For some reason I'm awake. I'm sitting right here, on my comfortable Mastercouch, with an asleep puppyphanti at my side. The Sun is rising mistfully... actually, let me take you a picture, so we're on the same page here.
How do you like that ?ii
Many years ago, my waking suddenly at an ungodly hour in this manner was an unfailing sign of impending disaster. That's all long gone by now, however. All possible disasters having already occurred, I'm left without reason to wake spontaneously in the middle of the night -- but seemingly not without the capacity for it. Just like an old woman, her existence long cleaved from any possible penisomenology and thus worring about some abstract, idealized death as the only possible remainder, here I sit, permanently separated from phenomena. So do you, for that matter, you're just too stupid to realise it. I suppose your hunchback god is proud of you for it, too.
Yet all the while things are occurring. Of course they are. The servers are churning their various churns, indifferently -- for some incomprehensible reason the bimbo's started fucking about with an "internet marketing" forum of all things, so I'm scraping their user database to produce a list of females active this yeariii for her to followiv ; I guess I'm going to publish it later. Maybe. It's surprisingly easy to do, today as ever before, in spite of all the elaborate "Cloudflare rayprotection" and whatnot nonsense.v Things are occurring, my elephant is sleeping, the activities of today. You can't claim it's not sleeping, can you ? It looks just like it were (even if it isn't -- because it can't). And nobody can accuse anybody of not doing anything, everything, their very best &cetera. Right ?
There's a certain goose sitting in the bank parking lot. You can't accuse him of not being there to get a loan in order to buy land and building materials to develop his stale bread palace project-idea. Can you ? He's even dressed up for it!
Well so then don't, quack!
Above & below : the girls are showing me a good time. One's buying ice-cream in the ice-cream self-serve takeout-only shop, the other's organizing coffee & terrace space with the self-serve-except-if-you're-me & takeout-only-except-same other shop. What can you do...
The icecream is basically sugar and industrial pastes ; the coffee stands with real coffee in the same relationship industrially reconstructed pot stands with actual pot -- I get it, they can fractionally distill, concentrate, centrifuge and generally Monsanto "all the relevant compounds" for "an extremely extreme high". I don't happen to want that, or anything even vaguely like it, but they can't afford to produce or distribute anything like what I want, so... what can you do ?
Hang out with company, of course. What else.
Somebody else's woman, brought out of the (quite literal) rathole she inhabits by the clamour of male violence. She has got to see this, for the directly obvious reason. Her picturesque environs made me bid the car stopped, which drastically changed the situation in the field : for one thing, she began posing for me ; for another thing a succession of male rat heads proceeded to pop their heads out of the (evidently shared) hole in an approximate sorting by age, until a fat mostly naked bum actually stepped out bodily, and waddled his ancient flip-flops in her direction, beckoning and calling concernedly. For the third and final thing, a cheesy old cunt of the "affluent" sociorole stopped her white SUV horror five meters away from the last car, so as to block my view, while very deliberately trying to communicate all her indignation by deep, wistful looks. Society works, after a fashion, in the limited sense of self-conservation and self-perpetuation. What was I going to do with the pleb beast anyway ? Pick her up, wash her up, make her catch up ? But... why ?!
I've watched, or rather tried to watch, a list of maybe a dozen abominations improperly pretending to cinema. The capper was probably this star-studded atrocity attempting a classical "who dun it" murder-mystery, with Jamie Lee Curtis representing the distilled essence of pantsuit, some intolerable moron (which, I hear, ended up James Bond -- but of course he did) and the by now pantsuit-universal derpy precious cuntlet at the center of it all. I'm so fucking tired of these deeply irreal attempts at making the stolid dreams of the stupid herd "reality" through depiction. This enchanted universe where all the dudes are losers and all the women respectable and "made their own business" and all the young chicklets the magic nexus of everyone's минутой молчанияvi, so fascinatingly excellent are they and etcetera... they're worse than the Soviet stakhanostories, for srs now. Can't you lot move on ? Your daughters'll never be (nor ever want to be) anything "more" or "above" my willing, happy cumrags. No matter what you do. No matter what you tell them. That's why they're here ; they know that's why they're here ; you really don't enter into any of it. Alright already ? Come to terms with it, you're wasting all this celluloid you can't afford to pay for...
There were other strands of nonsense in there, of course, the Young Miss America pageant story very carefully including side boobs only, as fucking if, and the... who the hell can even remember it all. Who cares, even. Their only claim to fame is that they stand with any sort of interesting or valid artistic expression in about the same relation as that sad wallpainting. What the fuck is even going on in there ?!
Above : Shh! Hannah is hunting!vii
Below, the results of her hunt : apparently she's shot a fucking lamb. That stuff to the right is aspic, the empty bowl held home-made guacamole and... well...
This whole "Verdad entre todos" "consensus truth" conceited fancy lies well shattered, as you can see. Who knew there's no truth in consensus, nor merely the possibility of truth in such barren land as "all of us" ? Yet the bankruptcy is there, palpable, visible, manifest. It dun work, it can't happen, it's just not there.
What now ? Don't tell me you're gonna borrow some more, and try again ?———
- You've seen the plushie before. It resembles a puppy more than the elephant it's supposed to represent as per European tradition. Why the hell have these weird people decided elephants are a sort of dog, anyway ?
Inured to such preoccupations as any others, Blu spends most of his time sleeping, napping, or thinking about taking a nap. Right now though, he's collapsed from fatigue on the couch backrest, his fluffy ears over his half-closing plastic eyes, immotile. He makes one sleepy just to look at him, yet being sleepy and being asleep are two different things. [↩]
- I don't, for what it's worth. The glass eye doesn't capture altogether all the endless depth of hue, and in fact come to think of it captures none of its meaning. The objective lens fails to meaningfully represent the objective sunrise, how do you like that for manifest failure of the rational delusion. [↩]
- Do you have any idea how many female users among the first hundred thousand registered did anything this year ? Fourteen.
A lot more men than women choose to do seemingly irrational things such as become petty criminals, fly homebuilt helicopters, play video games, and keep tropical fish as pets (98 percent of the attendees at the American Cichlid Association convention that I last attended were male). Should we be surprised that it is mostly men who spend 10 years banging their heads against an equation-filled blackboard in hopes of landing a $35,000/year post-doc job?
- She is, after all, living in "a muslim type relationship", to quote a long forgotten if utterly forgettable moron.
One important note about the structure of this “human shield” structure. In my opinion, this shouldn’t be centralized, in the sense armies are centralized and it shouldn’t function on a vertical hierarchy. Instead, it should be mapped on a blockchain-like structure, in which every “shield” will have some way to report his activities and data will be automatically extracted, allowing for real time risk assessment.
There you have it, replete with Windows quotes and all the rest of the tell-tale signs of the Dogetard.
Ultimately, the problem with the morons is that they keep trying to organize (in the limited sense of holding hands) and then slosh around bringing shit down. "Making a wave" is their fundamental as well as only activity ; such technology as permits them to find one another easier makes the waves larger -- from Doge hysteria in 2014 to Covid hysteria in 2020, to who knows what other stupid nonsense before you finally wake the fuck up and put them in their place. [↩]
- It's surprisingly useless, also -- if there's one truly shocking thing in this world, it must be this capacity of all them "individual" meatomatons with "feelings" and "experiences" that are "their own" and "personal" to be exactly the same pointlessly useless nothing.
For all the effort put into constantly rewriting history so as to support the "personality" delusion, for all the farcical self-stories about "quitting cigarettes" the day after they told the "quitter" to get lost and all such nonsense, there's like... three, maybe four such "personalities" you'll see in 99.99999% of cases. That number's not produced through the usual method contemporary imbeciles produce such numbers, by the way ; it is actually based on actual data, I am in point of fact sifting through tens of millions of supposed humans to find the few I do find now and again. The five nines is statistically sound, you'll get a person in about three to five million dead walkers, from experience. From lived experience. [↩]
- Apparently nobody has the Romanian "reculegere", which is unfortunate. [↩]
- Oft I'll be molesting a girly in the back seat while we're driving ; molestation builds upon molestation until the pitch of despair, having attempted and discarded all lesser measures, eventually cries its ultimate peak of nec plus ultram : "Hannah is driving!!!".