HARASSMENT ARCHITECHTURE
Immersed within the profound literary labyrinth that is Mike Ma’s oeuvre, I stumbled upon an enigmatic tapestry of words that left me astounded, pondering why this luminary artist had not yet ascended to the pinnacles of recognition. Within the tapestry of his creations, one finds a captivating amalgamation of satire, philosophy, and humor that defies conventional categorization. Yet, it is not through the predictable lens of conventional narratives that Ma’s genius shines. Rather, it is through his mastery of the absurd and the surreal that he casts an unyielding, dissonant reflection upon our worldāa reflection that emanates from the depths of a mind steeped in delusions of grandeur, a godlike complex, and a masochistic disposition.
With each turn of the page, the contours of reality warp and morph into an unpredictable, chaotic tapestry, the brushstrokes of Ma’s prose rendering a stark and uncompromising portrayal of the human condition. Moments of utter astonishment seized hold of me, my jaw dropping repeatedly as I navigated the pages of this extraordinary opus. Laughter, unbridled and relentless, erupted from my being as I encountered passages and inner monologues that embraced the absurdity of existence with an audacious gusto. In this singular literary experience, I offer a promiseāthere exists no other tome that bears resemblance to this visionary work.
Now, dear reader, let us embark on a perilous journey into the intricate labyrinth of the protagonist’s psycheāa realm where he emerges as a deranged maestro, orchestrating a cult-like following of devotees with twisted, even offensive, allure. Brace yourself as we delve into the vast expanse of this intellectual maelstrom, where each quote serves as a provocative lightning rod, striking at the very heart of societal norms, challenging us to question the boundaries of acceptability and bask in the unsettling allure of the unconventional.
Hello sophia from new york city. i see you as you open at random to specifically 41 HARASSMENT ARCHITECTURE this page, by total coincidence. it’s not coincidence, in reality. i wanted you here, in this obscure manhattan book shop that you kill time in until your friend says she’s outside. tonight, when you walk home, ill follow you and catch the main door to your apartment complex before it closes (don’t want to ask a stranger for the code). ill watch you undress only to stare disgusted at yourself in the $10 walmart mirror your parents had shipped to you, at your request. you couldn’t afford that? really? ill watch you order takeout time and time again because you are far too “busy” to learn how to cook your own meals. sophia, ill watch you cry over shitty netflix shows. ill watch you molest yourself to porn you found thru extremely SPECIFIC search terms. ill watch you spend more of your parents money on things in poor taste. you were stuck for a while, debating whether or not you could pull off fake designer or not. i saw that. you went with the real one, surprisingly. not really surprising, it’s your parents money. ill watch you attempt a new workout routine, which lasts all of exactly 5 minutes. ill watch you lose a little more ambition. ill watch you read listicles on buzzfeed, the ones you share with your friends who don’t actually click them when you send it. you keep doing this for months and come summer they will lose all respect for you. especially elizabeth -she’s not a total normie like you and she’s well aware that buzzfeed is for empty fuckups like you, sophia. ill watch you for all this time and not once lust for you, SOPHIA. SOPHIA YOU DISGUST ME AND YOUR PARENTS ALIKE. SOPHIA, STOP GETTING DRUNK
I’m back to normal, I’d say. I have a routine and a respectable sleep schedule. That or I’m so deep inside a sleep-deprived daydream that I’ve entered believable stages of a new dream world.
YOU KNOW THOSE PEOPLE WHO SPEND ALL DAY SHIT-TALKING RELIGIOUS FAITH ON REDDIT? JESUS DIED FOR THEIR SINS, EVEN, BUT NOT YOURS. HOW PATHETIC, SOPHIA.
I want to see the ugly burned out forever because it’s an affront, plain and simple.
Man was once the sum of his choices, maybe the books he read, or the people he spoke with. Today, man is the sum of that all in addition to the videos he’s seen, the number of people who like him online, the amount of government-sanctioned foodpoison he’s consumed, and so much more. You are now, from the start, the death you will become Ā¬unless of course you defer to our holy originators. Life’s most violent pain is the result of nature denied. It is the careful blueprint contractors often ignore, nature. They think they know more than it has to offer. They think they know how to operate outside its ways. But it will forever and always win. Submission to nature is one of the only submissions you should welcome in life.
Physical fitness is inherently correct. It’s always in style, timeless and waiting. All the things required of someone to be truly in shape are all things scumbags not only despise, but despise out of inability. Inner strength, outer strength, courage, self-control, a desire to sweat and bleed for results. Your standard worm-brain faggot would rather stay fat and unsightly than submit to the fascist 53 HARASSMENT ARCHITECTURE creation known as the gym.
Strength is imposing and bold, strength is fascism ā I guess maybe they are right about that. So when you see disgusting pigs like AAAAAA or AAAAAAAA just remember, they’ve shown you their hand of cards. Don’t be surprised when they beg you to meet the enemy half way. Act accordingly against the yeastern kind, the weak, the unwilling. Make them submit. They must submit.
“When you are with women, you are alone. When you are with homosexuals, you are alone. When you are with men far outside your socioeconomic class, you are alone. You will, for the majority of your life, be alone,” a friend tells me.
Women never get home gyms because then nobody would give them the attention they want. The rare few who do build home gyms will proceed to upload squat videos to Instagram. If you can imagine it, they will always squat in the tightest pants they own ā never a slightly loose pair of sweatpants, never a burka.
Poor people all tend to smell the same. Cheap spray-on scents (take a shower and wear aluminum-free deodorant), shitty laundry detergent (you don’t need it), cat piss diluted by repeated dryer sheet exposure (don’t own a cat). The poor always smell like those strange flea market stress remedies Ā¬the ones in the little glass bottles. The poor always smell like public transportation and in turn public transportation begins to smell poor. The poor smell poor, and the second they get a little bit of extra cash, they buy expensive things that still look or smell poor. And they can’t shop for their lives, either. They will pay $5.99 for a bag of ten microwave-ready chicken nuggets rather than the $6.99 for a fair selection of fresh chicken cutlets, or just get double that amount at a butcher for $3.99. It’s not about the ease of cooking, or the inability to do so, they just genuinely believe this is the smartest option. That’s the worst part. Not only do these meals provide lesser, more expensive portions, but they are loaded with horrible preservatives and strange, experimental USDA chemicals. Seed oil ridden body killers, shelf stable astronaut concoctions, 61 HARASSMENT ARCHITECTURE things that would look fitting in an actual witch’s cauldron. Those Tyson chicken bites could last centuries or a voyage to Neptune and back, meaning they are probably not safe for human consumption.
In the grand scheme of things, we are all victims. Soy, anti-nutrients, plaque, and viscous chemicals run ample in our blood. It manipulates the very code that makes us, us. We are being weakened, made docile for whoever yells the orders next. Nothing is truly safe to eat anymore unless you exile yourself to a forest and physically choose and kill what enters your stomach ā or know someone who does that When it comes to modern food, there is only really bad and sort of bad.
The grandmasters don’t want us dead, they want us weak and subservient, obviously. This is nothing new, but finding out exactly what does it, well that is new. Fluoride in the water, hormones in the milk, gender dysmorphia in the air.
I see them in the same way I see a bored video game player. You have someone who’s played Grand Theft Auto so much that he’s exhausted all the normal ways routes of continuing. He’s beat the whole game, but something keeps him there (maybe he feels there’s nothing better), and so he finds a new approach. He breaks the boundaries and walls, glitches through the floors and ceilings, grants himself immunity and infinite resources, etc. The normal playstyle is now foreign to him, he’s circled back around and sees everything as exploitable. Asians see real life this way, or at least this is what I believe. I sat on YouTube for hours once, enamored by videos of this Japanese guy making razor-sharp knives from a bunch of unexpected materials. A knife made out of cardboard, a knife made out of glass, a knife made out of ice, a knife made out of noodles
It killed others, what makes you think it won’t kill us? It won’t just do that, it will ravage us. It will rape us senseless, to the point where everything we respect and care for is degraded in such horrible ways that we never see the same again. The future we are headed towards is one full of disgust beyond human comprehension.
There are endless ways it can strike and that it will. But it’s okay because we deserve it.This is what we get for building robots to suck you off in a bar . This is what we get for turning our eight-year-old sons into women. This is what we get for turning everything into something you can fuck. This is what we get for 73 HARASSMENT ARCHITECTURE everything and saying okay. This is what we get for sexualizing so many people that it becomes hard to sleeping with remember the last. This is what we get for too much meaningless play, not enough meaningful work. This is what we get for making everything readily available, to everyone, anywhere.
Realistically, there is nothing left to live for. In our effort to ease the burdens on humanity we’ve made the creation and raising of worthwhile human life an absolute gamble. Modem technology allows the weak to not just survive, but flourish. I say flourish in their sense of the word, not mine. Nihilism breathes down your neck as you realize that spending time with your beloved daughter didn’t stop her from sleeping with her every coworker at that electronic music startup in Brooklyn. It didn’t stop her from getting blackout drunk in a wine lounge and tearing her off clothes, fully & happily exposed to the entire establishment. Most often, the worst of this new pain is within ourselves. We are born into this mess, and by that alone, we are impure. This is the kind of world baptism can’t fix. This is the kind of slime that good upbringing can’t wash off. This is the kind of pain medication can’t stop. It all requires fire and only fire. It’s in and on every single one of us. Born into sin, through sin, with sin, and only collecting more as the days linger on. Today’s kind, 74 MIKE MA they collect sin like bugs on the windshield of a barreling eighteen-wheeler.
I feel the urge to destroy, to hurt, to rape, to hunt, to abuse, to ambush, and be ambushed so I can react with violence. To all things, a desire to respond with violence. It’s growing and growing and growing. Growing more when I reject more. Thanks to damaged women provided by effortless dating apps, I can act on that urge with absolute consent. But every time I do it gets worse. Every time I do it I realize how much more I am capable of, how much darker this all could get. Soon after it does, it gets much darker, and as expected there’s someone ready to take it in with pleasure. This is where disgust t-bones ambition. The collision is bloody, no doubt a result of burnt out streetlights. The scraping metal cries harmonious. It sounds like Heaven weeping. Just when you think it’s all plateaued, the stakes are raised yet again. We humans are capable of impossible feats. Discovering fire, birthing kingdoms, landing on the moon, and yes, unlimited variations of sexuality depravity. It’ll end when we do.
Regardless of this minor detail, I am on the way to return a book to a friend. Her name is also a minor detail. I’m tired of committing females to memory, especially ugly ones. There is no ‘friendship’ between men and women, only the times where you 75 HARASSMENT ARCHITECTURE think about having sex and the times when you are. You could argue that an ugly girl could be a man’s friend. You would be half correct because, by law, she’s potentially a manā¢ That’s realpolitik.(Editor’s note: Nobody fucking cares. Get back to the other stuff.)
I click on the newly deceased’s profile and go through his endless amounts of pictures, memories, whatever. He looks like shit, probably smelled like shit, and died in the corner of high school party he probably wasn’t invited to, shooting up dope he probably didn’t pay for. I say give me rights to the funeral arrangements so we can bury this dead faggot in a ditch full of syringes and slut vomit like he deserves. In place of a flower-draped portrait, we can just have pictures of the heroin tracks that ran down his arms. Hopefully the mortician can brush those out.His family will pay their respects to their degenerate faggot son who drugged up so hard that police found him in a puddle of his own shit and piss. Respects rightfully paid. I’d say throw his ugly corpse in the ocean, but that’d be marine pollution on par with the Exxon Valdez. Fuck you, you dead dope-dealing faggot scum. I hope everything Dante wrote about the depths of Hell is real, and more so, I hope you’re making his experience look like a trip to the Brooklyn Zoo. Your girlfriend looks stupid when she cries over you, and if I see her when I’m back home, I’ll cave her face in with the heel of my boot. I’ll get away with it too, and whenever it is they 80 MIKE MA post her Facebook commemoration, I’ll be waiting there at the keyboard, ready to say something hilarious about her too.
I’ve been dragged to an Applebee’s through some impressive level of extortion or otherwise. Sitting in a booth, I take in that crisp Applebee’s air and understand what it’s like to be a piece of shit. Across from my table is a family that can’t seem to stop smiling. I should be appreciative of this, a wholesome family, braving the piss-storm with teeth out throughout, but I’m not. The reason I’m not is because of the father and his stupid decision to wear what he perceives as “nice dinner attire” to a fucking Applebee’s. A brown houndstooth sports coat over an Izod polo tucked into stonewashed Levi’s boot cut jeans, held up by a Docker’s belt and topped off with white New Balance’s. This is his Sunday best, on Wednesday. He dressed up to pay absurd prices for food that is nearly advertised as “Yes, we fucking microwave it, what are you going to say? Don’t microwave it? We already did.” It’s not only this but the fact that only two minutes down this very road is a family-owned restaurant with much cheaper food. Food that is cooked using real ovens and real stoves. But no, Jerry Russo from the local Honda dealership took his family to this disgusting, chemical-ridden death trap. Applebee’s translates to Auschwitz. This sick fuck has growing children to feed and he’s shoving microwaved chicken bites into their smiling mouths. They trusted him. Their mother trusted him. I trusted him.
I can’t hear the waitress reply, too soft-spoken, but I imagine she asks him how he’d like his steak microwaved. Microwave the sides too, please. Microwave the check before you bring it out. I’ll make sure to leave a big tip if you promise to microwave it and charge fourteen ninety-nine for the burned remains. Double that, add an appetizer and we’ve got a commercial-worthy deal on our hands. Inhaling two large Red Bulls has put me into total maniac deathmode. I’d kick a hole through my own neck if I had insurance to cover it. I don’t have insurance. I don’t even know how or where you go to get it, without being dragged into debt of course. Maybe that’s student loans I’m thinking of.
Credit scores are an assclown’s game, a faggot’s number. Something only a desk jockey jerk-off would concern himself with.
WHEN YOU SLEEP, MY BLOODY VALENTINE Soaked in reverb, obscured by strange noise and poor vocal quality. “When I look at you, oh, I don’t know what’s for real…” Not much compares to this single song. It has a certain magic.
I don’t drink alcohol. I find that among other reasons, it is one of life’s ultimate cop-outs. Do you remember the part in Dante’s Inferno when he noted that towards the end of Hell, some men went down before they had even died? How their earthly bodies were hollowed out and replaced with a demon until said body’s true “death”? How their soul itself was relegated to the frozen lower ditches, unable to move for eternity? This is how I see alcohol, recreational or otherwise. Not to mention that beer is estrogenic, extremely high on the glycemic index, and 88 MIKE MA contains gluten. That, paired with the way it’s consumed throughout the entire course of the night, intermittently, is a nightmare for your blood sugar levels. To spike your blood sugar is to accept an early and ugly death. To do that while also being an embarrassing drunk is something else. Drinking, if it has to be done, should be celebrarory. Not for a promotion at your chain restaurant. Not because it’s the end of the work week. Not because you’re bored. Grow up.
delivered intravenously in school libraries that resemble FEMA camps. BPA-bong death overdrive. Sexual depravity passing heart disease as the leading cause of death. Tesla Motor death camps. Public dubstep handjobs. Homeless concerts. Elon Musk selling 3D self-suck virtual reality zip downloads, sponsored by Sony, the newest Zuckerberg acquisition. Frozen insect dinner ads. Robots laughing you out of your coal mining job. Your fingernails taste more like food than food tastes like it used to. They really want you to start eating bugs. Suicide passing sexual depravity as the leading cause of death. Spotify cutting into your playlist with nuclear warnings. Nuclear warnings become the most played song. Songs don’t sound very different anymore. They want you to love eating bugs. Uber drivers double as deep state spies, reporting the locations of even the most lightly suspected cyber criminals. Israeli sleeper cells awaken to kill other Israeli sleeper cells. Saudi princes holding the majority share of America. Cointelpro run by ex-slave hoejabi immigrants. NASA enforcing the death penalty. Breath tax, violence 90 MIKE MA tax, piss tax. Video game streamers reading CIA headlines. Mixed race cereals and protein bars. Homeless senators and congresspeople.
The future isn’t World Peace. The future is a spiteful coworker deepfaking videos of you masturbating on the clock. It’s the microchip in your arm “accidentally overheating” because you catcalled the airport trash robot. It’s your parents being buried in the cloud courtesy of GoogleTM. It’s your children asking why restaurant menus aren’t touch screen. It’s your grandparents asking why your children are such retards. It’s your grandchildren being diagnosed as gay in the womb. It’s your Juul not working because you put too many apps on it. It’s Jeff Bezos giving you Two-Day Free Shipping on a pile of wet dicks with which to go fuck yourself, forever and eternally. The future is gay cops on fire.
“I wouldn’t have sex with her, no. She was pale, not in the attractive way. Timid, not in the charming way. And poorly dressed, not in the ironic way. Some girls dress like shit and it kinda works, like Mac Demarco’s girlfriend. But this girl though… she looks like the type of girl who’s scared to kiss boys at the age of twenty-four.ā
You can never fully defeat a human spirit if it wants to keep going. If something truly wants then it will want forever. I feel this way and I know many others do too. The day I’m torn into a million pieces and buried spurs only new plans of attack. What’s left me will chase you down forever, and that scares people. I remember this monologue of mine and recite it whenever someone cuts me in line at those shitty ghetto Walmart’s.
It’s okay that we are different because once you finally interlock perfectly with someone who understands things the same way you do, you’re capable of many things. We are constantly aware of the divide. There’s not a single moment that it doesn’t bury itself into how we view a person, even more so in women. We watch and wait, preying upon body language and subtle remarks. Truth in jest, awkward giggling, a couple attempts to move closer. We watch and wait and watch. The number of thoughts that take flight when a woman compliments you on something you’d just noticed about yourself. The way her perfume smells, half-hoping it’s the kind that emanates through sweat born of nervousness, because once you start dating for too long, it’ll likely retreat. It was fun while it lasted. It was more like a novel than fun actually, because we put a lot into it for the time we had. The new divide makes it horribly apparent that everything is over. She was thinking indie pop when you were thinking indie rock. She was thinking Thai when you were thinking Chinese. She was thinking about a future together when you were thinking about her ass in a sundress. Always just a fraction of a hair away, not much in the larger picture, but still not perfectly aligned. Maybe you don’t want 103 HARASSMENT ARCHITECTURE to perfectly align. Maybe you don’t want to be intertwined soulmates. Maybe you are a Disraeli of the soul. Maybe you wish to come home and fall into the lap of some semi-maternal figure. Maybe you want nothing, forever.
DC is a fucking graveyard. DC is dry like the wombs of its women in politics.
I don’t drink alcohol. I think it’s on par with owning a cable subscription, playing excessive video games, and smoking weed in terms of being a trampled-on doofus. Drinking rarely makes a person more interesting. Very few cases exist, Hunter S. Thompson being one of them. I don’t drink alcohol. Have I drank before? Yeah, here and there, usually to fit in. Never to excess. Always to maintain a social standing. Did I like it? Not at all. It’s disgusting, suppressive to the edge that I am constantly trying to sharpen. It also kills the liver. And the spirit of man. Alcohol is bad for you in almost every aspect imaginable. But if you’re like those other faggots who have to watch four hours of cable television every night, it’s probably just for you. Go belly up, loser.
Conversation is an important thing. Soon it’ll be the most important thing. The days are coming when all we have are words to remember a time when Sweden was Sweden, when France was France, when Europe was actually Europe. We’re being robbed of everything to prove those claims. Monuments, culture, archives, human beings, they will all be quickly erased. But what we do have is our word. We have the ability to carry on, at the very least, a memory of the world before it was thrown into the furnaces. All we have left is conversation. Just pray nobody misremembers the words you choose.
“I’m a man of work, I’ve got no time for vanity. The second I stop to think too deeply about my appearance is the second I lose focus on my builds. There’s nothing I hold in higher regard than putting work before oneself.ā
It’s one of those of ‘good feelings’, one that grows within you over time. This is one step towards combatting the usual resting heart rate of panic, that dependence on dopamine through internet numbers, that degree of separation.
Deleting social media leaves me with a feeling of disconnection to the outside world. It’s one of those of ‘good feelings’, one that grows within you over time. This is one step towards combatting the usual resting heart rate of panic, that dependence on dopamine through internet numbers, that degree of separation from mother nature. And a mother she truly is.
I am the aesthete and the ethicist. I am the alpha and the omega. I am war and peace. I am ying and yang. I am calling girls fat on the internet.
Sit down for a second and imagine the direction of the world below our feet. Do you feel it pointing more and more downward as time goes on? Do you feel the downward pointed Earth? Do you feel the fog reaching its highest tide? Do you feel the ground rumble like war has come, but look outside and see only chemically abused and tired death walkers?I feel it. And I feel it. And I see it. And I see it. Do you believe it? Do you believe it? It’s simple. Past a certain point, art has never gotten better. Literature has never gotten better. Culture has never gotten better. Government has never gotten better. Past a certain point, life stopped getting better. Oh, but you have an electronic phone watch. Oh, but you have a robot that answers questions on command. Oh, but you have applications to help you sleep with more strangers and applications to deliver your food. Oh, but we have things we didn’t before so the Earth must be pointed upwards after all. Over the next half-century you will see, even more clearly than now, how downwards the Earth truly points. You will see how everything in museums is everything you have seen for decades prior. You will see that everything to be used as source material is everything you have used before. You will see that new advice is 125 HARASSMENT ARCHITECTURE never made because the old advice knew best. The Earth tilts downwards until we all come sliding, crashing into the bow.
As of late, I’ve been writing down things said by both myself and others around me. The criteria is simply this: it must be worth writing down. “I’m on a juice cleanse, you shitty faggot.” Random girl, upon being offered an apple fritter. “I can’t stop jerking off dude. Seriously. It’s like every time I think I got it under control, there’s something that sets me off. Seriously dude, like it could be anything. Yesterday I was four days 126 MIKE MA clean and I saw some girl’s thighs in a YouTube thumbnail. Next thing I know I’m searching for chubby girl porn.” College kid sitting with friend, waiting for his ride. “Can you check out this girl’s Insta page for me? She wants to meet up later and I think she might have a dick, but I’m not sure. You can’t even tell anymore, man.” Two guys sharing a drink in a bar, mid-day. “How about a slut holocaust? No really, why not right? I’ll wait for an argument.” Not myself, not recently. “I got raped at a Farmer’s Market once and haven’t been able to look at produce since.” Girl, in line at a Food Lion. “The only thing standing between me and starting a fatty holocaust is the locked doors of every Pepsi Co. bottling warehouse. Seriously, who drinks Pepsi nowadays besidesstraight up fatasses? Nobody drinks Pepsi dude. Let’s just poison it and watch all the right people die off.” Not myself; not ever. “The next person who asks me if I heard the new Drake single is getting their knees shot at long-distance with my Red Ryder.” Middle School-aged teen, Bass Pro Shops. “I’m the king of Fortnite, bitch ass nigga. Oh let me see the homework, by the way. Need to copy that shit, baby.” “This would be like the first assignment you’ve done in weeks. Why start now?” 127 HARASSMENT ARCHITECTURE “Have you seen how much gaming streamers make, dude? Fuck you, I don’t need the homework actually. Bitch ass nigga.” Two college students, school library. The one saying “nigga” is a scrawny hispanic kid in fake Supreme. “My DNA test says my family mostly came from the Irish Coast.” “You mean Ivory Coast?” “No Irish Coast, it had the Irish flag.” Different people (girls), same library. “I feel like getting raped isn’t even that bad.” Also that same library. “I didn’t go to work for a month. I didn’t leave my bed for eight days straight. I haven’t hung out with anyone ā if I did, I’d have nothing to say. I didn’t feel angry or depressed. I didn’t feel anything at all.” Modest Mouse, the band. “Okay, Crunchwrap Supreme meal and what to drink?” “Uhh, can I get, uhh… Mountain Dew Banjo Blast.” “Baja Blast?” “Yeah, Banjo Blast please.” Guy in front of me, Taco Bell drive-thru. 128 MIKE MA “The poor get poorer, and uglier too, and gayer, bitch. Keep eating those fuckin’ asteroid nuggets because they look easy to cook. You and your kids are gonna be chemically gay in like two to three years max. Fucking nā” Not myself, not at the black woman who cart-checked me in Harris Teeter. “Why’s his dick so tiny? It sucks because his body is so good too.” “Emily shut the fuck up, you virgin ass bitch. You have the vaginal depth of a field mouse. If anything, he’d probably leave you on crutches. Might just be a grower.” “You’re such a bitch when you drink.” Some college girls, getting stealth-drunk at the museum, staring at David. “I had no idea the Halo book series was actually good. I don’t even care if anyone thinks I’m gay or autistic, shit rocks.” Someone who tied his New Balances
Sit down for a second and imagine the direction of the world below our feet. Do you feel it pointing more and more downward as time goes on? Do you feel the downward pointed Earth? Do you feel the fog reaching its highest tide? Do you feel the ground rumble like war has come, but look outside and see only chemically abused and tired death walkers?I feel it. And I feel it. And I see it. And I see it. Do you believe it? Do you believe it? It’s simple. Past a certain point, art has never gotten better. Literature has never gotten better. Culture has never gotten better. Government has never gotten better. Past a certain point, life stopped getting better. Oh, but you have an electronic phone watch. Oh, but you have a robot that answers questions on command. Oh, but you have applications to help you sleep with more strangers and applications to deliver your food. Oh, but we have things we didn’t before so the Earth must be pointed upwards after all. Over the next half-century you will see, even more clearly than now, how downwards the Earth truly points. You will see how everything in museums is everything you have seen for decades prior. You will see that everything to be used as source material is everything you have used before. You will see that new advice is never made because the old advice knew best. The Earth tilts downwards
At the end of it all, in those darkest of day, smiles man atop the mountain debris. He can see the many stars, smell the coming wind, only now does he know that he’s free.
I’m listening to Wagner’s TannhƤuser with the windows down, mostly because I want the people at this red light to think I’m a cultured guy.
I feel like I am dead. Dead, roaming but not rotting, among this downward pointed Earth. I’m bound by zero consequence, terrified for everyone around me. I’m not worried for myself though, because I’m quickly accepting that whatever happens to me, however bad it may be, is supposed to happen. Admittedly, this is due to some light spiritual reading I’ve done as of late. Parts of the genre are wise, other parts are horseshit. I’ve only lightly sprinkled that new knowledge into my grander worldview.
Do not worry, the whole story isn’t like this. I won’t continue to narrate completely standard days. It gets better, you son of a bitch. I hope at least a few of these words make you want a long walk. Or a cigarette outside. Maybe you’ll start a farm on mortgaged land.
It’s hard to take someone seriously when they’ve become fanatical over something truly undeserving. You’re crying about a cable show? You still watch shows? You still have cable? How fucking dull. Pick something with more merit. Maybe get sickly attached to New Order or emotionally handcuff yourself to a death cult in the middle of Iowa. For bonus points, pick something from actual obscurity ā and no, not Bauhaus. “Cum is God,” also known as “pay attention to me, I’m a different kind of slut”.
She wouldn’t be bad looking if she wasn’t so bad looking. I have no interest in this 5'5 dead end and so I excuse myself again, this time outside. I can see my car down the road and it’s calling me to drive home. I do.
It’s another day and I’m in New York City for work. This place is the type of shithole that would frustrate me into an early grave granted I couldn’t find the words to describe it.
It’s our recollection of “back then,” and you couldn’t change it even if you tried. People do try, all the time. Bitter children of the true 90s always twitching to correct the vision, like schoolmarms or war veterans or something. They never win. Our vision, not theirs.
Whether or not any of what! said is true is irrelevant, because it’s our vision, and so it becomes true. It’s our recollection of “back then,” and you couldn’t change it even if you tried. People do try, all the time. Bitter children of the true 90s always twitching to correct the vision, like schoolmarms or war veterans or something. They never win. Our vision, not theirs. We’ll push on, tying flannels around our waists, ripping holes into pairs of ill-fitting jeans. We’ll knock things down in the mall and listen to the new Smashing Pumpkins record in someone’s father’s car. Our parents will shoot us looks of disgust when we come home for dinner, smelling faintly of cigarettes and fast food. We’ll sleep like angels to the sound of leaves blowing down crimefree suburban streets. There’s nothing that can touch us; we live our lives like an old Disney Channel movie. Not even Columbine could happen here. We’ll make out in public parks, steal some candy bars, and run like someone actually cares. We’ll skate past the girls tanning on the beach. Our hair styled perfectly by saltwater and sun. Blonde and brown bangs in our eyes. Bodies chiseled from marble, a result of paddling out into head-high waves and pushing steel around after school. Sun children with sun skin from sun worship, skin dear from the same. It’s like this forever because those visions replay. Well graduate high school, go to university, and marry super pretty girls. We’ll try drugs, and experience those Lifetime movie hardships. Some of us won’t stop trying drugs and die in gas stations like pathetic deadbeats. Those people simply dissolve from the vision. The rest of us die of old age, some with grandchildren who ask us about what the 1990s were like. Some with grandchildren that know we’re excited to tell them.
I’m not disinterested by her, I’m just recovering from a rich daydream of another life. The more she goes on, the deeper I fall into my own liquid images, more so than usual. This fantasy is fermented; it digests slowly and without any strain on the system. You look forward to it throughout not just days, but an entire lifetime. It’s a dessert, dense in both texture and nutrition. A lot of my recent daydreams have felt like this. Anything can make you feel full, but few things can fill you without regret.
There’s something sinister about New York City that I’ve never felt in any other place on Earth. It goes beyond the resting heart rate of panic, and beyond the general disgust. New York City reeks of more than just hot homeless garbage piss ā it reeks of guilt and fear and so much else. It’s a city that dove too deeply, too quickly into the world of technology and the idea of a melting pot, then realized how empty that future felt. Occasionally, they’ll try to claw their way back to former days, but can only poorly mimic them. Burger shacks that rely solely on iPads as cash registers, that cook their food using intentionally-dated stoves and tools. Manic NYU students in ugly H&M sweatpants, staring into their twenty-dollar minimalist salads, sitting uncomfortably at rustic wood tables (artificially banged up by crafty Chinatown merchants). Every new dent is another twenty-five dollars onto the asking price. Not a single smoothie shop CEO bothers to argue. They love the look and even write pridefully about it in their Moleskine day journals. What fucking faggots. A city of queers buying anything that looks like it came from a tree because they haven’t actually seen one in a lifetime. Did you know the trees in Central Park are made of ultradense recycled plastics? That’s why they don’t break, even when some sand creature sets off explosives on passing joggers.
Romanticism isn’t buying flowers for your girlfriend. Romanticism is buying flowers for your girlfriends. Romanticism is your wife admitting to you the rapist roleplay she’s been so eager to try. Romanticism is a gunshot victim dabbing his fingers into the wound, painting stripes on his face before the medics arrive. Romanticism is hunting down local Grindr users and beating them with a phonebook or a sock full of coins. Romanticism is voluntary celibacy. Romanticism is baseball bat hate crimes. Romanticism is total debauchery or total anti-debauchery. Romanticism is sex, and sex is just a fight where you come at the end. Romanticism could be none of these things. It varies. Maybe it’s just whatever you feel it is. I realize I’m probably mouthing these words as they cross my mind because thewoman next to me is moving inch-by-inch into her husband’s lap. What’s in a name? That which we call a woman by any other name would still cause problems.
No, I’m not Thoreau; I haven’t exiled myself to a cut of barren woods and written down my findings. I’m just some son of a bitch sitting outside his home beside a beautiful piece of property. I don’t care if I’m pretentious. Everything is pretentious when everyone is a nihilist. Everything is pretentious on the downwards pointed Earth. Everyone is all rotting and talk. There’s no purity left to us here because the apathetic tailspinners have consolidated life into one big joke. Sincerity is dead or laughed at. That’s why it’s so peaceful inside the liquid dream, the thoughts that move inside me when I do. There are no twenty-something liberal arts majors to tell me that what I’m writing about comes off as hollow. They’re hollow. Their personality is the legal intellectual property of a television series. They are ugly and expendable. They are burdens hiding in clearance rack mall clothes. They are the rape of the world.
“YOU WILL NEVER GET TO SEE FIFTY FOOT STATUES OF WARLORDS AND EMPERORS OR FEEL THE TRIUMPH OF CONQUEST. YOU WILL NEVER SEE MAN LIVE AS THE ANCIENTS DREAMED HE WOULD, ALL BECAUSE A COUPLE OF RATS TUNNELED THEIR WAY INTO POSITIONS OF POWER. THEY SAID THE PAST IS WRONG. THEY SAID INVADERS SHOULD HAVE YOUR LAND. THEY SAID IT’S OKAY TO EMBRACE APATHY. YOU ARE A VICTIM OF THE TECHNOCRACY, OF AN ABUSE NAMED ‘CIVILITY’. YOU HAVE BEEN ROBBED OF A FULFILLING, EARNEST LIFE.”
It’s not so bad to be alone. We put too much energy into always seeking the presence of another. Especially men seeking women. I’d say it’s unhealthy to spend too much time with other people. It’d be trite to say I wish for a day where the world is empty and I’m the only one alive; it’d also be untrue.
Our lifetimes are akin to that feeling you get when you’re having too much fun. Too much, too good, for too long. You sense that something very bad is just around the corner. You know this because it has happened before, maybe not to you, but to relatives or someone you read about. The entire presence of industrialized man has been a violent preface to his looming and inescapable consequence. The final consequence.
It’s not so bad to be alone. We put too much energy into always seeking the presence of another. Especially men seeking women. I’d say it’s unhealthy to spend too much time with other people. It’d be trite to say I wish for a day where the world is empty and I’m the only one alive; it’d also be untrue.
We are the rapidly increasing rate of change over minimal time. We are the exponential climb towards ultradeath. It goes and it goes and it goes.
“There are women you can marry and there are women youcan’t. The ones you can’t are called `thots’ and they’ve earned thistitle after emerging as veterans from the battlefield of male attentionand casual sex.” I explain to a friend.“Thots are a commodity. They are there when you need tounload pent up testosterone and, generally, they’ll never interjectthemselves into your actual life, your actual relationships, orwhatever else. This doesn’t mean we shouldn’t have a death squadthat rounds them up for execution, it just means we should use themfor what they’re trained for until they are gone.”
Oh, I’m sure you’ve heard it so many times, but the truth of the matter is this: Not only is everyone starring in that movie inside their heads, but the movies and other inspirations behind it all continues to get worse. Maybe there was a time when the people based their personal mental movie on things of better taste and, in effect, this made them slightly better to be around. But now, at this late or otherwise stage in the lowerworld, the characters have all become so lame. It ranges from bad to worse, from the people who parrot Disney Channel conversation fragments to the faggots firing off Reddit lingo and dork-film mannerisms, from worse to horrible. Frat-flick mimickers, reality television nightmare sluts, action film philosophers, the drooling masses who dream of their sci-fi superhero of the galaxy moment. I understand their need for synthetic ‘motivation’, that tiny artificial something to help them mold a sort of identity, but what we see now is just plain bad. I wish I could say that people were playing out bastardized versions of their favorite ultra-wild superhero movie characters, but we don’t even get that.
The people you walk by every day are computer generated images. They are digitized fill-ins, computer bodies delivering lines to fill the empty space. Where there’s a gap, there may bea guy in superhero fan gear. Where there’s some room, you could find a sassy black college girl and her gay Latino friend with green hair. Maybe you yourself are generated by computers to fill the void.
Yeah, you are in that movie in your head, but it fucking sucks and it’ll never end. We’re all here. The casting director blew it. There is no walking away from the explosion scene. There is no tear MIKE MA jerking redemption scene. There is no ‘all was lost but now it’s found’ scene. There isn’t even an end ā the director probably left.
People say “damned if you do, damned if you don’t” about a fair share of things. It makes a kind of larger sense here. You’ll always have nails driven through your hands and feet. You’ll always wear the crown of thorns. You’ll always get made fun of by someone on the internet.
There’s a striking amount of people who don’t understand the science behind thick girls. Fat is fat, we know this. But thick falls within very fine lines. It’s a product of pure nature, a glimpse of Eden, the sacrosanct in symphony. When all is in order, the connoisseur could weep.
Did you know the CIA put anime into black communities nationwide? Undoubtedly their largest psychological operation to date, followed by the introduction of crack-cocaine and World Star Hip Hop. All of these factors combined leaves us with what we see today. Fatherless black males, dressed in Naruto costumes, stealing and destroying things in various chain stores/fast food locations. Yes, this is a form of acceleration.
God sits above and mourns the construction of yet another strip mall. It’s true, I’ve seen and felt him do so. God to me sometimes feels like a close and personal friend, and he looks constantly disappointed, even in me. He mourns the destruction of his lush and hungry forests for GameStop number seven thousand and Chinese buffet number whatever. Those responsible for decisions like these will pay dearly for this level of sin; you’d have to be a fucking idiot to think you escape free of punishment. All this “honest work” kills beauty in man too. It forces men into poor diet, poor choices, poor paths outside the workplace. Everything in life for them, whether they chose so or not, must revolve around their “honest work”. No time to research, pick, and cook a proper meal so I have chips and soda again. No time to work out, to worship the sun in peace, to study so I watch television and jerk off in-between beers again. No time to even so much as consider another way of life so I hammer nails into useless thing for useless people in useless place again. You are being scammed, robbed.
Quit your job and rob the world blind, legally if you can manage it. Honest work here today, in this lower kind of world, is a spook. Complete illusion. You aren’t a better person for making money in a “respectable” fashion ā you are handicapped and lying to yourself. Honest work is a confused and pointless shot in the foot. You’ll limp home every day for the rest of your life. Quit your job and sit in the sun every day. Quit your job and run away into the woods forever. Quit your job and shoot a politician. Escape by speedboat off the coast of Miami, hide in the tropics somewhere. Do it again there, speedboat even farther south. Kill your miser boss and his miser boss and escape using one of their private jets. Go to the marina at night with twenty-five friends and steal every yacht you can. Sail as a fleet, down into the southern world, and conquer small towns. Kill yourself if it doesn’t work out. Fly to East Europe and die in war. Or just keep making department stores until you rot away, maybe have a couple beers and play a little golf in-between.
As of 2015, rates of depression have gone up by almost 20% globally. That’s 322 million people affected worldwide; lots of damaged souls. These are of course only the cases we know about, meaning that there are millions or however many more who haven’t been diagnosed or, in the spirit of their depression, haven’t told anyone their troubles. What makes us hurt? What dampens the complex human soul? I say we do. I wholeheartedly believe that the most damaging blow to the human race is disappearing beauty. Our drill sergeants were right ā shit rolls downhill, and fast. Bad mood equals bad outcomes, bad outcomes equals more bad moods, and it tailspins like this forever. Are we not here? Are we not experiencing this due to the ugly? Rising levels of obesity. People mangled by the many toxins in food and water. People devoured by absurdity, by the downward pointed Earth. Hollowed out by prescription medications, birth control, alcohol, synthetic drugs. Clothes getting uglier and more ill fitting. Art is rarely inspiring, always more abstract, always harder to look at. Forget arguing about whether we’ve lost sight of what’s right and wrong ā we’ve lost sight of what’s beautiful and what’s not.
Anti-beauty, the ugly, the unaesthetic is a mental and visual depressant, eye and mind poison. Modern life is surviving government-funded psychological warfare. When you are down, you are submissive. You have to wake up every day, walk six blocks through miserable Manhattan, talk to miserable people in your miserable cubicles, in-between making miserable spreadsheets in miserable clothes, and every night sleep with miserable thoughts. Should you expect anything but a miserable existence? What if everything looked better? Everything looked better to inspire more creations of beauty, which in turn inspired everyone else to treat beautiful things better. What if everything the eyes may cross was captivating. Large and powerful testaments to the man you should be, the culture you should create, the land you must protect. Surrounding you are constant reminders that you carry the blood of emperors, of struggle and conquest, of former beauty and the squashing of former ugly. You are made of what kills the unappealing.
Sometimes you feel it when you witness a bloody car accident, or stumble across the scene of a shooting. Sometimes you feel it when you’re simply having a good day. It comes via endless routes, but fleetingly so. Most can never hold onto it. The feeling of exiting normalcy, the feeling of purpose, will almost always slip away. Not for me though.Now, imagine how I feel after having declared war on the world itself. Even more so, winning the war. Am I though? Do you share this swelling inside my chest? Maybe you do, but only for a moment. Mine? Not even a stir. From this day on, it never leaves these callused hands. I am tired and broken but never ready to let the chaos centrifuge run home.
I see demons in the artificial. I see demons in alcohol. I see demons in fluorescent lights. I see demons in doctors, scientists, dealers of data. I see demons in agriculture. I see demons in cars. I see demons in activism. I see demons in most women.I see God in raw meat. I see God in rare meat. I see God when I bathe in the sun. I see God in low blood sugar. I see God in pine trees. I see God in most all trees. I see God in a few good men. I see God when I breathe the right way. I see God when I stand up straight. I see God during fasts. I saw God and he told me to burn it all down. I saw a boy and his father on the sidewalk today. They walked like they had somewhere to be. Then the sky crashed down ā all of it, everywhere. It was loud and covered all you could see. That boy ā he squealed, he giggled, he danced. To the ears did his smile extend. He wasn’t happy ‘cause his school would be canceled today, he was thrilled because the world may just end.
GOTHIC VIOLENCE
Emerging from the literary depths, following the consuming voyage through “Harassment Architecture,” I eagerly embarked upon the haunting terrain of “Gothic Violence.” In this eagerly awaited sequel, my anticipation was richly rewarded, for within its pages lie potent and evocative fragments of prose that reverberate with profound resonance. While the quantity may be lesser than its predecessor, the impact remains undiminished, as the narrative unfurls with a potent force, relentlessly piercing the reader’s consciousness.
With trepidation and fascination entwined, I present to you a curated selection of these profound quotationsāa glimpse into the darkened recesses of the human psyche that resound with a disquieting elegance. Brace yourself as you navigate the realms of shadow and light, surrendering to the intoxicating allure of this literary endeavor that defies categorization. “Gothic Violence” may present a different narrative, but fear not, for its incisive incantations penetrate just as deep, leaving an indelible mark upon the reader’s soul.
At the break of six in the morning I’m awoken by a woman wrapped in black wool and living ivy. Her eyes are violent and her breath is heavy with wine. She lays across the length of a velvet corner lounge and cackles towards the foot of my bed. With everything plugged-in and running, we use pre-loaded peer-to-peer programs to pull every ten zombie computers back to one primary computer. That makes one hundred and sixty primaries, all of which control the ten lowers they are assigned to. The day begins again for a second time.
On each device, we fire up a number of programs. First, a batch program that mimics the activity of your typical internet user while running an ad program. This program clicks every single ad it sees, at rapid speed in this case, and each click costs the company money with zero return on investment. Not a single new customer, just a bill paid for space used and what’s counted as engagement. This alone, across the sixteen hundred devices, will cause an estimated dent of two million dollars per day, spanning over all involved businesses. After this, we start another program that automates the creation of free storage accounts and then fills the maximum allowed space with documents tided in federally-observed keywords. Inside, the documents contain nothing but innocuous baking recipes. It’s capable of making and filling both accounts every thirty seconds. On top of this, the contents of each account are then sent to every email on a list of over three point four million “subscribers”, as pulled from public company registries. CEOs, lawyers, real estate agents, financiers, stock brokers, landlords, intellectuals, professors, branch managers, et cetera. The subject line of each is also padded with watchlist keywords but contain none of the actual contraband. Whether it’s opened or not, the sheer number of notifications handed out becomes a rattling experience. If, for some reason, the recipient chooses to open it, the contents trigger a shutdown sequence on each of the various operating systems phones, computers, and tablets. Because this is done through a text code error, it falls into the “technically legal” category. The devices will, on average, take five to ten minutes to fully reboot. When they do, there’s a fifty percent chance that it reboots to the same screen it last showed, causing another shutdown sequence. Again, not illegal. This can brick the device until it must be physically reset by customer service. Much like the aforementioned, another program accomplishes the same task in terms of making and filling storage accounts, but this time loads them with cryptographic, information-dense photos at the highest possible resolution. These too are titled with more trigger words and each is entirely different, generated by a photoshop action with shifting parameters. Also loaded into these is the near-exact scan of a hundred dollar bill most often used by top counterfeiters, though the portrait is replaced with someone smiling in corpse paint. These too are emailed en-masse to the subscriber list. These two create-and-load programs, operating in their most efficient form, launch nearly two million new accounts per day. Because it’s all automated, nobody has to be in the facility for any of this to work. This is true efficiency. Behind all of the main programs is one that correctly automates the work required for those numerous pay-to-survey gift card sites. In theory, it could make up to ten thousand dollars an hour in various payouts. Most of the proceeds go immediately back into the machine. For us, this means more computers, faster internet, increased security. A faster killswitch as well. The remainder is used to pump carefully selected enemy companies and trade options across various platforms. Massive buy orders for shares in devious organizations like meat replacement companies, biotech research facilities, and metal miners. Another program, aptly named Patel One, uses a scattering of convincing but pre-recorded customer service calls from large companies in automated mass-calls made free though shell call-forwarding accounts. “Hello, who am I speaking with? Hi, yes. I’m with so-and-so service provider calling to inform you that we’ve charged your card on file with a minor hundred dollar fee for services rendered. You should see it on your next statement.”
‘When the call-taker inevitably lashes out or questions the charges, the recording waits a moment then replies with something along the lines of: ‘We understand your frustration but this is not the correct department for disputed charges. I will forward you to such.”
The line rings for a tone or two then connects to the actual customer service line of the company in question. Whatever happens from here forward is simply bonus points. The program ensures that the call-taker is a customer of said company by way of various public registries. Other unrelated sub-programs and projects include one that has our devices mass-download underplayed free games to dethrone actual top picks. One that simply overloads smaller websites with innocent mass-visitors to crash it, one that uses the previously mentioned storage accounts to comment single sentence anti-government sentiments on every trending video, one that uses every attached computer to vote said comments to the top of the page, one that brute-forces millions of generic follow-bot accounts and unfollows everyone it once followed, one that uses light funds to put inflammatory location filters in major cities, one that asks random companies for free samples, one that fills top multiplayer mobile games with bots to intentionally lose matches, one that changes dates by a single day in Wikipedia articles, one that directs thousands of physical spam letters to a special-ed camp near Monmouth University, one that ships pallets of free LISPS boxes to UPS, one that schedules appointments at primary care offices but never shows up, one that leaks paid internet whore content across thousands of forums and websites, one that finds algorithms on social sites and works in direct opposition to them, one that mines cryptocurrencies with free energy, one that scatters credible threats in slant anagrams. The list goes on.
All of these are surmounted by Mother Magda, our master stroke program. Using all of the above programs and the millions of data points they collect, we are able to predict huge leaps and dives in specific corners of the stock market. A thousand profit in options placed on SPY here, nine thousand profit on a low weed start-up there. It’s so close to insider trading that it’s not. Either way, the money is laundered squeaky clean through your typical routes. Whatever money we can’t get through the pipeline is cleaned by way of an in-house, undisclosed Chinese wholesale arbitrage system. The profits made here are almost exclusively used to keep a crooked and pricey legal team on retainer. We are talking about my lawyer’s lawyer and his entire staff. All extra cash, and there tends to be plenty, is pocketed by everyone involved for personal use. Men have to live, have to eat well, have to stay armed.
The entire facility is disguised as a generic heating and cooling repair shop. Everything inside is attached to a killswitch for the unlikely moment it gets raided by police. All you have to do is call the suicide hotline on the big green phone.
It comes to mind that every human may be capable, extremely capable, and that’s why it hurts to see the many fall short of even average. Capable of what though? Of altering the course of human history for the better? Dramatically said, but yes. Even if the majority of common men were to maintain livestock and know a fraction of something like carpentry, would that not raise the value of commonality? Maybe common would become less of an insult and more of a compliment. Perhaps it would create a world where people always said things like “Thank God for the common man.” And by that, those common men became necessary for good.
Instead, we see that the common man of today is largely expendable, and many times by no fault of his own. He’s masterfully tricked to sit comfortably below the average. He was replaced by the gargoylic claw of the abstract global economy. Cheaper and more nameless labor, a life focused around work, billion dollar smart technology that requires constant human maintenance. If only we had elected an Amish president prior to the Industrial Revolution, I think we may have made it out of the trench.
The world is bountiful and full of solutions that grow on trees or spring up from the dirt. The blueprint was always in our hands. Meeting people who refuse this or ignore the qualities of nature ends in worry. One day I will meet a woman who looks to me as the world does, so constantly impressive in its beauty. A regenerative source of good in every aspect. A woman dancing like the moon on her own lake.
All that defies natural order stands on weak fooling. Either kick the legs out or apply additional pressure. Never in the history of time has an artificial system rivaled the original blueprint, and none ever will.
It feels good to cut firewood and cook your dinner with it. It feels good to run around a field with no roads or power lines in sight. It feels good to tend to goats, and cows, and hens. It feels good to lay in the sun for hours. It feels good to eat when you’re hungry, drink when you’re thirsty, sleep when you’re tired. It feels good to know that your work provides for yourself and your family, not for a faceless organization. These are practices we cannot afford to abandon. Traditional life is heralded not because it is fashionable, but because it works. It is a framework from which all creative and heroic endeavors might spring.
Science and medicine are simpler and more intuitive than we are taught by the powers that be. They overcomplicate and mythologize both so that they are seen as out-of-reach and therefore remain profitable, protected sectors. No sane population would ever trust the purported labcoats of our time. All of their “knowledge” is a scattering of words blindly memorized from a couple books over the course of ten years in school. These are not serious people, but midwits squirting food coloring into beakers or telling people that a cough is fixed with antibiotics. Medical and scientific authority is earned by action and innovation, not by looking at flash cards for a decade. We learn through experimentation, not by sitting through eternal lectures.
Imagine that I’m a baby about eight months into development and for some reason I’ve gained the ability to hear and understand English. I was listening intently for months and somehow figure it out, you know? Anyways, I’m listening and my mom is talking to some doctor about the ways to go about a very late term abortion. It’s an entire production and eventually she and the doctor agree on a date to pull my plug. I have some time to prepare.
I start filing all of my little fingernails into jagged razors. Teeth too, just in case. 1 get a little bored and start filing my toe nails with `cm. It’s a hard task, as everything is very tiny. The abortion day finally arrives. My baby heart is racing. I feel the chill those patient rooms always have. Three, two, one. Like some kind of machine gun I start prison-shivving the inside of my whore mother. I’m hitting anything I can reach, piercing holes like you wouldn’t believe. She’s screaming and the doctor has absolutely no idea what’s going on. I’m blinded by the light of the holes I’ve made. I’m hanging halfway out, grunting, kicking, and stabbing. Fluid going everywhere, sounds like someone is drowning me. The doctor tries to pin me but I cut his wrists and fingers up.
“Draw thy tools. My naked weapon is out!” I shout as more lab coats file in. None respond, only stand in fear. “I said draw thy tools!”
In real life, I wait for women outside the local abortion clinic and shoot them in the parking lot. If I know which car is theirs, I’ll save some trouble and cut their brake lines.
PROCESSIONS OF THE LOST AVALON Almost all extended contact with the normal world now ends in some grand unveiling of how strange you and your choices are. It’s usually avoided when the contact is brief, like ringing up at a store, but anything beyond that may become an embarrassing curtain-pulling ceremony. What do you mean you drink your milk raw? What do you mean you didn’t go to college? What do you mean you haven’t had a job in seven years and you were able to buy land in the middle of nowhere? What do you mean you have eight wives and stare at the sun? If you truly want to make it, you have to go fully into the void. You need to accept that you may not come out the other side. You have to walk so far and so confidently that not a measure could be half. It’s not unlike jumping ship in the middle of the night. You’re diving with empty hands into a dark ocean where you can either sink or swim. You have to make yourself so foreign to the normal world that you’d be a spectacle upon return. Have you heard of that man who was gone for years? He reappeared one day, at the grocery store, in deerskin armor and dried blood. That’s you. Your hair is long and sun-kissed, your eyes are jagged glass refractors, and you smell like a man who’s nearly died but never has. Carts and feet shuffle backwards as you enter. The intercom music hurts your ears. You howl at the burn of florescent lights and leave. It’s another seven years before anyone sees you again. The gap between you and the average man widens. You’ve only come to claim warbrides. If you are instilled with the hatred of wage labor, you and you alone must go so far into the wild that you could never possibly return. Rarely can anyone else do this for you. Maybe you’re lucky enough to get stolen by a pack of wolves. Unlikely though. The middle world sees every outcast as self-exiled. They like to think that every outcast is doing it on purpose, that he needs attention or otherwise. Never a consideration that he was born to be on the outside. Then, when the outcast climbs to the top through outside means, they throw rocks at his feet and shout insults. How dare a man exist outside the system and win. How dare he find different ways to meet better ends. This too is an exile. The cashier race and their boundaries of what’s acceptable are a pitfall for many. No ancient hero, or his soldiers, listened to what the cubicle kind had to say. The pencil pushers and paper shufflers of this world are doomed to remain as such, pressing buttons and passing ill judgement. Pay no mind until it’s time to kill or enslave them.
Don’t get me wrong, it is entirely possible because love is real, but you should examine it thoroughly. There are criteria that reveal women who are suited for marriage. It’s hard to go wrong with a young homeschooled virgin, raised by two parents. No debt, no tattoos, waiting for marriage to leave home. No strange hair dye, no strange clothes, no racy photos or online presence. Reject the bullshit opinions you’ll hear when you say you prefer these things. Reject the excuses you’ll hear from women about why they have those tattoos, why they had sex before marriage, why they thought it was a good idea to move out and go to college. Accept no substitute for the real thing: a woman of actual value. Avoid whores like the plague, a phrase I will use even though viruses are not contagious, but the self-generated cleansing solution to a weak body. If this all sounds hateful to you, you’re due for a natural awakening.