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31

Or Kill Me / Broken Mirror

« on: December 05, 2019, 04:00:18 am »

Of course, now that I started thinking about my dad, I can’t stop.

I barely cared when he died. I was 8, I understood death distantly. But I hadn’t 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 didn’t 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 girl’s clothes, I got them. I had my nails done once. I had an actual little kid’s 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 wasn’t that weird. I was two years ahead of myself, in a family that was comfortable making room for me to exceed. And I’d already lost memories of my earlier years, so no loss to deal with. It was like I’d 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 “evil” and “twisted” from my time with those “freaky atheists” (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 family’s fucked up high society standards. So they sicced Johnny Law on him for, in their words in the police report I found later, “not trusting him”.

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 didn’t 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. That’s 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. Couldn’t 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 couldn’t 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) didn’t 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 doesn’t add up to rent, so he walked the streets with a guitar he didn’t 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 it’s gone now, but it existed as recently as 1997, and I was there for two hours one day that year.

I don’t 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 didn’t 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. I’m 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 don’t 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 didn’t 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 didn’t 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 didn’t understand then and still don’t 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 “only met him once before” 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.

32

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 didn’t square with this, so I was wondering what they saw that I didn’t.

I was the kind of kid you could call, at an understatement, precocious. I was reading Yudkowsky’s early, pre-“rationalist” 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 — all before I was 10.

I understood that the words they applied to me didn’t 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 didn’t. There were so many of them saying it that they couldn’t 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 didn’t. 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. They’re just trying to live their lives. They’re animals or hominids or ghosts or demons, but their own natural order is all they’re trying to manage.

Then the heroes arrive and FUCK with them.

You’re 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 don’t 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 “I am a monster” and one that said “I am a good person.” 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 doesn’t make you a human being. It makes you base-level sentient. Congrats, you passed the mirror test, here’s your existential crisis and your suffering you fucking dirtbag.

I learned that lesson here, hard. I didn’t understand: I should have been scary! I’m 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. They’re 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 didn’t 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 I’d 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 you’re 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 couldn’t 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.

33

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 can’t 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 can’t 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 don’t know if it will be two parts or 15, but I have more coming.

34

Apple Talk / Dok Howl, I’ve found that album

« on: November 25, 2019, 04:30:58 am »

You know, the one that you get bits and pieces of when you’re 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

You’re welcome.

35

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 System’s protoplanetary disk by approximately a billion years.

Birds are also born with an innate moral compass but absolutely no understanding of what it’s 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 “worm-blooded”, 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 can’t 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.

36

Apple Talk / Open Bar: Subpoenaed by Congress, but still refusing to testify

« on: November 21, 2019, 05:11:04 am »

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

37

Or Kill Me / I don’t know what came over me tonight.

« on: November 01, 2019, 03:43:35 am »

https://share.icloud.com/photos/013Y1-T1mPppMO3NalxClRkxg

I don’t know how to share individual fucking screenshots in a goddamn embedded way using this garbage fucking device I swear I’m gonna SHIT! SHIT!

38

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 bomber’s 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 shouldn’t be spread around. In fact, they should be removed from circulation. We don’t bring up pixelating out the New Zealand shooter’s face when we said before that the bomber kid’s face being on magazine covers was important.

Knee jerk reaction kicks in; I had it too. “That’s not the same thing!” And you’re right that, in a sense, it isn’t, but how isn’t 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 didn’t /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 bomber’s 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 don’t cringe in the face of contradiction, but I want to consciously make that decision. Here, despite an apparent contradiction, I didn’t 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 weren’t 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.

——

I’ve let this hysteresis loop settle for a couple months, allowed my reaction to the idea that I’m 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 I’ve noticed is just a change in the circumstances around us all.

——

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 “safety” 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.

—

Going back to my hysteresis loop of knee jerk reactions to my own knee jerk reactions, I mentioned that the apparently conflicting ideas of “the situations are different”, “the situations are the same and we were wrong before”, and “the situations are the same and we are wrong now” all have some validity.

Taken on their own, in a vacuum, they aren’t 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 isn’t 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.

Let’s move a layer deeper. In the case of the Boston bomber, I don’t 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 it’s 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, they’re 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 that’s already out of our control, because the details of the surrounding circumstances /are/ different.

Moreover, I feel that it’s 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. That’s fine. But I had this feeling that I hadn’t 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.

——

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 I’m full of shit and this was an extremely lengthy exercise in rationalization, but I think that if that’s 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 didn’t 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 weren’t just some rocks and mud I slung together. If nothing else, that is a valuable thing.

——

I don’t actually know who might get anything out of this here, but it seemed worth putting out there. As for why /here/...

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

39

Or Kill Me / Fragmentary Pressure Release Unit

« on: April 15, 2019, 06:14:07 am »

Warning: this is probably, I don’t actually know because I’m 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 won’t 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 aren’t 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 it’s garbage, maybe it’s not, but it’s 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.


——————


Nothing tells you you’re in for a wild ride like when you aren’t rich and a pig says “I heard about you.” It’s not a mark of pride, he didn’t hear about you from being an extra on his favorite TV show. He heard about you in the context of “one of those people,” take your fucking pick who “those people” are in your case. Depending how fucked up you are by the standards of those /other/ dirtbags, you’re between 100% and 40% likely to be right. Either way, it’s 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 “scary” I’ll just tattoo “Sybil” on my forehead and start breaking out the psychotic grin every time I meet someone. They’re 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 I’d get on just fine, I promise you. My little collection of people sharing a body doesn’t need integration, it’s not going to kill you or even talk too loud when you’re 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 “show up” again, because I’m 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, “We can’t include the mentally ill in our activism because of the optics” 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 don’t 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. I’ve 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 won’t 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 it’s 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 I’ll find some nice colors in there anyway, and maybe some others can see what I saw in them too. Maybe one day I’ll find some real paint and a brush instead.



Yes, I’m 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.



I’m emotional all the time, yes, and I’m anxious and I apologize all the time, I’m 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 it’s 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: “this world is okay, nothing is wrong, I don’t need to be concerned” 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 Nero’s Boot isn’t 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 — /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 don’t 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 I’m fighting against, and I have to hope you lose.



I have stopped caring about my health all that much these days. It turns out I’m loosely held together with paper clips and chewing gum, a bundle of misdiagnoses and outright lies and addictions and weird dietary shit hiding that I’m deeply, deeply ill, it’s a wonder I’m 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, it’s 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. There’s 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 I’ll 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 that’s ripping me apart from the inside. Yeah, I could spend it on food and not leech “as much” money off the system by way of food stamps. Or I could just not beg my friend for money that I haven’t “earned”. Whatever. It’s not your business and you should fuck off.



One day, if this keeps on repeating, inevitably there won’t be a “next spot” 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 ain’t me with the butane, the flamethrower, the acetylene cutting torch, the thermite charges and demolition cranes, oh no. And more and more often it doesn’t matter if the bridge burns or not, because soon there’s two of us, both hoping there’s 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 won’t be staining the screen with this disconnected word salad bullshit, yelling from the gutter surrounded by rotten wood and old McDonald’s 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 won’t have to worry — is this too defeatist? Is this too sad emo kid? Am I just whining? Because I hope one day I’ll 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 didn’t 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 can’t stop the tide of bullshit, just let me not have contributed. I don’t care if people /think/ I did or not. I don’t care how or if history views me. Just don’t let my final karmic balance, so to speak, be negative.

40

Aneristic Illusions / Christchurch shootings

« on: March 15, 2019, 05:25:11 am »

Finally ditched the IRC for good. As soon as white boys started telling me that we should just wait for the fash to go away because they won’t win I was through with that shit.

41

Apple Talk / Doktor Howl to the situation room

« on: January 04, 2019, 09:20:49 am »

I’m in Arizona right now, passing through by bus on my way to LA. Holbrook is colder than parts of Canada, and I hear the temperature madness extends nearly to Phoenix. What did you do for the powers that be to try and freeze Tucson over?