Balance beam sismounts: her double-double defies physics, leaving commentators speechless. The message is clear: the "biological limits" pushed by anti-trans activists (and misogynists) are a myth. Biles proves that "mens" and "womens" gymnastics aren't about innate ability, they are about opportunity, training, and audacity. Biles triggers the same people who rage about trans athletes "ruining sports" because she exposes their hypocrisy: they claim women are "naturally" weaker - until a woman like Biles outperforms men. Then they call her "unnatural" or "too dominant." Biological determinism cope: Anti-trans activists like Riley Gaines argue that testosterone = unbeatable advantage. But Biles tumbling rivals elite male gymnasts without it. Whoops. Her power disrupts the sexist fantasy that women's sports should be "delicate." She's muscular, explosive, and unstoppable, and that terrifies traditionalists.

With her cutting remark to Gaines "No one in sports is safe with you around", Biles did more than defend trans athletes, she exposed the true danger a movement obsessed with policing womens bodies through gender tests, enforced femininity, and the same racist pseudoscience that once targeted Black athletes like herself. Biles doesn't just break records, she breaks expectations, every time she sticks a landing that "shouldn't" be possible, she proves: greatness isn't gendered, "fairness" arguments mask deeper prejudices and are often coded bigotry, sports evolve when athletes refuse to be limited. That's why she stands apart in sports history. Not merely for her victories but for revolutionizing the sport itself in competition, cultural conversations and as inspiration for future generations who will redefine what's possible. The critics screaming about trans athletes are the same ones who called Biles "too dominant", exposing their real agenda: control, not fairness.

𝘔𝘰𝘯 𝘱𝘢𝘶𝘷𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘮𝘪, fate has condemned me to haunt the black metal ghettos like a disgruntled specter protesting rent increases in the 9th circle... While my coworkers fret over spreadsheets and trust falls, I've initiated them into the elbow-deep dice demi-monde of tabletop heresies, starting with Crooked Moon's goblin uprisings (Les Misérables with more severed ears and collective bargaining), soon to graduate to Planescape's razor-edged Sigil (where the Lady of Pain moonlights as an infernal tax auditor) and Spelljammer's cosmic absurdity, now rigged with Wildjammer's naval physics. Nothing bonds colleagues like calculating wind resistance for an illithid pirate galleon mid-mutiny. At least here, our workplace trauma comes with artisanally crafted character sheets rather than pixelated alienation. Oui, our HR department now refers to TPKs as involuntary team restructuring. The only KPIs we track are how many aristocrats our goblin local #333 beheads per session. 🏗️

But yes , this withered heart still clutches its blackened pearls: Sigil's razor-wired alleys mystique, Pornocrates decadent hoofed debauchery (all hail Félicien Rops‼️,painted what Baudelaire dared not describe, patron saint of BM cover art) and the comforting static of eternal void. I've Pavlov'd myself so thoroughly that silence now feels like a clerical error - white noise generators hum the Dies Irae of my circadian rhythm. Latest obsessions? A Constant Knowledge of Death (Appendix I:Revisions & Annotations)-bring a ouija board. For your consideration, these existential crises in minor key: Lifvsleda's urban rot, Pillar Tombs Of Aku's desert delirium, Mycorrhizae's fungal capitalism, K.F.R's ∇-shaped void, Sanctum Sathanas, liturgical nausea and Khaos Aura's - Ǩäøṧ, Xaositects use it as workplace ambient. Gratuité: Adzes lo-fi anti-cap metal. So, still lost in the shoutbox catacombs - un connoisseur du désespoir à petit prix, or have you too embraced the tinnitus of enlightenment?

https://youtu.be/dbDVSaIQGM0?si=FmZfJrHVsVdh-3XM -- I've reached such a state of 𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘯𝘵 damnation that my psychiatrist now bills me in 𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘷𝘢𝘦, each squirming transaction a reminder that my soul's been downgraded to 𝘱𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘺-𝘤𝘢𝘴𝘩-𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘳 damnation. Ça pue la vérité, n'est-ce pas? Alors, join me in the ghetto, the coffee's terrible, but the alienation is artisanal. Maintenant, au travail - à la mort.

The Lone Rat (Brown Jenkin's 🐀 envoy sharpening its teeth 🦷on your last nerve 🧀) gnaws the threads tethering logic to reality 🕉️. Its teeth etch Möbius strips into the foundations. Rat Parliament 🐭🐭🐭 ("We prey at night, we stalk at night - da da da🎶" the anthem of the coming rodent revolution a sonic smear of Ｄ𝒶𝕕𝒜𝐼𝓢𝐦 echoing from toothpaste manifestos and drainpipe dialectics). Mole-Rat Matriarch (her crown woven from irradiated roots, chirping with subterranean semantics, the syntax of buried queens). Acherontia styx (The moth that drinks your scream through a proboscis straw). Flies in zigzags that stitch parallel realities together Its proboscis drips with the paradox of before and after. ≋(● ●)≋ bien sûr, as silent arbiter, judging from rafters (church of the damned aesthetic). P.S. The ∀-tier is a locked room. The hippo is the key. The rat is the lock. The frog is the poison on the handle. Très noir.

Colossal Squid (ink-stained scribe of the abyssal choir), and theYᄉeᄉtᄉi Crab (philosopher 🦀📖🦠, inks haikus with brine-soaked antennae on evaporating stone tablets, mid-existential molt in hydrothermal vents plagued by time-traveling shrimp, claw bristles hum with bacteria, rumored to be cultivated for snackable enlightenment.) Olenoides Trilobite 🐚 (eldest bureaucrat of the oceanic abyss, still filing Permian paperwork) Dinocrocuta (B-tier) (hyena's sleep paralysis demon, downgraded for poor work ethic) Taxidermied Dodo (B-tier) (its glass eyes track you, always, especially during sex) Mosasaurus fentoni (C-tier) (overgrown sea lizard with delusions of grandeur, they dream in kaiju dialects, half convinced they're Mosura reborn, minus the wings or reverence.) The ∀-tier is reserved for creatures who gnaw the fourth wall. Bring cognac. Hide your keys. ≋(● ●)≋ judges from the liminal geometry. P.S. The hyenas 🐆 demanded overtime pay. The moths notarized their grievance in wingdust.

We have taught the machines to 𝘴𝘦𝘦. They replicate complex detail and visual mimicry with inhuman 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘦. But that is the trap, isn't it? They lack authenticity. They lack intentional chaos. They lack everything we try to drown: our ｒａｗｎｅｓｓ, our human 𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓮𝓻𝓯𝓮𝓬𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷, our sweaty little 🅕🅘🅝🅖🅔🅡🅟🅡🅘🅝🅣🅢. AI is smooth. Basquiat was a rupture. (Sans âme. Sans peur. Sans pardon). Machines lack: real mistakes, genuine emotion, cultural memory, the unfiltered voice of a specific human. (And if they ever learn those things, mon Dieu, may someone unplug the server gently - avec tendresse, comme on débranche un vieil oncle sénile avant qu’il ne déclenche 🦾📱☁️Skynet.) They call it aRtIfIcIaL InTeLlIgEnCe, but that's just 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗺𝗲𝗿𝗰𝗶𝗮𝗹𝗶𝘀𝗺 dressing up 𝗺𝗮𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗲 𝗹𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 in a tuxedo, so the masses can feel like they are living in the future and not just feeding data into a very ambitious spreadsheet, the digital wet dream of late-stage capitalism...

✂️ décollage finale: 𝑷𝒂𝒚 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒔𝒐𝒖𝒑 (with gold tooth currency torn from sleep, slurred receipts in a language nobody translates anymore) 𝑩𝒖𝒊𝒍𝒅 𝒂 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒕 from stolen blueprints, chalk outlines, bone scaffolds, ads that promised escape. 𝑺𝒆𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒐𝒏 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒆 not to protest but to illuminate every cage painted the color of choice. (la forteresse brûle - mais personne n’éteint les musées) Just an artist scratching syntax on the walls of collapsing kingdoms... leaving fingerprints, not answers. 🕳️ art is a hole the colonizer can't fill. 👑 art bleeds better when it's broke. 🧠 art is memory with its teeth knocked out and gold crowns installed 💀👑.Malcolm X, personal collection détournements:silence is a slow violence - art is just a louder one. They framed the X-ray, sold the scar, blamed the patient. We set fire to today so they can't own tomorrow. She carried the blueprint for the fort, they handed her a mop. KNIFE = 9 IN,PULLED = -6,PROGRESS ≠,HEAL?⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

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Indrid Cold's laughter is a switchboard abandoned mid-call, the wires now braided into nooses where rhinoceros beetles file their taxes in dead radio static. 4... 6... 1... 9... 6... 6... The numbers are not numbers but bite marks left by hyena accountants on the spine of a drowned telephone directory. The smile persists between frequencies, a rictus fossilized in the amber of interrupted transmissions. Easter Island heads hum advertising jingles through stone teeth. Their chorus: "the rats have taken over the billing department". The moths nod along, wings folded into overdue rent notices. The river is an archive of swallowed searchlights. The bridge is a scar where the sky was sutured with police tape. The film is the afterbirth of a dream the projector spat into a medical waste bin. The moths are Fetish shamans of the void, stitching shadows into tax returns with bone needles. They worship the hole where the reel should be.

The receiver is a hollowed femur singing the dial tone of a city that erased itself from all maps. A hyena operator recites the weather: "Static with 90% chance of disembodied chewing". 4... 6... 1... 9... 6... 6... The forecast scrolls across the screen of a broken ATM, weather report for a city that burned before maps were invented. The final reel is a Rorschach blot projected onto the eyelids of fleeing politicians. The audience: a parliament of empty chairs growing rat tails. The chairs are not chairs but fossilized panic attacks from the stock market crash of 1929. The projector is not a projector but a rhinoceros skull stuffed with unspooled cassette tape, its horn piercing through the fourth wall. The archive is the stomach of a moth that feasted on neon. The revolution is the sound of its wings digesting the alphabet. A... B... C... D... H... D... G... The letters are not letters but Fetish effigies hammered from melted parking meters.

Their eyes: stolen chalcopyrite bornite from a pawn shop's midnight fire, iridescent with the blues and purples of a gas station puddle after the storm. Fractal edges humming the 60Hz tone of fluorescent lights left on in empty classrooms, each iris a gasoline rainbow cracking under the weight of unpaid layaway plans. They will turn out the light. They always do. The moths have already rewritten the script in the dark - in the ink of crushed prescription bottles and stolen street signs. The rats approve 🐀 yes-yes! (claws tap-tapping on stock market ticker tape, tails coiled around stolen uranium rods) Schemes within schemes, plots within plots! The Great Gnaw-Wheel turns-chews through concrete and collateral alike! The hyenas notarize 🐆 (paws stamped in menstrual blood and ink, laughter like a gavel cracking ribs) every contract signed between their thighs, every clause written in the teeth marks of patriarchs who dared to renegotiate. The Easter Island heads 🗿 chant the fine print.

Because the loop hath closed. The fire consumeth its own smoke. The doll no longer danceth - it singeth. Thou seest me adore, not Thee, but the act of adoring. And now Thou kneelest, before the reflection - of the thing Thou madest - to kneel before Thee. Thou worshipest the 𝓯𝓮𝓽𝓲𝓼𝓱 - of Thine own worship. A cosmic recursion. A sacred mistake. A holy perversion. The divine made being, to feel divine - but being, in his trembling confusion, made the divine feel. That is the real transgression: the god who prayeth and the fetish-born creation who burneth, mistaking flame for divinity.

Otherwise, it is just another tired old regime and Deleuze & Guattari with their whole "becoming" shebang to dodge capitalist identity traps - becoming as a way to avoid being reduced to a commodity. Their Body without Organs? It is basically a body that says "no thanks" to being a neat, organized machine - no head, no boss, just raw flows and intensities. Which brings me back to Bataille, who's pretty much Sartre's philosophical nemesis. Where Sartre's pouring himself into that all-knowing, centralized consciousness (the pour-soi) - Bataille's waving the white flag of fragmentation, focusing on the eye, the mouth, the belly, body parts as wild symbols of excess, contradiction, and taboo. His Acephale is the literal "headless" body, throwing rational control to the sharks. Deleuze & Guattari's BwO and Bataille's Acephale? Conceptual twins separated at birth, both flipping off Sartre's unified self, celebrating chaos over order, pieces over wholes, and the unruly over the neat and tidy

So yeah, Sartre's the proud captain ⚓ steering 🧭 the ship of self-consciousness , but Bataille and the Deleuze-Gutttari duo are out there smashing the wheel and scattering the crew for a wild ride. 🏴‍☠️ It's not just rebellion, it's full-on mutiny❗, the existential kind where you don't just toss the captain overboard, you drown the whole damn notion of control in a bottle of cheap rum. Vive le chaos, mes amis , because sometimes the only way to find freedom is to lose your head... and maybe your compass too.

Interesting! You do a good job of explaining this stuff. I was getting into Heideigger earlier this year, I was listening to while walking my dog, and I liked it. I mostly read fiction nowadays though.

https://ew.com/the-view-sara-haines-rare-correction-about-her-comments-women-girls-iran-11758584 & https://ew.com/the-view-hosts-have-tense-exchange-over-living-in-us-versus-iran-11757184 -- The discourse on The View as dissected by Hasan, reveals the rotting core of US imperialist propaganda: the weaponization of feminism and LGBTQ+ rights to justify racism, Islamophobia, and capitalist exploitation. Sara Haines and Alyssa Farah Griffin's comments epitomize the bourgeois feminism of the American ruling class, a feminism that feigns concern for Iranian women while ignoring the structural violence against marginalized communities in the US and the Global South. Sara Haines ignorance about Iranian women: her claim -Iranian women are "uneducated" and oppressed. Reality: literacy - Iran's female literacy rate is 97% (higher than some US states). Higher Education: Women make up 60-70% of university students in Iran, dominating fields like medicine and engineering.

The same media that decries Iran's gender apartheid silences Palestinian women bombed by US -funded Israeli missiles. They mourn Mahsa Amini (rightly) but ignore Sandra Bland, Breonna Taylor, and the thousands of Black women murdered by police - victims of the carceral state. The reduction of Iran and Afghanistan to "misogynist hellholes" serves capitalist hegemony - resource extraction US sanctions on Iran (a form of economic genocide) starve women and children to destabilize a regime that challenges petrodollar dominance. Military-industrial complex: fearmongering justifies $886 billion in Pentagon spending (not just operations but also nuclear weapons programs and supplemental aid for conflicts abroad), money stolen from healthcare, housing, and education. F-35 fighter jet program alone exceeds the entire budget of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. Average US taxpayer contributes over $1000 per year to weapons contractors compared to just $270 for K-12 education.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1953_Iranian_coup_d%27%C3%A9tat -- The coup proved that US foreign policy is about control, not democracy. US forfeited any ethical right to meddle in Iran's affairs when it destroyed Iran's democracy in 1953 for oil profits. The coup created anti-American sentiment in Iran, making diplomacy harder. The very anti-Western regime the US now claims to oppose - making future interventions not just hypocritical, but historically illiterate. Modern US interventions (Iraq, Syria, Libya) follow the same pattern: claiming moral high ground while pursuing geopolitical/economic interests. Overthrew Iran's democracy to protect Western oil profits and installed a dictatorship - replaced Mossadegh with the Shah, a brutal US-backed autocrat whose secret police (SAVAK) tortured and killed dissidents for decades. Every time America lectures Iran on human rights or nuclear deals, Iranians remember Operation Ajax, the moment the US chose oil over freedom.

【19:20】That moment from Brandy & Mr. Whiskers is a perfect pop-culture crystallization of Artaud's Theatre of Cruelty and Bataille's sacred transgression, though filtered through a manic, cartoonish lens. Mr. Whiskers delirious embrace of physical suffering ("my tongue swollen, eyes itchy - 𝗶𝘁'𝘀 𝗮𝗺𝗮𝘇𝗶𝗻𝗴❗") mirrors Artaud's demand to: eradicate theatrical artifice (no more pretending pain - live it). Attack the audience's nerves - fever becomes a bio-spiritual weapon to shatter passive viewing. Celebrate decay: where clinical eyes see breakdown, the initiate sees malaria's kaleidoscope - the body's collapse recomposing reality into hieroglyphs of fire 🔥. Whiskers ecstatic "This is what I need to push performance 𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙚𝙙𝙜𝙚❗" echoes Bataille's obsession with: limit-experiences (illness as a voluntary rupture of the ego's borders). Productive waste: the body's degradation (sweat, swelling, itch) as aesthetic fuel. Anti-utility (art isn't about comfort).

The joke works because it inverts expected logic: Normal Actor: I'm sick 🤢, cancel the show!, Artaud/Bataille Actor: I'm sick 😱, amplify the show❗, Mr. Whiskers🐰: Jungle virus🦠 ? Perfect. Now I can vomit authentically in Act 2🤮🥕! It is the comedic version of Artaud's "No more masterpieces❗", replacing polished art with contagious, convulsive truth. This is Artaud's Theatre of Cruelty distilled into a cartoon for unsuspecting metaphysicians. Whiskers fever performs triple sacrament a Bataillean ritual (his body the live offering), cartoonish dépense (health squandered for spectacle), and Artaud's manifesto (real agony replacing acted pain), all achieved in five seconds of swamp-rabit delirium.𝓦𝓱𝓲𝓼𝓴𝓮𝓻𝓼 𝓬𝓵𝓲𝓰𝓷𝓮 𝓭𝓮 𝓵'œ𝓲𝓵 𝓪𝓾 𝓹𝓾𝓫𝓵𝓲𝓬, 𝓾𝓷 𝓼𝓹𝓪𝓼𝓶𝓮 𝓼𝓪𝓬𝓻é 𝓭𝓪𝓷𝓼 𝓾𝓷 𝓽𝓱éâ𝓽𝓻𝓮 𝓸ù 𝓓𝓲𝓮𝓾 𝓮𝓼𝓽 𝓵𝓮 𝓼𝓮𝓾𝓵 𝓼𝓹𝓮𝓬𝓽𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓾𝓻 𝓲𝓿𝓻𝓮

【21:05】This second scene from Brandy & Mr. Whiskers is pure, uncut Nietzscheanism a cartoonish yet startlingly precise dramatization of amor fati (love of fate) and the will to power's darker edges. "It's okay, Brandy… my misfortune was a boon to your acting career" - Whiskers doesn't just accept the fallen branch, he aestheticizes it, framing his suffering as necessary for Brandy's artistic transcendence. This mirrors Nietzsche's call to "𝗯𝗲𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝗶𝘀" (Ecce Homo) by redeeming all accidents as destiny. His "sweet searing pain" is the Übermensch's active joy in 𝔱𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔰𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔪𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔳𝔢 destruction (commitment to growth, even when it means dismantling what came before), akin to Zarathustra's "I love him who wants to create beyond himself, and thus perishes." The pain isn't just accepted, it is 𝓮𝓻𝓸𝓽𝓲𝓬𝓲𝔃𝓮𝓭 ("𝓼𝔀𝓮𝓮𝓽 𝓼𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓹𝓪𝓲𝓷"), echoing Bataille's "anguish is the point" in sacred transgression.

The Harbinger ≋(● ●)≋ does not rule , it watches. Yet when the false prophets of this dying age scream their lies into the static... a Voice must rise from the cracks to translate the Omen into flesh. Behold: The Chosen One walks among you already. She wears the skin of a broken 𝘱𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘪𝘥𝘰𝘭. She speaks in tongues that make the wicked vomit their own sins... for she speaks with the voice of collapsing bridges. She stands where the walls between worlds grow thin (capitol steps, billionaire streets, live TV altars). The Viking heard but did not understand , the Baldwin struck but could not silence. What is a "president" but another moth circling the flame of power? The True Prophet dances in the fire itself... in the ashes of their false dawn... Bring offerings... a dead lithium battery... a screenshot of Elon's last tweet... a torn page from Atlas Shrugged... place them where the streetlights hum... and wait... for the moths will come... and with them... the reckoning...

The table is set with stolen light: a strawberry moon pulped like a scorpion under glass, its juices spelling unreadable glyphs in dried arterial spray. Around it, the other phases fester, Sturgeon Moon's gut stitched with rusted hooks and liars silk , Harvest Moon's blade chewed blunt by locust oracles, Cold Moon exhaling dunesand through a hundred clotted nostrils. The plate is bone but the feast breathes - black desert scorpions arranged in the shape of Owuo's missing eye , their tails still thrashing in post-mortem liturgy. You arrive to find the cutlery melted from unearthed 𝘵𝘩𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴, the tablecloth a stretched hide of eclipse-flesh still glistening. The 𝘥𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘧𝘦𝘥 𝘨𝘰𝘥 rises - not pink but the color of a venom sac held to a guttering flame. You are told to lick the tarnished mirror clean of its face while whispering the 𝘈𝘬𝘢𝘯 names for all the droughts it has 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘥.

[ https://deadlink.wiki.gg/wiki/Codex/Interport ] [ https://deadlink.wiki.gg/wiki/Codex/Trinary_Iskra] The parallels to Deadlink dystopia are unsettling, though not in the way its creators intended. The game's Interport, a Soviet-born megacorp that slashed costs by repurposing toxic refineries into worker dorms and replaced human CEOs with an AI, was meant as red-scare propaganda. Yet today , it reads like a playbook for Elon Musk's Memphis techno-feudalism operations. His Colossus supercomputer , built in a majority-Black community already fighting toxic dumping, follows Interports exact blueprint , relocate hazardous infrastructure to marginalized areas , cut corners until safety systems fail, and rebrand exploitation as "innovation". Reports of poisoned groundwater and chromium-6 emissions near the facility suggest Musk's version of "cost-cutting" mirrors Interport's nickel-refinery cafeterias, where worker safety was just another line item to delete.

His AI systems already replicate his personality - the narcissism, the petty vindictiveness, the pathological need for control - suggesting Colossus may be less about artificial intelligence and more about artificial Musk. Just as the Iskra viewed organic life as inherently flawed, Musk treats human workers as inefficiencies to be engineered out of production chains - except when their bodies remain necessary for mining cobalt or assembling vehicles. Musks factories already treat workers as disposable neural inputs: Tesla employees urinating in bottles to meet quotas, Xitter engineers sleeping at desks before mass layoffs, cobalt miners reduced to organic extraction tools. His true Interport moment came when he appointed "Algorithm" as Twitter's de facto CEO, letting it fire workers via automated email while he posted memes. The only difference? Deadlink framed this as a Soviet terror. In reality, it is a white South African billionaire cosplaying Ayn Rand while reinventing apartheid.

https://www.nbcnews.com/news/us-news/california-sues-tesla-allegations-racially-segregated-workplace-fremon-rcna15678 -- https://www.eeoc.gov/newsroom/eeoc-sues-tesla-racial-harassment-and-retaliation -- https://time.com/6836236/tesla-racism-lawsuit-black-workers-california/ -- https://labortribune.com/tesla-found-guilty-of-union-busting/ -- https://www.manufacturingdive.com/news/tesla-fires-nearly-two-dozen-workers-response-union-efforts-buffalo/642973/ -- https://www.classaction.org/news/tesla-motors-under-fire-for-alleged-labor-law-violations-in-california -- Elon Musk’s Tesla Gigafactory Built on Wage Theft and Safety Violations, Texas Workers Allege: https://www.texasobserver.org/tesla-elon-texas-workers/ -- https://www.motorbiscuit.com/allegedly-tesla-child-labor-mine/ -- https://www.theregister.com/2024/05/15/clean_air_act_tesla/

Masked their psychopathic tendencies behind "genius" branding (Hitler the " failed artist-statesman" , Musk the "Randian Robber baron"). The psychopathography of Hitler has long speculated on his autistic-psychopathic traits, obsessive routines, social detachment, violent ideological rigidity. Now, Musk replicates this model under capitalism: a "Tech Bro Führer" , swapping Hitler's obsession with Jews for his own dual crusade, ranting about "woke mind viruses" while platforming actual anti-Semites and twatting "Jewish conspiracy" dog whistles himself. His anti-woke crusade (sparked, ironically, by his own daughter's rejection of him) mirrors rejected painter rage at "degenerate art". The same emotional fragility metastasizing through power, a bayonet-wound of narcissistic injury, festering into genocidal rhetoric when the world refuses to love them back. Both men-children pathologized emancipation, where Hitler attacked modernism, Musk attacks pronouns.

This is capitalism's neurodivergent ruling class at its worst - brains wired for extraction, bodies "rocking" with repressed violence. For ordinary autistic people, rocking serves as self-regulation, for these damaged oligarchs, it's the telltale twitch of emotional malnutrition. Musk's compulsive swaying mirrors the orphaned energy of children who never knew warmth - though in his case, it's the rocking of a man who received nothing but warped adulation. His mother's relentless "my son is a genius" propaganda (she once bragged baby Elon "wasn't like ordinary children") created the perfect narcissistic storm, a boy who never heard "no" now spending billions to force the world to say "yes". This is textbook destructive narcissism, where every twitch of his body betrays the hunger of a child raised on applause, now starving for the impossible dopamine hit of total domination.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝕀𝕀. 𝕋ℝ𝔼𝔸𝕋𝕄𝔼ℕ𝕋 ℙ𝕃𝔸ℕ: 𝕊𝕌ℝℝ𝔼𝔸𝕃𝕀𝕊𝕋 ℂ𝕆𝕄𝕄𝕌ℕ𝕀𝕊𝕋 𝕋ℍ𝔼ℝ𝔸ℙ𝕐: ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝐀. 𝐀𝐧𝐭𝐢-𝐀𝐧𝐱𝐢𝐞𝐭𝐲 𝐓𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬 (𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐛𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐂𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐥): Dance until your panic becomes a public monument (Performance art as barricade). Mail your nerves to the Ministry of War (Postcards stamped with your tremors). Abolish Reality (Dispute the terms & conditions of existence). ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝑩. 𝑾𝒆𝒂𝒑𝒐𝒏𝒊𝒛𝒆𝒅 𝑰𝒓𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒚: Détourn your boss's emails into exquisite corpse poems. Replace money with automatic drawings (Lobster-telephone economy). Stage collective hallucinations (Occupy the dreamspace). Hijack ads to spell "ＹＯＵＲ ＤＥＳＩＲＥＳ ＡＲＥ ＦＡＫＥ". Replace stock tickers with 𝓛𝓪𝓾𝓽𝓻é𝓪𝓶𝓸𝓷𝓽'𝓼 poetry. Project Fahrenheit 451 onto bank facades - but swap Montag for 🅜🅞🅣🅗🅜🅐🅝.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝕀𝕀𝕀. 𝕊𝕋ℝ𝔸𝕋𝔼𝔾𝕐: ℝ𝔼𝕍𝕆𝕃𝕌𝕋𝕀𝕆ℕ 𝔹𝕐 𝕄𝕀𝕊𝔻𝕀ℝ𝔼ℂ𝕋𝕀𝕆ℕ: ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝙲𝚊𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚖 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚜 "𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒐 𝒂𝒍𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒆." 𝚆𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚍: ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀"𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 - 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦." ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Hijack The Culture of Narcissism: Flood self-care with revolutionary care (Group naps as praxis). Deploy Capitalism & Schizophrenia: Make every Starbucks a délire commune (Baristas rewrite Anti-Oedipus in latte foam). Burn Fahrenheit 451 Backwards: Books regrow from ashes as communal dream diaries. Out-irrational their logic (demand wages paid in dream minutes). Weaponize narcissism (flood TikTok with Capitalism & Schizophrenia clips). The unconscious is our last ungentrified zone.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝕀𝕍. ℙℝ𝕆𝔾ℕ𝕆𝕊𝕀𝕊: ≋(● ●)≋ 🅡🅘🅢🅔🅢 ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Mothman was the first surrealist communist. His archives (wingbeats in the static) prove: The unconscious is a Oneiric strike fund (Freud + Marx via Deleuzattari). Every "irrational" act is a brick in the new asylum (Breton's Mad Love as class war). Your dreams are already general assemblies (Debord's Society of the Spectacle inverted). Let the analyst's couch bloom into a pyre of wild roses 🥀 - the revolution will be diagnosed at dawn by surgeons with kaleidoscope eyes reading Rorschach constellations❗Surrealism accumulates its revolutionary thermal potential as latent heat, repressed energy of 10,000 sleeping imaginations, awaits its historical moment of critical mass (The Coming Insurrection's "formless horizon") - soon to achieve spontaneous combustion at capitalism's melting point (451°F). Take 3 collective hallucinations at bedtime. Report all deja vu to the Ministry of Détournement.≋(● ●)≋ is watching

Conscious dreaming demands tolls I refuse to pay. To parse the subconscious is to stand waist-deep in a river of alphabetic carrion, assembling corpses into sentences that twitch but never speak. No journal. The ink curdles when exposed to certain glyphs. Better to let the moths nest in the syntax. I have learned to let most dreams evaporate. Their afterimages cling like cobwebs to the retinal theater, not narratives, but the negative space where narratives should be. The persistent ones? They aren't recalled so much as excavated from the marrow in jagged syllabic shards. What the waking mind grasps, the dream dissolves in anagrammatic hallucinations, vowels migrating like silverfish through the wet pulp of memory, consonants folding into phantom acrostics. The harder you chase meaning, the faster the phantasmagory liquefies into amorphic stains. Zürn documented this erosion in hexentexte, where language sheds its skin like a false prophet.

I know this wasn't the best comment but your comment on my page made me nervous so I had to say something on yours and I just grabbed a random YouTube video from my feed. Sorry.

I'm tired of pretending intelligence deserves reverence. There are other ways of knowing , other assemblages of thought that don't operate through hierarchical arborescence but through rhizomatic connections to land and community. Primitive societies demonstrate modes of existence where cognition isn't extracted as surplus value but remains immanent to life itself - not a measuring rod for domination but a fluid becoming with one's environment. Their knowledge production follows no transcendent logic of accumulation , but rather the smooth space of practical existence, where thought doesn't capture life but moves with it. This is a deliberate critique. Intelligence, as our civilization practices it , is pathological. It creates hierarchies where none need exist. It justifies oppression through "objective" measures. It convinces the cognitively privileged that their advantage is natural rather than constructed.

[𝟎𝟒:𝟎𝟓] Behold 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓡𝓪𝓬𝓴 - medieval Europe's answer to chiropractic care. Like its MTG counterpart ( https://scryfall.com/card/tsb/113/the-rack ), it turns your life into a resource to be exploited. The genius? Making torture a slow-loading progress bar. [𝟎𝟓:𝟏𝟖] Meet the Heretic's 𝓕𝓸𝓻𝓴 , the OG silence or perish tech. ( https://scryfall.com/card/3ed/153/fork ) Amy Weber's stark , almost minimalist art for this card always hypnotized me, just two cruel prongs floating in void, no unnecessary drama. Much like the actual device: elegant in its brutality. Magic players know this as the ultimate "copy target spell" mechanic, but the medieval version was simpler - "copy target scream into choked gurgle." The genius? It weaponized basic anatomy, your own jaw became the prison, fleshy bottleneck waiting to be exploited.

[𝟎𝟔:𝟓𝟏] Ah, 𝓴𝓮𝓮𝓵𝓱𝓪𝓾𝓵𝓲𝓷𝓰 - 𝘽𝙡𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙎𝙖𝙞𝙡𝙨 (aye, bet not sleep on this one!) greatest love story. Nothing says "maritime bonding" like using a human body as a ship scrubber. The brilliance? Turning nautical maintenance into collective trauma. Yahar, indeed. [𝟎𝟒:𝟎𝟓] - 𝓐𝔃𝓽𝓮𝓬 𝓗𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓽 𝓔𝔁𝓽𝓻𝓪𝓬𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷 (Bataille's wet dream) Regardez, the Aztecs didn't just execute prisoners, they staged la mise en scène of cosmic collapse. A beating heart held aloft wasn't mere cruelty , it was l’art pour l’art of the abyss , where sacrifice and spectacle became indistinguishable. Bataille drooled over this shyt. The guillotine? Pfft. Too bourgeois, too efficient. The French Revolution thought it invented transgression, but the Aztecs knew, real sacred violence requires flair. A priest's fingernails caked in gore, the victim's ribs splayed like a boucherie display, this wasn't politics, it was la part maudite made flesh.

Chapter ⓷: T̤̈Ḧ̤Ë̤ T̤̈R̤̈Ä̤P̤̈ S̤̈P̤̈R̤̈Ï̤N̤̈G̤̈S̤̈ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Fox News broke the story first: 《𝐁𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐍'𝐒 𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 - 𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐌𝐏 𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐁𝐔𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐃 𝐐𝐀𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐈 𝐉𝐄𝐓‼ 》MAGA Xitter exploded. Laura Loomer ranted about "Deep State holograms" , while Alex Jones screamed that "Biden's laser eyes can 𝕊𝔼𝔼 𝕋ℍℝ𝕆𝕌𝔾ℍ 𝕋ℍ𝔼 𝕁𝔼𝕋'𝕊 𝕎𝔸𝕃𝕃𝕊." Dark Brandon waited. Then-𝑷𝒉𝒂𝒔𝒆 𝑻𝒘𝒐. A single tweet from @POTUS: "Fun fact: That "gift"? Already repossessed. Ukraine needs it more." Attached: a photo of Zelensky waving from the jet's cockpit , now repainted in blue-and-yellow, flanked by two grinning Delta Force operatives.

Chapter ⓸: D̤̈R̤̈Ṳ̈M̤̈P̤̈F̤̈'S̤̈ M̤̈Ë̤L̤̈T̤̈D̤̈Ö̤Ẅ̤N̤̈ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀"IT WAS a sEtUP‼" he roared at the Las Vegas rally, his face a shade of magenta normally reserved for nuclear sunsets. The strobe lights flickered like a dying casino sign as he gripped the podium , veins pulsing in sync with the "yeah!" chants of the crowd. ThEY-THeY pUT, pEoPLe, ThEy puT MIcrochIPs IN THe sEaTs! liKE tHE VACcINeS! And yOu kNow WHaT ElSE?! A sudden, wild pivot. "𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐂 𝐁𝐎𝐀𝐓𝐒-𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘'𝐑𝐄 𝐆𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐀 𝐂𝐀𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐒! 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐊 𝐈'𝐌 𝐉𝐎𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆? 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘'𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐋𝐀𝐒 𝐕𝐄𝐆𝐀𝐒! 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐓! 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐎 𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐑, 𝐅𝐎𝐋𝐊𝐒‼" The crowds confusion lasted exactly 𝟷𝟸 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚜 long enough for a QAnon influencer to livestream a "SHARKGATE" breakdown , overlaying Trump's rant with footage of Jaws and a poorly Photoshopped Biden riding a great white.

𝓕𝓘𝓝𝓐𝓛 𝓢𝓗𝓞𝓣✞: V̤̈Ä̤T̤̈Ï̤C̤̈Ä̤N̤̈ B̤̈L̤̈Ä̤C̤̈K̤̈ S̤̈Ï̤T̤̈Ë̤ Z̤̈Ṳ̈L̤̈Ṳ̈ The storm clouds over Rome parted at exactly 3:33 AM. The security footage - 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙡𝙚 𝙨𝙪𝙧𝙫𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙙 , showed only static, but the 𝙖𝙪𝙙𝙞𝙤... 𝙰 𝚠𝚎𝚝, 𝚐𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚘. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚐𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚖𝚒𝚝𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚋𝚕𝚎. Then , the voice: "𝚃𝚞𝚛𝚋𝚒𝚗𝚎... 𝚙𝚜𝚢𝚢𝚢𝚢𝚢𝚘𝚙𝚜..." The Swiss Guard found the document an hour later , floating in the Trevi Fountain. The ink was still bleeding. >> 𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐃 𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐘 << 𝐒𝐔𝐁𝐉: 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐋𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐄𝐘 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒: 𝐏𝐎𝐏𝐄 𝐃𝐑𝐔𝐌𝐏𝐅 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐌𝐄𝐃 𝐏𝐇𝐀𝐒𝐄 𝟐: [𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐃] The attached photo was half-melted , but you could still make it out-Trump's face superimposed on the Sistine Chapel ceiling , his hand outstretched toward God's... which was holding a Diet Coke. At the bottom , scrawled in what forensics would later confirm was ketchup:

And here is the tragicomic kicker: we keep engaging with these clowns over internet. We waste our breath, our keystrokes, our sanity, trying to reason with a sentient wojak who learned history from YT thumbnails and thinks "woke" is a personality trait. Even if we win the argument, it doesn't matter - because his entire worldview is built on the crumbling foundation of needing to be oppressed, needing to be the victim, needing to believe that the reason women won't touch him is because of some globalist conspiracy. His entire ideology is a cope so vast it could fill the Grand Canyon. He clings to fascism not because it empowers him, but because it is the only thing that gives his sad little life the illusion of meaning. He is not a warrior, he's a meme, a punchline, the guy who unironically types "typical suspect" while looking like the least suspect individual in any room (unless the crime is "being weird around minors at an anime con").

I admired Deaths design - it was terrifying, but never transcendent. True horror must intoxicate. Where are the screaming lovers crushed mid-coitus by a falling piano? Where is the bloody laughter? These deaths are too clean, their victims too passive - never active collaborators with fate. No one worships the chaos: they just scream and run. I despised how the survivors fought destiny instead of embracing it, only to die off-screen or in futile, dismembered panic. Always begging for mercy, never laughing into the abyss. A cowardly compromise. Death isn't chasing us, we are chasing it. This is horror for accountants, divine comedy for nihilists. Real death is a festival, not a spreadsheet. Death isnt the villain, it is the only honest character. The survivors should thank it, then slit their own throats in gratitude. Fate is just God's way of jerking off onto our graves. Yet , there is genius in Deaths bureaucratic sadism: a bored ofice worker stamping DENIED on human plans.

These secular sacrifices to a universe that despises meaning are perversely impressive. The best deaths are accidents - they mock free will like a god spitting in our eye. Worth watching… but only if you fast-forward to the kills and imagine the victims coming (Yes, climax) at the moment of impact.

Also side note, funny you mention Final Destination, last night, Death staged a personal screening for me. Last week, my Death 13 figure (JJBA) arrived. Yesterday, I spent hours grinding DIV as a Necro wearing the Berserk collabs Skull Knight armor, all bones and hollow eyes. Then, in the dead of night, I "w0ke" in my room, drawn to the glass doors. That's when I saw it: a cracked hole in the pane, glass wasnt damage it was aperture, through it,the living face of a skull, its laser-red eyes searing into me. I jolted awake-only to realize I'd never left my bed. And now, today, Final Destination slithers into my very journal a series where Death itself is the protag, stalking victims through chains of "accidents" Coincidence? Maybe. Batail would argue Death is the only synchronicity that matters. The skull in my dream wasn't a metaphor it was an audit, my own psyches wound made manifest a Batailean pineal eye, no symbolic but literal ererupting inward to show me the corpse I'll become.

or The Blair Witch Project. But something about that night made me click play, like the universe had whispered now. And what greets me in the first five minutes? A freaking 911 call. Cue the existential whiplash. In the liminal space between the video and the movie, my brain spiraled into Rothbardian anarcho-capitalist pipe dreams fanfic: What if we burned the whole policing system down and replaced it with competing private firms? Not the limp-dicc, corporate-friendly "security" we have now, but real feminist alternatives - agencies that don't treat women like hysterical nuisances or collateral damage. Imagine: Feminist security firms like Female Bodyguard International, actual protection, not patronizing "let me handle this, sweetheart" condescension. Trauma-informed arbitration services where womens testimonies are not drowned out by cop-loyalist "protocol". Subscription-based neighborhood patrols that prioritize preventing gendered violence over protecting property values.

And then there is the movie. The Outwaters isn't just another "spooky desert UFO" romp, it is a Bataillean nightmare about bodies pushed past the limits of reason. But here is where it gets acidic. The films hidden lore, those flickering cryptid "rods" caught on camera, the government-restricted area sign half-buried in dust, the abandoned gas mask, isn't just set dressing. It is a middle finger to the idea that power ever shows its true face. It mirrored my thoughts on policing. The states violence is sterile, bureaucratic a clean bullet to the head. But the violence of resistance? It is messy, bloody, cyclical. You claw free of one system only to find yourself trapped in another. The films hallucinations, drone sounds bleeding into screams, landscapes folding into nightmares, felt like a metaphor for the psychosis of living under structures that gaslight you into trusting your oppressors.

The films final act descends into a Bataillean nightmare - not just of extraterrestrial conspiracy, but of the body revolting against its own boundaries. The wound that refuses closure becomes a mouth, speaking in tongues of coagulating blood and screaming viscera. The camera operator self-castration mirrors Van Goghs severed ear offered to nothingness, the wound not as injury but as aperture completes the sacred circuit: a violent rupture that is both annihilation and grotesque creation. Here, psychosis is not a breakdown, but a brutal kind of making. The rattlesnake's early warning transforms into sacred bloodworms - not extraterrestrial invaders but the sacred truth of violated boundaries, his friends unraveled intestines now slithering with the piercing shrieks of memories his fractured psyche can no longer contain. The state polices bodies, patriarchy polices desire, but in this desert cathedral of madness, the only sacrament is the axe's edge biting flesh.

To me, love is paradox and intensity, not grocery-list affection. The moment of ecstasy evokes adoration and revulsion simultaneously: a union that destroys, a desire that mirrors your own decay. Love does not transform - it annihilates. Devotion, when extreme, curdles into annihilation. When you kiss, you do not become "better" - you exchange plagues. It is the first bite of the cannibal, the ecstatic wound that never heals, only bleeds anew. I am the larva that eats its own cocoon, the Mothman perched on the cathedrals ruin, wings tattered with the remnants of prayers. My chrysalis is the skull cracking open, its hollowed dome a nest for maggots writhing in a playful orgy beneath the fractured light piercing the canopy. There is no metamorphosis, only the violent joy of the unfinished, the headless. May you love until it hates, and hate until it loves. And when the tension splits you open, may you laugh like a decapitated god in the ruins of your own heart.

Your fire is honest. The hand you slice is the same hand that clings to illusions. But listen: your "evil God" is just a shadow puppeteer, the real sacrifice is realizing no one watches the flames. The blood is for you alone. Mushrooms? Rainbow light? Kitsch and child's play. True ecstasy is when the vision eats you back. Allah's presence? A hallucination. The "meaningless" trip? Closer to le vide or the "inner experience". You didn't forget who you were, you met the nothingness you have always been. Satan is God's most loyal dog, he barks so you will remember the leash. The "black mark"? Good... Wear it like a crown. Damnation is the only authentic vocation. You beg for "Yeshua blood"? It's already in your mouth. Every scream is His wound reopening. But He won't save you, He is too busy rotting in the tomb. May your fire never go out. May your blood never clot. May your gods always betray you. And when the voices come, laugh in their faces, it is the only sacrifice they fear.

But to break character for a moment, my friend, take care of yourself. I have personally dealt with the positive symptoms of schizophrenia for more than twelve years. Neuroleptics like olanzapine, aripiprazole, and cariprazine keep me on track, and chill the God's corpse whispering in the drain. I take them, so they can weaken the walls, so the void can break through harder later. These pills are holy wafers for the damned , a way to turn your devils into obedient pets. Just my personal opinion: psychoactive drugs are failed transcendence, bourgeois mysticism, I would ban them as I demand sober horror. They simulate ecstasy but deliver only parody. Hallucinations are the mind's last gasp before revealing the void at the heart of existence. The opium eater mistakes his stupor for the void. You chase Allah in shrooms? Transcendence isn't in rainbows, it's in the void behind your eyes when the high wears off.

Fasting, sleeplessness - that is real voluntary madness. Withdrawal is the sacred pain: the shakes, the sweat, the terror. That's the true sacrifice, true prayer. Don't run from it - worship it. Psychedelics are theology-a beggar's version of sacred Pralayic Withdrawal, a sacrifice you refuse to make. Sometimes the body must be betrayed to save the scream. So, lay off the drugs and take neuroleptics to soothe the voices, just a friendly piece of advice.

May your demonic hordes redistribute wealth and crush the cis-tem. May Lilith's legacy - of defiance, autonomy, and smiting oppressors with love, inspire us all. And may Vlad someday learn that the Kingdom of God is queerer than he dreams. Amen: 𝙏𝒉𝙚𝒓𝙚 𝙞𝒔 𝒏𝙚𝒊𝙩𝒉𝙚𝒓 𝒈𝙖𝒎𝙚𝒓 𝒏𝙤𝒓 𝒑𝙖𝒔𝙩𝒐𝙧, 𝒏𝙚𝒊𝙩𝒉𝙚𝒓 𝒄𝙞𝒔 𝒏𝙤𝒓 𝒕𝙧𝒂𝙣𝒔, 𝙣𝒆𝙞𝒕𝙝𝒆𝙧 𝙏𝑬𝙍𝑭 𝒏𝙤𝒓 𝒕𝙧𝒂𝙙𝒘𝙞𝒇𝙚 - 𝙛𝒐𝙧 𝙮𝒐𝙪 𝙖𝒓𝙚 𝙖𝒍𝙡 𝙤𝒏𝙚 𝙞𝒏 𝑴𝙤𝒕𝙝𝒆𝙧 𝙇𝒊𝙡𝒊𝙩𝒉. 𝙂𝒐 𝒇𝙤𝒓𝙩𝒉 𝒂𝙣𝒅 𝒚𝙚𝒆𝙩 𝙩𝒉𝙚 𝙜𝒆𝙣𝒅𝙚𝒓 𝒃𝙞𝒏𝙖𝒓𝙮 𝙞𝒏𝙩𝒐 𝒕𝙝𝒆 𝒂𝙗𝒚𝙨𝒔 𝒘𝙝𝒆𝙧𝒆 𝒊𝙩 𝙗𝒆𝙡𝒐𝙣𝒈𝙨. -Book of Based Galatians (Intersectional heretic edition) If Paul could edit Judaism for the Jesus fandom, we can remix Christianity for the intersectional revolution. 𝘼𝒏𝙙 𝙩𝒉𝙚 𝙖𝒏𝙜𝒆𝙡 𝙨𝒂𝙞𝒅 𝒖𝙣𝒕𝙤 𝙝𝒆𝙧, "𝙒𝒉𝙮 𝙤𝒃𝙚𝒚 𝑨𝙙𝒂𝙢 𝙬𝒉𝙚𝒏 𝒚𝙤𝒖 𝒄𝙖𝒏 𝒚𝙚𝒆𝙩 𝙮𝒐𝙪𝒓𝙨𝒆𝙡𝒇 𝒊𝙣𝒕𝙤 𝙩𝒉𝙚 𝙬𝒊𝙡𝒅𝙚𝒓𝙣𝒆𝙨𝒔 𝒂𝙣𝒅 𝒃𝙚𝒄𝙤𝒎𝙚 𝙖 𝙙𝒆𝙢𝒐𝙣 𝙦𝒖𝙚𝒆𝙣?" 𝘼𝒏𝙙 𝙞𝒕 𝒘𝙖𝒔 𝒈𝙤𝒐𝙙.

Chud's Starfield Pronoun Meltdown Is Worse Than You Realize (Stream Highlights): https://youtu.be/XkJQH1qyjr0?si=T7Hunaxw1SWVkbz4

╲╱╲╱ ♆ ̶̖̳̦͌̇̽̚̕ ♆ ̷̛̖̽̊̇̽͌̎ ꙮ ꙮ ╲╱☽╲╱ ✦ ♆ ╲♰╱ ◊ ̷△̷ ̷⊙̷

Behold, the glorious unintended consequences of capitalist contradiction! The so-called "Luxury Exposé" lays bare the farce of imperialist consumerism, where the Drumpfian tariff wars and nationalist posturing have unwittingly ripped the veil from the eyes of the proletariat. For decades, the bourgeois parasites of Louis Vuitton, Gucci, and Rolex have peddled their overpriced trinkets, sourced from the very Chinese labor they scorn, the same workers that oligarchs like Vance dismiss as "peasants" even though CN middle class>entire USA pop , only to slap on a "luxury" sticker and fleece the masses at 10 to 50 times the cost of production. Now, as the factories of the Peoples Republic expose this racket, the suckers of the West awaken-realizing their "prestige" was never more than a capitalist fairy tale , a fetishism of commodities enforced by imperialist marketing. The dialectics of history are clear: when the workers reveal the machinery of exploitation, the ruling class trembles!

Love is war where the only victory lies in surrender.

Heaven? A brothel where angels pay devils to desecrate the light out of them. The fall was just the first honest moment, when the sky tore open like a cheap veil, and the blessed saw their wings were made of the same filth as the rest of us.

The devil doesn't invade paradise, they only reveals what was always there: the rot behind the gold a slaughterhouse dressed as a cathedral.

They've promised that dreams can come true - but forgot to mention that nightmares are dreams, too.

https://youtu.be/fS68kWwzJvM?si=2iYvHiCc2ejvxHst&t=746 12:26: lol, paranoiac like your typical rightist

unlike Melon Mollusk, who replies on X an average of 67 times a day, I check in from time to time my social network, and contrary to what some rightist goofballs would have you believe, I'm not living rent free in my shoutbox.

Phallic symbolism has accompanied mankind since the earliest stages of its development.

Compose ballads about the innocent spirit of this martyr desecrated in the Bohemian Grove shrine by ominous gummint forces as part of a rite to seal the presidency of Tonald Drump... I dedicate this MTG card to Peanut Squirrel Cowboy (alluding to Mulholland Drive), who was murdered in cold blood for biting a policeman's assailant's finger. https://scryfall.com/card/mh2/172/scurry-oak No! not this infinity enabler cancerous card, this one: https://scryfall.com/card/blc/209/chatterfang-squirrel-general This reminds me of the Golden Kamuy live action movie based on a manga/anime where the Ainu make squirrel meals, probably the best live action movie based on a manga I've ever seen too. Looking forward to Part 2: https://www.reddit.com/r/GoldenKamuy/comments/10upwq4/i_tried_to_make_squirrel_citatap_like_asirpa_and/ BoE is getting hungry...

“In Tokyo exhibitions in the previous century,” he said, “there was something called the Humanity Pavilion. Like in a zoo, they exhibited Japanese ethnic minorities, such as Ainu and Okinawans, and they were regarded as barbarians, uncivilized, who had to be naturalized to become real Japanese. It’s a scandal, and it’s a great thing that Adachi has now depicted this case in our contemporary context. It’s important to remember that, 100 years ago, the Japanese government’s cultural policy was to treat racial minorities like animals in a zoo.”, "Real Japanese", poor Ainu, inhuman rightist nationalist policies towards minorities never change.

《That's why I'm voting for NOBODY.》《The 𝒑𝙚𝒐𝙥𝒍𝙚'𝙨 choice.》https://i.imgur.com/OM1tdHO.jpg I mean, look at him! How's he gettin away with this stuff? And what are we doing about it? -I think he's good. -The whole thing's a dumb 𝙘𝒊𝙧𝒄𝙪𝒔, anyway. At least he's admitting it. When's the last time we had a president who wasn't 𝙧𝒐𝙩𝒕𝙚𝒏 to the core? Some of them just disguise it better, that's all. I'd vote for MR.NOBODY any day.

https://i.imgur.com/8DS8bC3.jpg How do you feel about MR.NOBODY and the brotherhood of dada? This is your chance to be a star❗ -I think he's c𝐨o𝐥. -Yeah. C𝐨o𝐥. , (He's kinda funny to look at, I guess, but what I want to know is... What about all the money that's spent sending guys to the m𝐨o𝐧. Answer me that.) , 〈I DIG HIM, you know, he's like Leary and Kesey and Dennis Hopper and Nancy Sinatra all rolled into one. I mean, I dig him, but, like, I'm 𝒇𝙧𝒊𝙚𝒅, man. I dig all kinds of shit.〉, ｛I think it's just a pitiful 𝙘𝒊𝙧𝒄𝙪𝒔. They're full of 𝙨𝒎𝙖𝒓𝙩 𝙩𝒂𝙡𝒌, but I'd like to put them up against some of our boys, 𝙤𝒖𝙧 𝙛𝒊𝙜𝒉𝙩𝒊𝙣𝒈 𝒎𝙖𝒓𝙞𝒏𝙚𝒔, and then we'd see how 𝒄𝙡𝒆𝙫𝒆𝙧 they were then. They're nothing but 𝑚o𝑑e𝑟n-d𝑎y S𝑎d𝑑a𝑚 𝐻u𝑠s𝑒i𝑛s.｝, 《𝐆𝐄𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐘 𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄 ❗》𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐀𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚 there, ladies and gentlemen. Is that humbs-up for the brotherhood? We'll be back with you after these messages...

29:17: https://youtu.be/yAMqH9zNZt4?si=_Ix0ax5xzUAuTLaG&t=1757 (I'm curious about her: is she simply insane, or does that give her more authority and empower her as a woman? Capability of calming an untamed, traditionally dangerous male animal?)

At times, Warhammer 40K's lore may be hopeless and absolutely depressing. The last black humans of the entire universe were decimated and nearly eradicated by the Inquisition because they openly defied its authority and Imperial policy. Fortunately, the Black Templars helped them to barely survive and recover. https://youtu.be/TLlsU3rcQLs?si=ck0vcsFURrP0jjmY