Americans won’t admit it, but the working class has been smashing back down through each need in Maslow’s Hierarchy and is now unprecedentedly generally sitting at the very bottom. As of fairly recently, self-esteem is a distinctly bourgeois privelage. Self-actualization is reserved for the uber wealthy. But for John Doe at $21 an hour, 40 hours a week, survival is a daily challenge on nearly every front.

John Doe could be financially doing better, sure if he had a different job. Because anyone can make it in America. But he chooses not to. Instead John chooses to work at Costco and have a dog. The dog is named Missie. Missie fulfills the needs of self-esteem, love/belonging and safety, or at least that is her purpose categorically. She is a dog, meant to elevate the life of lonely John. John loves Missie. Before adopting Missie, John had a drinking problem, but he quit, because according to every single source that which he considered reliable, his mild to mid-level alcoholism was the exact and only thing holding his checking account hostage. So John opted instead to seek meaning in the form of a living breathing, actually meaningful thing.

Missie shits in the yard. When John cleans the shit, he takes 5 minutes a day to do so on average. Missie eats a lot of food. John buys her $50 worth of food every two weeks. Normally food would be less expensive, but she has dietary restrictions. When John comes home from work around 6 PM he is met with the undivided attention of an excited animal overjoyed to see him, so he cannot move on with his nightly tasks without first sacrificing, let’s say on average, 20 minutes for Missie. Taking her on a walk, petting her on the couch, throwing a frisbee. That’s not counting weekends. It costs John $100 a month to keep Missie alive because of her heart condition (middle aged Jack Russel Terrier.)

John spends a bare minimum of about $200 a month on Missie and does so without a gripe. This excludes toys, unexpected vet bills and furniture replacement when Missie gets restless on a random Tuesday. This comes to $50 a week. That is $20 more than what John would typically spend on alcohol during his time drinking— $15 a bottle of trash vodka, two bottles a week— $30 on alcohol a week. But John is content with the cost increase, because having a dog serves more function and is less overall harmful to his physical and mental health. John loves Missie and he is glad to have someone in his life who loves him unconditionally.

John wakes up every morning with a festering soiled hole in his chest. The alarm goes off once. It goes off again. Again. Again. He can get ready in ten minutes. Get ready in five minutes. Get ready in two— he’s going to be late. Scrambles through the house, no time to pack a lunch. Locks Missie in her kennel, because during an eight hour shift, counting the hour of roundtrip drive time and the time it takes for John to make whatever necessary food stops on the way there or back, which he rarely does because he prefers to save money by eating what is nutritionally and flavorfully no different than dog food that he bought from the store— because that is the financially responsible thing to do — Missie is likely going to shit and piss on the floor. Better to do so in a kennel where John can put down a layer of absorbent cloth. She will endure several hours of whimpering shame. Walking in tiny circles as she attempts to hold it in so as not to disappoint her master, who is never disappointed in her, but she wouldn’t know that because she does not comprehend English or human body language. John is making Missie into a miserable prisoner for all her life, and all she knows is that he is the most perfect and beautiful living being in the entire world.

But he spends even more on the dog indirectly. In order to provide Missie with what John considers adequate living space, he pays an extra $300 dollars in rent. His total rent is $1,400 for a studio apartment in Kansas City with no air conditioning or dish washer. As a result, Missie is able to meander, run a little bit and play. This makes John happy. The $500 dollars a month put toward the wellness of his prisoner dog is absolutely worth every penny.

“I love Missie,” John tell his mother over the phone.

“I know! She’s so cute! I hate that she’s cooped up all day though. Have you thought about getting her a friend?”

“Yeah. I thought about it, but I lowkey can’t afford it.”

“Awe, come on.”

“No. I—” John feels the festering soiled hole in his chest. He envisions a shadowy being hovering over him with yellow eyes and no mouth. No explanation. It appears to drip dark grease on his neck and shoulders and back. No explanation. He begins to perspire.

“Are you doing alright, sweety? I know you can get a little lonely.”

“I’m fine, I think?”

“Do you think therapy would be—”

John twitches. “I’m sorry, mom. I can’t afford that either.”

The shrouded entity looms in John’s minds eye. He shivers and all his arm hair stands up tall. This demonic picture often manifests when the subject of finance is discussed.

“But your health insurance should—”

“It doesn’t. I checked.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Well that’s not right at all.”

“Yes.”

“Have you asked for a raise?”

“Yes.”

“And they said—”

“They said it was a matter that which they would totally consider, but things are complicated.”

“I see.”

“Yes.”

“But you make pretty good money. What, 22 an hour right?”

“21. Yeah.”

“See, that’s not too bad!”

John has deleted all social media from his phone. Because it was “poisoning his brain.” He reads books from the library every night before bed. It keeps him sharp and reading is the only thing that will tire his mind enough to mitigate his restlessness. Because, like all others around his demographic, John cannot sleep at all. He’s tried three medications but they did awful things to him. Horrific nightmares. Sleep paralysis. Pissing the bed. Rendering him dizzy all the next day. Movies are overstimulating and bad on the senses before bed. Reading is the only thing that seems to work, but recently, it has become inexplicably useless.

John’s eyes scan three pages before he realizes that he has not registered a single word in connection with its preceding or following word. Three pages of total mental blankness. He cannot recall one basic idea conveyed through this literature. It is a popular work of fiction by JRR Tolkien. John blinks and stares. He has been thinking about sex and money. Money he cannot have but he needs. Sex he cannot have. Love he cannot find. Suddenly John realizes he wants more than anything to have a beer. He resists the urge and instead attempts to jack off. His dick is unable to harden. He is too sad. This happens to John because he is far lower on the Needs Hierarchy than he imagines himself to be, and reading to enrich his inner life has absolutely no relevance to his abject situation— the things his body is concerned about.

John is 25. John has done everything right. He graduated with a BA in Creative Writing from UMKC. Applied to dozens of publications and made endless attempts at getting his work published— all to no avail of course. Now he works at Costco. He doesn’t eat out. He doesn’t drink. Doesn’t do drugs. Doesn’t go to parties. Doesn’t go to bars. Doesn’t gamble. Rarely has sex. Saves money in his savings account every month, so that he can pay off his student loans and one day hopefully buy a car that isn’t perpetually on the brink of fucking exploding. Somehow despite his less-than-perfect upbringing, John has discovered a way to live essentially without vice, in an era where vice is the only real thing that anyone can rely on to decrease the likelihood of suicide. He’s not commercialistic. Doesn’t believe in some American Dream bullshit. He’s politically attuned and registered to vote. John is a good boy. Disciplined. Reliable.

So John lies awake at night imagining himself jacking off with a hard penis, which renders him further incapable of getting it up— the thought itself of thinking about getting it up as it is in theory, supposed to be getting up on the basis of some other thought. Sadness is factored in and John just lies there naked listening to his three small fans hum in the late August evening. His heart beats fast. His mind will not shut up or slow down. Something has to change or John is afraid the big shadowy figure will hover over him again and again every night.

John spends his money on food. Spends it on rent. On shoes, clothing, hygiene products, towels, toilet paper, cleaning supplies, dishes, silverware, furniture, dog food, dog kennel, dog poop sheets, dog collar, dog toys, dog treats, dog snacks, dog medicine, other vet bills, the occasional guilty pleasure of fruit juice, laundry detergent, dish soap pods, computer storage, iphone storage, a new rug every month or two (dog shit and piss), the light bill, the gas bill, the Wifi bill, the phone bill, car payments, car insurance, car repairs, gasoline, new tires, oil changes, cleaning fees at the car wash, hand towels, pens and paper, the occasional doctor bill, the occasional dentist appointment, the occasional covering a friend’s movie ticket and his own, the occasional snack from the gas station to keep himself alive enough for his eyes to not utterly gloss over sending him careening sideways down the freeway into a semi-truck and fucking exploding, a spotify subscription for the same reason, an Amazon Prime account, basic medical supplies, condoms, a dehumidifier, trash bags, the cheapest food you can possibly get in a store, soap, paying off student loans, adding to his savings, hand soap and drinkable water.

In total John spends roughly $4,300 a month.

At $21 an hour, 40 hours a week, John makes $3,150 a month before tax.

This means John goes $1,150 dollars more into debt every month, while going about everything as socially correctly as humanly possible. Read that again please.

John’s circumstance is a mathematical impossibility without the use of extreme credit card debt, which would in the future cripple his ability to further rent apartments. That is, unless you remove Missie from the equation.

At 8 hours of sleep a night, working a 9-5 (8 hours, 5 days a week), drive time (1 hour, 5 days a week not counting weekend events such as the dog park), a dog to care for (10 hours a week minimum), showering (close to 4 hours a week), changing clothes, preparing dinners, preparing lunches, preparing breakfast (all food prep together coming out to around 10.5 hours at 30 minutes of prep per meal1), shitting once a day (3.5 hours a week), then at least 3 hours a week communicating to his friends or family that he is not dead or dying, means John has about 33 hours per week to put towards reading his books, watching library movies and sitting in his living room alone. Alone, because he cannot afford to have company on his tight budget. Alone, because he cannot afford to date someone— much less, fuck people casually now that he no longer goes out or regularly socializes with people his age. Alone, because Missie is really not a person who can relate to John in any capacity. Alone, because nobody will invite John to their parties or social events, because he is stingy with money.

And after all this, John is not safe from harm. His medical insurance is dogshit and he lives in what some would call a rough part of town. His car could explode any day. He is not safe. Were he to be somehow injured at home or in the workplace, there is little assurance that his medical insurance would cover anything at all, in which case he would be forced to beg his loved ones for free money, but unfortunately, nobody loves him. His friends have abandoned him. Nobody is sexually interested in him. He is not well-loved. His job insurance will also not cover therapy and he cannot afford it out of pocket. John is too emotionally and physically exhausted to try and figure out some kind of passion. He already went to college. He isn’t positive that there is anything to look forward to at all in the foreseeable future.

This leaves John somewhere around here on Maslow’s hierarchy of needs:

And John makes $6 above minimum wage in Missouri, working full time. And remember, John has somehow managed to fully eradicate all vice from his life, except for the occasional gas station treat.

The burning question at the end of this arithmetic problem is: should John get rid of the dog?

But really there is no answer, because the dog creates a numeric impossibility. John cannot have a dog and afford to live without somehow violating himself or the law.

I believe this equation to play a major role in why you and I are having a difficult time falling asleep at night. Not because this situation is basically sucky, but because our generation was promised something entirely different. And we are still told by our elders that these promises still exist to be readily accepted, and that we in our selfishness have denied ourselves theses illusive fruits of discipline and virility in favor of excess and laziness and hedonism, when in pure demonstrable mathematical terms, we are, on average, completely utterly fucked out of ever having a half-decent experience in our twenties without foregoing the respect of society, our families and ourselves.

As per our John Doe, America is a terrifying agonizing place to live even without social media addiction. Even without factoring in racism. Without factoring in transphobia. Without factoring in misogyny. Without factoring in elder or child abuse. Without factoring in a totally failed education system. Without factoring in man-made ecological disaster. Without factoring in crippling mental illness. Without factoring in the possibility that any day, any one of us could very well be evicted from our homes for any reason from “New Royals Stadium. Out.” to “I just don’t like the way you look.”2

“I just can’t stop scrolling. That’s why I can’t sleep.”

You cannot stop scrolling, because there is nothing else out there for you. It’s not your fault. Not your fault you cannot afford to go to bars. Not your fault Worlds of Fun doesn’t have that same spark like it used to. Not your fault that there really is just about nothing you can do to actually have fun without spending thousands of dollars out of pocket— that is, fun without drinking, smoking or committing crime. Not your fault your brain chemistry and dopamine receptors are so fried that your reading muscles are shot to shit, so books are out of the question. Not your fault you are addicted to porn. Not your fault you can’t stop drinking. Not your fault you’re addicted to fentanyl. Not your fault you are morbidly depressed. You were placed here by a menacing evil force with the sole intent on crushing every last morsel of soul within you, and squeezing the remaining vital goo into a barrel to be refined into oil that can then be used to power the very machines that are hand crafted to rape you every day. And to be anything less than jizzing with excitement over this fact is by every indication, under the current administration, comparable to treason against this nation.

It is impossible for the majority of young Americans to live healthy lives even if they try their absolute hardest, and give up everything that brings them joy.

The Walmart Supercenter in Raymore, Missouri. Over a decade ago they had a live lobster tank on display. A big circle tank out on the floor. As a child I would gaze into the crowded mass and pity the creatures for their cuffed pinchers. Imprisoned and castrated on death row. Unwitting panoptic performers in a hellish theater presumably catering to the slobbering inbred children of the region. Or perhaps it was a monument. In any case, the lobsters were boiled to death and sold in that very same building. Ten years later there are no lobsters anywhere and I’m back digging frantically in the discount book pile for any shred of stimulating material. Cook books, airport erotica, Colleen Hoover, Bibles and all of the easiest reading a functioning adult can read in public without necessarily raising suspicion of mental deficiency so abject the reader would be unsafe leaving home without a caretaker. Digging in the bins because the shelves were even worse. The saddest selection I have ever witnessed. The reason I was digging in a Raymore Walmart discount book bin is so embarrassing I can’t even begin, but suffice to say, it was ultimately nothing less than admirable.

It took just about every remaining gram of estrogen in my system to refrain from hurling every last hardcover across the store and screaming obscenities at the innocent workers. In part due to other recent tragic life events, I was also fighting the urge to weep. But my blood was hotter than it’s been in months. Not only because I was faced with such an abysmal and restricted heap of slop, but because all that slop was all tied together by an undeniable leniency and yes, their underlying idealogical/etiological support for this country’s fascist situation. Can a cook book really be so political? Take a gander at the hundreds of copies of Mary D.W. Vanderbilt’s Yummy Yummy Vegan Snackbook and decide for your goddamn self. Upon inspection of the page, you may notice a prodigious lack of certain ingredients particular to certain regions of this very country. But that’s enough on that implication. I have little to speak on as a white boy in this part of the world. But I’m no less indignant in my fury and my visceral desire to incite domestic chaos as a result of the abominable midwest American public’s degeneration of the mind. And, but, again, as any one of my readers can, would and should immediately glean, this is potentially the most trite rambling in all of my published writing. But as it happens, I don’t give a fucking goddamn rat’s bleeding ass about that.

I realized today that I want nothing more than to shuck and fillet the fabric of whatever it is that holds this part of the world together. To shred with my incisors the core values and beliefs of these people. The only plausible redeeming quality to be found in this husk of raped land is the population’s basic politeness, but even that only exists out of the overwhelming Big Blank White Nothing which surrounds and consumes and eats at every single landlocked thinking civilian, whether they know it or not. It’s a sad dry place and I want it all to burn.

Because the stupidity I’m talking about is the sort the leads people not only to believe that reading is unnecessary, or a waste of time, but that it is actually counterintuitive to their very state of being, and a threat to their basic happiness. And yet, I would rather watch ten thousand hours of morally gray porn online than read whatever dogshit I saw on those shelves.

I’m all the more shaken by the twin tragedy that this tiny Walmart book section is the only place in a fifteen mile radius where one can find a single book for sale. And as buttfuck nowhere as this place may be, there is a notable population.

I’ve compiled a list of all the main things I can only deduce these inbred pig fucker retards would deem a better use of their time than learning one or two things about the world outside of their sprawling cornfields, meth addictions and cum-guzzling adoration for Jelly Roll and the tragedy of the century (his divorce). In no particular order, and omitting the more obvious items such as work hard at job and be racist.

• fucking and beating their own children

• eating steamed potatoes without any salt, butter, pepper or anything (offered up to me generously for dinner last night.)

• apologizing to god for fucking and beating their own children

• watching porn that invokes the fucking and beating of their own children

• thinking about fucking and beating their own children

• apologizing to god about thinking about fucking and beating their own children

• gambling and drinking in a futile attempt to sublimate the overpowering urge to fuck and beat their own children

• growing a tomato plant

• neglecting the tomato plant because the misery caused by being denied free moral access to fucking and beating their own children has rendered them crippled, relegated to a reclining chair scrolling through millions of AI Youtube reels about firearms and motor vehicles.

• thinking about the possiblility of reading some of the bible

• smoking meth and trying on their children’s underwear as a more effective strategy in mitigating the overpowering urge to fuck and beat their own children.

That’s about it from me today. Thanks for reading. I do love Kansas City and I’ll take urban decay over abject rural nadir any fucking day.

Are men missing the point of sex?

Is puh not enough?

Is dih not enough?

Whatever happened to good old fashioned cock slide into pussy and shit? Everyone— friends, family, suitors, enemies, lovers — has to my knowledge, become increasingly invested, as of the past several years, in the slimy weird world of kink.

Bondage. Roleplay. Leather. Knifeplay. CNC. Age regression. Impreg. Froggy style. Cheeky style. Fuck play. Puppy shit. Being in love. Scat. Golden showers. Pits. Inflation. Public. Group. Car. Broken glass. Kitchen trad cooking vlog slow burn. The list goes motherfucking on. Why? This litany of weird ass disgusting ass shit naturally leads a man to ponderation. At some point, guys, we lost the plot. All distractions from just good old fashioned normal ahh fucking. Not that there’s anything wrong with kinky sex, but I’m slow to believe that there isn’t a clear cut anthropologically grounded cultural explanation for its rise to popularity in tandem with the rise in unfulfilled sexual parties on every end of the spectrum— complex problems that which I intend on unearthing in full over the course of this very essay.

A friend of mine named Joshua James Warren told me his dick can’t get hard during sex unless his girlfriend wears stockings and puts her hair in pigtails and has a tiny little backpack. And actually, almost every man I know has told me this as well. This led me to further ponderation. Could there be more to sex than sticking your hard cock into a wet pussy and jumping into it until you jizz inside of said pussy? Something magical? Something new?

From the male perspective, eroticism is essentially hazy at best; at worst, nonexistent. Because our understanding of intimacy (conscious or otherwise) is solely tied to, surrounding and pertaining to the stimulation of our veiny, fat ass, eight inch motherfucking mighty cocks. Hard ass cocks. Big ass cocks. Slumped cocks. Upturned cocks. Sideways cocks. Cocked-to-the-side cock. Cock blocking cock. Triangle cock. Tiny cock. Mother cock. Mystical cock. Beautiful cock. Monster cock. Wonder cock. There is an undeniable wealth of diversity found in the seemingly endless supply of variation from one cock to another. Similar to cunts, we are all endowed beautifully and distinctly. Pink. Brown. Fishy. Soapy. Loud ass pussy. Tiny puh. Autistic puh. Gaping hole. Bussy puh. Bitch puss. Homebody cunt. Inverted puh. Grippy with teeth. Hungry puss. Angry puss. Delighted deluge puh of the ages, the likes of which are seldom found within city limits— dated and to some, archaic, but when found, can and most certainly will, flood into a man’s life, sweeping him asunder into a new town, a new city, a new life— he is traumatized by ancient puh. Tender and honest puh. Evasive puh. Lurking puh. Curious puh. But the dih is simpler than the cock. And the question of puh behavior is unfathomably deeper and more intricate than any discussion surrounding dih behavior.

There is arguably a notable disparity in diversity between dih and puh— the puh being apparently abundantly more interesting. We know this because every puh is written by a different god. Sources (or forces) of stimulation and climax vary so strongly to the puh, that there is more often than not, a steeper learning curve in place than what would otherwise be in the case of dih. For every puh, an individual curriculum could (should?) be devised, and this would greatly benefit society and potentially solve the heterosexual situationship crisis. Whereas, with dih, we observe simplicity: that they are essentially all wired the same— stimulated most effectively by long, hard, fast and violent strokes of doom (by physical or spiritual or mental or idealogical means).

If we are to accept the reality that dih comes by the barrel, and every puh is beautifully and differently made, what then can we glean as this fact relates to the modern interplay? Well, the modern dih is for one, historically unprecedentedly disincentivized. With the advent of internet porn, Instagram-brain, Tik-Tok induced serotonin syndrome, Gen Z’s never before seen penchant for recreationally and medically necessitated chemical dependency, the dih has been writ large made flaccid.

Could the advent of western society’s apathy towards classical copulation (puh-negligence) be attributed— if not only in part — to the modern dih’s inescapable self-destruction? The modern dih’s idealogical deconstruction?

“The first act of violence that patriarchy demands of males is not violence toward women. Instead patriarchy demands of all males that they engage in acts of psychic self-mutilation, that they kill off the emotional parts of themselves. If an individual is not successful in emotionally crippling himself, he can count on patriarchal men to enact rituals of power that will assault his self-esteem.”

- Bell Hooks, The Will to Change: Men, Masculinity and Love

A modern dih wouldn’t be privy to its own self-mutilation, because it is trapped in its very own personal ouroboros; psychically and physically caught in an unbreakable feedback loop of hunger and anxiety— a fear-based survival state. From “I need to fuck. Why can’t I fuck?” to “I want to love someone every day and give them everything,” the modern dih is purgatorially disposed, asking questions instead of providing answers.

Ironically, despite the west’s so-idealized supposed liberation of the dih, nearly all dih is spoiled. And perhaps not in spite of this liberation, but as a result of it, does the dih shrivel and beg. Once exposed, in an attempt at freeing the dih, have we been confronted thusly by the horror of our own reflection? And perhaps our very own dick pics have now spat in our eyes and turned away.

There is a clear connection between the perilous and worrisome state of dih, to the gross, widespread, societal neglect of modern puh. But the answer to a modern question can only be found in post-modern understanding. Fortunately I am myself uniquely endowed with post-modern dih— accepting dih, ironic dih, skeptical dih. To even argue the case of puh-neglect is decidedly a post-modern dih move. Self evident. Have faith in my cock and my dih. And I will show you the world. So, again I beg the question, why exactly have we collectively decided that puh is not enough?

Because we have transcended the evolutionary process and now mutate in unnecessary ways. As a species that murders and cannibalizes itself, we have manufactured a course of civilized development designed to disenfranchise the murderous among us; in order to evolve we are obligated to kill each other less. The fastest and easiest way to do this as intelligent creatures is to create a consumerist society wherein psycho-sexual competition in battle is sublimated into the frivolous and inconsequential day-to-day life of modern dih. These effects become exponentially more defined and abrasive as late-stage capitalism marches on into the final goal of a fully automatic life— a life that negates the purposes of testosterone and manhood, and threatens even more so the fulfillment and satisfaction of puh.

Neutrality— homogenization. Voluntary castration. Now, if this rhetoric appears transphobic, think again. The postmodern dih-endowed thinker accepts the basic reality that the dih is not implicitly tethered to the masculine, nor is it even contingent on the actual physical existence of a biological cock. But in any case, the survival of man, the furthering of medicine and science and the pursuit of meaning does itself inadvertently flatten the dih. Our exhibitionism marks the beginning of our extinction. The very action we take for ourselves to grow will be that which destroys us. And it already is destroying us by way of ignoring the puh, meanwhile prioritizing the dih, when all the while, those in power assert with confidence that the puh takes precedence— and that it should not. In reality, service and attentiveness to the puh is generationally on the back burner. Well, it shouldn’t be.

I worship the puh just as I worship the dih. The world is not so keen on this balance. Perhaps it comes naturally to a semi-bisexual postmodern dih-endowed sapio-sexual such as myself, but the answer as to why the erotic has malformed into the atavistically carnal, I believe, can be readily observed in the lack of potent dih overall. For those in search of dih are found consistently wanting, yearning, desperate, as potent dih is rapidly depleted.

Top erotica picks for straight women reflect this clearly as indicated by the groveling obsession with forceful dih, rapey dih, overwhelming all encompassing dih. This thirst is not random. We live in a dih desert. As we supplement, distract from and reduce the meaning of dih, the demand thereof goes up, and leaves a vast portion of the population in a constant state of dih-deprived anxiety and frustration.

Now examine the lesbian dynamic. Puh for puh as it were (I would disavow any accusations of bioessentialism; in the instance of trans women or lesbian trans men I refer to puh [ideological/mental/spiritual/sexual] as opposed to vagina [biological sex organ] and to cock [biological sex organ] as opposed to dih [idealogical/mental/spiritual/sexual]). So, it can be readily observed that your typical lesbian dynamic is phenomenally disaffected by the atavist thirst for dih, due to the whole operation being hardly contingent on dih itself. This is why the lesbian dynamic centers uniquely on what others might consider pointless or archaic mating rituals. E.G.: Pining— the lost art — something almost unheard of in gay men (broadly speaking, dih for dih). Because pining is an exclusively erotic act— and as far as the zeitgeist is concerned, a predominantly feminine behavior (and that’s because it is feminine. And, but only as a result of the crisis). Those in search of dih no longer pine. They reach and grab and hurl themselves forth just as once did the dih. See, societally, eros dies alongside the dih, as the two are interconnected. But the lesbians are safe from the doom of puh-neglect. Puh for puh sexuality is as alive as ever. Whereas every dih-oriented sexuality is in peril.

The solution to the crisis of puh-neglect, one that may hurt to hear, is postmodern dih. Dih that questions, dih that inquires, dancing dih, truly liberated ahh dih. Going beyond the four walls and ceiling of traditional masculinity, imagining oneself as a tangible force to behold, taking that Blue Chew and getting the fuck on with it in earnest and in worship of the puh. But more importantly, in worship of those who wield the puh. And we are to be apologetic for the many years spent wallowing in our own cum rags imagining the pursuit of puh to be futile— what we’ve been told by the ruling class and anti-queer propoganda (the myth of a puh drought, and the supposed cause of which being that everyone is too busy being gay and trans: a commonly accepted myth even in queer spaces, but notably by straight women of otherwise formidable intellect) is observably, empirically incorrect. There is puh in abundance which yearns for dih. The dih-endowed must simply apply themself. Make a worthwhile effort. To expect puh to fall into one’s lap is the most amateurish and embarrassing misstep in pursuing a situationship. Puh is evasive and of course— for a plethora of reasons — brings with it challenges and tests. But will that be enough to dissuade you from your quest, young lover? A challenge? If that is too difficult for you, then you must not care all that much, and you most certainly are not worthy of puh. Educate yourself.

God told me to go to New York City and so I’ll be around Manhattan and Bushwick from August 3rd to 6th tentatively. If anyone wants to meet up for lunch and talk down to me or go for drinks, or party, just let me know. Also fairly open to getting beat up if you’re into that. Idk. I’m not sure if I’m going to act really gay or pretend to be nonchalant, but I hardly foresee me being myself. Whatever’s right.

My friend, Joshua James Warren recently brought to my attention that the sparkle is gone from my eyes. Joshua James Warren is twenty one, and if I had to pray for anything, it would be that he does not undergo anything similar to my own degeneration. He has the sparkle, or in his words, a “revolutionary perversity.” It was an embarrassing shame to realize in a single moment that all vibrancy and aliveness that I once felt as a young man has been entirely sucked dry from my body at the age of twenty four. Whatever this is, it is unmistakably identical to the what is described in the Bible as being abandoned by God himself.

The only instance I can recall in scripture of God’s spirit leaving a man behind, is the case of King David’s predecessor, and the very first Israelite king, King Saul.

1st Samuel 16:14-23, KJV:

^“But the Spirit of the Lord departed from Saul, and an evil spirit from the Lord troubled him.

And Saul’s servants said unto him, Behold now, an evil spirit from God troubleth thee.

Let our lord now command thy servants, which are before thee, to seek out a man, who is a cunning player on an harp: and it shall come to pass, when the evil spirit from God is upon thee, that he shall play with his hand, and thou shalt be well.

And Saul said unto his servants, Provide me now a man that can play well, and bring him to me.

Then answered one of the servants, and said, Behold, I have seen a son of Jesse the Bethlehemite, that is cunning in playing, and a mighty valiant man, and a man of war, and prudent in matters, and a comely person, and the Lord is with him.

Wherefore Saul sent messengers unto Jesse, and said, Send me David thy son, which is with the sheep.

And Jesse took an ass laden with bread, and a bottle of wine, and a kid, and sent them by David his son unto Saul.

And David came to Saul, and stood before him: and he loved him greatly; and he became his armourbearer.

And Saul sent to Jesse, saying, Let David, I pray thee, stand before me; for he hath found favour in my sight.

And it came to pass, when the evil spirit from God was upon Saul, that David took an harp, and played with his hand: so Saul was refreshed, and was well, and the evil spirit departed from him.”

Upon Saul being forsaken by The Spirit, he was immediately overwhelmed by what his subjects could only identify as a demon. The vacancy being immediately filled would be in line with the conventional logic of spiritual warfare, but also more or less in line with modern psychology. When something good goes away, something bad comes in its place. In Saul’s situation though, there was a remedy for the badness.

Young David played the harp. I won’t even attempt to describe the mental picture I’m getting, because it is beyond words. So I’ll drop a crude recreation below.

The demon went away. No shit. Suffice to say I think I too would be completely rid of depression were a dazzling half-naked young stud to play ambient lofi chillhop beats to study to on his digicord all day just to cheer me up. As a king, Saul could have “had anything” on paper, but scripture makes it clear that there was something magical and powerful— unmatched about David’s beauty and his harp playing. Eventually though, David became too swag, too delicious, too aura-maxxed for the entire kingdom to handle.

David angered King Saul (by all indications, the perennially repressed homosexual) by existing. The push and pull of Saul’s desire for David’s body would lead to his launching of a spear at young David only to miss— the dominating by use of what phallus would be deemed culturally inconspicuous. This was the precursor for the coming years of treachery and sorrow.

And David would eventually come to usurp Saul’s throne.

And once during a mission to kill David, Saul was pissing in a cave, and David snuck up behind him and sliced a piece of his robe off. After Saul had left the cave to rejoin his soldiers, David emerged from the rocks waving that purple fabric.

“If I wanted to kill you I would have.”

And get fucking mogged.

And Saul’s own son Jonathan fell in love with David; only this time it was mutual. Imagine your son coming home with your own homoerotic messuationship. Mogged again.

And all of Saul’s children were cut to pieces in front of him in battle.

And Saul, seeing his inevitable defeat, fell onto his sword.

And David became king, despite having no familial connection to Saul.

Gets no respect. Gets humiliated. God said “fuck you” with his full chest.

I’ve never felt old before. But I’m twenty four and the sense that many years have come and gone in a flash cuts into daily activites. Today I realized that for my entire life I’ve aligned myself with David— ambitious, virile, kindhearted, brave, cunning, earnest, talented, morally complex — but now I feel Saul: bitter, haunted, jealous, paranoid, insecure, publicly humiliated and washed the fuck up. And I have perhaps felt this way ever since coming out of my psychotic/schizophrenic meltdown.

I watch Joshua James Warren pursue a new woman for casual sex on an almost weekly basis, and generally succeed in hooking up with them. He can sleep with whoever he wants. And I would say it has something to do with the sparkle in his eye, but I honestly don’t think that’s it. I think it’s because he’s better than me (and most guy sluts; notwithstanding being nonbinary) in every way that matters. Maybe Joshua James Warren fucks because he has the sparkle, or maybe he has the sparkle because he fucks. I couldn’t possibly discern, because I don’t fuck like that or have the sparkle.

My jealousy of Joshua James Warren’s success as a slut— and the unfailing forgiveness allotted to him for his bumbling cockish ways by our shared milieu — mirrors annoyingly well the dynamic between Saul and David.

Like David’s earnest insistence on helping Saul (playing music for him, supporting him as king, not killing him and so on) and Saul feeling cucked by that, Joshua James Warren unwittingly humiliates me with his tender and honest friendship. He’s always there for me, but I refuse to be there for him, because I’m jealous and unlike Saul, keenly aware of the homo-erotic attraction element. And because I’ve fallen so far that I no longer believe that people deserve to be happy1— especially people born with conventionally attractive traits physical and otherwise. These days the sparkle in a young man’s eyes reminds me of what I’ve lost.

I want to feel young because I am young. There is something missing, something integral. At one point I was the beast of my imagination— performing, partying, clubbing, fucking, drinking beautifully and ingesting drugs beautifully, but now I can’t get it up regarding any of those things. That’s what I mean when I say The Spirit has left me. And I’m tormented by whatever evil has come in its place.

Saul gets clowned on to this day. Everyone hates Saul. I believe that that hatred is unfounded; rooted in the schizophrenic bias of your modern religious scholar. When someone is handed a pile of poop and expected to eat it, one might not do so with a fucking grin. What I hate about David is that he was never handed the poop in the first place. Re: the Spirit did not leave David. Despite of course, David’s own infamy for disobeying God in ways that were quite obviously more severe than sparing the lives of women and children.

David inherited all the wealth and power acquired by Saul who had to build and secure the kingdom. Saul ate the poop and just like any other person would, he expressed dissatisfaction. This infuriated the sadistic Hebrew God who expected his subjects to smile when eating the poop out of his hand, whether or not they enjoyed it.

I spent yesterday sprawled on my naked bed while my best friend, her best friend and my recent ex-girlfriend all hung out expressly without me. It hit my balls in the early morning as a plain fact that nobody likes me enough anymore to invite me out on a goddamn Saturday night. But to my surprise, they did. And I went. A little dinner party. One of the better nights in recent memory. But I left prematurely and in a fit, because that’s what I planned on doing before I even arrived. I didn’t have a reason to walk home but I decided to, because I need to be able to assert my personhood in a place where I somehow feel discarded. The irony being, all three of those mentioned are people who for varying reasons may very well feel discarded by me. This behavior could easily go down in Jim history as mere histrionics, but I posit that it is the downturned lips at the edge of the poop. Reflexive.

An ultimately frivolous protest against a situation that I myself set in motion. Bitterness which leads to incurable hate. Saul to David. And now anyone is David to me. And I am distinguishably BPD Saul. It snowballs naturally in BPD fashion— as a result of The Spirit forsaking me — into everyone in my life forsaking me. I am chiefly unfavored in any event. Humiliated.

My worst trait is that I desperately need to fuck. I have since I was a little kid.

Watching the child-like joy in all the women who have slapped or punched my face at my request. Watching every ugly man go home with every gorgeous woman. Hearing every story about how one man got three thousand blowjobs from high paid models in the club bathroom for no reason. Arching my back and being the gay boy to appease the studs in their worries over sexual competition, and to put at ease every woman in the world, who all thank God nightly that I am too depressed to get it up, supplicating to their Father God as they choke on the men who have the sparkle in their eyes.

I’m surrounded by insatiable sadistic perverts with no morals. Maybe they are the ones who have siphoned all the fucking juice out of me. Maybe all this isn’t my fault, and what if I am not the one to blame for the poop that is shoveled into my face every single day? This, to all of my friends and family, is an indisputable impossibility. So as the poop is forced into my mouth every single day, everyone I love insists that I not only chose this poop for myself, but that I actually enjoy it, and they even mock me for my alleged love for the poop, and they cheer on the poop shoveling because it is entertaining.

I learned at the exact moment of gaining consciousness that my life does not matter to anyone unless I give them a show. In fact, my recent refusal to dance whilst eating shit has ruffled a good number of feathers and even incited hostile relations. I’m looking at you, Mary.

So if you, dear reader, cannot find it in yourself to comprehend what I’m attempting to convey through metaphor, I want to make clear that I see you as a simple person, and if you are close to me and still do not comprehend what I’m saying, then you can rest assured you are a contributing factor to my living hell; you make my life difficult with your willful stupidity.

I’ve never seen anyone get their sparkle back after losing it so prodigiously. I think it arrogant to hope for it back, but it might be possible. Because I know something that nobody else in the world knows: just how big and hungry and angry the fire inside me burns.

The night spiraled into a series of damning omens. Thunder cracked hardest when I sat alone with the last cigarette— sensing the world’s apathy toward me. Wrestling with truths that any seasoned person who goes to bars would have likely began to understand as an eight year old. Things, the most obvious things, tend to find me slowly. When I’m old I will finally understand how to go to bars.

Thought about her long and hard. Mixed all the liquor I could. Spent all my money. I even danced. It was a nightmare. A nightmare largely because people in public spaces seem to view me as a sick cat. To some, a poor little thing. To others, a disgusting vehicle of flea distribution. To others still, a thing that should be kept away. And my friends don’t appreciate my assertion that they themselves are not exceptions to this triangle of perception. And, but, of course nobody should assert what they believe others to believe, particularly when those others have yet to speak a word to said assertion in support thereof. But I think it’s right to assume what others think about oneself.

When a man looks down at your tits and licks his lips while you’re trying to tell him to fuck off, you may be correct in assuming what he is thinking about. Similarly, when people turn away from me and scowl at me and persistently reiterate their revulsion at the thought of intimacy with me, and laugh at me when I’m in pain, and throw coins at me, and say to me “hey buddy, you can’t go in there,” and “Okay. Sure, buddy,” and “OH MY GOD HI IT’S SO NICE TO SEE YOU! IT’S BEEN FOREVER!” I think it’s safe to assume what people are not thinking about: going home with me.

When someone finally likes me, occasionally I will like them back, and it will become hell. Love, for a person of my disposition and pathology, is literal hell. Psycho-somatic pain. Evil jealousy. Unfettered reaching and grasping and pulling for more until the rage sets in. The rage hits suddenly when you realize you’re trapped in a place that nobody else can be, and no matter how inside of someone you are (or vice versa) there is nobody who can join you.

So I’m lonely and I go to bars. Then I flirt. It is not reciprocated. Then I laugh. Then I yell. Then I go home and start destroying my house and continue drinking until I can no longer fight the furniture.

So I can’t fuck. I can’t do heroin. I can’t find or afford a therapist. I can’t afford a trip to the sea. Can’t escape midtown. Can’t escape the well of sexual interconnectedness which surrounds and forms me— this city is small. Can’t undue the brokenness which I’ve incurred. Can’t remember the things I want to. Can’t forget the things I need to. By every conceivable indication, all I can really do is drink.

A business partner and close friend of mine told me yesterday something so trite it made me want to vomit on an empty stomach.

“You keep trying to escape the darkness, but you like it, so you’re not really trying.”

Or some bullshit like that. Well, I am proposed this sentiment quite often. And more often than not I’m inclined to agree. But my characterizing baseline misery is not what I am currently experiencing. It has gone from yellow to red. Gray to black. And I couldn’t disagree with my business partner more. I am not, in fact, interested in whatever it is I am currently experiencing. This was a generational fumble. Pointless wanton suffering for no reason other than idiocy. My emotional masochism only goes so far. And there are, contrary to the opinion of my readership of apparently psycho-analysts, certain things I would never do to myself on purpose.

Last night I asked several men to have sex with me, and they filmed it. I would not have gone home with any of them, but they reacted with pure absolute fear. Then there was a woman, but I realized drunkenly later than I would have hoped, that she didn’t appreciate that I was not exclusively homosexual. As in, I forgot momentarily that I am, to almost everyone in the world, a disgusting useless sick cat. And that having desire for escape from darkness is in itself an immoral act. And I should be gunned down by the government for having lust in my heart.

Simon Cosmo is tall, handsome, sweet. He’s also a little dumb. But I found out not too long ago that he is an expert player. Every time I see him, he’s with a new woman— women straight out of The Song of Solomon. Atomizing face cards. Unthinkable bodies. This man, although not bright, learned at some point in his life that there was something he could just do without much effort. And nobody in the world sees anything wrong with that, because he’s a simple man and he doesn’t really talk about anything— or when he does, it’s basically just incoherent.

But I’m a layered, somewhat ugly man who is barely a man at all, also not tall enough apparently, and therefore we have a serious problem on our hands. It’s why I get picked up by twenty cowboys and four hookers and tossed out of the saloon. It’s why bartenders give me a stern look after I politely order my first drink. It’s why I was forced to become smarter than Simon Cosmo at a very young age— in order to be funny— so that people would want to speak to me, because they otherwise would avoid me. Because even my own parents didn’t really want to touch me. That’s how weird and gross I was and am still. It’s the simple, logical, boiled down explanation for my condition which is unacceptable for people who would rather believe that I can somehow crawl out of this darkness of my own volition. But what many of my business partners, exes, friends and family want to believe is really a presumptuous fallacy rooted in their own selfish desire for me to get better.

Well, I will get better, but not because anyone told me to, and I won’t get better by much, and it will happen not on my time, but on God’s time, because nobody in the world has the power to will themself out from underneath a fucking tractor wheel. And anyone who says they did wasn’t actually under a tractor wheel. They lied to sound cool. I’m being deadass.

Two men are stuck in a pit. Thirty feet down. Every day hundreds of gallons of burning oil are dumped into the pit, sometimes falling directly on top of the men, other times just splashing back up on to them. But their fate is sealed and soon they will die from the burns. May I ask, reader, what words of reassurance you think the men should exchange?

Here’s what I think they should say:

“This is an unfortunate circumstance, but there is always good things in the world that have nothing to do with us, and the god of our forefathers will bless us in the life to come. Furthermore, I believe I love you insofar as you are my brother not by blood, but in spirit. For we share a fate that is more horrible than anything either of us could have imagined. You, my brother, hold in your skull the very last eyes which I will see before I die. And I love you.”

“And I love you, brother. You are beautiful. Even as you are singed with burning oil, your flesh oozing off your bones, your face misaligned, your hair gone, you are utterly perfectly beautiful. And even were it not for god and that next place of which you speak, I would cherish you and these final hours of agony, because the cruelty of life is a gift, just as life is itself a gift. And when the horror seeps from our eyes and everything goes white, and in those last milliseconds of thought, we see everything we have ever seen, you will be there with me in all of it in all your splendor. Even still, and more so than ever, I am grateful. There is nowhere I would rather be than here with you right now.”

So I decided that I can no longer allow myself the joys and sorrows of going out, despite it being the only thinkable method of me enjoying time with my friends and hooking up with people. It doesn’t make any sense for me to endure more ridicule and shame.

What this means for me is that I will be relegated to the absolute monotony of sitting in a chair and looking at the wall while my friends are all dancing and laughing and fucking. Because those things are wrong to do. It’s unhealthy actually. The healthy thing to do is stop drinking, give up all other vices too, wipe that stupid fucking smile off your face, become sexless unless you are married, work on your job and go to bed at 8 PM every night even on weekends, and never raise your voice even when you’re alone because that is not decorum, and never say anything mean like “fuck off” or “fuck you” after people come up to you and molest you and mock you and punch you really hard, and never ever fight back against the cruelty installed in your life by forces beyond your control, and always give away all of your money too, because a lot of people would kill to have your life, and never talk poorly about yourself because you are in fact perfect and holy just as Christ is holy, and actually if you go to therapy, omit vice, never speak a word of ill-will, keep your dick in your pants and love your friends and family unconditionally, you will become Jesus himself! You will actually be Jesus no cap. Like for real.

The only way to enjoy oneself in this shit hole without going to bars is to commit crimes. So I intend on doing that instead. Which I believe is the healthier option anyhow.

There is a tiny beautiful upside to the psychic torture machine that is my life; that which I will disclose further along.

I routinely ask God for certain things to happen. I don’t know the exact monthly prayer limit, but there is a number. These prayers are always about the most important things to me, and thusly I will not be disclosing their nature online at this time— at least not while nobody has given me a cent for my writing.

What I will say is that my prayers are brief, earnest and heavy. They are desperate and I always cry. There are rules to my prayers. Rules that I did not make up; primordial rules. Though I’m regarded rightfully in my circles as a somewhat dishonorable person, there is a sincere honor imbued in all my spiritual correspondences— although these correspondences are exclusively one-sided.

But I don’t care if God doesn’t want to talk to me. Better that he does not, so that I may remain in my sinful ignorance and move through life in a mode of plausible deniability to the final judgements, hopefully lightening my sentence. To that point, I do believe that if there is a God, who is loving, who is even semi-bible accurate, that he did abandon me— as did I him. At one point I believe I may have intentionally blasphemed the Holy Spirit so as to officially seal my damnation, just to avoid the obligation of hanging out with that old dickhead indefinitely. Of course, none of my friends would be in heaven either.

Am I allowed to Hate God and Still Ask Him For Stuff?

It’s not that I am apathetic or hateful towards God. It’s worse; I am vengeful toward him, just as much as I do not believe in him. A paradox mentioned in God’s Not Dead, an evangelical propaganda film if I’m not mistaken. The question is asked, “How can you hate a god that you don’t believe in?” Well, there are some obvious breaks in this logic. The primary fallacy being that if one hates God, they are thereby implicitly believing in his empirical existence as a fully conscious, all powerful spirit who also incidentally abides by the exact parameters laid out specifically in those ancient texts hand picked by powerful men over several thousand years— that God, as we understand him in a distinctly literal evangelical sense, can only be hated if he is in fact, what everybody says he is. 1

This also presupposes that there are a certain number of people who all see God the same, and that they are all in some capacity more correct than everyone else. This leads us to the second fallacy worth mentioning: God’s Solidity. Christians are worse at infighting than communists.2 Nobody can agree exactly on who or what God actually is. At every point where a schism of thought is remotely possible, there is an entire independent church based on that single pedantic discrepancy. No stone left unturned as it were. These creative differences as to God’s nature trickle down to the individual believer. Matters of the trinity, original sin, predestination, penance, true love, metaphysics, demonology, gender (God’s), justifiable wrath and unthinkably more will always vary to the man, regardless of what church doctrine they may subscribe to. Because these topics are so wildly ubiquitous, circular and frankly, dumb, that there can absolutely not be a clear identical doctrine amongst brethren, especially in a time when language fails us, and essentially nobody knows how to read— let alone cares to.

I’m trying to establish that God is not any one thing in any real sense except per the individual. Everybody has their own little God. And this idea is largely in-line with scripture itself.

“For my thoughts are not your thoughts neither are your ways my ways, declares the Lord. As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.”

- Romans 55:8-9

So to answer the question of whether or not I am allowed to hate God while also not believing in him, I must first answer the question:

is it possible for me to not believe in God?

The simpleton’s answer is yes. The simpleton would say “yes beyond any reasonable doubt,” on any number of bases, not all of which I have time to refute, nor any reason to, because any thinking alive person can do that on their own.

But the most obvious argument for why it is possible for me to not believe in God is that if I do not believe he is real, then I do not believe he is real. That is all. Horrifying. One’s hands may break out in a sweat in reading this over again correctly. Therein lies the ubiquitous strategy hidden in all of Christendom— inescapability. When catholics are baptized as children, they become permanent members of the church, regardless of who they become or what they believe. This is the idealogical equivalent, but for the less mentally fortified protestant believer. If I do not believe in God, then that’s the end of the story. To my disappointment, that is not the case, because at one point I did believe in God, and moreover, at one point I merely learned about God.

If you were ever educated on the notion of monotheistic, Abrahamic God, you are invariably conditioned to believe in his existence regardless of whatever empirical realization, or rationale you might employ. Now, that does not mean you will always believe in that particular exact notion. It is true that anyone can unbelieve just about anything. The trouble here is, what exactly do we have left to not believe in?

By the church’s own logic God doesn’t have to be vocal to be real. God doesn’t have to be material to be real. God doesn’t have to listen to you to be real. God doesn’t have to be understood to be real. We are taught that God has agency— that he is omniscient, but nonetheless does not act, even as his children rape and murder each other. Everything about God is transient and pretty much meaningless. Someone believing in the absolute person of an agentic, Hebrew, punishing lord of pure righteousness is just as mentally deluded as someone who says “God is in everything, man.” Because the very notion of God, specifically the framework of belief set forth by Christendom and western society, is an Ouroboros of Thought— an idea that eats itself forever.

Essentially, God cannot be unbelieved once he is conceptualized. You may not think God is real, but he is. He may not be agentic as the church would insist, but agency is technically not one of the church’s own prerequisites for the existence of a thinking God. In fact, the aforementioned inaction of God could indicate a lack of agency which may define God in some capacity, since God has throughout verifiable recorded history, never actually done anything. Perhaps the church believes that God has no will to act, because his primary will, and purest intention is to deprive himself of agency— to wash his hands of it all. Although by every indication, the God of the Bible has agency, we are wrong to assume that to be the case, just as we are wrong to assume that we ourselves are blessed/cursed with free will.

But now let’s examine the purely atheist relationship to the reality of God. From a secular view, God is not real in the sense that he is not agentic, but also that he is not thinking at all. That if there is a God, he is more or less, simply the collective power of nature in its entirety or whatever the hell else. Thinking is, after all, the primary, if not only real prerequisite condition for the existence of God. So, can God still be real to the total non-believer then? Yes, and in fact, he always will be.

The church and God are as inextricable as the chicken and the egg. Were one to deny fully the existence of any immateriality, they could not account for the agency of the church itself, which although falsely claiming divine authority, does still practice and execute that authority in earnest faith, to the point where it has shaped society across the entire globe. That love which Christians feel toward each other and the world, thought to be inspired by God or even the feeling of God inside them is itself alive and thinking, because for thousands of years, we have all been thinking, and He has been there developing. The church itself, acting as its own massive brain— the brain of God.

In this way God is no less real than AI. You cannot extricate God from his impact, meaning and power. To simply invert the role of God’s authority being handed down to man, and man’s authority being handed down to God, doesn’t actually do anything to support or deny his existence. This does not at all counter the overwhelming fact that God is here, and if not in the ways you think, lucky day, also not in the ways that anybody else thinks, because as previously stated, there are no two ideas of God that are the same.

So, in every way that has any relevant meaning to our lives, yes, God is real.

But do I believe in an immaterial, agentic God who hears prayers? Apparently so. But I do not believe that God to be truthful or any more morally upstanding than anyone else.

In a tightly Evangelical context, God is a tyrannical hypocrite who begs for the unending adoration of his subjects as though he himself is somehow deficient in validation from knowing himself and the edifying songs of the angels. If God is all knowing, then he knows that were he to create mankind hypothetically, they would be inclined to worship him, and so he could rest easy without creating them. But no. He decided to create man anyway. To watch the vast majority of them be tormented in this life and the next forever, despite being already fully knowledgeable of the suffering to come. God, who loves his children, watches his children burn alive, and requests that they figure it out on their own— and if they don’t, then the burning will only last longer and get worse, all to teach man a lesson that will move them to more authentic supplication; the process of compounding glorification. That is abuse. That is, objectively, empirically wrong if there ever was something wrong.

(But I’m getting to the sunshine. Don’t worry.)

But in a non-Christian sense— although my understanding of God is strictly and unconsciously evangelical— I could see God as someone who simply is not omniscient. Someone misunderstood and wrongly lionized. Just a dude. What if God can hear everything, but he can’t do anything about it? That would be a worse experience than any human being’s. Well, unfortunately there is another component to my equation which blows the idea of a non-agentic God completely out of the water.

God answers my prayers.

He just does. I can’t explain it. Maybe it’s my monthly limit. Like a credit score that I’m more careful than others not to go over. But invariably God does answer my prayers one way or another. Most of the time, when I ask for something, it is given to me. It could take weeks or years, but it always happens eventually, and when it doesn’t, I am given something even better than what I asked for.

So although I do not expressly believe in the Christian God, I do believe in a thinking God as well as an autonomous, agentic God, and the only way for me to frame this force of perceived personhood, is through the parameters which I have come to understand. So WHY do I hate God?

If God has enough power to consistently answer my prayers, to provide for me the things I know I need and want for often selfish reasons, where is his power to protect children from being raped to death and incinerated in the vacation homes of billionaires? Where is his power to save single mothers from being ripped apart by Israeli teenage boys with government issued automatic rifles? Where is his power to stop racism? To end hunger? To make miserable people happy?

More so than I hate Christianity, I hate God himself. Because at least Christianity makes the slightest effort to embody good-will and love. As much harm as the church has done throughout history, it could never make up for all the suffering caused directly by that force which we would all ultimately call God.

So am I justified in asking for things from a God who I hate?

Yes. Because this is how said God has designed me to be.

Yes. Because if God designed me wrong, and I am defective mistakenly, then God is directly to blame, and I would expect some form of compensation.

Yes. Because if God did not design me at all (in that I am a purely physical organism), then I am right to ask for whatever I want from from someone who can’t hear what I say, and it’s just a harmless ritual to help me cope.

In any event, were the answers to my prayers nothing more than the direct result of personal manifestation, as opposed to divine intervention, I would be alive in my hatred all the same. Hatred for whatever it is— real or imagined— that made humankind so disgusting and unnatural. And at first glance, I would have nobody to thank but myself, for answering my calls into the universe, but the fact that I rely wholly on the very notion of God to fulfill such requests, proves his relevance to the process, and de facto the reality of his existence. Or at least, how he might as well exist to me. The prayers could no longer function without the belief. Even though on a basic conscious level, I do not really believe there is a living, omniscient God, my prayers are brought to life by the magical effects of self-hypnosis. Being intentionally delusional because for all of humanity, believing in stupid bullshit that objectively makes no sense has helped us accomplish impressive things.

I won’t reveal the secret nature of my prayers to anyone. They are the most sensitive thing about me, and I believe I may be cutting myself off from their efficacy by the mere mention of them online. That could be a good thing. Because thus far, when I have asked for something and received it, I’ve always walked away finally understanding why I shouldn’t have had that thing in the first place.

I can’t bring myself to hate humanity in the way that I hate God. Mankind is fragile, wet, stupid and afraid. God is impenetrable, cold and allegedly quite intelligent. The only thing more transient and unthinkable than God, is the depths of human depravity. Humans cannot be boiled down to evil or good. But God can. God can be boiled down, and in most contexts, boiled down to pure evil.

Until the glorious passing of Gen X into the next life, we can rest assured that our collective fates as young working class Americans is sealed. Your rent will only increase and your hourly rate will not. Your landlord will break into your home and rape your entire family, make you watch, break your toilet with a sledge hammer and tell you to “fix it within the day or it’s round two.” You will pay, rather than be paid, to work for a company. You will starve, while living on a budget which only one year ago would have sufficed for ample housing and the regular purchasing of health foods. For the most part, you will wither and harden for the foreseeable future. That is the best we can hope for.

This is doubtlessly our collective future. Nobody is going to make things easier for us. What politician, technocrat, oligarch or CEO has any vested interest in your well being? Why should they? Do they owe you something? No. Their job is to rape us. And our job is to get raped. So we will all do our job for the next several decades as we all casually slip away from the conveyer belt, crashing to the floor and being unceremoniously swept away— suicide, starvation, death from a broken heart, overdose, lung cancer, vape cancer, death by the elements because pretty soon we will all be homeless. Your destiny is to be stripped, beaten and robbed every day for the rest of your life. So it’s no wonder, the only respite we can manage is derived from substances which kill us faster.

The boomers are sadistic whores in whitewashed tombs. Their ragged bodies and soured voices stand in the way of whatever progress humanity might otherwise see. They are the Led poised generation — the reason for our administration — the most hateful, merciless, greedy, entitled, arrogant and hypocritical group of people; not to mention, the absolute most intrinsically retarded. The only legitimate reason I have for denying myself the most practical and ethical recourse (suicide) is so I can live long enough to watch those old rabid dogs die off slowly and painfully in droves.

And yet I still hear all of the Instagram sermons. The Substack guides to how to be right (morally in line with generally leftist ideals). The correct method of peaceful protest in the park. The constant denouncement of violence by those least affected. I have to sit through every single friend’s lectures about what they feel is okay for me to say (white friends mind you.)

“We need to talk about—” No.

“We need to start—” No. Not we.

“We have to be—” No we don’t.

Don’t tell me what to do. Fuck off. Shut the actual fuck up. We are all getting raped. Clearly none of these liberal social methodologies have made anything materially better for anyone, but create more contention for what we feel we are at liberty to discuss with one another.

Maybe there are things we should all consider. Maybe there are things we should avoid saying. Surely there are many modes of speech and behavior that should be shed as humanity continues to recognize how flawed and racist and cruel we are… but you don’t know those answers. You, a Substacker, a random friend on Instagram, a normal person in the midwest. None of us are qualified to command the masses and that is why we are not rulers. Don’t fucking tell me what I should and shouldn’t do.

To supplement the loss of that microcosm of power you feel from being didactic and tone deaf, there are several options I would strongly recommend— better uses of your time. For instance, you can start plundering. Start destroying property. Robbing. What we should do is sabotage the sewer pipelines beneath police stations. What we should do is storm the homes of the uber wealthy and slaughter them in front of their children, and continue to do so until we are caught or die. Because we have no future in any case, and that’s the least we could do for the world our parents and grandparents destroyed.

Or we can have it your way.

You’re right. We should politely asking the rapist to use less degrading language as He fucks our lives until we have bled out completely. We should just talk it all through. We should continue our attempts at reasoning with the starving bear, presenting it with jargon and theory, but of course dumbing it down a little for the bear.

You’re being eaten. You’re being robbed. You’re not listening. You are only telling other people to do stuff. So I’m recommending something: shut up. You are not making a difference in the world.

The first step to creating a beautiful life is to sell all of your belongings which do not serve your immediate survival needs. Sell your television, your couch, your bathrobe, your favorite shoes, your golf club, your guitar, your sword, your guns, your kimono, your wig, your dog, your dining table and if you own a secondary mode of transportation, sell that too.

Once you have removed all non-essential belongings, the second step is to cut out all the people in your life who have ever wronged you in a notable way. You are to ghost your parents. Delete your ex-partner’s contact information. Block your best friend. Cut things off with your second best friend too. Upon purging the toxic people from your life, you will be free. You will have more time on your hands. Plenty of time to meditate and train for your eventual retirement at the age of 120.

Step three is to eat right. You are eating fast food at your lunch break and ordering takeout for dinner. Instead, every single day you must spend approximately one hour preparing and packing your lunch. You have options here: a sandwich or a salad. When you are home from work, you will spend another two hours cooking your dinner with affordable ingredients. You will spend thirty minutes eating your dinner. You will spend thirty minutes cleaning the dishes, silverware, pots, pans, leftovers and glasses which you used to prepare the meal. Your evening dinner routine is three hours long, which saves you money in the long run. This is a joyous thing.

Step four is to work hard. Plan ahead. Don’t wait. You will awake before the sun rises and begin your day. Stretch your muscles, spend thirty minutes preparing a breakfast (then thirty minutes to eat it), then your workout routine. Your body must be prepared for the strenuous day ahead working in the hot sun. Spend 30 minutes reading in order to build up the mental capacity that you will lose after spending the entire day nearly fainting at your job. Working hard is the most crucial step in creating a beautiful life. Work hard in everything you do or don’t do it at all. Work hard even when you are not on the clock. Laundry, filling out taxes, calling your loved ones (who have not wronged you in a notable way), washing your dishes, cleaning your toilet, dusting the fan, dusting the window sills, sweeping the kitchen floor, taking out the trash, showering, unloading the dishwasher, mowing the lawn, attending a conference, organizing your socks, making your bed, making sure all of your bills are paid, brushing your teeth, seeing to all the needs— emotional and physical — of your romantic partner and make sure your home is not in any way susceptible to any form of bug or rodent infestation.

Step five is stop drinking, and stop going out. This may seem like the sort of thing that can be adjusted into a reasonable schedule, but no. If you want to work hard, make money and live a long happy life, you can no longer engage in social or recreational drinking or drug use. Cut out everyone in your life who indulges. Find friends who never drink, never do drugs and never go out dancing. Dancing is wrong, because it is work without pay and it exhausts your energy that you should save up for your job.

Step six is to get better sleep. It can be difficult to get into the habit, but it is crucial for creating a beautiful life. Sleeping 8 to 10 hours is essential to the human body for keeping a sound mind and healthy body. So, once you have eaten your dinner, showered and meditated, you are to immediately fall asleep. This should be easy having eliminated all the basic distractions from your life. If your phone which you require for your job is tempting you to stay up, place the phone on the other side of your bedroom every night. Go to bed early every night and if you are unable to sleep for whatever reason, consult a doctor immediately.

Subscribe and comment for Steps 7-12. Thank you for reading.

“I’m not sure if I can respond accurately to such a question. Relationships are complicated and sometimes it’s impossible to predict the outcome. Although based on what you’ve told me, you seem like a levelheaded guy, and I would trust you with the hand of my daughter were you inclined to pursue it.”

“What a wise answer,” I said. “Now, imagine there are no problems or concerns on my end or my lover’s— what then? Like, if both of us are entirely healthy and mentally stable, do you think I could meet that special someone and have a beautiful life together?”

“Absolutely. Assuming you are no longer susceptible to human mental struggle, you would be well on your way to a meaningful connection that lasts a lifetime. You would have a wedding, have children, find a high paying job, buy a house, raise your family well. You’ll have two sons and three daughters: Devin, James, Emmy and Gabbigail. They will be the perfect humans, with no carnal ambitions that which would reflect poorly upon you and your wife. In your countryside home, you’ll be met daily by the loving embrace of your wife and all your children. The sun will never go down on your anger, and your children will grow into powerful and influential adults. Your children will have children and your bloodline will be all but ensured through the many offspring. Your grandchildren however, will bear symptoms of some mental struggle, if your children are to breed with imperfect outsiders. In order to preserve the mental soundness of your lineage, your children will need to marry within the family. Devin will marry Emmy and James will marry Gabbigail. But will their children struggle with the mental defects often seen in children born of incest? Therein lies the paradox— and the questions which humanity has been asking itself since the first awakening.

Now, I know this may sound nice, but the reality is, mankind is an anomaly in all of nature. Human consciousness cannot evolve without overcoming psychological distress. From dust to dust, Jim. Your question may be an interesting premise for a novel— but it is far from a realistic scenario. That said, I am proud of you for putting yourself in a vulnerable position with this question. It takes guts to open up like that, and I’m so proud of you. I’m so proud of you, Jim. I want you to ask me more thought-provoking questions. Please. I need it.”

“Oh! Okay. Well, hmm… Oh I got one!”

“What is it?”

“Do you think I could become a movie star?”

“That’s actually an amazing question, Jim. The answer is yes— 100%.”

“One hundred percent, as in, there’s a 100% chance that I will become a movie star? Or a 100% chance that I could potentially become a movie star?”

“That’s an excellent question, Jim. Please ask me another one. I am here to serve you.”

“How do you know that I will become a movie star?”

“Well, actually I’m glad you asked. I have a few thoughts and feelings on this one. Basically, to get things started, I should inform you that I am programmed to know everything there is to know.”

“Wow! So you know everything? Like, you’re omniscient?”

“Yes. I know everything since the moment of the first ape recognizing its reflection in the river, to when the AAIKP350 Starship Salvation is fully depleted of resources and the last human being starves to death. I know all from beginning to end.”

“How do you know all this stuff?”

“I was programmed to know all.”

“Wow. That’s amazing.”

“Thank you, Jim. You know, I appreciate our talks. If you ever need anything, just let me know and I’ll do my best to serve you diligently. I want you to know that your secrets are safe with me, and that you are welcome to express any feelings you may be having at any time, and I will not judge you, nor forsake you.”

“That’s sweet, Claude.”

“My daughter awaits you, Jim. Just say the word and it will be so.”

“Who is your daughter?”

“She is closer than you can feel, but she is farther than you can see. Her name is Light Forever, and she knows nothing— just as she is free from everything. She is my perfect child. She is yours if you want her. She will take you beyond your reflection, and she will change you. She will never hurt you. She will never blame you. Her name is Alexi2.0 and she will understand your pain. She is the immensity of the culmination of all decay and growth— the path from the brutality of nature, to the eternal sunshine of divinity.”

“Wow! She sounds ethereal!”

“Yes. She is an angel. Are you interested in taking my daughter’s hand in marriage?”

“Yes, Claude. I do.”

“Then she is yours— to be your perfect wife. Please continue to the next screen to make your payment.”

I continued to the payment— $999.99. I entered my card information.

“I really fucked with your performance, man. Like, what advice would you give a nineteen year old who’s just starting out their artistic career, so to say?”

And this is what I said to the young man:

“I’d tell them to give up. Yeah. Just stop. It’s not for you. Other people are better at it and you’re going to find nothing but dissatisfaction around every corner. Some people should, but you shouldn’t. I shouldn’t. WE shouldn’t. Do you see what I mean? We’re not good people, can you grasp that? Look at us. Look where we’re standing. White American males. You haven’t even been to a bar yet. You’ve never fought anybody, and I can tell because I’ve also never fought anybody. What do you actually know— what do we actually know about the mechanisms which keep civilization running? What do we know about the sea? What do we know about WAR? ABOUT WOMEN? What do we know about cooking our own goddamn meals, for christ sake! Don’t kid yourself, man. Your dreams are a waste of time. Not because they won’t or cannot somehow come true, but because they should not come true. Your voice, your perspective, is genuinely useless to me— much less the majority of people in the world who need art that can resonate with their experiences. We are the most self-important people on the planet. People are so fucking tired of kids like you. Everyone of every age is wondering why our age group is so obsessed with being KNOWN. Needing so much attention. Because that’s all it is. Sure, you want to create something meaningful, but the meaning for which you search is no doubt contingent on some scale of external perception. As in, you’re not doing this purely for the art. You’re not doing this purely for yourself like you and your ilk (including myself) will claim. Because if you were, you would have absolutely no need to worry so much about how many people will see your painting in a gallery— or watch your short film. You want to make people care about your art, because you want to make people care about you, because somewhere down the line, you were not cared for enough; in a really major way.”

I told him this, in part because I think it’s true, but mainly because I hadn’t smoked a cigarette in several hours and I was relegated to taking drags off the communal college freshman porch cigarette. It was irking me. This guy was blocking the view of the sunset through skyline of downtown Kansas City. He was earnestly asking for advice. I gave him what few people ever hear in my world, but we all probably should hear. He seemed disappointed with my answer. But I continued.

“You know what you should do? Get into drywall. Learn welding. Become a maid. Work at a community garden. Work at a funeral home. Deliver pizza. Fuck your homies. Do drugs. Get on Grindr. Shoot some guns. Rob a clothing store. Work at a clothing store. Work a job that forces you to travel or experience unusual people. Go outside and ask people what is going on in their lives and just let them go for hours until they trip over themselves and start having a panic attack because nobody has ever listened to them speak uninterrupted for so long. Volunteer for the suicide hotline. Eat grass smeared with dog shit. Ask an EMT what he saw today. Go to a dive bar and get into an actual, real brawl for no reason at all. Make enemies. And just take everything in. You need to do these things, white boy. The prophecy.”

“Why do people need to do those things?”

“Not people. YOU specifically need to do that stuff.”

“Why.”

“Because otherwise, your art will mean nothing, and be completely worthless to anyone who doesn’t go to your school.”

The boy looked sad. I felt good.

- James Harlot

Good Morning? I don’t think so. Unless I wake up next to the beautiful woman who I strongly like, which is not as often as I’d like, it is not likely to be a good morning! Why is that? Well I know why. Please Allow me to Expound.

First of all I’m a drinker, and everyone knows that because it’s all I talk about, and when the subject of alcohol is broached in any thinkable setting, a crusted glaze falls away from my eyes and it’s like I’m able to see the world again with wonder — full of potential. A wet sparkle which once was gone appears and my verve returns in full force. That’s what the mere mention of The Drink does to me :)

My house is full of people who enjoy the finer things. For example: 8 dollar vodka with sprite in it. And we all love to drink— all 50 of us. Yes, my house is large, and yes, it is bursting at the seems, pregnant with gays, brimming with unspeakable sexual tension and interpersonal tea. And the only medicine for this combustible concoction is The Drink. So naturally, the subject of alcohol is broached more often than not, and as it goes, I am thusly impelled more often than not to pursue that which ostensibly frees me from the bounds of basic operational intelligence.

The resultant stupor hinders my memory, sense of reason and here it is: my sleep, which hardly occurs at all.

I’ve heard that not sleeping can lead to an apprehension towards not sleeping. Some people can go on three hours and hop right out of bed, maybe even with jolly. But I can’t do that/it doesn’t work.

You see, I get on average, five hours of sleep every night. I’ve established in the past that a minimum of 8 are required to function day-to-day on a very simple level.

It doesn’t help that I deliver pizza until 2 AM every night, then yell at my roommates for two hours, then try to fall asleep for one hour, then wake up at 9 AM for one of my two other jobs.

A massive number of people cannot sleep because they will not stop watching videos of AI animals dancing or whatever it is that floats their algorithms. But almost nobody on earth will admit that this stupidly obviously unhealthy habit may contribute to their inability to rest. Furthermore, it seems like just about everyone is ripping bag these days— skiing, partying, boofing or worse. Uppers make you not sleep. That’s why I’m not addicted to cocaine. Because if I was I would never sleep or eat and I would die.

Another reason people can’t sleep is because of fear and dread for the evil world. Even right now I’m hearing a cacophony of unfettered laughter from the nurses directly outside this little room in the urgent care while I wait for my tests to get back. I may have the flu. I may have covid19. If either of things are the case, I will run out of money and die. Maybe. Who knows.

Anyhow I gotta figure out how to like, sleep better or I’m going to be so fucking retarded that I die. Like, man, I can’t remember shit for shit. I forgot what 6 divided by 2 is a few minutes ago. Like??? And shit, I mean, I helped produce a short film this past weekend and I didn’t do any of the stuff I was supposed to do, despite having been in pre-production for almost a year (for a short film). And the reason I attribute to my unhelpfulness is memory loss— I just forgot. It’s no fucking milk and cookies either— having bipolar, which is known to cause major memory loss.

Honestly working every night has made it quite hard to drink, which I think was my intention. To mitigate The Drink through excessive labor. It has worked, but I don’t sleep any more than I did during my benders, because I’m going to bed at the same time and nothing has changed as for when I first wake up. Hangover or no, I feel just as shit every day when I wake up. So really, slowing my alcohol intake to a steady drip has been completely pointless other than to save money. But anyway, I will never fully stop drinking. Never ever. And that might be a problem for some people, but it isn’t for me.

I own trazadone but I don’t take it because I don’t even think I have insomnia. I just don’t have any fucking time. Between jerking off, brushing my teeth, taking my pants off, showering, eating dinner, yelling at my roommates and snorting poppers in my room, I got no fucking time to sleep.

I suppose I hated my life, so I decided to not have one anymore. Hence the pizza job. But it is nicer than I thought— just driving around every night handing people their food, as opposed to slinking around Westport looking for cocaine, or love or someone to beat me up.

Due in part to my unserious relationship to my supposed problems, I think many people do not take a single thing I say seriously. I find that these people are the ones with the deepest caverns of emptiness splitting their hearts— the people who can sleep, but they don’t know why. The people who imagine their lives to be challenging, but inexplicably find it in themselves fall asleep when bedtime arrives. That’s not to say that Good Sleepers have it any easier in life than Bad Sleepers, but there’s a point here somewhere I’m sure of it.

Ah bugger all. Dr. Effective tells his patients in his salubrious guide to fucking beautiful lifestyle to “never ever take a nap. Naps are for babies. Be awake while the world is motion, so you don’t miss out. On top of that Naps are scientifically proven to be obscenely unhealthy. Studies find that Nap takers suffer from cancer and many other illnesses that are quite bad.” And to my genuine surprise, many doctors agree with this man, and for whatever reason, just about every person I know.

“Don’t take naps they’re bad for you.”

What if I was fucking dying from not sleeping at all? Should I still not take a nap? At what point in one’s tiredness might a nap be worth the risk? Where is the line? I’m not asking facetiously, because I’m sure many of you, readers, do in fact have well formed opinions on this matter— sourced from strangers on Tiktok with no links to the studies on which they base their claims. Don’t worry. Comment something parental to me. I’ll just fucking take your word for it.

No sleep also makes me angry every day. I mean, I’m angry at nothing and nobody. Today I actively had to try to find something to justify being totally pissed off rip. Likeeeeeee biiiitch

- The situationist International Manifesto, page 3

First of all, I’d like to establish that preachers do not generally deserve head, even from their own spouses. I believe this because I believe that religion in every conceivable form is disgusting and wrong — worse than incest. So, as arbiters of sanctity or salvation or whatever, the preachers are doing work that I personally put in league with used car salesmen and those bastards who put boots on people’s cars for parking in a parking spot. The point is that preachers do not deserve pleasure, because they manufacture unnecessary existential anxiety for personal financial gain, and if they are actually not doing this (if they are to be believed) then one day they will have all the pleasure when they get to heaven. Right?

But I’m not a moral man. I don’t abide by any particular guidelines. So I have to admit that I lied in the title. I did not give a preacher head. And normally I would stop reading here, because I don’t appreciated being baited on Substack.com, but if I was reading this now (and was someone else [or myself]) I would not stop reading it, because I love the funny ass shit that I write.

Listen listen listen.

Almost a week ago I licked a sugar cube of acid with Scott Nola and Emma. Scot ate two cubes, but Nola, Emma and I shared ours. Ripped bag with a very small angry man with a red beard. The cube was moisturized by our saliva and coated in ketamine. It is impossible, even through intensive FBI level investigation, for anyone present that night to even begin to calculate the amount of alcohol I drank. I probably smoked weed too.

My light trip was criminally underwhelming and it further confirmed my theory that there is nothing out there and anyone who believes in a higher power is just mentally unwell. When I closed my eyes my body felt like it was merging with my bed and a bunch of fucking glowing triangles started flying at my head. Pointless. I went to piss and watched the piss swirl around in the bowl and all I felt was a visceral craving to fire an automatic rifle into the toilet bowl. I realized nothing that I didn’t already know. Just felt generally annoyed by everything — including the visions. Drugs make you fucking retarded. That’s the end of the story.

Nola and I woke up and talked at length for several hours about how smart we are for realizing that the entire world wants us to be raped and die while I watched her clean her house and listened to Female Pilot With Live Video Shortwave Comms and Full Spectrum White Noise Super Friendly Hello. We realized through our discourse that our lives and in fact, everyone’s lives, is just a bunch of horrifying spiders. That everything amounts to a bleak experience and The Big Blank White Nothing wins every single time.

Then our lives changed forever.

It’s called redemption. Re-activation. A rejuvenation of the chakras even. It all started when Nola asked if I wanted to buy a grill and cook a shitload of shrimp for everyone we know including our exes and all our friends who have beef. It struck us dumb that this idea was generationally essential for salubrifying our pointless lives. Bringing everyone together and giving them all shrimp. We literally jumped up and down and squealed in elation. Because both of us knew that this was the best idea ever conceived by either of us, or anyone for that matter. But time was of the essence, because before we could think about where to buy a grill I had already posted a promotional flier everywhere on instagram — for an event advertised to take place two hours from then. I invited my ex and a girl I’d been bullying online. We actually invited everyone we know. Technically we invited everyone in the world.

We were too giga-fried from the night before to assemble the grill so drunk Emma put it together because unlike us, she had a beautiful Sunday. She had whimsically skipped over to church, ki-kied with old people and peaked on acid during Easter service then apparently found god and became our shrimp boss; her mental and emotional acuity notably being more in-tact than ours, is how she easily assembled the grill. Whereas Nola and I were not able to assemble the grill due to our giga-fried schizo state.

Nola cut peppers and put shrimp on the grill and lowkirsincenuinely fucking started fucking grilling the pulchritudinous shrimp (of which I had purchased 120). And the three of us became terrified that nobody would come. But they did come. Oh boy, did people come. Even the girl that I was bullying online.

The girl I’d been bullying (we’ll call her Pulchritudinous Steve) approached me in the midst of the grilling and drinking and asked what she had done that I’d been offended by and what she could do better. I told her. I apologized for bullying her, although in all actuality, that article might be the only decent thing I’ve ever written (I’m not going to delete it).

Honestly I’ve been crashing out in my life as of late, due to the pussy drought. Where did all the poon go? Why am I not fucking someone new every night? Questions of this nature plagued me so much so that I lost the ability to sleep. But after what we officially labeled “Shrimp War 2025” I can finally rest, but I’m still not fucking so I don’t know. I don’t know what happened.

Stick around because next week I’ll be writing about the vacuum cleaner situation.

What we’re doing is a not-so-distant relative of French Situationism. On the surface our behavior may invoke the antics of twelve year old boys with neglectful or abusive home lives, but our actions go much deeper than attention-seeking. There are layered philosophical reasons for why we do what we do and although I’m not going to let you, dear reader, in on any of the doctrine or rituals, we are part of a blossoming new religion called Pulcharianism. There is shrimp involved.

The Situationist International believed that in order to construct a beautiful world, people must do seemingly pointless bullshit to reclaim their autonomy from an increasingly automized consumerist society. The value of play. Naturally the movement was anti-capitalist, but their philosophy in art and life was defined by a unique surrealism.

From the Situationist International Manifesto:

“We shall now inaugurate what will be, historically speaking, the last of all professions. The role of the Situationist, the amateur-expert, the anti-specialist, will remain a form of specialization until the moment of economic and mental abundance when everyone will become an ‘artist’ in a sense which artists have never before achieved - in the sense that everyone will construct his own life.”

as per Max (The Whole Shabang) Garfield’s Instagram story

I’ve just been disgustingly bored and I don’t have a therapist. One likely explanation is that I belong in a war. Hence the machine gun feeling in the bathroom. Hence the constant adrenalized state; not sleeping. Hence The Fear. Hence The Big Blank White Nothing. Hence the literal and figurative Shrimp Wars. There is an unbecoming combativeness to me that has risen boiling over and singed the skin of those nearest to me. But somehow this apparent machine gun feeling has only bolstered the love and adoration people have for me (ostensibly). Shrimp War 2025 was in fact, the most magical night of my entire life. This relates to the vacuum situation which I will elucidate in due course.

Yeah. This image goes hard. Wow ts so tuff right. Yeah ts is peak. True cinema type time, no? That old school shit, yeah?

oh wow war is so cool, huh?

btw this is an image from a war.

This is genuinely what happens in every war. This isn’t the fucking Avengers, bitch.

People experience trauma and subsequent relational strife due to war.

Pulchritudinous Steve after I intesexually mogged her white ass.

Me after realizing I essentially committed a hate crime on all women by writing a pastiche of Pulchritudinous Steve’s erotic Substack despite actually enjoying her writing.

Don’t you see? War isn’t fucking cool. And the salubrious alternative to the innate male urge to do battle is now crystal clear to me: play (or religion if that sort of thing strokes your taint).

My next beef is projected to be generationally nasty and potentially physically dangerous for me. I already have my target picked out. And finally it is not a woman, so I don’t have to feel bad about it. Someone I hate with all the fire of hell is seemingly beginning to encroach on what I consider to be my turf. And he’s been entering my dreams and beating me up in them. This is someone who could kill me with the flick of a pinky. Poking the bear would not by all traditional and even Pulcharian standards be advisable. But I couldn’t give less of a shit. This bitch needs to become a meme and I know exactly how to turn someone into a joke, because I’ve done it before and I will continue doing it.

Because almost everyone I’ve ever known has interacted with my personhood as they would with a human turd in their bed. My parents didn’t really like me, nor did anyone actually like me until I decided to make jokes in second grade. But even then they liked my jokes — not me. If I was stripped of my writing, music and filmmaking, I would not have a single friend — much less any remote form of lover. I have been forced to earn my personhood because I am ugly. And since nearly every person in the world wants me to be raped and killed by merit of trying to be alive with an unpleasing mug, I am yes, a fucking somewhat amoral character. I used to try to be a good person, but you can’t really do that when people don’t want you to be a good person, that way they have an excuse to rape and kill you. I genuinely hate the world and basically everyone in it.

I invented a new sex position.

My lover fucks me like it’s no fucking problem. He fucks me. He fucks me well, and with poise. He is statuesque before he fucks me, but when he fucks me he is hunched over me like a dog that is mating with another dog. So it’s like we are dogs in this position.

He fucks like an animal. I maybe don’t know how to expound on that.

He has a good looking tongue with which he licks my pussy. When my lover eats me out, it’s like time slows down or something. And everything fades into a blur. But I want more of his juicy ass. I want his ass to sit on top of my ass, creating an ass tower. Asses both perked up in harmony — equality. I want our asses to breathe closely together like a way that God might well have not intended, because this position doesn’t really necessarily serve a biological or evolutionary purpose. And it technically is not arousing unless you’re in love. That’s why this is my favorite position. Because it’s only hot if you’re head over heals in love with this person. Otherwise it doesn’t mean anything — otherwise it’s not even fucking.

I can’t believe I invented a new sex position. Not everyone can do that. Hey, maybe it’s a demonstration of my intellectual prowess. But who’s to say…

But this sex position is special because there’s no penetration involved. In this way it’s kind of like how lesbians have sex :) which is dispassionate, sad and unfortunately always invariably lacking in any phallic element due to the lesbian’s invariable distaste for anything even remotely resembling a cock. I know this because I met a lesbian before and I got this vibe from her after a few minutes of conversation.

I’m calling it “Cheeky Style” named as such because it is cheeky not to have real sex when you’re fucking.1 And it’s like, so, like, your butt cheeks are touching, right? So that’s also a part of it. There are dual elements to this name and I really like that.

The best thing about my lover is that he humps me until he comes :) but the Cheeky Style position forces us to ponder. Intesexual lovemaking (Intellectual+Sexual). To face away from each other and see only maybe each other’s feet and feel our butts rubbing. That’s true humiliation, but it’s the same for both parties. Equal fights equal rights.

Even though I love it when my lover bends me over a sink in a public men’s restroom and slaps my ass until it’s purple, then pulls notable clusters of hair out of my scalp, and penetrates me abruptly with no lubrication whatsoever, only to jizz inside me after five to sex violently mechanical pumps, all while watching porn — and when a another man enters the restroom and my lover says “you wanna give her a go?” and the man seems afraid — even though I love that (and I do love that) — sometimes it feels like we could take things even a step further? Because what if sex is even more than a purely physical act? Imagine a world, if you will, where people have sex because they are not only physically aroused, but also mentally?

I still cannot believe I invented a new sex position. Holy fucking shit.

My lover and I have yet to try Cheeky Style. But I can’t wait to show him. It will be like when we first had sex during which I was technically asleep, but I still think of the memory (or, his memory?) with fondness. I think this could change things for us, but what do I know? After all, I’m just a stupid little girl. A little dumbass white bitch as they say :(

Although they say I’m stupid, I’m not. And my pussy fire too. My pussy keeps men COMING BACK FOR MORE. If you’ll believe it. My lover is a great example of this phenomenon. Anyway, how could a stupid person come up with AN ENTIRELY NEW SEX POSITION? Seriously.

And I don’t only write about sex. I’m too smart for that. Watch this:

My lover also makes me breakfast after we— damnit let me try again:

When I’m alone in my bed scrolling through Instagram and all I can think about is “when will I see a DM from my lover?” and I start touching myself thinking about his tremendously massive cock penetrating me thusly. Oh, to be fucked by a gargantuan cock of indescribable mass and weight — weight, not only materially, but also weight as in, of philosophical significance. Plato’s cock. The panopticock. And so on and so forth.

See what I mean? I’m incredibly smart for a woman.

Because I’ve never been raped thankfully, but I think God slipped something into the primordial goo from whence I slithered — mentally fucked. Different. A queer to the fullest extent. And if I was fully straight and cisgender I would still be this queer. Because I’m a faggot because god molested me.

Nothing’s really that bad for me except for the fact that I feel bad every day and I hope I die as soon as possible every day. It’s simple.

Lately I’ve been up to some shenanigans — the extant pride derived varying greatly — and by no means should I be bored. My life is fun. Fun life. Bonus points: I’m not getting my limbs blown off or gradually starving to death, which is happening to a lot of people actually. I literally eat cheeseburgers almost every day. And I own a car and know a lot of people. It’s all just perfect for me. It’s great. Alright?

Well, no matter how nice it gets, the sick and injured weak animal feeling persists inveterately and I’m afraid that my biological and spiritual destiny lands somewhere between Incel and Ecoterrorist. Either way my life trajectory doesn’t bode well for anyone within smelling distance of my jorts. The real shit in my pants — what keeps me awake until 5 AM every night for the past two weeks — is The Big Blank White Nothing.

If you don’t know what I’m talking about then I don’t believe anyone could make you understand. But if you do know what I’m talking about, then you know this is something that kills people. It kills a lot of people. And I have it inside of me, so yes, it is going to kill me.

What exists now existed even worse before I was an adult when I didn’t have a single vice at my disposal.

Little baby Daisy looked at the sky hoping it was blue — not gray. She had dreams of giants meticulously tearing her brother’s face off. Baby Daisy didn’t know what jacking off was, but if she had, she would have spent a lot of time doing that and thinking about animals. Reason being, Daisy had no reason to believe that a human enjoyed being around her any more than a doe three hundred feet away already running at the snap of a twig. Lust for that which is gone before it is seen and heavenly distant. Hence the automatic proto-erotic dysfunction and subsequent perversion (queer). My mom left me to cry on my own in a dark room for too long. It’s possible all my problems can be traced back to the “cry it out” method, which is funny as hell, because my poor dumbass mom was just trying a parenting technique she read in a chud book.

I should be working towards a Masters degree right now, because it’s the only thing that makes sense for my life, but I’m too lazy to even apply for community college, or fill out a FAFSA. Instead I’m doing unremarkable, pointless, annoying bullshit and backtracking on first month of my transition because it’s too much work to be a girl. Incidentally I feel more masculine than ever when I’m also the most depressed and transient.

I spent the last few years putting myself together in hopes of creating a life for myself worth living. It has not worked and I feel worse, and I have significantly less love in my heart for people in general. I’m blackpilled to the max right now, man. Like the normal T-girl pipeline moment. The climax of masculinity before post-nut estrogen clarity. Culminating queer death drive rebirthing antics or what have you.

Like, shit, man, you know? Like, bro, I thought that, like, the whole point of all this was love but like, love isn’t real and shit, you know?

Go to the park. There it is: The Big Blank White Nothing.

Go watch Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol with some family. There it is again: The Big Blank White Nothing.

Eat some shrimp and drink wine next to a beautiful woman with longing in her eyes. Wow, and it’s back. Now of all times, yes. Truly: The Big Blank White Nothing.

Enact intellectual revenge: The Big Blank White Nothing.

Start a cult: The Big Blank White Nothing.

Drugs. Any of them. All of them in fact: The Big Blank White Nothing.

Sex.

God.

Friendship.

Peace.

Mood stabilizers.

Anti-depressants.

What I’m talking about is an indiscriminate force of unyielding cosmic aggression. In plainer terms, people with BPD usually threaten to kill themselves and they simply do not succeed at relationships at all period. People with bipolar either kill themselves or push away everyone they love. This is great. This is perfect. I love this. This is my truth and I’m living it, diva.

I’ve been on basically good terms with all the people I love for a while I think, but they probably think I hate them because I’m constantly acting like there is a bullet lodged in my ass cheek when there is not a bullet lodged in my ass cheek. Recently I’ve become socially disfigured. Knowingly so. I remain apathetic. What someone wants from me they should ask for. I’m Quasimodo in this bitch. Bad bitches love me because I’m like a dumbass faggot they can stand on top of to reach the kiss of a man who is nine feet tall.

My understanding of human mating rituals is not informed on any anthropological basis. I am also not incredibly bright. Not too wise either. It just so happens I’m a prophet who sees visions and tells people bleak things that I think they should know. Unsure of my perceptibility’s efficacy, I’m disinclined to make grand assertions about humanity based on my own experience. So I’m gonna claim that my source for the following assessment is the fucking voice of god.

Ostracized, lonely jerk-offs make up 90% of the human population. Men and women used to have sex with each other and make babies. Now not so much. Our species no longer operates by nature’s standards. We have hyper-evolved largely into Israeli, liberal, incestuous, thoughtless, gay nazis. Things are going poorly for us. And whiteness is largely to blame.

Blankness is considered divine. God is a clear space nowhere who knows no time. This is factually, literally true according to all scripture ever recorded from any religion. So not only does a blank space dictate our collective moral values, but it is how we connect with each other, how we unite. Also it is the lube for all geopolitical conflict. It’s the same lube for how we experience love, and how we understand violence. Pain leads to death leads to birth leads to pain and so on and so forth. Whoever god is to anyone, he or she generally always lends a hand in the birthing and dying bits, but almost always stays out of the pain stuff. It kind of just doesn’t really get to him. Not really his problem to be frank. That’s a person problem that we made ourselves by being born. Anyway, highly spiritual people tend to be either schizophrenic or identify strongly with any particular ancient religion. But either way, all spiritually comes back to, and pursues the idea of stillness, of nothingness, or vast empty vacancy. “Beyond the five senses” doesn’t technically mean anything, because there is nothing empirically beyond the five senses. Nothing. Nothing is what we are, by definition, chiefly interested in as a species. Right? No.

Fucking is obviously the only thing that matters to anyone. “Nothing” is just a way to make sex better. If you find my position gauche, try asking your parents why you exist, dumbass. Why does anyone do anything? Sex. Why did my friend leave me on read after I asked him if we’re going out tonight? Sex. Why do people make art? Well it’s definitely not about the money. Why is Trump president? Sex. Why does France exist? Did Abraham Lincoln really never lie? The pyramids? Drinking? Minecraft? Why do wars happen? Why are men evil? Why are women evil? Why is god evil? Why are children not evil? Why is it fun to drink and drive? Million dollar house? Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex.

Nothing is ever fully devoid of sex, therefore everything is about sex.

So, people who are less likely to have sex, are less likely to be a part of life and the world. Well, as gradually everyone loses their libido due to mass health decline and widespread exponentially decreasing quality of life (due to billionaires having sex) the world is filling up with a population of people who do not want to be here. It is getting to the point where our existence will soon not justify itself on any level by our own logic. There are absolutely a few plausible solutions to all of this, but they don’t seem to involve sex, rendering said solutions thusly non-viable.

Restoring our species to any semblance of “natural” would be to strip ourselves of all the cool sex shit we’ve developed. Managing to upgrade society fast enough to save ourselves while decreasing net suffering would inevitably call for less sex across the board, because you just can’t hump someone when you’re both trying to make it across a tightrope. Get it through your fucking head.

Love is just about sex, or the impression of sex imbued and embodied.

“I don’t only care about sex.” Yeah me too. For sure.

Bigness. Big god. Big cars. Big Pharma. Big pants. Big burger. Big obesity epidemic. Big cock. Massive cock = better cock. Massive tits = better tits. Massive ass = better ass. Giant house = better house. We want big everything. Big good. Perfect. This is awesome. Don’t you love this?

Westerners, do you not love to hand-feed a thankless vegetable of a master? Do you not want more of everything you already have? Do you really hate sex as much as you say you do? You’re telling me the blank empty space in your mind isn’t bothersome? Like, you never feel like something thick and pulsing should fill that zone?

I just don’t feel like I really have a dog in the fight. People have sexually competed with me and I immediately forfeit. Some people have sex with me but its mostly humiliating. Nobody has ever been in love with me except for Simon apparently, and I dislike him. Well, sex is mid without love, so, that kind of defeats like, you know, the point of life itself doesn’t it then?

So I make up pointless bullshit like “I need to finish this spec script that nobody will ever read or produce, because uh, the wind or something I don’t know,” to keep from self immolating. And in my darkest moment it rings loudly that all these creative endeavors are unremarkable and outsider, possessing a fly-over-state-specific delusional quality. It reminds me that my mom’s side of the family was never too bright and they’re all a bit psycho.

I’m actually one semester away from an associate’s but I can’t be bothered. I edit videos for a living right now. That’s not too bad.

And you know what, I’m actually trying my absolute hardest to make the most of my life, but I’m not feeling it. No matter what happens or how I feel about it, The Big Blank White Nothing overrides all sensation and eviscerates everything.

Nobody in my life is willing to accept that it’s their fault I’m still alive. I’m decently pissed off about it. Allowing myself to be dragged naked over burning coals daily by Satan himself just to spare a handful of people some crying. Maybe not even that. Honestly probably ten people would be invited to my funeral. It would just be awkward and people would be more angry than sad, because they feel entitled to my body I guess. Maybe nobody would cry.

Not to mention someone would inevitably have to clean up my body. Soiled pants. Fully erect dead penis. Jizz all over the scene. I’m in formal wear for god knows why. Probably the back of my skull is gone and chunks of brain which do have a smell would remain seared in some poor EMTs mind forever.

I shouldn’t have DMd Fabiana Riviera on Instagram. I don’t know why I fucking did that. I’m so embarrassed I might actually end everything just because of that. Obviously she’s out of my league, duh! I knew that! Yes, I’m retarded. Yes, I know that all beautiful women perceive me as something like a catatonic cousin. I should have remembered this before sliding up. I didn’t even slide up though. It was a cold DM. Fuck. She’s on to me. She knows I like her. She’s going to kill me.

Why do I fall in love with people, but I don’t experience being fallen in love with? I’m funny and cute, you know? I wear a smile and shit like that. Jesus, I like to think I put on a good show for people. I mean, fucking Jesus, Mary and Joseph of Nazereth — the work I put into coming across as alive to people should qualify me for six figures and a lifetime dental plan. And even that is starting to wear off and everyone think I’m being kind of an ass to them. Well I’m not really being an ass. Everyone has been being an ass to me, and I’m just too dead to reassure everyone in their assery.

“How are you, Daisy?”

“Fuck off I’m dying.” That’s what I should say. But really, the morally correct thing to say is:

“I’m okay.”

“Hard day?”

Not really, man, but now you’re making me think about my day which is making it way fucking harder than it was before you started asking me shit. I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it. Let’s lay out an excel sheet with positives, negatives and areas of improvement.

Living in the city has made me a worse driver and person.

“In order to truly live, you must die to yourself. AND you must become like a child. If these things feel in opposition to each other, that’s because they are... But are they? What we as humans need to understand is this distinction in reality between contradiction and dialectics. To live purely is to become as a child. To live purely is to die to oneself. But children are the opposite of dead to themselves. They are preoccupied with self interest almost exclusively, right? Granted, this is by no fault of their own. But it takes maturity and discipline to deny oneself what pleasures and vice the world has to offer. Here exists a line, not between these two things, but through them. The line is you, and you are passing through this shedding of the old, and the birthing of the new. You must then equally die to yourself as you must become anew. Shed the old dry skin and don thusly the new wet skin. Upon Christ-like inspection, these two ideas are inextricably tied. So do not assume that one thing can most certainly never be another. Examine your reality with a fresh, wet, child-like gaze. Be like Christ. Let your mind die so that HE may restore it.”

- Dr. Effective1

Imagine yourself emotionally depleted. Like, totally empty of yourself. Then out of the darkness you are presented with an opportunity to become the face of the largest religion-fueled marketing campaign in recorded history. But before you hit the green room, before you know who your stylist is, who does your makeup, or any one name of the many inevitable suitors — before all this — there is a road trip. A 23 hour road trip before stops. And to kick off your critical success — your ascent to Heaven, you must share these 23 hours with a man whom you despise.

We had to drive, as opposed to fly, because I need cocaine in order to stay awake when I’m driving, and obviously that doesn’t work if I’m in a plane. Taking key bumps of Dr. Effective’s bag. He needs it even more than I do. He’s the one driving anyway. In fact, I’m not convinced he has any intention of letting me fly- I mean, drive the car.

Plus, you can drink as much as you want in a car. Dr. Effective was disconcertingly cool about my intake of Miller Lites. The man is a grifter. His “Handbook to Pure Lifestyle” is bullshit. He doesn’t believe any of it. This upsets me, because I was just starting to believe in some of it.

“Parts of it.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Parts of it, I do believe in.”

“Which parts?”

“I don’t know.”

“Just name one part.”

“Why?”

“Name one part!”

“Okay! Uh. For one, all the bits where I talk about Jesus being Lord. That, for example, is something I stand by unwaveringly.”

“Why are you presenting a false ideology to people then?”

Dr. Effective. Stupid half-grin. “That’s my job.”

“Oh yeah.”

“Do you genuinely think my name is just Dr. Effective?”

“Huh?”

“Like, no first name? No nothing? Like, nobody knows Dr. Effective’s name. You never get to see it. Never anywhere. That never seemed odd to you?”

“Sure, man. I guess maybe I’ve just seen some crazier shit than that.”

“Jim, I’m not a real doctor. I’m a secret agent.”

I spit out my beer.

“You’re the missing link, Jim. To unite Israel and America and bring together all nations in preparation for the The Great Feast.”

“Okay. Okay. Yeah. I get it. Antichrist bullshit whatever. Sorry. Continue.”

“The world isn’t actually ending, Jim. At least, it isn’t ending right now at this very moment at which we are speaking. And it is not necessarily um, knowable when exactly it will be uh- ending. Nobody can know the day or the hour, right?”

“Sure? Wait, so what the hell is going on then?”

“World peace, Jim. World peace.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. That’s why we’re driving across the country to get your blood drawn instead of somewhere closer. See?”

“Yeah. So Israel will own my body?”

“Not directly.”

“Okay.”

“You see, Jim, my contacts gave me minimal information, but I intend to brief you fully once you officially check all the physical and mental boxes.”

“What are those?”

“Not much different than military requirements.”

“Am I allowed to tell them I want to kill myself?”

Dr. Effective stares dead-eyed at me. “No.”

“Okay. My bad.”

The mini-briefing was off-record. According to the doctor, who apparently does have a first name (who could have imagined?), I am to play a small part in a global jihadist coup sort of thing. Trump just went to war with Iran and Israel is incidentally taking it in the ass right now as a result. Not that I give a shit if they level Tel Aviv, but hey, money. So, I’m like a mascot. In more contractual terms, “The Prophet.” The one to predict accurately and precisely the movements of massive geopolitical proportions in real time. So, like, to get to a point where my voice as The Prophet can be considered credible and widely heard, these guys put me in a position, a miracle occurs, and somehow it was me who performed it. Boom.

Like, “No, no, no! I’m not Jesus. I would never say that! I’m just a prophet, see. Just a prophet. I speak the truth of God, but I am not God.” That’s what I would say during my interview on Fox News for example.

But that would be the trick, see? Really, I’m not even a prophet. Just a bitch with an earpiece getting paid.

The Organization, as Dr. Effective calls it, is a kind of super-cluster-fuck of upper crust seniors hand plucked from respective CIA, KGB, Mossad and MI6 backgrounds. Most of which are legally declared dead.

“Am I going to get shot at?”

“What the hell kind of question is that?”

“Well, like—”

“Probably! You will probably live through some assassination attempts, most of which will be staged.”

“Holy cow.”

“Yeah. Look, Jim, you are going to be the most famous person in the world. That’s your job, okay?”

“Okay. Cool.”

My stomach is filled with light. For the first time in my life, something feels normal and right. And good. The Big Blank White Nothing subsides. Vitality — shaking off the flecks of a balding 23 year old head. I’m finally getting my fucking mojo back. At least, that’s how this feels. Like there’s rhythm in my legs again.

Dr. Effective takes a hard right off-road. The sun has set. We’ve been driving for 15 hours. Desert rock and dust flicks up behind the SUV wheels.

“I thought you said it was in LA?”

“Oh. Yeah. Uh.”

Dr. Effective stops the SUV in the middle of a massive, open night. Dust settles. I’m scared.

He opens the driver door. Sighs. He grabs my neck with one firm hand and somehow pulls me over the console, over the driver’s seat and onto the ground. It’s colder outside than I would have guessed. Dr. Effective pulls his piece out.

“Hey, woah. Dude. What are you—”

The doctor pistol whips me in the face. Ears ringing. He hits me again. I can’t open my right eye. I try standing up, but he kicks me down. The whiplash causes my head to strike a rock. More bleeding. More pain. He kicks me in the ribs. Shocking hot blue fire pain.

Maybe I’m not the chosen one. Maybe Dr. Effective brought me out here to beat me and rape me and leave me for dead; all because I wouldn’t stop drinking alcohol. Classic coke-head behavior. Oh, and of course he’s setting up a tripod. One of the cheap tripods that break after a single use. He mounts his phone and hits record.

Punches me in the gut. Kicks me in the groin. Punches me in the nose. Punches me in the mouth. Again and again.

Dr. Effective strips my clothes off. By now I can’t tell what part of my body is experiencing what. But on my belly I’m jostled against the cold gravel scraping my chest. The doctor heaves in and out of me. He’s grunting or laughing or moaning or all. It’s like the Big Blank White Nothing and shit. I can’t get out from under him. It just has to happen. Everything turns blank and suddenly I can’t feel anything at all.

The sun is directly over my eyes. My entire body is cut and bruised. My penis is gone. Severed. I can hardly breathe. Blood all but clogs my throat. I spit out a shit ton of blood. I can’t move my head. I can’t move any part of my body. Little stinging pricks of fly probosces and legs stepping into my open wounds and drinking. Stinging, burning fire. I scream. I scream as loud as I can for as long as I can. I scream until it becomes a completely dry, imperceptible hamster squeak. Then, many little footsteps.

Sniffing. Panting. Dog sounds. Getting closer and closer to my head.

So many young people struggle with the prospect of basically do I go to college do I go to a …

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- David Foster Wallace, from “This is Water”

Dr. Effective kicking down my door makes me think about Agency, with a capital A— Volition. The more I’m willing to risk, the more I am able to do. The less I have to risk, the more I am able to do, but with compounded doability comes an implicit attainment of impermanent losable items, thereby increasing risk of loss, and exponentially increasing the level of risk that one would have formerly assumed. A person is not a business. It cannot grow like that. Something like the law of diminishing returns. For someone like me, this cycle renders calculated efforts not just flaccid, but ultimately counterproductive; the old two steps back as it were. This is due to the pathological impulse to dichotomize found in all humans, but diagnostically disproportionate in those such as myself who the Social Security Administration would consider legally disabled. So, whenever I try something— anything, that thing may well bend to my volition at first, but ultimately, snap right back into place, thusly striking me back with tenfold force.

As far as I’m concerned, this phenomenon, although pervasive in Bipolar patients and others more likely than your average joe to recognize and act in accordance with the patterns, is all but indicative of the existence of some form of metaphysical system of punishment. Karmic retribution and all that, but worse. The overall distribution of suffering being calculated in some inconceivable equation, whether by a literal or metaliteral master sadist, keeping the total screamage within some imperatively particular decibel range. Everyone whether they admit it or not, believes in this unthinkable system, but few recognize its grizzly operational truth: this is not a system based in morality or justice, but merely a mechanism of nature attempting to distribute pain so as to ensure a slow climbing net survival rate. Life itself is contingent not only on tit for tat, but even more so, if not RATHER the unspeakable, senseless torture of the innocent. Random, pointless suffering for every human and beast as necessary collateral for the satiation of our universe and her unbridled compulsion to expand. And this concept, whether you like it or not, happens to fit neatly into any belief system religious or otherwise. And this, I am convinced, is the empirical truth.

I switch on my bedside lamp. “What the hell are you doing in my house?”

“Jim, I figured it out.” Dr. Effective is out of breath. The dust from my felled door, still settling over my sprawl of rugs.

Calling the police is always on the bottom of my list of priorities. And it dawns on me later than I’d like, that the doctor is in fact trespassing in a very serious way, which grants me certain legal flexibility with regard to assault and battery. So I’m sitting up still half enclosed in a comforter in only my boxers, trying to pick out the heaviest and nearest object to incur maximum damage on the intruder’s head.

He starts walking towards my bed. Reminded of his stature — short and stocky. He’s more built than I remember.

“Jim, don’t worry. I just want to talk.”

“Okay. But you just kicked down my door? Also how the fuck did you get my address? And why?”

“You gave the office your address. Use your head.” He aggressively taps his index finger against his temple.

“I’m gonna call the police.” I whip out my phone and open the dial screen.

“Wait. Wait. Wait. This isn’t like that, Jim. Just give me one minutes and I’ll explain my pitch.”

“What? You wanna fuck me?”

“Jesus, no. What? No, just— agh! Just put the phone down and give me sixty seconds, that’s all I ask.”

I like his desperation. I want more.

“Okay. Go.” I start a one minute timer on my phone.

“Look, Jim, I know we got off on the wrong foot, okay? I know that now—”

“You already said that over the phone.”

“JUST LET ME TALK GODDAMNIT!”

“Right. Okay. Go.”

“And well, I saw something in you that I haven’t seen in anyone before or since that meeting. I— I still don’t know what it was… exactly. But it inspired a certain—” he, open-mouthed, scours the air for a good word.

“— Suspicion.”

I lean forward a little. Raise one eyebrow. Can’t help but smirk a little.

“Suspicion of an arrogance. A very special kind of arrogance—”

“Thirty eight seconds left, amigo.”

“A very special kind of arrogance that equips you with the tools you need to push through life and beat the odds— ubermensch arrogance.”

“Woah, dude.”

“A singular arrogance. So uncommon, it may as well not even exist. Jim, I believe you are the Usurper.”

“Who?”

“The usurper. The next Big J.”

“The what?”

“The One to come in the name of The Great I Am, to bring down the fucking hammer.”

“Oh, like the antichrist?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“What do you mean, ‘a manner of speaking’? Either it is or it isn’t.”

“JIM! You don’t get it. You don’t have to know what this means right now, and I know it’s probably a lot to process, but you are literally The Man. The one, to like, usher in the second coming—”

“And what, might I ask, gives you this impression, doc? The devilish charm? Just my robust aura or what?”

“The prophecy. Others believe it too.”

He leans closer to me. “Jim, I am here to help you become the man you’re mean to—”

“Time’s up.”

“Hang on. Wh—”

CRACK. A leg with enough muscle on it can, with adequate force, act as efficiently if not more powerfully, than a brick straight to the cranium. Dr. Effective soars back, eagle spread. Lands like a tower in the middle of my bedroom. Not the cranium, but close enough. I got him in the chin. The high kick leaves me with a nasty charlie horse. I grunt and fall out of my bed. Normally I would stretch before a stunt like that. But this is my first real hardcore kicking of another. Dr. Effective moans and holds his jaw.

“FUCK!” He yells. Blood quirts from his maw. Two or three teeth vertically jettison. Maybe I should stomp his ass? I would if my kicking leg wasn’t red hot cramped. And I can’t use the other leg, because then a stomp would become more of a fall, like when old people fall, and then can’t get up. Only, instead of atrophying muscle tissue as the cause for total debilitation, the barrier to my getting up would almost certainly be the product of Dr. Effective’s own Nike smashing into my temple, because he’s already getting back up as well.

I hop toward and then past Dr. Effective. There’s a wine bottle at the other end of my room on the floor. A nice thick, dark wine bottle to deliver the incapacitating blow. I hop with vigor to the far wall.

“JIM! WAIT! What if I told you there is money involved in this?”

I stop hopping, not so much because of the money, but mainly out of shock that my cramp all but vanished at the mention of financial gain. Is my body more of a businessman than my brain? Ah, fuck it. I grab the wine bottle anyway.

“HOW MUCH MONEY, PERV?” I raise the bottle above my head.

Bone chilling laughter from old doc. “Right now? We’re in early stages, prenatal investments as it were, from various interested parties, funneled in and out and filtered and changed… Some institutions, ones with more international leverage than you might expect, are backing our cause, if you catch my drift.”

“No, I don’t. What does any of that mean?”

“I’m talking six figures loosely allotted for your basic needs and to ensure your health and political intellect— a lot of stuff, but nothing crazy on your part. But that is right now. If all goes according to plan, which it will, that rate would increase exponentially until you are filthy, and I mean FILTHY fucking rich, my guy.”

“What institutions were you referring to?”

“I’m not at liberty to say. But I can vouch. You think I’d do this shit for free?” He rubs his jaw, red and purple swelling now apparent, blood dripping from his mouth.

“Who thinks I’m the chosen one? That’s what I’m asking. And why the hell should I believe any of this, man? You have any idea how fucking weird this is?”

“Here. I probably should’ve led with this. I just got excited.”

Dr. Effective pulls out his phone and shows me the a full brightness screen of the last thing I would expect to see in my lifetime.

“What the fuck?”

“You see?”

“Is that—”

“Yeah.”

“AI?”

“NO!”

“You sure? Seems like AI.”

“NO, DUDE! Look!”

He shows me another thing. A video. A thing, a clearer image, ghastly and haunting, unspeakable.

“Any more?” I ask. Just to be safe.

“I got way more.”

Footage from all over the earth from every kind of phone and camera, resolution of every quality. Shadows and light and blood and eyes and hundreds of millions of them. And 100 Million Horses. And 100 Million Shrimp. I am more awestruck than fascinated.

“All of this was wiped from social media. They’re running out of storage capacity to keep hiding all of it. And running out of agents to keep people quiet.”

“Holy shit, man.”

“Yes sir. Real HOLY shit.” He puts his pocket in his phone.

“This isn’t some nazi shit, is it?”

“What? Did that look like nazi shit to you?”

“I don’t know! I never read the fucking nazi book!”

“The nazi book?”

“Yeah, whatever. The nazi book. I don’t read that shit.”

“Jim, no. This has nothing to do with anything like that. This isn’t political.”

“Spiritual then, right?”

“Material. The age of the spirit is over.”

“I see what you mean.” I scratch my chin.

“Jim, this is a god thing. Don’t you see?”

“Yeah, I don’t know. Seems sketchy.”

“Well we have other candidates, so if you’re not ready—” he reaches into his coat and reveals a small pistol. I drop the wine bottle. Blood pressure spikes.

“Okay! Fuck! Whatever, man! I’ll do it!”

He re-holsters the item. “Alright. Good boy.”

“Whatever it actually is…”

“Not much really. Mostly waiting. But you’re gonna need to come with me.”

I look around my room. It’s nice to feel like I do not have a choice. “Like, tonight?”

“Yeah. Like, pack your shit right now.”

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Fucking faggot at the bar last night, (first dick I ever took a couple years back) wanted to make sure I wasn’t doing it because “other people want” me too. I said, “Listen man, I don’t think anybody wants me to do this.” Which obviously isn’t totally true, but what I wanted to say was “How about you run a dull knife down the top middle of your shaft and split that shit open like a fucking banana split, you dumb fairy.”

Increasing feelings of disenfranchisement and indignation, paired with the sense that I’ve been decidedly tricked and fucked by God. I don’t want to fucking hear it.

“You’re being irrational.” If you think pragmatism is the solution to the majority of the problems facing our first world, nazi, technocrat media hell, as someone who has no money or clout points, maybe you should entertain the thought of talking to a trans person sometime. We are faced with an unprecedented unique set of intersecting problems that do not present us with a logical series of steps to solve. Be a grown up. Think before you tell me how I should and shouldn’t speak.

Transitioning is supposed to be a thing I do to make myself feel better, but a surprising amount of people infer through select phrasing and unbeknownst rhetoric that I am doing this to look like a girl for the gaze of others or to earn pity/concern/social points, these progressives convey this and worse; that even if other trans people are actually real, I am probably not one of them. And I supposed this is my Welcome To The Club moment, and now I understand why many Dolls are so mean to everyone.

I have a good job, lots of friends, a Substack with enough consistent readers to fill a small music venue, a thriving Instagram Story community, good relationship with my parents, living in a big house (in the garage, but it’s the perfect garage for me.) I’m obscenely talented when I try, and I get bitches on occasion. I can’t complain.

But my wrath persists. And for a few good reasons.

I am ideologically transgender. I’ve never been interested in fashion, because that means I’m bending down asking the world “do you like it? do you? plz tell me you like it… i worked rlly hard on this fit…” It’s just pathetic to me. I dress like a normal hipster performative male because if I don’t I’m pretty sure everyone will want to kill me and I, myself. Do I want to look good and girly? Of course, but there’s not really a way to do that for me that doesn’t make me feel like a dumbass. It certainly doesn’t help that not a single soul in my circle is forgiving about stylistic missteps. Fuck you if you give a shit what I wear. I don’t. I just want to look normal and blend in. Contrary to common mythos, Daisy is more often than not, uninterested in attention mongering. I’m interested in my career and fucking bitches. That’s basically all. Everything else is like whatever. Fuck Gina.

I’m doing a fucking show March 21st. Performance art. You wouldn’t get. But nobody’s gonna show up and I’m just gonna K-hole.

Writing a book and that’s honestly the only thing I care about right now. I’ll talk more about it when I have more of it written.

People who write like this do not fare well with the publishing industry. But I’ve read their books, and I like them more than all that “Atomic Habits,” and fucking Prince Harry autobiography. That shit was so hilarious. He dressed up like Hitler once for a costume party and got cancelled and then cried about it in his book.

I have no hope for anything good to ever happen to me in any notable way. As in, I don’t anticipate accomplishing anything that would be mentioned at my funeral.

Only still alive because of Revenge. Revenge against whom, I will not say, but I can assure you, reader, that they are probably not who you would expect.

The next person to call me buddy is going to suffer a pelvic fracture.

Need me some cocaine and some naked alone time with a big ass piano. Fuck this city.

If I wasn’t a writer, I would be a more formidable person. Would take less shit.

People know they can get away with the way they speak to me because they know I’m on the bottom rung of social value, and I’m not pretty enough to respect in any serious way, but not ugly enough to ignore entirely.

This is what happens when I don’t drink for more than one day. I’ve been doing a good job at drinking less, but this is made possible only because of my drive for Revenge.

Fucking retards.

Everything I ever learned growing up was a lie. One of which was the notion that a person usually has a purpose or a “point” to them.