathy
« on: May 22, 2020, 11:07:10 pm »
Fuck the accelerationists. Fuck the fascists. Fuck the unyielding leftists. Fuck perfection at the cost of morality. Fuck libertarians and the utopian commies and the utopian anarchists for good measure.

Fuck fake queers like Buttigieg and fuck people willing to sell out their minority groups in general for the right to lick boot.

Fuck Karen, Darren, and anyone who believes their right to party, get a haircut or watch other people play sportsball is worth more than human life.

Fuck people who are respectable. Fuck people who care about people being respectable.

Fuck the conspiracy freaks and fuck anyone who gave them even five seconds of ďletís hear him outĒ. Fuck anyone who thinks coughing on someone in a pandemic is an appropriate reaction to not getting their way.

Fuck the rich, fuck the people who protect the rich, fuck the powerful and their people too.

Fuck the religious extremists. Fuck the non-religious extremists, and the anti-religious extremists, and anyone who decided on the basis of gut feeling or holy writ that some people are worth less than others.

And if you feel a twinge of ďhey now thatís not fairĒ while reading that list then fuck YOU in particular, and I hope to live long enough to see you rot in the sun for days while passing feral dogs wonít even piss on your mushy carcass.

Fuck all of it, because it never did a goddamn thing for me or anyone like me. And everyone who smiled and chuckled while I was getting fucking stomped on, mark my words: the hobnails are targeting you next, and Iím going to laugh and grin through broken teeth to see you brought low, the same you did to me.

17
Apple Talk / Fuckin do it then
« on: May 21, 2020, 02:19:51 am »
Newsfeed just popped up something and for no fucking reason it made me irrationally furious.

PD.com: We'll make you an offer you can't understand.

Bullshit. Iíve never received a single fucking incomprehensible offer here. Either it wasnít possible to even parse as an offer or it was entirely comprehensible.

I demand an offer I canít understand or my money back. I am entirely serious. Iíll PM the goddamned Mgt for my refund. It will be horrific, just like the last few times, and Iím entirely willing to bear that burden.

18
Apple Talk / THIS IS NOT A DRILL
« on: April 10, 2020, 02:46:09 pm »


SINKHOLE OR BURIAL SITE? BIG HOLE IN DESERT WEST OF TUCSON

On Thursday, April 9th 2020, a passing driver recognized something was wrong with the desert landscape on his way to work. ďIt loomed, except, you know, it was a hole in the ground. But it had that feeling.Ē

The 32-year-old veterinary technician, who asked us not to print his name for legal reasons, stopped his vehicle on the side of the highway to look at the hole. What he found was unsettling.

ďThere was just this big wooden box down there with chains around it, but not like Ďholding it closedí around it, just sort of in a circle. The box was half flopped open, splinters like someone had kicked the shit out of it, totally empty. And there were some wicked big boot prints. Serious stompers.Ē

While there have been many well-publicized disappearances and claims of being followed or stalked on this stretch of State Route 86, this is the first evidence to date of criminal activity beyond the norm for the area.

Police are currently treating this as a missing persons case. There are no further details at this time. If you have any knowledge regarding this sinkhole, or anywhere a veterinary technician can offload a few dozen pounds of ketamine, please contact the Tucson Police Department.


19
Or Kill Me / White Girl
« on: March 09, 2020, 10:54:01 pm »
Youíre a breed of your own. Leftist until the chips are down and you canít party all night anymore. Poor people need help until you need to consider they need food and shelter, then they need to take responsibility for their living situation.

White girl, you love trans people but only because you get woke points from it. When they need a safe space to be trans itís the streets for them. ďJust be gay in the bedroomĒ for a new era. White girl, you are a breed of your own.

Not unique, no, youíve got a whole ass species just like you. You donít take care of your cat and act upset when we do the work and get the love. Not fair! You need. You NEED. All the rewards and none of the responsibility, just like when you were young.

You say that youíll vote for Trump if Bernie gets the nomination just to stick it to those people who want healthcare for being mean to white girls like you. Fuck them, right? You donít have healthcare and you do fine. You do lines of coke and pat your ass in the morning, how good am I. Who needs a doctor, right?

You, hypocrite, the future will be unkind to you. I hope you like it. I, at least, will smile a grim smile when I die in a hole, knowing youíll follow me down.

20
Discordian Recipes / Poor Person Eats
« on: February 10, 2020, 06:08:22 am »
I may as well pay attention to my food now, as practice. Also, some of my foods are HILARIOUS.



Losing My Goddamn Mind Mushroom Tortelloni with Dill & Sage Butter

Purchase and cook one package of Priano Porcini Mushroom Tortelloni, from your local Aldi. Delicious!

Realize you have no sauce to go with them. Commence screaming.

No olive oil either. More screaming.

Fuck it, melt a whole goddamn stick of butter in there while cussing at it.

Butter is horrible on its own. Raid the spice cabinet, by which I mean grab the first two things you see without checking what they are at all. Hope this does not become regret.

Dump dill and sage into the melting butter and hot pasta, eyes wild, face locked in a rictus grin, watching the innocent butter turn green and foul.

Mix. Comment on how it looks like you dropped it in some sand, lament your misfortune.

Take a bite and cry tears of joy. SO GOOD. I must make this butter sauce separately for future use.

Recognition: this is such a specific case that you will never make this again. You will always have a better choice. Enjoy it in the moment for what it is: a furious series of blind fuckups leading to excellence.



I will actually post another one too from today, why not!



The Last Pierogies

Take a pan-full of random pierogies, I used frozen ones because Iím a wretch and a fool and I have no place doing this sort of shit, god rest my soul. Make sure to lay them out evenly in the pan, with no overlaps and a couple millimeters of space between each of them.

Dump all of the olive oil on them. It will be fine, Iím sure I wonít want more olive oil tonight! This turns out to be the exact correct amount, just barely enough to reach the top of the flattened bits of the pierogies, in case you donít want to roll the dice yourself.

Also, please do use GOOD olive oil, the oil flavor comes through so well in this, it showcases the absolute best the oil has to offer, donít waste it on fucking canola oil you fucking simpleton.

Turn the burner on high, and keep your eyeballs trained on the gaps. As soon as the last large bit of undisturbed oil gets hot enough to begin to bubble, crank the burner down to about medium, maybe a hair lower.

Spatula? Spatula???? Oh shit!!!

Clean the only spatula in the house while begging the pierogies to turn out okay, because you are incapable of forward planning.

Check cooking side for firmness, texture and color. Firmness: they should sound hollow when you tap them with the spatula. Texture: like textured consumer electronics plastic, just rough enough to feel when you scrape it with the spatula, but not enough to see it with your eyes. Color: yellow leaning pale orange. This is like, two steps before golden brown. Donít do golden brown. Cross your fingers and beg god not to give you golden brown, please.

When ready, flip pierogies onto the ďbellyĒ side. Mourn the two that are definitely overdone ever so slightly, and curse the last user of the spatula (spoiler alert, you were the last user).

Again, check for firmness, texture and color. This time, you want golden brown. Gasp audibly when all of them come out fucking perfect.

Get onto a plate, pat dry of oil, serve with sour cream (last of that too). Eat with your hands like an animal.

Oh my god. Itís like a stuffed potato chip. Itís too good.

Oh wait.

Oh no.

Oh no, Iím going gluten free and if you cheat your body keeps on eating your fucking neurons.

Oh no.

They are the last pierogies I will ever have.

Weep and enjoy.

21
Or Kill Me / Strange Loops
« on: January 03, 2020, 06:20:15 pm »
Has anyone else noticed it? I mean sure, weíre meat beasts and our soft serve head goo is a bit fuzzy at the best of times, but I think youíd need to notice it by now.

Itís kind of like a zombie, you know: you blow its head off at eighteen yards with a lit mining explosive on a stick, you expect it to stay down. And then it sits up and starts dancing the fucking Charleston on its own shattered remains.

That just isnít how cause and effect works, unless there is a great and sincere problem with our understanding of reality. And brother, have we ever got proof of a great and sincere problem with our understanding of reality.

When I quit my job, you expect that that is the end of the matter: it is quit and I am done, thereís no more to do. And yet!

And yet.

Here we are, taking the same route to the same building to repeat the exact events, down to the timeline, of quitting before.

So I ask you: what, really, is going on?

Donít get it in your head, of course, that this is all just my personal life. The cup runneth over.

Iraq War 2 (or Gulf War 3, whatever floats your crusty piece of flotsam) is here. Russia is our enemy, again. Hell, even Korea and World War 2 are coming back around for a second try. Itís deranged, decades stacking on top of each other like a Jenga tower with clipping errors.

PKD may have been a woomeister and more than a little burned out from all the fucking drugs, but he saw the future that is the present: ďThe Empire never endedĒ.

Thereís no identification of a source, no suggestion for a solution here. This is not a problem to be solved, but a fact of our current ontological landscape. All Iím doing is pointing out that even if history repeats, this is a bit absurd. Hopefully, we can learn to navigate it.

22
Or Kill Me / Broken Mirror
« on: December 05, 2019, 04:00:18 am »
Of course, now that I started thinking about my dad, I canít stop.

I barely cared when he died. I was 8, I understood death distantly. But I hadnít seen him in almost two years. A quarter of my life.

I was still dealing with the trauma of being taken away from a foster family I STILL desperately want to contact, who had seen I was trans before I fucking knew and did all these little things to help me feel comfortable that I didnít recognize for a DECADE AND A HALF. I had been four. I was five when they took me out of there one day. Unexpectedly.

Little shit, too, the little things I recognize now. I wanted girlís clothes, I got them. I had my nails done once. I had an actual little kidís life in a lot of respects in that year: birthday party, camping, learning how to chop a log without hurting myself. I guess it was a bit weird at the age of four, but it wasnít that weird. I was two years ahead of myself, in a family that was comfortable making room for me to exceed. And Iíd already lost memories of my earlier years, so no loss to deal with. It was like Iíd never had another life.

I only remember this from photos I remember seeing years and years later. Mementos of a time that is lost to me. A life that could have been different, so very different.

Going from that to living with my grandparents full time. People I had never, ever met. People who were, in a word, fucking evil. Two words, I guess.

Coming to terms with being ďevilĒ and ďtwistedĒ from my time with those ďfreaky atheistsĒ (actual words I remember).

And then he died. I had met him three times since I got taken to my grandparents. One hour two times, 6 hours once. This man had never done anything to deserve that but not live up to my familyís fucked up high society standards. So they sicced Johnny Law on him for, in their words in the police report I found later, ďnot trusting himĒ.

And he had nowhere to go, no one to turn to. And he jumped in front of a red Buick in Oil City, PA and became a stain on the asphalt. And I did not know him, so I didnít care.

Years later, my mother told me on a particularly good and open day that he had been great given his damage and she was cornered into talking shit against him. Thatís what got me to digging for all of this shit.

He was an aspiring indie country singer. It was the one gig that got him money. He was a fan of 50s country and Johnny Cash. I was ahead of the game on Big Iron by a full decade on account of this, the guy who told me about the gigs he played said he did a fucking awesome job singing old Marty Robbins covers at dive bars across western PA. Couldnít songwrite for shit, so he languished in the land of the cheap and wasted.

He was chronically homeless. Much like I am, come to think of it, and for similar reasons. Worse, though. He was untrained, uneducated, he actually couldnít write and could barely read well enough to find a name in the phone book. His father (Jewish side of the family, who were terribly racist as I said prior) didnít think he was worth educating. His mother had been sent back where she came from, which means she had no input, being in a different state and all.

So he did what he knew how to do, and it paid pocket lint and a loaf of bread. That doesnít add up to rent, so he walked the streets with a guitar he didnít play too bad, and he busked and he played gigs at bars, and he slept in alcoves in alleys.

My only existing memory of him is fragmentary, but the fragments have clarity. Probably distorted, I spent a long time thinking on them more than once, but I have them.

He took me to the rez in New York (found that out only recently) where his mother lived. According to my research itís gone now, but it existed as recently as 1997, and I was there for two hours one day that year.

I donít remember his mother. I remember a drive down a miles-long dirt road in a 1970s Ford pickup, rusted, black paint clinging in broad sheets along the sides and nearly gone by the wheel wells. I remember not talking much, because I didnít know what was going on. I had from my perspective only met this man once, in a room in Pittsburgh the year prior.

I had no idea where we were going to.

Next fragment: pulling up. I remember the shacks being impossibly low to the ground, a truck on blocks, a couple kids running to one of the shacks and ducking inside. Iím pretty sure this memory has been distorted by time, it looks like a funhouse mirror and not like a real thing that happened.

And I remember twilight, sun already down, seeing Butler unfold as we came in, and he was silent unlike the drive out. I donít remember if there was a reason, or anything else.

I have so very little of this man. Everything I have says he and I would be mortal enemies if he had made it to see me now. But goddamnit, I didnít even get that chance. He was crushed by racism, classism, capitalism, and the all-too-common view of mental illness as weird, scary, and indicative of moral weakness.

He was told he was an animal by his family, raised accordingly, and then everyone he ever met called him stupid and crazy. The only person he ever loved told the cops she didnít trust him, a fucking lie, and her family told him he was worthless and would only bring them down.

And then he died. A sad, miserable life. 48 years old at his time of death. Had a glimpse of happiness for six of those, right toward the very fucking end, and I was three years of it. And then they took it away, smeared his name, drove away his only clients, and left him with nothing but oncoming traffic and loss and hatred.

And all I have now are fragments of someone who had so much in common with me, who would never have approved of who I am, who should have been given a chance. All I have is memories of paperwork and photos I once saw, all gone now, and a couple pieces of one day at seven years of age that I didnít understand then and still donít now, for very different reasons.








Edited due to memory failure at the very start. I had seen him a year and a half prior (I recall the news coming January 99, I had gone to New York in the spring or summer of 97.) The ďonly met him once beforeĒ is not an error, I definitely remember only remembering one prior meeting. There had been another, I found out at the funeral and was periodically reminded of by my mother, but I was still growing, and our memories fade fast at young ages.

23
Or Kill Me / Defense Mechanisms
« on: December 01, 2019, 04:52:28 pm »
I am a monster.

They told me so my whole life, that I was evil and unnatural and inhuman. They said I was a deviant, that I was demonic, that I was a beast.

And the dictionary didnít square with this, so I was wondering what they saw that I didnít.

I was the kind of kid you could call, at an understatement, precocious. I was reading Yudkowskyís early, pre-ďrationalistĒ writings on AI and understanding what I was reading. Age of 13. But well before that I was ahead of the game: my first books included Les Chants de Maldoror, the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy plus the Silmarillion (the Hobbit came about much later for me), and the White Crow books by Mary Gentle, starting with Rats and Gargoyles ó all before I was 10.

I understood that the words they applied to me didnít square with who I was. Even when I was a horrible person, my horrible was human horrible. (I was a sociopathic teenager, to say the least. I think I am not alone.)

So I understood that they were wrong or they knew something about me or about monsters that I didnít. There were so many of them saying it that they couldnít possibly be wrong, right? (Remember, I was a child.) And how could anyone know more about me than I did? (Again, child.)

That left knowing something about monsters and demons that I didnít. So I went looking.

My first movie was Alien. 1979. Holds up as a fucking incredible film to this day, unrivaled for atmosphere, story, pacing. I watched Sci-Fi Channel originals on the daily. I watched that fucking film The Relic. Because of the monster.

And I saw something in them. Monsters are ultimately put in a corner. Theyíre just trying to live their lives. Theyíre animals or hominids or ghosts or demons, but their own natural order is all theyíre trying to manage.

Then the heroes arrive and FUCK with them.

Youíre a baby lost in a hostile environment of soft meat beasts and labyrinthine tunnels, trying to kill you. You have acid blood and teeth and claws but they have assault rifles and hate. Your life will be brutish and short if you donít do unto them first.

I could get with that program. No problem. It squared with my experiences.

Over time, I saw more. Humanly relatable monsters, empathetic and kind. Monsters protecting their friends and family. And I had this seed inside me that said ďI am a monsterĒ and one that said ďI am a good person.Ē And all this monster media I was eating kept getting tagged onto the monster seed. One day, finally, it matched up.

This would have been around 2009, age of 19, first time I came here as an active participant on the forums. I had finally found something in words and concepts that fit with who I was. I felt bold enough to come into a new community.

I was, however, still a child.

Having a shiny new idea of what and who you are doesnít make you a human being. It makes you base-level sentient. Congrats, you passed the mirror test, hereís your existential crisis and your suffering you fucking dirtbag.

I learned that lesson here, hard. I didnít understand: I should have been scary! Iím a monster! Aaaaaaaaaa! But instead I was an object of ridicule. Again.

Then life intervened and I ended up beginning my long, grueling passage through homelessness. Coincidentally, this started as I was beginning my exploration of left-hand path magick garbage. So you could call this my Qlippoth Crawl.

You learn things at the bottom. Theyíre the lessons that can kill you. Leave you too broken to continue on. Knowledge that becomes death.

But I had other lessons I had learned. I was the monster, after all. I was a nightmare and I would never die. I would protect what was important to me. I would be beaten but never broken.

And these first lessons gave me what I needed to keep running in the bad times. Not without fits and starts: who remembers Pittsburgh! It was hilarious! Not for me, at the time, but good god there was some shit there worth framing. But after the two separate sets of lessons began to interact, I became more human, ironically enough.

Because we are full of mirror neurons and projection, our monsters are, in aggregate, more human than we are.

As Howl rightly pointed out, however, I am alienated. And at this time I didnít really know what that meant. I knew the dictionary definition, but not the right-down-in-the-bones knowledge I needed.

Then came Boston. And more importantly, After Boston.

After that brief reprieve from the worst life experiences Iíd had, always an outsider, I was thrown right back into it.

As the saying goes: how can you know there is light without darkness? Same applies here: if you live your life in a lightless chasm, you have no way of knowing if youíre blind or if you just have never been near light sources.

New lessons came. And they stuck. Instead of treating people as always being out to get me by default, I had started recognizing some of them as being like me. And it hurt all the more when they treated me like shit, but it also meant I couldnít put All Of That on other people. Some of it had to be me. Why would Other Monsters hate me, if not for me being Bad?

Tada!

The lesson was learned. I went through some of the most wretched shit in my life and came out having learned that while Most People are Awful, sometimes it is actually Me that is Awful.

I still identify with the monster. But like the Aliens of the later movies: this does not mean I am alone. There are other monsters out here, all with teeth and claws and acid blood. We protect each other, we protect the hive, we try to eke out a meaningful existence in a hostile, alien landscape that wants to kill us.

And like the humans in those movies: just because I am the victim does not mean I am not at fault. Some justice really is karmic.

24
Or Kill Me / Meditations on the Worm
« on: November 28, 2019, 03:38:28 pm »
I am a small, soft bodied creature, gross and peristaltic. I move slowly and try to remain undetected.

This does not mean I am powerless.

All of us have witnessed someone become utterly paralyzed by flies, worms, spiders.

There is a strength in vulnerability, sliminess, crawling. It paralyzes your foes, and galvanizes your allies.

Your secret weakness becomes indifference. Those who hate you fear you and canít come near you. Those who love you protect you.

Those who do not care see something to step on.

Of course, even that becomes reduced if you have teeth and can bite. As the saying goes, even a worm turns.

If you canít leave them in awe of you, sometimes making them disgusted by you is enough. And if not, it helps to be able to utterly destroy them in an instant.



This is only the first part of a series. I donít know if it will be two parts or 15, but I have more coming.

25
Apple Talk / Dok Howl, Iíve found that album
« on: November 25, 2019, 04:30:58 am »
You know, the one that you get bits and pieces of when youíre listening to a Lady Gaga track but the radio twists just a bit out of phase with the rest of Tucson and starts picking up shards of interference from the false sun.

https://killalters.bandcamp.com/album/no-self-helps

Youíre welcome.

26
Apple Talk / On the Subject of Birds
« on: November 23, 2019, 04:39:37 pm »
My friends, family and random passersby have a lot of different ideas on animal psychology.

They are all fucking wrong.

I have started to educate them, particularly on birds, which are particularly misunderstood. For reasons I cannot fathom, people assume that birds are simply dumb.

This is nonsense.

Birds are malevolent manifestations of a callow, heartless universe. Also, all of them are dead from birth and animated by a symbiotic fungus (this is what we call feathers).

Every bird is born hearing the unhallowed whispers of the Stork of Wrath, a deity and/or artificial intelligence embedded in the laws of probability by a far greater civilization than ours, which predates the Solar Systemís protoplanetary disk by approximately a billion years.

Birds are also born with an innate moral compass but absolutely no understanding of what itís requests mean.

There are only three types of bird socially: those who listen to the Stork of Wrath and thus hate all things good in this world, those who believe the Stork of Wrath is a counterbalance to their moral compass and thus act on whatever instinctive drive they want more at the time, and the TURACOS. Who are fucking heretics and have never been trustworthy.

Birds are often thought to be warm blooded, but this is a misunderstanding. As I said before, birds are undead. Thus we get the term ďworm-bloodedĒ, which idiots and assholes have taken as a typo. It is not a typo. Do you not know WHY birds are seen eating those bugs? If their internal ecosystem stagnates, they canít move anymore. Tragically, this often is caused when a bird is smashed by a car, so few people recognize the truth of what they are seeing: self-guided missiles of an extrauniversal alien oligarch, and also undead hollow-boned lizards covered in mold.

Finally, people often ask me about penguins when I explain birds to them.

Penguins are not birds. They are a type of bipedal sea lion.

Thank you.


27
Last thing before bed

My attack of THE HOLIES might have gotten me a writing gig

Tomorrow it begins

I was subtly asked to provide More Future, All Bad, and The Words Of The Priestess Of The Rancid Meats

I have been informed I Am The Story and thus from here on out my damage is under NDA

AHAHAHAHAHAHA


28
Or Kill Me / I donít know what came over me tonight.
« on: November 01, 2019, 03:43:35 am »
https://share.icloud.com/photos/013Y1-T1mPppMO3NalxClRkxg

I donít know how to share individual fucking screenshots in a goddamn embedded way using this garbage fucking device I swear Iím gonna SHIT! SHIT!

29
Think for Yourself, Schmuck! / Under Construction Eternal
« on: May 01, 2019, 01:49:17 pm »
This has been coming for /months/.

I have been rereading old posts around these parts, mostly as a kind of self reflection on the growth and progress I made over time, and I noticed something.

Everyone on this forum has changed. Not just me.

RWHN famously blew up about the Boston bomberís face being on a magazine cover, and we mocked him for it. Now we point out that the manifestos of white supremacists are probably not worth reading and definitely shouldnít be spread around. In fact, they should be removed from circulation. We donít bring up pixelating out the New Zealand shooterís face when we said before that the bomber kidís face being on magazine covers was important.

Knee jerk reaction kicks in; I had it too. ďThatís not the same thing!Ē And youíre right that, in a sense, it isnít, but how isnít it the same thing?

Some of us, myself included, jump from that reaction to a different knee jerk reaction: it is the same thing, and we were wrong before. Again: right in a sense.

Then some fewer might go further: it is the same thing, but we are wrong NOW. This sort of knee jerk response to knee jerk response loop can go on indefinitely, leading you to some warped conclusions if you let it. But as a man said some time, a conclusion is just where you stopped thinking.

Now, the reason this bothered me was this nagging feeling that I didnít /feel/ like I had changed my mind at all. I am still adamantly for gun rights circa 2008, and adamantly in favor of gun control circa 2017 onward. I still believe the Boston bomberís face and story needed to be out there, while I believe that the current crop of extremist killers deserve nothing more than mention that they are hideous beasts. Most importantly, I hold all of these beliefs /simultaneously/, even though they outwardly seem contradictory.

I donít cringe in the face of contradiction, but I want to consciously make that decision. Here, despite an apparent contradiction, I didnít feel any. They felt universally in line with Who I Am, which has changed, but they felt like they applied equally to both Old Me and New Me. Whatever changes occurred, they werenít enough that I no longer recognized my old moral compass. In point of fact, it seemed like the exact same compass, down to the scuff marks on the glass.

óó

Iíve let this hysteresis loop settle for a couple months, allowed my reaction to the idea that Iím hypocritical over a long period of time to stop bothering me, and started to reread things while chewing the gristly bits of the problem.

The thing that made it click for me was a thing Triple Zero (I miss that Dutch bastard, where is he now?) said in the sticky of this very forum.


Snip

i dunno but it seems to me that discordianism places "freedom" as more important than "happiness".

(freedom and happiness being two important calibrating points in philosophy of ethics)

Snip

I feel that the apparent change in the forum Iíve noticed is just a change in the circumstances around us all.

óó

If freedom and happiness are important calibrating points in ethics, but unrestrained freedom is obvious stupidity (see any decent argument against anarchy, communism or libertarianism) and happiness at the expense of freedom is somewhere in the vicinity of Brave New World, it stands to reason that ďsafetyĒ is a component of happiness.

Much of the PeeDee Drug Wars focused on Safety vs Freedom. But it seems (note, seems) that we have shifted gears.

That is because, as should be evident to anyone who has seen the news even once in the past two years, safety is no longer guaranteed. More to the point, a lack of safety has begun to impinge on the freedoms of a great many people, some of whom have lost such freedoms as sleeping easily at night, keeping their blood on the inside, and homeostasis.

It is difficult to be a free-thinker while you are leaking all over the floor. Or no longer breathing.

Nothing about us changed all that much. The circumstances are different.

ó

Going back to my hysteresis loop of knee jerk reactions to my own knee jerk reactions, I mentioned that the apparently conflicting ideas of ďthe situations are differentĒ, ďthe situations are the same and we were wrong beforeĒ, and ďthe situations are the same and we are wrong nowĒ all have some validity.

Taken on their own, in a vacuum, they arenít very different. Extremist kills some people, and then back and forth (at least internally) about censorship vs making an important point occurs.

But more broadly, the first case was about racism. Public assumption: grizzled old brown man with super-beard. Actual reality: some white kid who looks basically like any other white kid. This was important because the narrative being sold was racist and the reality was not.

And the second case is about racism too. Except here, expectations and reality match up. White supremacist is white, kills people of color. There isnít any value in spreading his trash around. Pixelating his face sends a message to others like him, and does no harm to the public interest because he, I am sure, looks like every other white kid his age.

Letís move a layer deeper. In the case of the Boston bomber, I donít think anyone even had an issue with the actual story itself. It was about how this kid got radicalized. It painted a portrait of how someone who was an ordinary kid got pulled into this darker path. Notably, nothing about his descent had anything to do with the stories of other kids like him, or manifestos. It was a lonely journey that was egged on by traditional values and a desire to belong and be cared about by his family.

In the case of whatshisfuck in New Zealand, or that punk motherfucker in San Diego, we know their story, because itís a story that has been told to us over and over again. Further, we know that they were in fact inspired by other shooters. We knew that before they told us, though the confirmation was nice to have for the particularly thick-headed people. And their stories do have to do with manifestos and copycat acts.

So, to bring this back around: surface level, theyíre the same thing. But treating the Boston bomber the way we treat the bigoted goons we have now would have done the public a disservice, and treating these shitbags the way we did that kid (who did monstrous things, I must make absolutely clear) would be exacerbating a problem thatís already out of our control, because the details of the surrounding circumstances /are/ different.

Moreover, I feel that itís safe to conclude this is one case where we had no need to change our minds to reach the same decisions and value judgements we did. Some of us may have changed our minds anyway. Thatís fine. But I had this feeling that I hadnít actually changed, and I wanted to investigate that. What I found was that What I Thought I Believed was not the same as What I Actually Believed. And that I never actually changed, the world just whirled around me in a dizzying kaleidoscope of bullshit and goose-stepping.

What I Thought I Believed: Freedom, to the hilt.  Let people fuck up. We have laws for those who go too far. Safety is a crutch for people living in the Stone Age.

What I Actually Believed: Freedom, to the hilt, and enough safety that people can live to use it. We have laws for those who go too far, but some problems cannot be solved through application of law alone without making a police state. Safety is a vital component of freedom, but is easy to over-utilize and should be used with caution.

óó

My view is consistent, I just never had to explore this part of it at a point when I had the time to make sense of what I was seeing. Or Iím full of shit and this was an extremely lengthy exercise in rationalization, but I think that if thatís all it was, it was an important one.

Even if it is both true that my viewpoint on this matter has not changed, and that this is a lengthy masturbatory exercise in rationalization, it reminded me of an old truth around these parts, that an upright and bipedal human is Under Construction Eternal.

My viewpoint may not have changed on the issue I was concerned with. But I know myself a fuckload better than I did, and I have an actual response to things that I honestly would have just had to handwave away and ignore the subsequent queasy feeling about before.

I was confident my views now are the Right Thing, or at least in the ballpark. And I was confident my views before WERE the Right Thing but would not be now. But before the insight that prompted this post, I could not have explained how or why to someone, and under pressure I might have given a different answer that turned me into a shithead.

That didnít happen, for which I am grateful, and any shitheadedness on my part is, at the very least, the result of long hard thought rather than blind flailing last minute stupidity. I laid these bricks, they werenít just some rocks and mud I slung together. If nothing else, that is a valuable thing.

óó

I donít actually know who might get anything out of this here, but it seemed worth putting out there. As for why /here/...

It isnít a rant, it doesnít belong in OKM. Itís serious, not quite AT. Itís philosophical rather than political or scientific, so I decided it belonged in TFYS,S. That said, I havenít actually got a clue if thatís the case, so disclaimer: might be the wrong forum, please complain to a mod or use your mod powers to correct any perceived failings.

30
Or Kill Me / Fragmentary Pressure Release Unit
« on: April 15, 2019, 06:14:07 am »
Warning: this is probably, I donít actually know because Iím a terrible judge of this sort of thing due to my innate biases with regards to myself, badly written, self-serving woe is me dramatic bullshit over most of its length. About two thirds of it is aimed at a small collection of random people I wonít name, who will never ever read it anyway, because absolutely none of them are, ever have been, or ever will be on this forum, and the rest is just saying things to no one to get them out of my head where they arenít doing all kinds of horrible damage to me.

I wrestled with even posting it after I wrote it all out, but I decided not to let that ... two hours, I think? Go to waste. Maybe itís garbage, maybe itís not, but itís mine and I made it and if someone anywhere finds even a single turn of phrase that was worth the time they spent reading, fuck it, it was worth it.

For my part? I have warned you, and that is all that is necessary from me.


óóóóóó


Nothing tells you youíre in for a wild ride like when you arenít rich and a pig says ďI heard about you.Ē Itís not a mark of pride, he didnít hear about you from being an extra on his favorite TV show. He heard about you in the context of ďone of those people,Ē take your fucking pick who ďthose peopleĒ are in your case. Depending how fucked up you are by the standards of those /other/ dirtbags, youíre between 100% and 40% likely to be right. Either way, itís time to shut the fuck up and be careful.



If one more person cuts contact in an absurdly over the top and aggressive way because of my psychological damage being ďscaryĒ Iíll just tattoo ďSybilĒ on my forehead and start breaking out the psychotic grin every time I meet someone. Theyíre going there fucking anyway, I may as well have fun with it.

True facts begin here. My damage is mine, and in this particular case I like it and want to keep it. Yes, I am crazy, and if given a half a chance and some decent health care Iíd get on just fine, I promise you. My little collection of people sharing a body doesnít need integration, itís not going to kill you or even talk too loud when youíre listening to the same song for the four-hundredth time, and every movie Hollywood has ever released and 90% of the books written on the subject by so-called professionals lied to you from start to finish. Your head is full of bullshit and you need your meninges scrubbed clean of the scum before you can be trusted to interact with a third of the human species in a healthy manner, and you can just keep threatening the fucking cops if I ever ďshow upĒ again, because Iím never going back to Fresno, or to California at all for that matter, and you can eat the shit I trailed in my wake like a leaking septic waste removal truck.

Besides all of that though, ďWe canít include the mentally ill in our activism because of the opticsĒ is a statement that needs the full, furious attention of someone with the psyche of Spider Jerusalem and the impulse control of a panicked wildebeest. What the fuck is wrong with you?



People keep dying or disappearing or else ending up so fucking horrible that I wish I could trade them for someone who had, one for one, I donít really give a fuck who shows back up just so long as the world gets a little fucking better and a little less horrible.

So much incomplete shit, notes left unfinished and then lost when everything ends up in a dumpster, a yard sale, an eBay listing, in a scrapyard. Iíve been dwelling on that for about a month now. I started finding all the shit I never finished that I can and backing it up with as many different people as I can. At my current pace I wonít complete a damn thing in my life but leaving those fragmented works out there for someone else to make their own ending to is a gift to the world in its own way. And while I hope one day I can offer more, I have gotten to understanding that itís okay if this is the best I can give: the world only ever gave me feces to paint the fucking canvas with, its not necessarily fair to expect rich blues and bright, clean greens out of my palette. Maybe Iíll find some nice colors in there anyway, and maybe some others can see what I saw in them too. Maybe one day Iíll find some real paint and a brush instead.



Yes, Iím angry, yes, I hate your fucking politics, yes, I really meant it when I said never talk to me again. If your worldview involves me or my friends, acquaintances, people I met once online and felt that unavoidable BPD flush of love for, suffering or dying or second class or imprisoned, then fuck you. Fuck what you stand for. Fuck your house, I hope it gets termites. Sit down and delete me from your Steam friends list or get used to my toxic spew, you rotten traitor fuck.



Iím emotional all the time, yes, and Iím anxious and I apologize all the time, Iím sorry. I have so much damage that my SAN has long since burrowed into the negative triple digits and shows no signs of decelerating. I try to keep it from splashing everywhere and wrecking the place, you watch me physically wrestle that shit down to present a socially acceptable face, so you can pretend itís all okay, nothing you need to be concerned with, so you can turn back to the TV and watch baking shows or game shows or sports games and say: ďthis world is okay, nothing is wrong, I donít need to be concernedĒ while you live in your house you own, drive your car you own, watch the TV shows they make for upper middle class white people, pretend and pretend and pretend that Neroís Boot isnít hovering, shadowing the fucking overcast sky, while it snows in mid-April, while I have to silently swap who is controlling this meat-puppet just to dodge the fucking psych ward ó /again/, while they talk on the news you try not to pay attention to about how people like me, like my friends, like that cute girl we saw at the restaurant that first week I was here, are all slowly becoming, legally, a little less human every day.

I donít hate you, but I almost wish you hated me so that I could justify it to myself. Even if I benefit from you, you are, in some small way, what Iím fighting against, and I have to hope you lose.



I have stopped caring about my health all that much these days. It turns out Iím loosely held together with paper clips and chewing gum, a bundle of misdiagnoses and outright lies and addictions and weird dietary shit hiding that Iím deeply, deeply ill, itís a wonder Iím still alive, still able to move, still seeing most of reality. On the bright side, if I stay in Michigan long enough to see my doctor, itís an easy and cheap fix as far as surgeries go. There is a possible future where I become as productive again as I was when I was 17, and that is a bright future indeed. And no longer turning that alarming, blotchy red color I did earlier today.

Besides all that though? It turns out the food we eat is becoming more poisonous by the day. Thereís lead in the water half the places you go, if not worse shit. So yes: I smoke. I smoke to keep my intestines anchored on the inside, apparently to keep my body and mind from collapsing under thyrotoxicosis, and because when it comes right down to it, the chances Iíll live long enough to die of lung cancer are growing smaller by the day, through no fault of my own. So yes, I beg a friend with the cash to spare for ten bucks once or twice a week, and I spend it on something thatís ripping me apart from the inside. Yeah, I could spend it on food and not leech ďas muchĒ money off the system by way of food stamps. Or I could just not beg my friend for money that I havenít ďearnedĒ. Whatever. Itís not your business and you should fuck off.



One day, if this keeps on repeating, inevitably there wonít be a ďnext spotĒ to jump. One day, I will have reached the end of the line. This is a mathematical certainty. There are only so many people in a position to help out there, and I try not to burn bridges but it turns out it ainít me with the butane, the flamethrower, the acetylene cutting torch, the thermite charges and demolition cranes, oh no. And more and more often it doesnít matter if the bridge burns or not, because soon thereís two of us, both hoping thereís another stop on this crazy ride. I sure hope I find a safe landing spot before the last car on this train derails. I hope everyone else out there, all the people cast out like me into the cold, living unbound and untethered and uncared for, I hope they can find shelter, an address, some warm food and some human comfort and dignity, someday soon, too.



And I hope one day I wonít be staining the screen with this disconnected word salad bullshit, yelling from the gutter surrounded by rotten wood and old McDonaldís sandwich wrappers, trying to let out 29 years of being stepped on, making my self small so others can pretend not to notice me when they pass, being turned away because someone read a book or saw a movie once where the bad guy smelled like me kinda, getting thrown down the mountain, a shadow of Sisyphus, every time I get the strength to try again to claw myself up another inch. I hope one day I wonít have to worry ó is this too defeatist? Is this too sad emo kid? Am I just whining? Because I hope one day Iíll have different stories to tell, stories of victory and progress and improvement.

And really, above all, more than anything, ultimately, I hope one day I can look back and, if nothing else, see that I didnít make the world any worse as I passed through it. If I get one wish in this life, let it be that one. If I canít stop the tide of bullshit, just let me not have contributed. I donít care if people /think/ I did or not. I donít care how or if history views me. Just donít let my final karmic balance, so to speak, be negative.

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