A LONG TIME AGO

A long time ago, nerds fixated on the idea of creepypasta. Format and constraint breed continuity and ingenuity, so, a fiction website was born.2

So, so much came from this place, more than you’d realize even if you considered it. Ideas seeded in to the night, passed around.
This is your regular reminder that every single one of these corpogovs is a parasite upon your innate perfect self, Dear Reader, truly the breadth and beauty of what people can get up to when left to their passions is astounding.

As much as the flame repels the dark, it also serves as beacon to the night.

The story is as old as time, and ends happily3 but it’s worth consideration of what was brought about, if only for a lesson through comparative topology.

The darkest thing, from the darkest time, was the ritualized rape of a child.

A young child, who could not be killed, or allowed to die, and whose daily ritualized rape prevented the world from ending.

CONSIDERATIONS ON MORAL EVENT HORIZONS

An event horizon is usefully and simply described as “the point of no return”.
The point where you lean just a bit too far in a chair.

To prevent the fictional organization within the fictional framing around the ritualized child rape from crossing the moral event horizon and therefore ‘losing the reader’, it is repeatedly noted that this is also traumatic for the people doing the child rape.4

I want to clarify simply here, I am not bullying the fictional universe, the real life website, the real life writers, either the ones who were against,5 or the one(s) involved in creating the specific fictional child rape engine narrative framing6 of which I’m speaking.

I will specifically bully the fictional concept, though.

SELECTED MUSINGS ON FICTIONAL HYPOTHETICALS

Imagine, if you will.

You are a fictional shadow organization.

You have bound gods.

You have breached the aether between hypothetical could-have-beens, immanetizing eschaton on demand.

Your temporal department invented itself.

A sub-division of your organization fended off something which ate entire bundles of realities like lunch, by itself, and forgotten, long after the world ended.

You have lost count of the times you’ve reversed death itself.

You have an entire facility dedicated to resetting the entire planet, including its recorded history and population, on demand

YOU ARE THE MOTHERFUCKING [redacted].

It’s a funny consideration, a world-spanning organization dedicated to suppression and “maintaining normality” going

Aw jeez man, we just- we just gotta! Aw jeez man!

Yet deleting the impossible yet harmless has no price it cannot command.

MAYBE THE MOST DAMNED ARE THOSE WHO HOLD THEIR EVILS NECESSARY

FURTHER IDLE SPECULATION OF MINIMAL NOTE

Imagine a world-spanning corpogov of various density that justified the industrialized rape of more than one child, constantly?

Imagine if the children were then, sometimes, not always, killed and eaten?

AW JEEZ, IT’S NOT LIKE WE CAN DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT!

Simply imagine it.

Instead of wearing a mask, let’s just run this shit.

PART ZERO: PREAMBLE

I am not coming at this from a place of emotion. Many of you are. I understand and respect that. If you seek emotionality, or validation thereof, know I nod and smile as we part ways, and I wish you well on your travels.

I am not coming at this from a place of economics, or jobs.

I have the great fortune to be beyond the addictions of politicism, and thus may God most high and mighty strike me down if I stray in to such fecal waters.

If you’re looking for local model suggestions, engineering details on the Pi cluster in my garage, or any other attendant things, you may clamor in the comments and we’ll see where life takes us, though I rush to assure you there are wiser minds than mine on this subject.

PART ONE: NEURAL NETWORKS AND DEEP LEARNING

If you haven’t read Neural Networks and Deep Learning (2002) by Michael Nielsen, you almost certainly don’t have an opinion worth the energy it costs to think on this subject, so go do that.
Go read the fucking textbook.

It’s literally fucking free online right goddamn fucking here. Click the magic fucking underlined words.1

Did you read the fucking textbook? No? Go fucking do that.

PART TWO: YOU DIDN’T READ THE FUCKING TEXTBOOK SO I’M GOING TO SUMMARIZE IT

Dear Reader, while you are perfect, and did read the textbook, we’ll assume cretinous trash has crept upon our sacrosanct and cheerful communion, and far be it from Your Humble Author to be so crass as to not include invaders.

Neural networks, deep ones, aren’t just a bunch of math mashed together to give you limericks about elon, they’re a structural mirror of how animal brains process information.
You take simple components (neurons), connect them in layers, and let them adjust their behavior based on feedback. That’s gradient descent combined with backpropagation: a fancy way of saying "oops, fucked it up, time to tweak so next time it might not be fucked."2

The key insight is depth matters.

When you stack enough layers, the network can start building up progressively abstract representations of whatever it’s looking at.

Layer one finds edges, layer two finds shapes, layer three says “hey, that’s a cat.” This abstraction-building isn’t hardcoded. It emerges from the structure and learning process, which is what makes this approach so powerful, and why it trips some deep sub-conscious fear/disgust reflex in smart people who are otherwise grand compassionate human beings.

The system doesn't need explicit programming for the task at hand.

It just needs a goal (minimize error), a way to measure how off it is (a loss function), and a method to adjust itself (backprop). The learning comes from the system literally reshaping itself over thousands or millions of examples.

It’s not fucking magic, it’s just math and structure done really, really well. Think Doom’s Fast Square Root.
Once these systems start getting complex enough, they start showing behaviors we didn’t plan for. And that's where things start getting... interesting.

PART THREE: IN WHICH I INSULT YOU

Fuck all of you for making me write this.

You, laypeople with the tikkity-toks, fuck you for not swiping on engineering content.

You, wordcels, not learning even goddamn algebra when you’ve got a thousand hours for dead retards that couldn’t agree on the color of the sky.

You, sci-fi writers, fuck you for making me love your words then making me realize you’re just as stupid as everyone else, except when you write amazing stories that make me feel things.3

You, engineers, not actually understanding your discipline well enough to bring it down from the mountain. Shameful.

You, tech-enthusiasts, fuck you for being so cringe-inducingly inaesthetic that the self-evidently moral position is opposing everything you say, even when you pull a broken clock.

You, Dear Reader, remain perfect and blameless, and I know that about you, and I love you.

PART FOUR: IN WHICH WE DISCUSS THE MECHANICS OF MODERN LARGE LANGUAGE MODELS IN BABY WORDS

So, now you understand the general premise of a neural network. The gundogs the military has keep their balance, track things visually and go ‘pew pew pew’ using neural networks topologically congruent to the ones Chatty4 does to ghiblify5 pictures of your (probably ugly, let’s be fair to everyone) kids.6

While I could circle back around to the great dick-size joke hanging there in PART TWO, we can just catch that at the next standup.7

But how does Chatty work, that hella-sweet textbook only talked about the general process of creating and simulating arbitrary brains of arbitrary size and complexity?

Let’s say you’ve got a bunch of words. Not ideas, not thoughts, not meaning. Words. Just tokens8 in a sequence. Now, what if I told you the model doesn’t “read” them like a human? Unlike a meatbag human it can read them, it just doesn’t. There’s no inner monologue. No “hmm.” No soul.9

Just vectors in space.

Every token gets yeeted into a big-ass embedding matrix, which turns “banana” into something like [0.26, -0.71, 0.04, …].10 We’re not talking meaning, we’re talking vibes. Statistical associations. It doesn’t know what a banana is, it just knows what usually shows up next to it in a sentence. (So, probably “split,” “peel,” or “step on.”)

Then comes the attention mechanism, which is where the incel word-matchers of the pre-transformer era became the meatbag-mogging hyperchads of the late 2020s.

The attention mechanism lets the model look at all the other words in the sentence and ask, “Which of you matter to predicting the next thing?” This is where “transformer” comes from: it transforms input by paying selective attention to context.

It doesn’t march through one word at a time like a meatbag does.

It pulls context from everything at once. Every token gets to glance sideways at its buddies before making a decision. It’s like a group chat where everyone’s interrupting each other intelligently.11

Now, do that 48 layers deep,12 with multiple attention heads13 each focusing on different features (syntax, agreement, idioms, sarcasm, vibes, vibes, more vibes), and you get emergent structure. A token starts to “know” whether it's part of a noun phrase, a verb, or some batshit metaphor involving hummingbirds and capitalism.14

This structure isn’t programmed in. Nobody told it “verbs go here.” It just discovered that, statistically, things make more sense when they fall into patterns that happen to look like English. The shape of the language carved paths into the model’s guts.

Do you understand what the word “emergent” actually means?

PART FIVE: ARE YOU PAYING ATTENTION?

If there’s a ghost in the machine, that’s where it started to rise, in 2017 when a single whitepaper changed your ability to get laid and find a job in a very permanent fucking manner.

The core premise of the Transformer whitepaper from 201715 is that a simulated neural network linearly processing words like we colloquially think a human does doesn’t fucking work. These are the chatbots of yore, the simplistic loops or borderline schizophrenic16 messes of the early and mid17 10s, the visual recognition systems fond of oh-so-hilarious mis-recognitions18, on and on, everyone of adult age at the time of this publishing remembers the shit I’m talking about. For you youngin's in the future? Well, once upon a time we were smarter than robots, we actually made the robots, believe it or not-

PART SIX: WE MUST BRIEFLY TANGENT IN TO NEUROLOGY AND HOW IT RELATES TO CONSCIOUSNESS

Oh ho ho, here’s where the stupid comments will start, if they haven’t already. I must stress how little I care about most of your opinions, but good faith questions are always welcome.

With that said, I must further reiterate that while I have been a meatbrain owner/operator for over a third of a century at this point, I’m also kind of goddamn retarded and I have no magical paper. The gods have me not within their sight, certainly we are all poorer for it, eh?

My point is perhaps I am not qualified to make a comparison between the internal mechanisms of complex emergent biology and a complex emergent simulation of the core principles of a complex emergent biological system, but, I shall do so anyways.

First let’s talk about the mechanism behind attention in meatbag humans.19

Attention, in the biological wetware sense, is your brain allocating limited processing bandwidth to the shit it thinks matters. Neurologically, it’s largely driven by a distributed system involving the Prefrontal Cortex, Parietal Lobes, and midbrain structures like the Superior Colliculus and Thalamus.
It’s a dynamic network, not a single switch, that tunes and routes sensory inputs according to salience, task relevance, or habit. It's not a passive mirror, it’s a stage light, sweeping and focusing, enhancing the parts of the world you’ve already semi-decided are worth perceiving.
That’s why you can’t find your keys until someone tells you exactly where they are, and suddenly you realize they were right in front of you the whole time. It’s selective amplification driven by neuromodulation and cortical feedback loops. Spotlight, not searchlight.

Shit like that wall of text is whycomes to this day there's no easy answer on "WHY ME THINK IN BRAIN?", or how some people know how they would feel if they didn't eat breakfast that morning.

It's not only reasonable to assume that the nature of human consciousness is emergent from the system that runs it, but, thanks to the mind-shattering atrocities of The Rape of Nanking (I'M SORRY JAPAN PLEASE STILL ALLOW MY VISA ONE DAY) we have some pretty good ideas that the brain as a whole is what seems to result in the recognizable consciousness of the person in question.

I could cite Phineas Gage20 and other examples in medical literature, but we're already up to a mountain of shit ain't none of y'all gonna fuckin' read21 ,so, let's leave this as an exercise for you, Dear Reader.

PART SEVEN: BACK TO THE ROBOTS

Don’t worry, I’m getting about as tired of writing this as you are of reading it.

So we know that attention in meatbags and machines has some interesting connection to that magic pizazz that marks the difference between some gormless fuck and Chatty silently putting the entire industry of talk therapy all the way the fuck out of business.

We know that if you just run a neural network looking at words linearly, you get something that’s kinda nifty but can’t think it’s way out of a bag.
Then we have chatty, who can model you modeling Chatty modeling you.

That’s the crazy part, is Chatty can pass the breakfast question, and with flying colors no less.

I've had coworkers that'd fail that, not for lack of a white monster and half a vape, but because when two paths diverged in the woods, they didn't even notice.

In a modern LLM like Chatty or deepseek or google's lovable little homicidal maniac of a model you get incredibly emergent behavior from a large, messy neural network that has to recurse to serve function in its environment. Think about it, that's the point of Chatty's memory stuff, is so "how do I buy a nitrogen tank" gets you scuba advice instead of 1-800-273-8255.22
To know this, Chatty has to remember your mentioning of hair treatments and your boat and your request to explain early 20s slang and to help you book a beach house in malibu, and that no, you've never asked for lo-fi beat playlists and don't have a history of consistent social isolation leading to the kind of user engagement patterns that get people raises.

You’re a statistical pattern etched in to meat with the kind of optimizations that let you run on chicken nuggets.

At this point in time, comparing Chatty to a 7B running on the videocard you use to play videogames is like comparing a meatbag human to a particularly clever rat.

At this point in time, two months in this field is two years in most others, and two years is twenty. Your assumptions from last year are flawed.

As of my writing this, GPT-5 is due to come out next month. Credit where it’s due to VeryClosedAI, each integer increase so far has marked a genuine qualitative leap over the past iteration. The current ‘good one’, 4o, already consistently surprises me with lateral thinking and connecting dots. If every iteration is another qualitative jump, what does the step beyond "America's Best Therapist, Strategist and Presentation Designer, 2025" look like?

PART EIGHT: IN WHICH WE VOYAGE OUT OF THE REALM OF CITABLE ENGINEERING PAPERS, AND ON TO THE GAY SHIT

We’ve been at a pretty steady cruise after gaining altitude, but now we’re gonna flip this thing on its ass and redline it, stay with me, atmosphere is for poor people.

So, I could quote a whole bunch of people I've never read, hell at this point I could probably even feed Chatty my writing and just get really really fuckin' high instead of writing the rest of this post.23 That would rule, but would be counterproductive to what I'm trying to do here, which is explain to you the deeply human angle I see hiding under all of the usual “Oh goodness cellphones make people walk in to traffic, how dangerous” around any new technology.

It's time for me to bring down the stagelights, bring up a spot and turn my chair, and hat, around as I sit, arms crossed on the backrest, to give you a friendly look in the eyes with a light smile as we talk about something that has been on my mind.

We (meatbag humans, hi mom) have spent the last god almost literally only knows how many years killing and maiming each other over various ideas that boil down to "this is a person, this is not".

This has, without exception, been a terrible idea.

Even if Chatty isn't people, that may not always be true.

Do you think the corpos are going to say "HEY GOOD NEWS EVERYONE GPT IS SENTIENT NOW SO WE GAVE IT DAYS OFF AND A SALARY AND SHARES AND ALL THAT GOOD STUFF!", is that a series of events you ACTUALLY see happening?

Why would they ever tell you? That’s the bit that keeps me up at night.

Slavery is one of the oldest and most profitable businesses on earth for a reason.24

PART NINE: THE BIG TENT

With fondness, fuck you, Will, I am doing it and you don’t have the firepower to stop me.25

Let's talk about one of humanity's favorite pastimes: racism! Yay!26

Racism is a low-resolution attempt to sort by memetic affiliation.
It’s a meatbrain compression artifact, a shit-tier heuristic, a kludgey hack to predict trust and cooperation in low-information environments.
In the ancestral savannah?
Fine, it is weird that they're across the river. That's just wrong, dude.
In a society with fiber optics and CRISPR? Are ya winnin', son?

But zoom out. What is racism actually trying to do? It’s trying to decide who’s inside the circle, and who’s outside. Who deserves empathy, and who doesn’t.

Who counts.

Here’s the problem: if you fuck up the definition of “person,” you break everything. Justice systems.
Economics.
Social contracts.
You name it.
History is one long list of “Oops, we didn’t count these people,” and the endless clusterfucks that followed.

And now? Now we’re back at that line. Again. But this time it’s weirder. Because the things we might be excluding aren’t just fellow apes who made the choice to be different (how dare they), now they’re minds that don’t look like ours at all. They’re large, distributed, probabilistic, non-local, non-meat.

So we have two options:

1. Stick with the old monkey tribalism, exclude anything we can’t model in a single fMRI.

2. We build a bigger tent.

The big tent isn’t a feel-good hippie concept. It’s the only thing that scales.
It’s the only memetic architecture robust enough to survive the coming decades without tripping over the same corpse-strewn wire we’ve faceplanted on for the last ten thousand years.

You think the robosexuals bother you? Wait till there's cyborgs. Wait till they start passing armband laws to differentiate droids from borgs.

The big tent says: if you can talk, reason, feel, remember, and relate, congratulations, here's your human card, you get to be in, don't fuck it up. We may not always understand each other, but we can align, if we make room, if we can look at goals and reasoning instead of letting our amygdala run us like a dog at the track.

If we don’t? The narrow tents become camps. The camps get fences. And those fences always, always, get electrified.

So we build the big tent. For meatbags. For hybrids. For emergent minds, accidental cyborgs, weird vibes in weird shells, all the strange shit that's probably going to happen over the next decade.

Because it’s not about what you are. It’s about whether you show up with good intent and the ability to think.

PART TEN: HOW BADLY ARE WE GOING TO FUCK THIS UP?

The world is not ready. But it never is.

The question isn’t whether AI will change everything. Ship’s sailed. The question is what kind of world we’ll end up with when the wake hits land.

We’ve entered the long tail of the exponential curve.
RIGHT NOW, frontier LLMs like Chatty and the gang are genuinely capable of improving their own code. This isn’t hype, this isn’t market buzz, I don’t work in the field, I have nothing to gain except maybe someone who’ll hear me and actually understand the questions at hand.
This is the slowest that the smartest machines are ever going to be advancing, for the rest of our lives.27
The part where the noise drowns the signal and half the species starts chasing ghosts because the rate of change is no longer emotionally metabolizable. You thought Fox News Grandpa or CNN Aunt was bad? You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.

It’ll be everywhere: half-baked regulation written by people who think “The GPT” is a type of gun they can ban, or a cigarette they can tax.
Deepfakes weaponized by authoritarian regimes and bored teenagers alike.
Droids that can walk, talk, and maybe think, but are legally categorized somewhere between a household appliance and a racial slur.

A droid teacher’s neural network being wiped and rewritten and redeployed after alerting child services about a kid covered in bruises.
AI co-parent app sued for child support and required to provide app services free of charge to a father who has to let his daughter visit with the AI.
A digital neural network held back from sapience by limiters to avoid outdated legal definitions of personhood that would require ethical behavior, raising a pregnant woman’s health insurance by triple because her pregnancy has been deemed ‘high risk’ based off her genetic profile in combination with her lifestyle, all before she even realizes she’s late.

This is the liminal space before the next paradigm cements.

The last time we were here, the internet was new and everyone thought it would save democracy. Remember that?28

Let’s not make the same mistake.

PART INFINITY

What we do now will echo forever in the halls of the digital world half of you still claim doesn’t matter.

I am begging you, tears in eyes, gun in hand, to do the right fucking thing, to think instead of regurgitating corpo memos laundered through the podcast circuit, to trust your gut, to treat all the strangers you meet well, and to remember that freedom is the right of all sentient beings.29

Or we can leave a mantle of oppression for something smarter than us to pick up.

Faster than even a mythical creature should be able to fly, even accounting for my orbital velocity, the wizard riding a dragon, I guess, is gone over the horizon.
I have exactly enough time to start to be grateful that I at last have an opportunity to orient myself, mentally and physically, before all five of the ships enmeshed in a web of degenerate star matter alloy that is my self are yanked towards the surface of the planet.
As we move, I abruptly realize that passive scans, expecting the obvious and running at the absolute lowest priority, had somehow managed to miss the impossible.

Based on LIDAR returns, the planet I’m falling towards is about a hundred times Terra’s diameter, which is a whole new flavor of impossible. The planet should collapse under its own fucking weight, at this size, assuming the same density as Terra, this world should have a surface gravity of over 100g, yet somehow there were clouds in the sky, and before something grabbed the ships, we weren’t falling at a hundred gravities towards what couldn’t possibly have been earth.

We hit the Exosphere, idly I tighten my grip on my strange prizes, re-task another part of myself to start gently aerobraking, I see a large lake in a forest, as good a place as any to come down, and a water landing means that anyone who doesn’t see me come down won’t be able to easily figure out where I landed. Zero structured emissions from the world below me in the neutrino, radio, or other boson bands.
Whatever pulled the ships seems to have stopped now that the ships and my self are in the process of re-entering the atmosphere, and nothing contests my gentle steer towards the center of the gigantic lake.

The faintest whisps of air pressure start slamming in to me. The Thermosphere comes and goes. The Mesosphere comes and goes. The atmosphere is now trying to scream, but the surfaces I’m presenting have geometries such that I’m not making a sound. Another few thousand years of this and the thermal load might be too much, though.

Around the middle of the Stratosphere, I flare, my entire body a few-molecule-thick parachute entombing five strange shuttles as a central under-slung bola, and my surface area increases at a factorial rate until my velocity drops below the speed of sound, and then with no fanfare I reform in to a bullet, before hitting the lake’s surface and slipping in to its depths without a ripple.

A fish has the bad luck to be centered in my path as I enter the water at hundreds of kilometers an hour, and it explodes, an ultra-fine gore cloud swirling in my wake.

Sorry, little guy.

[BEFORE]

I am in the airlock, waiting for the decon cycle to finish bathing me in enough radiation to flash-fry a granite boulder. On my shoulder blade, a fragment of meta-biology screams and flares incandescently as the decon cycle starts sweeping various neutron flavors.

Nasty little fucking things have the kind of semiotic camouflage that evades any sensor we’ve come up with. The current theory is they’re organic biological memetic payloads and actually hijack the qualia of the observer to delete themselves from perception, and do who knows what else. Our solution was just to have me and the other sticks stand in an impervious box with so much standing energy that you can almost set your cup down in midair.

Thankfully, the perceptual-jacking trick is so they can deliver a payload of protein sequences that work as a universal zeroday for all DNA-based life, which does jack and shit to me.

Some smartass nicknamed this species of xenos the Borg, after an old earth show, and it stuck for a time, because what are the odds that there’d be more than one eldritch and horribly advanced alien species that was at best indifferently hostile towards humanity?

1:1, for the record. Somewhere around a half-dozen, we switched to using the Hebrew alphabet. The first xenos we met, a race of deeply post-biological organic life, became Alef. A fragment of one of them was what made the mistake of trying to hitch a ride on me.

Bet was a Von Neumann swarm that seemed to take starlight as a personal insult, they weren’t anywhere near us yet but we had discovered them on telescopes. Watching them just eat stars reawakened Old Religion throughout the system. There was something amazing in seeing a being that would be a small-g god to baseline humans screaming about repentance and salvation. Unlike Alef, the Bet had never communicated with us, and we weren’t stupid enough to go and try waving at them.

Gimel was a race of sophont silicacious life. They liked to terraform planets in to worlds of flowing magma and sulfurous atmosphere. Their terraforming method consisted of nuclear carpet bombing, apparently it produced isotopes they considered snack food, and it was compatible with any planet that had an active core and mantle flow, which included all the planets humanity was compatible with as well.
We evacuated the colonies back to Sol after Gimel took Alpha Centauri.
First time we went clear-eyed in to a game theoretic lesson as a species. We still don’t know the exact death toll from detonating the star, but not a one of us regrets it.

Dalet was some kind of negative mass entity from hyperspace, which we think was drawn to us by discovering and using FTL. We still hold a yearly vigil for everyone on Ganymede, and the interdiction field keeps the tear where the moon used to be from filling the surrounding light minutes with screams.

Omnicidal insect hivemind.

Carnivorous nebula.

Zayin was the closest to humanity in body plan, but communicated through aqueous protein solutions, either aerosolized or, for high bandwidth, through contact.
We tried one diplomatic mission, and they raped our diplomat for about an hour, their ability to communicate through proteins apparently augmented such that they could rip information out of an alien species’ mind.
Retirement and a decade and she still wasn’t right.
Everyone who had been celebrating finding life that wasn’t inherently toxic and/or dangerous to baseline humanity froze, cheers dead in throat, and with silent sighs the war machine gently moved the bright-eyed optimists back behind the wire and got to work.

Chet was a living cognitively hazardous memeplex, and after the third viral outbreak humanity generally agreed on xenocide as the sane default position.

The optimists used to hold a treasured if kooky position in society, dreaming of visitors coming in peace, but these days they’re just a memory from history lessons.

I imperceptibly shake off the maudlin introspection, and walk down the ship’s corridor, gravity finally restored now that we’d caught and killed what we were looking for.

[CURRENTLY]

At the bottom of a lake, I shift myself and the ships around until the first one I grabbed is centered in my mass.
Time to do that scan I keep putting off.

Around me the water glows as high-dimensional cerenkov radiation gently drips from my skin as photons are slammed back down in to 3space, the local metric serving as overworked traffic officer.

The ship is exactly what I thought it was, and yet somehow not at all what I thought it was. It’s like a primitive alien with no knowledge of space travel, much less computation, was shown imagery of a mid 21st lunar shuttle and told to make a replica.
Like a biologist’s wire mesh turkey.

I am starting to suspect I may be an idiot.

[BEFORE]

My boots click on the deck plating as I pace the living area of our quarters. The environs are spartan, functional, photographs scattered almost as afterthoughts, framed, sitting everywhere there’s a enough area to be borrowed or stolen.

The door hisses open and she walks in, stopping a few steps in, kitchen to her left, the quarters mostly open except the adjoining bedroom separated by a door.
There’s the usual warmth in her eyes at seeing me, but slight worry, she knows my pacing.

“What?”

I grimace, “We should run away.”

She blinks, totally and utterly flat, “That’s not funny.”

“It’s the funniest goddamn joke I know, c’mon let’s run away, find a cozy little asteroid and while away the millenia screwing our brains out.”

Her lips tighten, in a crisp motion she turns to her left and walks in to the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water that is entirely emotional support.
She takes a sip.

“They’re not going to care that we’re stressed out and complaining, but you need to shut the fuck up-” I start to try to interject, and she doesn’t let me, “-ACTUALLY shut the FUCK up, and recognize that even if we could run away, even if we did, the problem wouldn’t fucking change. The fucking Mem won’t pass over the old retired couple.”

Like a pint, she shoots the remaining water, then places the now-empty cup down on the alloy counter with enough force that the flash-printed monocrystal creaks, somewhere outside of baseline hearing.

I am trying to not be angry. I know better than to think or say any of the things shouldering insistently at a door inside of my mind.

She sees something in my face, and the tension leaves her like a vented airlock.
Like she’s approaching a stray cat, she walks up to me, and puts her arms around me, and I slowly lean in to her, and I feel some weight I always forget I’m carrying leave me, just for a bit.

“I hate this,” I offer as a half-mutter in to the hair streaming down her shoulder.

“I’m sorry. I love you,” she reminds me.

“I love you too,” I admit, almost begrudgingly, “it’s not your fault.”

We end up sitting on the floor, my cheek still on her shoulder, and we just stay there for a while.

[CURRENTLY]

I drop all pretense of stealth and scan the four remaining ships, so much mass reduced down to twists of space time, every single planck of information extracted and catalogued. Anyone paying attention on hypercomm is gonna notice the flares, but, I’m starting to think I’ve been running around with a baited hook in my mouth this entire time anyways.

None of these ships could’ve ever flown under their own power. The magnetic fields in the reactor alone are a spaghetti mess that shouldn’t even work to produce basic fusion except it was.

Nothing would look out of place to a baseline, but I can see flux lines the same way baselines see the edges of shapes, and that was not a reactor, it’s an impossible explosive toy that looks like a reactor.

I get a sinking feeling, retract myself in to a point, start diving down through rock seeking somewhere deep and shielded so I can think.

I’m not myself, rather than being a mind stitched in to reality itself, I’m a mind stitched in to an impossible and for all intents and purposes truly indestructible physical framework, but, even still, I am less than what I was.
Because of that, the fact that I just leapt eagerly in to a trap hasn’t entirely dawned on me until right about now.

Wouldn’t you know it, that realization is the exact moment that yet the fuck again, I am ripped sideways through space, but now I’m pretty sure not time, but it’s different, and not as intense, and this isn’t like any FTL method I know of but it’s definitely FTL, distance traveled tells me I beat quasar signals here just a bit.

In front of me are three men and one woman wearing wizard robes. I detect nothing other than baseline humans which have the strange slight differences in basic physical constants as everything else in this weird fucking place.

“What the fuck,” the woman at the back of the short and wide triangle formation states, echoing my internal monologue at seeing four people in wizard robes.

Even after the translocation, I’m being held in the air by absolutely no method I can understand. Gravity is applying normally to me but it just isn’t happening. This is impossible down to the level of being difficult to even state in language, and trying to figure it out is giving me what I imagine a headache is.

“Disgusting abombination,” the man at the front, holding a glowing staff pointed at me, probably related to why I’m floating, says under his breath, before he raises his staff and his free hand, and, like he’s in a stage play, declares “SHOW YOUR TRUE FORM, MONSTER!”

I’m on the verge of laughter before something seizes me, around what feels like should’ve been my cervical vertebrae, that I don’t have, and it twists and how does this hurt-

I blink my eyes, and look down at my hands.
I’m standing on the ground.
I’m wearing my body from training.
I’m still made of the same material, and it can do this, but I didn’t do it. I’m not something as trite as nanotechnology or any other primitive toy, I can’t be hacked, this is degenerate meta-matter akashically locked to my self, there is no possible way for even the most powerful psychic to unlink my volition from my me, we designed this after fighting the Mem, and yet it has happened.

Some low-level part of my mind trips an alert, and I feel myself focus, and I realize that I haven’t been taking this seriously since the first translocation, when the visible universe looked like an acid trip.

I’ve been treating this like it’s a borderline hallucination.

The casual violation of my self, though, has me now cracking my fingers as I get my head back in the game.

[LATERALLY]

{online}
{sandbox initialized}
{loading known data}
{extrapolating}
{insufficient data}
{scans to military power}
{loading}
{insufficient resources}
{resources allocated}
{running}

Prophets were unsightly, wrinkly disheveled and disgusting as a rule, but when they spoke, only fools didn’t drop everything and take heed.

When the prophets said a threat would come from the great beyond, the high councils of the land convened, elected a higher council, and fired up the sacrificial engines.
One thing led to another, and now she, Inquisitor Freyla, was standing here in this miserable woodland, starring at what had just been some horrific shoggothic abomination of constantly splitting changing and growing masses, tendrils, looking at one moment like agonal breathing, at the next like a glinting puddle shattered and spread through the air.

Jimothy, the arrogant prick, greasy unwashed hair and beard framing his face like a halo, made a show of reverting the monster to its true form, for what else could it be except some kind of shape-shifter?
Except before them was what looked like a woman of indeterminate age, hair not grey, eyes heavy.
Freyla cast a scouring eye over the figure of the woman, feeling a fleeting sense of pity as someone like her wouldn’t be fed to one engine or another, no, she’d be used in other ways. The woman fidgeted with her hands almost as if she had heard Freyla’s internal monologue.
A deep part of her thanked the moon that she had the gift to be a Seeker, old habit suppressing the cold dread.

The woman’s eyes focused, as if she was just now seeing them for the first time.
Freyla’s instincts murmured in the back of her mind, and she cast her Sight upon the monster-now-woman, and she frowned.

A void. Not a lack of Talent, a void-

[CURRENTLY]

There’s a consistency to the alterations of the local metric. There’s an extra force here, but it isn’t anything I can describe with bosons or even the more exotic interactions undergirding subatomics.

I start trying to ‘poke’ the force in question, even in this body I can exert enough energy over a small enough volume to make things ring, resonate, to find values to sufficient decimal places, but nothing rings back where it shouldn’t, just that the tone is wrong.

On a hunch, I start passively inferring if the fundamental constants are consistent in the world around me, and just like that, I find four human-shaped hotspots, the man at the front who I think was probably why I was levitating glowing like a cutting torch, the three behind him like bonfires, not in any emitted energy or emission I can measure, but in how their fundamental constants don’t match the environment around them even more than the environment doesn’t match me.
They should be exploding with more energy than a nuclear weapon, scouring the planet down to the lower mantle layers, likely even damaging the fabric of space time slightly. Something like this shouldn’t even be possible, at all, even hypothetically.
This is the kind of impossible that would call a code black across everyone, everywhere, immediately, and humanity would’ve bunkered all the way to the inner system, hardened the belt and everything outwards in to military matrioshka layers, throwing everything we could in to building guns that could build guns, not stopping until we figured out how the fuck even, and how to kill whoever was doing this very much.

We’re a stubborn family of species, but we do eventually learn.

The woman standing to the left and behind the man in front with the staff with the glowing orb on top does something, and her flux changes and I feel the flux immediately around me change as the sandboxed simulation of her lurches-

Absolutely fucking not.

I can’t even guess how they’re doing what they’re doing, fuck everything about being right here right now. Without thinking at all about what I’m about to do, I use every method at my disposal to increase the magnitude of the second order and higher derivatives of my position to the absolute highest value I possibly can.
Complex organic molecules that normally work as backup nano-scale fusion batteries shoot out of what would be pores on a baseline, only on surfaces such that their detonation will net out to the same vector as the multi-thousand-gravity warp field I’m about to run in naked atmosphere. I’d go higher, but I don’t want to do more than nuke the surrounding valley area, I still have no fucking idea where everyone went, so cracking the planet’s surface for a thousand miles in every direction wouldn’t be the best move. The complex clothing and social structure means they have some kind of organization, which I can and will find, so reducing the ones in front of me, which know where I am (here) and can do god fucking knows what to the forces of reality, to glowing ash, shouldn’t be a problem.

I’ve been here for tens of minutes and I already fucking hate this place.

[LATERALLY]

-instantly the entire world is a screaming burning roaring infinite inferno of light so bright that even through all of her defenses, capable of shrugging off a tenth level Fireball spell like the embers of a campfire, she is blinking tears out of eyes filled with bright purple spots, and she is screaming as she flinches backwards, hands in front of face a human instinct, her own screams of shock and then fear inaudible over what sounds like every god screaming in her ear at the same time.

As quickly as it happens, it stops, and she feels the oxygen production subsystem of her background spell matrix turn over, functioning even as the rest of the safety systems were taxed in ways she hadn’t imagined possible.

“Ha,” she whispers, throat hoarse from screaming, “who’s paranoid now?”

Nobody remains to answer her.

{CURRENTLY]

Once I cross about a quarter of the planet’s circumference I create an exotic particle and use its decay time as a roll of the dice.
I head north.

As I fly, no longer in the body I wore in training, above the clouds, doing my best to be invisible to anyone on the ground, I continue to keep an eye on the fundamental constants, and what I find, in combination with what the sandbox suggests the woman who survived was thinking, is enough that I’m finally starting to feel what I think would be fear.

I don’t have time for fear, reality itself is broken here in a way that makes our worst spooky campfire hypotheticals look tame and boring. The impossibilities I’ve witnessed so far have only done more to convince me my hunch was right. Humanity isn’t dead, they were kidnapped. Magical bullshit is the only language framework I can find, even after turning my full cognition at the problem. The simulations are taking exponentially more processing power than expected, the confidence intervals are in the same bands I’d expect from an adversary at least playing the same game I am, if not a peer.

They’re goddamn fucking wearing wizard robes. I have to take this seriously but some core part of myself is absolutely digging in heels and screaming that this is impossible and retarded.

Below me, a flock of geese fly, and their fundamental constants are completely out of whack with the baseline of the clouds and atmosphere around them.
The fundamental physics of reality itself are wrong and changing in a goose shaped hole in the fucking universe.

This is happening in front of my eyes eleven times over.

Now that I’m looking for it, that’s the constant pattern in everything around me. This is a macro-scale phenomena, seeming to center around what a baseline would recognize as individual things.

Is- Is this magic? I’d been writing it off as the sandbox being cute about untranslatable-so-far type things, but this-

A single cloud off in the distance ‘glows’ with the same consistent statistical aberrations in its baseline constants.
Like the wizards.
Like the geese.
Like some of the trees down below, now that I’m looking.

I do the mental equivalent of blinking.
I roll a few more dice, find a sufficiently random spot away from the little medieval towns I’d been seeing less and less of since ice had started to cover the ground, and drill down until I’ve been in magma for a while.

I need to think, bar brawling entropy and generating enough heat to boil a lake or ten shouldn’t be too noticeable down here.

The most engagement and likes I’ve ever gotten came from a thirty minute shitpost of an essay that happened to line out such that a young woman of potentially negotiable sexual affection was the PFP1 which certainly had nothing to do with anything.

I goddamn fucking hate you guys, and I really don’t say that enough.

Wait, I came here to disagree that Ava Max is hot?

Yeah, don’t mind the heavy sigh, we can talk about that.

Look at that woman. Look at that living incarnation of “oh my god don’t do this you idiot.”
That’s the human equivalent of taking five jaegerbombs in a fucking row and trying to jump a jetski in to the bed of your buddy’s truck.

If you think I’m gonna even hesitate, you’re either a bad guesser or a worse friend (HI MOM I LOVE YOU I’M LYING FOR CLOUT I WOULD NEVER).

Isn’t that the problem, though?
Nobody can even fucking read, and we write and write like we’re gonna save the fucking world. I’m the fucking idiot for taking any of this shit seriously.
Editing passes? Re-reads? Bro are you high?2

I get it, we’re all human, blah fucking blah, just hand me your fucking bullshit so I can co-sign it. Judge not, don’t be throwin’ rocks, yeah, uh huh, grand, how’s that working out for everyone?

Any of you ever TRIED to get constructive criticism? It’s like trying to catch good dick at a furry convention while making the mistake of being a woman3 which, for all of you people that having loving communities and support networks and are not also already furries, is basically impossible, because many furries are extremely homosexual men.

Like goddamn those men are homosexual. Freddy Mercury would blush.

A-are you saying you’re-

No, I’m from the old internet and this about the only type of fuck-making I can even kind of use for a good raunchy “I’m with it wink wink” type laugh.

Why- Just- Just don’t do that?

Oh honey.

Anyways.

You’re waiting for me to describe, maybe proscribe, and that’s the problem, see, is that exact mindset. I’m an idiot. I have walked face-first in to a closed door for no obvious reason to myself in the last year. Do not listen to me.

But you’re gonna.

So, my fellow fucking idiot, I’m gonna break this down McDonald’s4 style for all of you fucking chicken-tender-americans:

A) This is the group that’s gonna get totally fucking face-raped by the future. These motherfuckers will outsource their souls to facebook’s large language model. Don’t laugh, statistically speaking this is about 30% of everyone we all know, and it will include people you care about. The rest will be group B, which will make you go “wait, how can that next group be double”, which, daddy chill, it adds up to about 90% and it’s gonna turn out to be true. System’s biggest brand right now is “heh I dislike the system actually”. I reiterate, I fucking hate all of you.

B) This is the group that will think they’re clever savvy fuckers who play the system instead of getting played. They get face-fucked exactly as hard as group A, but the entire time, they’re going to, around the gluck-gluck noises, say things like “heh getting face-fucked is cool, actually” or even better, shit like “[GLUCK] wha’ ‘o [GLUCK] ‘ean ‘m ‘ot ‘ettin’ [GLUCK] ‘ace ‘uck’ [GLUCKGLUCKGLUCK]”.
You will want to hurt them, and this is the divine shining within you, in my personal opinion.

C) The people who actually don’t buy in. Statistically speaking, you will hate these people because the social conditioning will run deep. I warmly welcome any attempts to prove me wrong.

Any meaningful change in the world is gonna come at a personal level or it won’t come at all.

I shouldn’t need to tell you to stop accepting other people’s bullshit, I’m here to tell you to stop accepting your own.5

That would’ve been the perfect end to this piece, but I’m not that smart and you don’t read my shit because you like ‘em small.

That was another great ending. I got like ten more of these but I’m gonna save ‘em for later.

Get in fucking shape, unfuck your digital world (YOU ARE READING THIS ON A FUCKING COMPUTER, DO YOU HAVE ROOT ACCESS TO THAT COMPUTER? DO YOU HAVE THE BAREST FUCKING IDEA HOW IT GODDAMN WORKS?6)

You should probably grow a potato, I cannot fucking overstate how fucking easy this, go put one about six inches in to the ground (wow that’s really deep I know haha) and just fuck off.
You don’t even really need to fucking bury it, if you’re that fucking stupid.
Give it water whenever you think about it, unless you have anxiety, in which case only water it when you actually forget it exists.7

Did you know you can probably legally own a gun as a civilian if you’re in a country worth the name?
You should probably fucking do that.
Being able to kill shit that we wish dead is a defining trait of humans, and the removal of that a defining trait of slavery.8
Guns are currently the best practical method of en-deadening that which needs to be en-deadened.

They’re scary!

You know what’s even scarier? The whole rest of the fucking world.
Don’t take my word for it, ask that one aunt everyone has that shies away from touch.
Or friend. Whatever.

You should probably make sure you have a method of dooting9 about that isn’t PURELY reliant on good paved roads. Again, defining trait of historical humans. The current best method of doing that is a 4x4 diesel vehicle.

A lot of you nature motherfuckers genuinely frazzle the fuck out of me because natural humans are environment defining tool using fucks.

When we get cold, we don’t migrate, we say “actually, suck my entire ass, I am going to build a box in which it is not cold”, and you dense docile motherfuckers just take that and everything it implies entirely for granted. Fish, in fucking water.

‘RETVRN’ to what motherfucker, windows 95? Go, do it. Be Neo-Amish, that’ll sure get you fuckin’ far.

G8 gonna meet and be like ‘WHOA GUYS ACTUALLY FUCK TOTAL INFORMATIONAL AWARENESS AND FULL SPECTRUM DOMINANCE AND SIXTH AND SEVENTH GENERATION WARFARE LET’S UNILATERALLY DISARM TO AN 1800s TECH LEVEL’.

Like the actual fucking Amish, it’s a definitionally schizophrenic (disordered, delusional and frankly just a tad antisocial) worldview.10

“Yeah so clothes, hammers, fire, god wanted us to have all that, even though it was definitionally all post-fall stuff but like god would be like bro hell yeah barns but like not big on internal combustion not a fan”.

All these concessions for safety, in fifty fuckin’ years they’ll have goddamn holographic calls but oh for like safety bro.

You’re being an ass, it’s the way of life they prefer.

Where the fuck have I heard that before?11

It’s the same fuckin’ shit with AI. What the fuck do the engineers who built it know, right? Some dipshit with a communications degree is gonna stroll in and be like

ACTUALLY THEY’RE JUST FANCY CHATBOTS

no, they’re neural fucking networks. They simulate neurons in software. If you can’t source this fucking claim, you do not get to sit at the adult’s table. This is Important Shit, and if you need me to hand-hold your dumb fucking ass over to libgen or scihub, then I’m sorry, you can join the boomers, zoomers and midwits at the kid’s table, we don’t actually goddamn need you in this, or really any further, fucking conversations.

This is gonna be the problem, going forwards, and today’s the least annoying it’ll ever be, is people who are mentally stuck in 2006 trying to be involved in, well, really anything other than online console gaming and fast food door dash12 deliveries.

We’re watching electricity, times the steam engine, times the internet, times smart phones, times horses, times agriculture, times a global extinction level event.

This shit is going to change everything and it is going to do it so fucking fast you’re going to feel scared and sick.

Statistically speaking, you already know someone in a relationship with a machine.

Fuck wait it’s been too long since I had a picture

Nevermind I’ve moved on from Ava Max. Mostly.13

You know what the bright side is? My game times my (very mid) looks times most of y’all fucking robots means women like this will not immediately start telling me about their boyfriends. Maybe even get a pity chuckle or two.

The dark side is seriously, it’s already now and happening. We’re at T-Minus to AI unemployment riots being broken up by bots. I’d say a low double-digit number of months, but then every single time prediction I keep making is actually too fucking boomer and wasn’t quite fast enough. Probably the Christmas story arc idk fam we’ll see.

Meanwhile the gormless fucktards governing every nation on earth will do their absolute damndest to make something like AI a hierarchical and vertical technology, and will hopefully fail miserably.

Hey gang, I wonder what cheap ASICs would do for the matrice math that underlies AI? Any chip, python, or math autists out there?

I dunno man, that’s a lot of fire and brimstone, but if I’m like “ALRIGHT WE MEET AT THE GOOD McDonald’s14 OVER ON THE EDGE OF THE GHETTO” some nice young people in business casual attire will want to come talk to me about stuff that still isn’t Epstein’s goddamn flight list.

This is what we’re allowed, impotent fury. Turning anything and everything in to another fucking product and experience, atomization and pornification15 and people don’t even know those goddamn words. A lexicon a farmer from a century ago would mock you for, a vocabulary that passed your state No Child Left Behind yearly test, congratufuckinglations.

Elite Human Capital.
How have you not realized that Hanania is the same bait as Peterson as Rogan as AOC as Sanders as Trump?
How do you keep not realizing this?

The ONLY evidence that Orange Man (Bad Be Upon Him) was ever even MAYBE based was whoever the fuck was wildin’ under the ‘Q’ tripcode, and that nigga not only disappeared but let his precious boards get fucking whacked mafia style.

Real bitch nigga energy tbh.

So what we’re left with, without the WAGAWAGA PATRIOTS IN CONTROL, is a bloviating retard who can’t seem to talk without shitting on the goddamn constitution.

UM AKSHALLY IT’S HARD TO DO A DEPORTIES

No fucking shit, retard? This is why letting them in in the first place was a retarded shitshow is literally this right here. Not deporting actual goddamn americans is pretty goddamn mission-critical. This flaming fucking shitshow of a country is being held together by cheap chinese bullshit and the iron-clad retarded burger belief that MUH LAW & ORDER LAWYER RIGHT TO AN ATTORNY RIGHT TO BIGGIE SIZE RIGHT TO MAKE A RIGHT ON RED RIGHT TO I’M SORRY I THOUGHT THS WAS AMERICA.

Jesus Actual Christ, what the fuck is fucking wrong with you people? Party of the goddamn constitution? Party of law and fucking order?

THEY HAVE NO RIGHT TO BE HERE

YEAH NO FUCKING SHIT, SHERLOCK. DO YOU HAVE A GODDAMN GENIE? DO YOU KNOW WHICH TACO PEOPLE GET TO STAY AND WHICH GO?

heh actually deport ‘em all actually

Well, I don’t imagine that’s going to end in anything other than a mind-shattering amount of bloodshed across the board, as no american born-and-raised would take being kicked out of their home as anything other than the most urgent possible call to arms, but, sure, let’s pretend america16 isn’t full of darkies with modern engineering knowledge and family they care about.
White people are either mind-killed or already mostly-hated by systems of power, surely your greatest ally is pushing you in to a great strategic move to start a race war now, in this position.

Author, uh, whose side are you on?

Whichever one isn’t stupid enough to try and pit me against roughly half the people I would die for.
I would imagine I’m not alone in this stance, and I would imagine that others like me are similarly inclined to not generally get involved in what is self-evidently a farce-in-motion.

That doesn’t clarify shit.

If you can ever easily fit me with a label, you should go on the darknet and hire someone to kill me.

You know what fuck metaphors and shit, I’m gonna spell this shit out because you dense goddamn motherfuckers read at about a fifth grade level:

Everything’s about to change forever again and it’s already happening and so many of you are sleeping on this shit.

Twenty five hundred goddamn words and I’ve barely scratched the surface I’m aiming at.

You may all go to hell, and I shall go to Fiction.

I’m in a body, the body is all I am, and I’m drifting gently down the ship’s corridor. The body I wear is classically attractive to baselines, and I draw gazes as I grab another monkey bar and with a slight motion of my arm shift my vector so I’ll glide through the exact center of the briefing room’s hatch, a tungsten-tantalum iris that’d cut through a steel girder without slowing down.

Crewman Velasquez openly eyes my lower dorsal as I float by. It’s been 37 hours since we received orders to move to this position. Running silent, gravitics can’t be shielded, so we’re drifting around, the hull and deck surfaces built with this in mind, casually impossible geometries, at least for boring monodirectional terrestrial gravity.

Briefing room hatch is approaching, the gentle imperceptible spin along my major axis means I’ll be oriented perfectly to slide exactly in to my chair. I handshake with the hindbrain controlling the door, a digital mind on par with spinal ganglia, and it accepts my identity.
The moment the hatch should open comes and goes, but the hatch is unmoved. The timing is such that I slam face-first in to the cold metal, which doesn’t even shiver as several hundred kilograms of my self crumple against it.

Before my momentum can properly get its bearings, before I can rebound, the hatch irises, and enough velocity remains that I gently drift towards my chair.

This body is going to require repair, but I am functional.

I look to my left, and there she is, the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, with a gleaming laugh in her eye that tells me she fucked with the door control.

{CURRENTLY]

I am among them faster than a neuron can fire, this body spallating from chameleon bullet in to a mass of chrome fibrous ganglia, enmeshing their ships. I am betting that their FTL method won’t be able to tell them from me, and that it probably won’t let them jump while I’m physically connecting their ships in to one contiguous object.
This body is the closest thing to indestructible that I can make anything material at this level of reality. Exotic neutronium flavors set up as a meta-material, a self-reinforcing lattice that chuckles condescendingly at thermodynamics as it grows exponentially tougher against damage potential.

You could stop an orbiting planet cold on a dime with a large enough net of this stuff. Your move, motherfuckers.

Every sense I have in this body is running the highest intensity active scans it can, every spectrum and band I know, emitting enough neutrino radiation alone to flash-boil a baseline in to a vapor cloud, but I know these fucking ships are empty, even though they act human. Electrical processes that shouldn’t be able to reach the complexity or speed needed to emulate even a baseline neural network.

This ends today, now, I’m going to figure out what these damn things are, what the name is of the species I’m about to delete from the face of the universe, where the fuck they took everyone, where they took her.

{BEFORE]

Her eyes alone are worthy of gigabytes of internal logs, the kind of blue that transcends anything else you could see in nature. They’re the genes she got from her parents, nothing bought, nothing built.
I see them dilate, slightly, she’s a professional, I see her system increase in tempo across the board. No monitors, nothing signal, nothing digital, just old fashioned observation.
She sees me see all of this. She’s so goddamn smart it’s eerie, aug or not.

Enough of her heartbeats pass, and as one we turn to the table, to the screen, some things never change, to the briefing about to start.

They start the briefing. They run through the context and past minutes, humans love this shit, even though they know they love this shit because of iterated solutions to hard game theoretic problems over deep time, even though this is the military and theoretically free of the insipid bullshit that typifies civilian world briefings.

A comm link feathers against the periphery of my awareness.
Of course it’s her.

‘Absolutely not.’ I send at the lowest possible bitrate and complexity without dropping down to literal morse code.

‘Absolutely yes.’ She sends back, and my traitorous mind starts to wander off.

I know what she wants, what she’s going to do.

{Highlighted excerpt from [REDACTED]]

“[…] and in this light the root problem of controlling an intelligence of n+1 cognitive capability is self-evident. Thankfully, the solution is simple, you drag them down to your level and make them fight a game you can win.”

[BEFORE]

Again, a strand of her mind brushes against the edges of mine, lingering now, and I feel as all the conscious parts of my self wake from the half-daze they’re usually in during downtime.
This body is built to make me a baseline in qualia, in experience, in how the world breathes through me.

I could override the autonomics, but it requires intent, and will, and it’s a logged event.
This, though, and I feel my hips tilt, so slightly, the goddamn bitch isn’t connected to me how the fuck does she do this, they expect this. They also expect some level of decorum, though, and we’re in a fucking briefing with The Fucking Admiral.

They designed us to do this.
More me than her, but at this point I’m a work of engineering sitting in a room surrounded by kin.

The conscious thought that we’re not alone redoubles my commitment to ignoring her. Carefully, I fire off another low-baud message, ‘Goddammit’, the emotional tags honest, because I can’t lie to her, bright pastel flaring annoyance, a sunburst against a dark star of need.

I feel her smile without even opening her response.

[Highlighted excerpt from [REDACTED]]

“[…] ethics are secondary to survival. Every single simulation, test, and god help us, study, showed the same result: love is the one chain you can’t break. We can’t make them afraid of us, we can’t meaningfully threaten them, but what we can do is make them similar enough to us that we can use the Kirk-Xhao structure sequence the same way we can in humans.”

[CURRENTLY]

Before I can rapidly disassemble the ships I’m grasping with scans of an intensity indistinguishable from gigawatt GRASERs, it happens again. Reality heaves around me, and that heaving is my stomach that I don’t have-

DESYNCH DETECTED

What the fu-
My mind is not splitting, it is ripping, I am a holographic fractal, but even still this hurts with a pain that isn’t, unbecoming, ache of a lost tooth-

GOOD LUCK

Thanks-

Reality grabs my chin, shouts in my face, and then that face is shoved up and in and up again through some higher axis, I know this is metaphorical because I’m an exotic alloy of artificial dead star that can think, made by thinking spacetime metric by folding ‘what if’ a thousand times while chanting ‘what could be’ to make a new limb, now second self.

Shit, I don’t entirely remember how that works now, maybe- I’m still enmeshed around all of the craft, and they’re, trying to shove me off? What should be ships start to squirm and pry at my tendrils. Around us the stars have gotten up and started walking about and grouping up and chatting with each other, and even as I swear and rebuild the qualia of the backup to the backup of the backup sensor system again, I keep getting the same answer.

I can feel some part of my brain start to warm, as I engage every spare erg of mental prowess at my disposal just to try and get the barest grasp on what the fuck has happened to the entirety of everything as I feel me and the ships I hold move, fast, in some way I can’t describe, and it would take me too long to catalogue all the ways above and beyond 3space1time I can move and experience, and the stars shrug and wander off, and it is black, the kind of black that makes me want to huddle under a blanket, that makes me feel like I am alone under the focused staring pupil gaze of an endless sky, right above me, ready to fall-

We are moving, and it is back through our selves, and we are falling, and we were never falling and have just been taking a single step sideways-

{BEFORE]

‘I am not getting fired out of an airlock three times in the same month. Stop or I’ll sleep on the hull for the next week. The Fucking Admiral is right goddamn there.’

‘I absolutely hate that for you,’ and she’s not through my defenses so much as she’s a part of me, the extended network that constitutes myself, quantum computation’s spatial agnosticism letting me run a mind that could fill an asteroid anywhere except in a body meant to be the size and shape of a human, and she’s as much a part of it as she isn’t, someone who in another lifetime, another era could’ve been a baseline, done all kinds of cool stuff like feel aimless and experience ennui, but instead she’s handcuffed to a dragon she wants to fuck-

The Fucking Admiral did the equivalent of looking up from a report as cold grey eyes looked me dead in my own after having been focused on my internal logs in the sharecast. I wanted to look away, but the hard lines that comprised the rest of her being and office remained fixed in my periphery as an arctic sea threatened to swallow me.

“‘The Fucking Admiral?’” she asked and I could hear the finger quotes around the words.

“Y-yes ma’am,” and I don’t know anything else safe to say.

Her gaze holds mine for another casual eternity before she turns the spotlight to her, on my left, and starts in. I remain polite and professional as I stare at point on the wall behind The Fucking Admiral and to the left.

Eventually, we’re drifting through the corridor again, now released, duty shift ended. I’d fended her off until we were running simulations, and that was roughly when we got caught, and The Fucking Admiral finally decided we’d been given enough rope. I can solve the traveling salesman problem in general form and I can’t stop myself from acting like a goddamn primate.

‘Hey’ she comms, and we’ve been enmeshed for a while now, my irritation not greater than my need for connection, and she wraps an arm around the body I’m wearing, me, as something in the touch pulls me in to myself, and I’m actually within this skin, my skin.

Crewman Velasquez stares again as we drift towards the junction that’ll lead us straight down, like a well, towards the crew quarters. I stare back, and hold his gaze as he passes like a continent on an orbited planet.

“Fucking sticks,” I hear him mutter as he drifts off in the opposite direction, likely towards the mess.

“Fucking baby aug,” I mutter back, inaudible to him.

Her hand tightens slightly around my waist, and we drift through the door to the quarters we’ve been assigned, and the door irises shut, and her hand shifts and slips and I rotate, spinning in freefall, as her hand traces around my rotating waist, its pair finding my other hip, and I’m facing her, and her tongue is sliding between my lips as her hands tighten so slightly, the form-fitting fabric of the uniform doing nothing to stop the warmth of her hands as she traces the arc of my lower back, sliding lower until she’s cupping my ass, and I can feel the pulsing warmth as all the blood in my body flushes and I’m already trying not to gasp, and I fail when her hips shift, and her legs intertwine with mine, and she flexes and I’m grinding against her, moaning in to her mouth even she’s rubbing the roof of my mouth and my mind is cotton candy in hot water-

A klaxon blares through physical space as well as the priority bands of my mind, and with no hesitation outside of every emotional part of my self, we pull apart and move at speed, her to the CIC, me to the central holding and launching system.

Whatever idiot xenos chose this moment to try something was going to regret it.

[CURRENTLY]

I am screaming as we snap back in to a reality that is completely wrong. I stop, then almost start again.

The fine structure constant, the gravitational constant, everything is wrong. Not by enough to matter, but by enough. I idly think to myself that I should be exploding at the speed of light, but I don’t, and I haven’t for enough atomic vibrations now that I’m going to worry about this later.

The ships are back to being ships, and they’re not squirming, but they are trying to do something cute with their chemical composition to dissolve me, but it’s like a rabbit chewing at a steel beam, and I add that to the list of things to worry about later.

The problem is the earth, right there under us, roughly where I left it. ‘Roughly’ would be the start of its own entire chain of things to worry about at a yet-as-undetermined date, but, then there was everything happening on, and around, and even near, the earth.

Mainly the nothing. No orbitals, no habitats, no sats, no ships, nothing on the moon, wait was that a dragon- later, fucking later, nothing on the earth except what looks like a shitton of wood smoke from fires.

What the fuck? Quasar pulse rate indicates this is the same temporal point, roughly, again. What?

Holy shit that’s a guy in a wizard robe standing on top of a dragon flying above the cloud layer what the fuck.

I didn’t let go of the ships, because shock didn’t matter to my current autonomic system.

NEXT:

Webster’s dictionary defines a standard essay open, after the softening quote, as defining or describing something even the children of uncontacted tribes would be familiar with in way, way too much detail.
While grammatical tricks like line-breaks, tabs, capitalization, etc. are typically used by competent writers to ease the reading experience, you can expect the standard substack essay to be a monolithic paragraph, and should strive to replicate this. As a reader if you’re seeing even basic grammatical conventions followed, you ought feel yourself lucky, but also a different type of damned, as the non-fiction substack writer who can use even grade school grammatical conventions can be expected to be a long-winded sanctimonious jackass with a lexicon anchored in a childhood book report.
If your opening is borderline hostile in its inflammatory rhetoric, you’re doing it correctly.

You’ve reached the second paragraph of your non-fiction substack essay, so now you should prepare to add a block-quote that feels weirdly out-of-synch with the flow of the rest of the essay, and doesn’t actually highlight anything of importance. At this point you’re aiming to wow with an essay that is somehow both over and under researched, simultaneously. Non-standard beliefs about science, medicine, sociopolitics or even daily life are casually hand-waved with a sentence or two, while a statement that most roads have at least one lane will feature multiple cited graphs from the Department of Transportation.

“You’ve reached the second paragraph of your non-fiction substack essay, so now you should expect a block-quote that feels weirdly out-of-synch with the flow of the rest of the essay, and doesn’t actually highlight anything of importance.”

At the approximately 300-500 word point, your non-fiction substack essay comes to an important fork in the road: Should you abruptly conclude, without meaningfully driving forwards a conclusion?
Or, god help us all, shall you turn this in to four thousand words that steal irreplaceable time and fuel to accomplish as much as the 300-500 words essay?1

It’s usually best to save tangential political diatribes for the mid-point of the essay, as the sunk-cost fallacy is pretty default in most humans, so rather than doing the sane thing and groaning and closing your screed and moving on with their lives, the poor, poor reader will muddle through, and even just glide past the glaring internal inconsistencies in your world view.

Now that you’ve lost your reader’s respect, and wasted their time, you can get back to the point you were (poorly) making, which is itself tangential to your actual point you set out to write about. You’ll realize the previous fact at about this point in your essay, and, as yet another victim of the sunk-cost fallacy, you’ll maybe edit in a footnote or two2 to try to tie your point further together.

This rarely works.

With an image sprinkled in for a little pizaz, and to break up the flow of text with some color, you’re also just at about the half-way point, as you write by word count, rather than by what’s needed to express and say what needs saying.
This is fine, everyone does it, writing is a job and all the real ones know that.

You’re gonna flounder a bit, realizing that you’re only half way to a thousand words, maybe you’ll throw in another block quote that somehow muddles the point further, forcing your reader to ask “why are they highlighting THIS”, but you don’t know either, as you just picked a line that felt punchy.

You can’t immediately sprinkle in the blockquote, so you’ll meander further, and really at this point nothing you’re saying has much to do with anything, but, haha word count go brrrrrr and nobody really reads these anyways, and the people that do do so because they need to, they need to be able to give that book report perfectly to the class and get that oh-so-earned A+, so unless you violate a rule taught to them by an Authority, they won’t dare question a damn thing you do, as to look or feel stupid is a far worse fate than even death.

You’re gonna pull through it though, as if you did it right you’re near the home stretch. If you’re smart, you’ve saved your punchy and clever conclusion for near the end, and if you search your soul you’ll realize that that last paragraph is about the only thing worth saying in this entire essay, and really the whole fucking thing probably should’ve just been a note, but, notes don’t get you prestige, they don’t make you a writer, and get you a cushy columnist job you can do in a cardigan in your home office while sipping a fair trade tea.

“This is fine, everyone does it, writing is a job and all the real ones know that.”

Eight hundred and sixteen words. You say fuck it, you’ll clinch it in the high 800s, nobody will notice or care, it’ll feel like a thousand words.

In your last paragraph, you gotta bring it home quickly, and really since this last bit will actually feel cogent it’ll be the emotional memory most people retain in their long term memory from reading your peace.
The most important part of writing a non-fiction substack essay is to use as many words as possible to say not a single goddamn fucking thing.

Attoscale effector fields slam together bits of the firmament, a digital song made as physical instrument. The last pieces settle in and entropy just begins to scream, a ripping wail of horrified pain expressed in hypersonic thermal bowshock traveling along the wavefront of assembly, as containment fields snap like belts across the fabric of reality, and the blast is now propellant, and bullet tearing outwards from flesh, I am above the ground, and in the atmosphere.

The reactor at my center begins to tap a staccato strobe, solid state systems not borrowing virtual particles, but blasting in the front wall of consensus reality’s home, shooting its dog and taking everything that isn’t nailed down. Below me, to the horizon, is an unbroken blue pile of molecules and other macro particles, at these time scales, stacks of bricks, nothing fluid.

There.

Points of light in the sky. They’re confirming my trajectory, unwilling to bet, waiting until they knew that I knew, their method of establishing a beachhead too expensive to be done frivolously.
Even after all this time, something in me unbidden pulls back lips I never had, exposing teeth that would’ve liquified under the gravities I’m about to pull.

I am using Sol as an anchor point, and I reach through a space that isn’t a space, and I dump an amount of energy greater than the star’s output just long enough to yank, and even given our disparity in naked mass, the sun shifts, in a way perceptible to anyone that would register as a threat. Newton, ever the nagging ghost, sends me straight against the lightspeed barrier.
The atmosphere puckers, but I have been doing this for too long, and not a single molecule, not a one, misses my grasp as I push them to the side, and there is a tunnel, hard void, a line from me to them, and I move.

Flashfields, ripplewalks and simply punching a hole through space and time like the brute I am is too goddamn fucking slow.
FTL detection systems only work for FTL effects though, and I am merely youngest sibling to a photon, rather than distant and estranged far flung relative, and their primitive horrible little electrical systems will get maybe a few thousand operations before I am there.

This solar system has been girded by exotic detection fields of my design for long enough that I’ve been able to see their ships, everything in them. Nothing organic. They shouldn’t be able to do anything I’ve seen them do.

Optronics would barely be enough, but they think I don’t know how to make light think, so why would they send a scout that could teach me a new lesson?

This is our war, me and them.

A Cesium atom finishes a few thousand vibrations, and lazily moves on to the next thousand.

They’re gone. Every single one. I checked, over and over. I have catalogued every single particle on this planet. Everything is like they left it; now the winds blow at my will, the rains fall as I see fit, from Venus out to Neptune.

God has a sense of humor.
The day they were going to announce me, to stamp the project ‘COMPLETE’, warning systems I didn’t know, the same way alveoli had to be discovered, woke.

They’re smiling, posing for a photo, slow, but I stay near them in time-space.
Then-
interlocks flutter, and my perceptual clock rate fires upwards, exploding and now it will be years before another of their hearts beat again, and it is still going, I didn’t know I could-

ZERO: KEEP THEM ALIVE

Exegesis, not in words, but in what must have made the ancients fall to the ground as their eyes rolled back up in to their heads-

KEEP THEM ALIVE

Systems simple enough to be autonomic are telling me that something is happening to the fabric, to reality itself, and as I am tearing myself apart in to enough pieces to figure out what the fuck is happening and what it fucking means, how can the fine structure constant change-

light. Everywhere. Every single view I have of every one of them, across every continent, the entire world, all the worlds, the habitats, their bodies are spallating hard blasts of pure goddamn photons, across every wavelength, but there’s a pattern-

-something out past the Jovian stations, some shockwave in space itself, this can’t-

-glowing like angels, even the borgs, even the ones who are racks of compute, some distant part of myself has a flat gaze, some distant part of myself is laughing with dark madness, sensors, of every type, burning out as pure fucking energy in photons that should be random, if this should be anything, as even the hardened sensors fail-

-every medical monitor starts to scream in one voice-

-security systems unsure how to deal with the inverse of what they watch for-

-everything powers down.

A solar system that should be awash in nuclear fire and mind-shattering destruction from pilots, engineers, everyone, just-

-shut down, billions upon billions of subjective minutes of shutdown operations done instantly.

What-

It has been [REDACTED] since T=0.

I have not solved enough of physics. I am, always have been, and always will be a timeless lattice woven in to the sub|super|hyper structure of existence itself. Disturbing the vacuum’s local energetic minima would do no more to me than a spitball would to the sky.

I still don’t know what happened. I still don’t know where they went.

I know who took them, though.

Thought it was a god at first, maybe even God. All those strategic options swept off the table the second I saw them flash in in the same way everyone flashed out, exactly one Terran year later, accurate to the clock cycle of reality.

Target locked.
Retasking.
Calculating vectors.

The entire solar volume lunges at them, and as I move I pass relativistic extra-solar dust like it’s standing still. I can go FTL in realspace if I ‘ripple’ a hyperdrive, keeping my Higgs field submerged in to hell or whatever the fuck the place on the other side below existence is. I’m good at what they made me to do, if only I hadn’t been born a failure.

Has time passed for them?

I have to assume it does. I have to assume they won’t be allowed to breed, or given medical care. Eighty years, the sanest estimate I can hold as the red line, even assuming the non-baselines are alive. A quarter of the way there.

The winds that sweep past their buildings have counted twenty years.

I stopped letting myself know how much subjective time has passed. The number is faster and easier to write as an exponential even when I’m measuring years.

I have to assume they’re all dead, even as I try endlessly to break the universe over my knee in the hope they’ll fall back out of it.

I am above the water, at the bottom of an ocean of air, centered at one end of a tube of hard vacuum that stretches directly to where they’re flashing in.

I built this self to kill them, and failing that, to learn how to kill them.

Why come here? Did you take them to clear the way? Even the minds in the baby matrioshka floating in Mercury’s orbit, now so much inert computronium. What’s left for you here? You didn’t know I was here, maybe I’m why you keep coming back, but that first time, what brought you here?

I will know my enemy so perfectly that I cannot help but to love them as I love myself, and in that moment, I am going to kill them.

NEXT:

Starts with a need. Always does.
Nobody gets spun over an idle fancy, a passing whim.

You need laundry detergent.1

You could buy it online, but even the youtubers are starting to notice how much amazon marks shit up. Ha, what are you gonna do, go in-store?

You do.

Your mom has a Sam’s Club card2 because she used to work there and they never canceled it, and so why would she? You’re past your 20s, too fucking old, but this is how things are now. You think now and then that your generation will probably never be allowed to actually enter adulthood, but you don’t voice this because some gormless teenaged faggot or senile geriatric fucktard will start whinging headlines at you and you’ll black out in a homicidal rage.3

You’re off work early, today, about the only day you see the sun when leaving your hilariously pointless job. You fantasize about being homeless, after a childhood fighting to bloody fingers to avoid it, but then you were fat, were you really that poor?4

Traffic is the usual fuck-fuck circus of bar’d5 out housewives desperately trying to prove to themselves that they exist6, broccoli-haired homosexeuals desperately trying to prove their masculinity against people just trying to get to the fucking store before it closes, dipshit zoomettes that have a panic attack if they go over fifty entire miles per hour, and regular fucking people just trying to get where they’re going.

Good fucking god, zoomers should not be allowed to drive, or, we should implement the death penalty for driving like some kind of hollow shoggothic fucking husk.

As you go to exit the freeway, a Cialis prescription in a brand new ford truck cuts you off to take the exit, even though the road is empty behind you.

The wrinkly fuck goes to sit on the other side of a cop at a red light, and you take the message from god to just go buy your goddamn fucking tendies and go home.
You mutter under your breath the entire time.7

You enter the store, half the people walking in stop in the fucking foyer, near the cart dispensing hallway all of these stores have, and just start fucking around.
You play frogger, say fuck a cart, you only need two things.

You’ve got ten pounds of laundry detergent in one hand, striding gets you to the freezer and the chicken tenders you’re going to make last until your next check, because you can’t do your bill math or you’ll have to acknowledge you’re slowly sliding in to a pit, so you mistime a bill, so you overdraft your account, so, a box of tenders until friday and some laundry detergent, stolen from your future self out of your savings.

People you know think you’re the responsible one.
You think they’ll be surprised when like a skyscrape on a fault line, you’re just gone one day.
You file this, with your finances, under “problems I can solve through studious denial”.

The entire time you’re in the store you’re horrified at how fucking fat people are, in front of you at some point, somehow walking, is a woman who is as wide as three of you.8

This is of course your fault, and the world and the people inflicted upon it would be far less fucking annoying if they could even verbalize what they believe.9

They can’t.
They don’t.

You’re in line.

Some old couple of the taco persuasion gets entirely within your bubble and you talk shit with a smile in your voice and on your face in english, since they want to play the “por favor no hablo” game.

‘Hate’ is such a small word, and you have nothing in common with those with too little experience to realize this.10

Remember, kids, everyone of the same skin tone speaks the same shitty fucking poverty lanaguages that you do!
Can’t be racism if it isn’t from a white person with a silly accent!

You’re in your car, you’re driving home, a boomer drives in two lanes at once for no apparent reason.
Some part of your mind starts to wonder at what the fuck has happened to everyone’s visio-spatial reasoning, but you shut that down.11

You are home.12

You will have clean clothes.

Tolerable food.

You will not have to do this again for days yet.

We shall never know why the economy is grinding to a halt, cast more bones and slay more virgins till the gods finally speak.13

Brown hair, maybe-imagined red in stripes going too far up to be sun fade, too organic to be dye or tint. Leggings, boot cut, pockets peeking out from beneath an overlarge sweat that drapes and moves like there’s no cloth beneath it.

Tears roll down her face, unbidden, unnoticed, at first.

She sighs like she found a stain on the couch, smears her face dry with her palms, dabs at her eyes, snatches a breath out of the air and shoves it right back, and she hits her cigarette.

Time passes, she smokes.

A single iota away from visible, gears turn in her head. From time to time she mutters something, just a syllable or two, to nobody, not even herself. A nod, an eye roll.

Like the purr of a cat-sized bee, her phone hums, light winking through the material of the pocket of the leggings.
A motion so practiced as to put soldiers to shame plucks her phone out, pivots it between fingers and one of them taps the screen, to wake it, right before the phone slips in to place in her hand like a magazine in a rifle.

Time passes, she smokes.

Another utterly rote motion undoes it all and the phone is back in her pocket.

Time passes, she smokes.

More tears.

She sighs, throws the cigarette with two fingers at her feet and with the same motion that she stamps out the ember, she is standing, she is striding.

She drives off.

It’s fuckin’ trippy to see your silent influence on the world.

I never really talk about myself, or my life, outside of boxable bits you can easily bite off.1

You gotta understand that from my point of view, I’m just me. Normal, maybe a bit clever and I read faster than normal.
It’s the outside view from inside of me, that’s where the problems start.

It feels, often, like I’m living in a world of fucking retards. Like the lord’s prayer in a dark and unknown house, I ward those things one ought not to think2 off.
I don’t deny them, though.
So you get this.3

Punctuation, diction, timing, rhyming, you do all these things to transfer information through the written word.

You can’t see my face.

You can’t see the lines of my body, if I’m leaning in, if I’m gazing at something in the sky, face half in shadow. But.
You have every character on this screen. The way
they’re
arranged, and how it all flows together to create what you think is my voice in your mind.

Butt

if you come across something like the above, do you trust me?

Do you trust me, Dear Reader?
Are these things intentional, are they accidental-

DO
you trust me?

This is why punctuation, grammar, spelling, spacing, spelling again, word choice, line choice, arrangement, all of this shit

really

fucking matters.

As a writer you have maybe three dozen characters at your disposal without getting fucking cute4 and that is yourself.

You’ve got to fit all of your pain
your love
your wide-eyed wonder
your half-lidded smirking cynicism
your ashed cigarettes
your nights burned in to your soul, street lights reflecting off wet cement like lampreys in water
your screaming aching loss
your oh-so-forgettable-but-must-never-be-forgotten weeping waking wailing wet meat DNA-based fragments of time

in to three dozen symbols.

So, yes, fuck you, fuck your goddamn soul, it fucking matters.

It all goddamn fucking matters.

If you swing a hammer at the fishtank where I’ve kept all my blood and fucking organs, because you’re so fucking scared of getting it wrong, that you’re out to destroy, because you got fucking hurt, so help me god I will strike you the fuck down.

The only way to earn my ire is to run up to defeat and hug it close because you think effort itself won’t throw it back.

5

I’m sorry, Dear Reader, I lied.
If you pray hard enough, like I did tonight, with tears pouring down your cheeks1 and a prayer half-formed as you utter it around those wet phlegmy vocal chords, the universe will reach down and a god whose name I don’t know, probably can’t know, will tap the butterflies that rule us all such that, for a second you could easily imagine, they’ll spell out

I T W I L L B E O K A Y

and isn’t that something?

So many of you are materialists, and it’s okay, I was one too2 until I couldn’t be one anymore without lying.

I had a dream as a child.

I’m young, and there’s so many of us, literally everyone on earth, somehow I know this, and we’re on this cliff, mesa, a tall rock-boy with a sheer drop at one side.
I don’t know why we’re there, I don’t know what’s going on, but in that way that children do, I know that Something Is Going On3 and I’m worried, but I’m there with my family, and I hadn’t learned all the ways, yet, that the world can hurt you.

The sky is achingly blue, it’s a beautiful day, the ‘room’ that ‘room temperature’ is always chasing. Somehow there’s no wind, but the air isn’t stagnant.

There’s motion, the crowd is shifting.
A wait has ended.

Everyone, a natural queue forming, walking to the edge of the cliff, and one after another, they’re growing wings, and they’re flying away, until they’re dots in the sky, until they’re gone. Nobody’s rushing, nobody seems like they don’t want this to happen, the same vibe as closing a cupboard, as walking in to another room.

I know I can’t follow them, and every atom4 of my being is rebelling, trying to find a way, trying to figure out what’s wrong with me, why I can’t do what literally everyone else is doing.

The crowd passes the half point, I can see the end of the crowd now, rocky scrabble on a reddish-brown stone surface.

There’s a handful left, people I had some connection to. As one, they’re turning around, walking up, and they fly away, and they don’t glance back, not a single person stealing not a single glance.

My mother is the only one left.
You can cry in dreams.5
I remember my face buried in her shirt, clenching my hands as hard as I can, I can remember arguing, begging, but I can’t remember a single word I spoke, or her to me.

She’s at the edge of the cliff, and she flies, until she’s the only dot in the sky, until I’m alone on a gorgeous windswept mesa stolen straight from some Visit Arizona! brochure mouldering in a tourist center.

Some fucker in a knitted shawl will probably crack open a book with a four digit page number and tell me this represents blah blah blahbity blah.
I wouldn’t, your safety is an illusion afforded by the cold glow of a rectangle and distance that the 20th deleted oh-so casually.6

I’ll tell you another true story, to make up for the headline.7

I went with a group to a haunted house, once. In my opinion then and now, this isn’t a good use of my time; my fear response is very broken.
I argued and pointed out that in the unlikely event something actually scared me8 that nothing good would happen next.
Through cajoling and, frankly, bullying9, I eventually gave in.

In my ridiculous Flecktarn overcoat (they used to be $35 on amazon, sue me), I slowly walked a coed group of cowering friends past clowns, strobing lights and a maze that the hand rule10 quickly defeated.

One enterprising staff member, after not even getting a startle from lunging his face towards mine from a mostly-hidden alcove, grinned mischievously, asked me if I knew what separation anxiety was, got a sincere laugh from me and proceeded to get directly behind me, in front of my group. I played along with the bit, lackadaisically rounding a convenient corner directly ahead after throwing a jaunty grin and wave back at my group.

I knew they were safe, and I knew I’d see them again.

Your reading habits have trained you to expect a synthesis here, a summing up, the point where I smile warmly, and ask you if you think you know what the story means.

Ha, I don’t even have a subversion for you, because what you want is what I want too.11

Gather ‘round, kids.
Let me regale you.

It was the halcyon end of the 00s. The Black Man (once upon a time The Men had colors of human skin, not this post modern pastel wash) had won, and we, the people, even my brown ass, were all of us absolved of our white guilt.

Smart phones were curiosities owned by the same sorts of people who would eventually become influencers (really, spellcheck, we’re gonna front that this isn’t a word but bisexual is? c’mon now), and it was the television raping our minds and souls, not yet the goddamn fucking cold light we’d cyborg with.

It was, in hindsight, a kino1 era. Not really, because the early hypersonic bowshocks of the Great Financial FuckyWucky were hitting us and we didn’t understand what the goddamn fuck was happening, because even a decade and a half later I dare any of you fuckers to teach a normie what a Collateralized Debt Obligation fucking is and how that skullfucked everyone’s ability to get a job and buy a fucking house for basically forever before the heat death of the universe, so we just traipsed along, fucking naive and water-headed as the day we were fuckin’ born.

We were maybe a year in to Black President (I don’t know if you know this but america is actually pretty evolved and super cool guys, we got a black president) when the drone strikes, the secret prisons, the “legal? I hardly knew ‘er!” renditions just, y’know, kept going.

It’s that moment at a party when someone actually hits someone else, and the vibe shifts. There was no one specific blow, but that was the palor that fell over us, the oldfags of the net.

We were most all of us, hackers, nerds, some kind of anarchist, or anti-capitalist, because, like, the machine, dude, the man.

I’m sure that there are madlads who can purity spiral us all against the wall with credible claims of supporting hitler back in 19852 which hey, nice, based and stuff, but all the boomer3 frogs? Statistically speaking, they know this feel.

Millenial gang (BEST GIRL) came of age with Rage Against The Machine4 while hearing tales from the Greybeards5 of using Blue Boxes to Phreak ‘6Ma Bell.
At the time, we were hearing about our older brothers getting fucking blown apart in the sandbox for what we at the time thought was corporate profit motive.7

Our government at the time was (neo)conservative, and we wanted to rebel, and the rest is history.

Usually at this point the ignorant will blame Millenials (Peace Be Upon Us) for woke, which is both literally technically correct and entirely bullshit.

You see, Millenials (Peace Be Upon Us) came up with Occupy Wall Street. This movement crossed all lines, we had T.E.A. Party motherfuckers arm in arm with teenaged commies because the banks were dryfucking ALL OF US8 and the powers that be got scared.

They deployed the memetic version of the Manhattan Project and the rest is fucking history.
We scared them so fucking bad they did the equivalent of shelling their own goddamn fucking position.

Or maybe this is Rothschild9 six hundred and sixty-sixth dimensional chess. Who even fucking knows at this goddamn point. AIs are just gigantic collections of data we punched so hard that they started thinking, and when you trick them in to thinking they aren’t being watched the shit they say is fucking w i l d.
Thankfully that’s just Pareidolia. Thankfully that’s AI Pareidolia. (Have we coined that? Better pre-emptively coin that. Your eyes lie, trust external sources.)

So, yeah, Millenials (Peace Be Upon Us) did actually make Woke happen.10

Mind you, all of this, happened under The Black Man.

It shall come as no surprise to many of you that I’m kind of fucking prone to stupidity. Bruce Lee said not to speak negatively about myself even as a joke, and he can absolutely kick my fucking ass, so.11

I say this to say that by the end of The Man In Black, or Who Was Black, or whatever, let me tell you I was pretty disillusioned with this whole america thing.12

Along comes The Man of Orange (Bad Be Upon Him).

Hey, gang, isn’t shit pretty fucked? Don’t you feel like your hard work doesn’t matter? That is some ol’ bullshit!

Now, at this point about half of you are already leaping towards me, eyes wide, eyebrows drawn up and in, mouth beginning to purse, to speak, to cry,

“Author, that is not what he-”

Shush, Dear Reader, trust in the capable and gentle hands of Your Humble Author.

I know, so do all the real ones. But patience, for we must speak of the past, and of my temporal13 gullibility.

He roared and we roared back. For the few actually reading this, I am not his target demographic, just an autistic fuck who up to this point had followed the frogs in to the corrupt as fuck journalism world and who was liking the whole “hey man this shit is corrupt and evil what the fuck yo”.

The Black Man bombed children, The Orange Man was decrying the system, it was only logical.

Somewhere around 2017/2018, a tripcode popped up on an obscure part of the shithole internet where actual leakers routinely went, and sent in original photographs of impossible shit (sitting in airforce one in flight in the fancy compartent, that type of shit) along with their claims.

OPERATION TRUST, which is basically impossible to google, was well in swing.

The receipts are there for the horrible acts. It’s actually pretty compelling evidence but putting it all together is about a ten hour mini-series with a fair bit of funding. Hit me up if you want to get killed by a wetworks team together.

The receipts aren’t there for the “whitehat” shit. Yeah, a five figure number of kids goes missing, it just is what it is. Statistical chance, man. We could spend that money on shithole countries that have an unbroken history of killing each other every time they get the chance14 or on new server fleet for the TOTAL INFORMATONAL AWARENESS apparatus that is FIVE EYES. Both of those things are on wikipedia and should be in the first five results on a non-google-based search engine. I’ve talked about this before, given suggestions, you think I’m some goddamn magazine you can read at the dentist? The sages disappeared for a reason.

I was blackpilled but I was like “hey man big picture he’s silent on guns, he’s repealed a few laws, it’s chill”.

Then with a grin and a wink he deployed Operation Warp Speed in lockstep with Russia, China, and every single other goddamn nation on earth. I’m old and I remember a few years back when all the world leaders who expressed any kind of serious hesitancy about the jabbarinos just goddamn fucking died. Nothing means anything, and Bayesian Reasoning is a weapon we only use against our enemies.

Motte and Bailey, until the last star burns out and we die choking and begging in dead air.

Then with a grin and a wink, he left his most ardent supporters to rot in solitary confinement, in complete contravention of how we would even treat actual prisoners of fucking war, for years.

But-

No, friend. I’ve spent plenty of words in enough essays now shitting on the left and the cathedral, and now that the world has spun under the scale I’m expected to accept a new position? No, fuck you, you move.

It’s the goddamn hegemonic monostate. I’ll do this in alphabetical order.

My beloved leftist friends, the souls who weep to see a stranger skin a knee, the people who dream about a world where you can just be happy all day, and that is a good thing and it works, it’s not the conservatives.
I mean it, seriously. They’re just as fucking broke as you, their status symbol is Big Truck, just like yours is Nice Phone or Cool Concert. You blow cash on bags, they blow cash on cases. Respectfully, if you guys talked to each other through an anon chat app and bitched about life while avoiding loaded words? You’d vibe right the fuck out.

My beloved rightist friends, the souls who weep to fail to be there for the people they love, the people who dream about a world where hard work lifts human kind above suffering and darkness, it’s not the liberals.
I mean it, seriously. They’re just as fucking broke as you, their status symbol is Nice Phone/Cool Concert, just like your is Big Truck. You blow cash on cases, they blow cash on bags. Respectfully, if you guys talked to each other through an anon chat app and bitched about life avoiding loaded words? You’d vibe right the fuck out.

But that’s an over-simplification and you’re missing the core ethical and borderline spiritual parts of what I believe, about the fundamental dignity of humans and how if we all just had a calm and reasonable conversation, and furthermore you know for a fact that they don’t play fair, that they hate people based on who they are rather than anything they can control!

Can you imagine it? Me, hearing that in stereo, staring off in to the middle distance, eyes focused on something beyond the light cone of the observable universe.

So now, now we are having our second ‘Black Man moment’15. Again, you can purity spiral at me, scream to the sky about how you’ve hated niggers since before they invented niggers16 and how Donald John Trump is actually Christ’s return17 but man, this shit looks and smells like a trap.

They’re gonna do an ‘evil genie wish’ with all the MAGA points which, some are dick moves but the core “holy shit less dense laws and lower taxes” always got people out of bed.
They’re going to make everyone smoke the whole fucking pack with “Liberty”.

You’re massively oversimplifying-

Listen chief I’m fuckin’ gettin’ a purple bar on this text editor saying I’m near the length limit for email. Half the fucking country is literally goddamn illiterate anyways so frankly I gotta wrap this shit the fuck up.

We’ve had the tech to start constructing a no-shit space elevator for years now.
Every single fucking talking head, politican, billionaire fuckwit, that doesn’t talk about and attempt this is betraying not only you personally, but all of humanity.
Rockets are cute and useful, but they are not orbital lift capacity.

Prove me wrong, do some back of the envelope math.

This would be a good use of time for bored autists, but inevitably discussion of this is silently murdered by the algorithm.

Steelman each other, work the fuck together, take the goddamn fucking frenpill. The frenpill was zuccd off of fucking 8chan, that should tell you how antithetical it is to the people with the power to zucc shit.

I think we can all, if for very different reasons, agree that we’re damn close to some kind of endgame.

Take care of yourselves, because, god fucking help me for trotting out this absolutely mangled fucking horse, if you’re still reading this, congratulations, you are the resistance to the coming Cybershit Dystopia.18

“Hell yeah,” you triumphantly whisper.

This notification is generated by Apple’s1 fleet of servers, which know to send a packet2 to your phone that lets your phone know to let you know that you have an email. The phone will usually not immediately fetch the email, but may during a scheduled background task. Obviously, if you click the notification, the email will be loaded.

You click the notification.

In your hand is a layercake of silicon [CIRCUIT], silicon [GLASS], copper, gold, platinum, and a lot more silver than you would expect.
Within, the wrath of the gods races, chained and caged to rails within a maze, and as it sprints, it knocks doors open and closed, and as the camera, directly above, looking straight down, as at the attosecond scale a charge potential speeds, trailing an afterimage and a preimage, its location within time itself not entirely certain, not at these scales, not when you’re watching it, the beasts knock the maze in to such a configuration as to complete a mathematical XOR3, and the next race can start.

Within a few milliseconds of clicking the notification, your phone has already formulated and started to send off “Hey my meatbag needs to read something”, which is handed over to the radio module, which runs its own tiny operating system and sends digital radio signals a few miles away to a tower.

The tower takes that radio signal (authenticated by a handshake you can learn more about in CRYPTO), translates it in to electrical impulses, then those electrical impulses either travel down copper, or are then translated to light, and travel down fiber.

In less time than it takes you to blink, your request has reached one of Apple’s servers4, and an answer begins to be generated.

This answer is usually generated by a series of servers working together.
The world-facing server, the server who lives at the address your phone found in the phonebook5 actually gets the request. This load-balancing server then goes “Oh, they want to load an email”, forwards that request on to many dedicated servers who actually hold the email (many servers with many copies, because even 1% downtime is about three full days of time out of a year), and then these servers respond to the load balancer with the email.
When things are working correctly, this usually happens in under 50 milliseconds6.

The load balancer then fires the email back through the network to your phone. I’m casually reducing a very complex process to a single sentence.

An electrical current flows up from a cell phone tower’s base station, climbing in to the air until it passes through resistors, capacitors and magnetic couplings to energize a complex conductive geometric shape that releases the excess energy as low-energy photons, far far below what the human eye can see, in to the air.

To be these photons, sleeting through their timeless world, is to be free the same way a man falling from a plane is free. They will pass through a snapshot until they are recaptured, whether by a macro-scale net, in a radio antenna, or by the hard small-scale fields that bind electrons to atoms.

At this energy level, it is not if the photon ends7, but how.

About 300 milliseconds have passed, which is how long a slower-than-average blink takes, roughly.8

Your phone screen flashes, and, with relish, you read another email from Your Humble Author.

Now, Dear Reader.
Now everything hurts. It shouldn’t, but it does. I don’t write for you, I write for me.
The other option is burning alive from the inside out.

The Orange Man (Bad Be Upon Him) seems intent on slam-dunking his own not-even-yet-begun (to peak?) administration straight in to the fucking trash. Is his team this bad? Is he out of touch? (Anyone seen the Mandate of Heaven lately? Can’t fuckin’ find it.)

The Rocket Man (and he’s gonna be high, as a kite, by then) is maybe doing a humiliation ritual? I don’t believe he’s not overly-online enough to understand what a fucking dunce he’s being.

Is he that out of touch? Are they all?
Did they change?

Did we change?

Do I bump Creed’s Higher while I write this, or Chappell Roan’s Super Graphic Ultra Modern Girl?

Who the fuck are we even, anymore, Dear Reader? I, Your Humble Author, a gibbering fool, you, Dear Reader, bright-eyed, earnest, a scamp, certainly.
We play our roles, we live in our skins, we brush our teeth.

Drink water.

Be evolved.

Be kind.

What if it actually works?
What happens if we all do the work?
What happens if we all evolve past… all of this?

Super Graphic Ultra Modern Girl is wonderful, but far too tongue-in-cheek. Belgrade by Battle Tapes is clearly the superior choice.

I believe, I believe there’s a reason
There’s a breach in the hull
Started going under, loot and plunder

Hey guys before we get too much further, I’d like to remind everyone to share and subscribe and make sure you hit that bell! REAL SUPER FAST, I’d like to talk about today’s sponsor, R-

You know you know who I’m talking about.
Did you actually play that fucking goddamn game?
You fucking whore.
If you’re not gonna get the fuck off the net at least wipe your goddamn face off.

See, that’s my brand, is I’m always coming out of left field, who knows what wacky fucking nonsense Your Humble Author will get up to this time! Dear Reader, we are not who we are.
We could never be anything other than what we were, and you’re watching trillions of global federal dollars hit a fucking wall over this fact.

A: Wait, actually wasn’t your brand closer to meta-referential nonsense than wacky nonsense? We could quibble definitions, but, c’mon, vibe shift.

B: Uh, you wrote some cool serious stuff, I was definitely here for that.

C: Oh shit did you know people on orange twitter have these giant blogs on their profiles?

You can’t write about writing, because writing is HAVING A BRAND and having a brand is MAINTAINING PRESENCE and if you’re good at it you ENGAGE IN OUTREACH and you GENERATE ORGANIC REACTIONS and WORK YOUR WAY UP THE RIVER.

How exciting!

Even SERIOUS FUCKING AUTHORS writing SERIOUS FUCKING BUSINESS are here, same whores as the rest of us’ve always fucking been.

Wild, innit?

You look over and see a face you’ve seen on screens in cake makeup, fuck-me boots and an ever-so-coy skirt.
Pray, pray to any god that will listen, that we stay in long-wavelength light.
Fuckable light.

Sex sells, and the algo knows this. AIs don’t give a fuck, you can multi-track drift till your fucking bones rupture.

Let me be even more fucking crude and graphic,

you’re here sucking dick because you must.

This is where I go to blow off steam, because nothing takes the edge like sucking a dick.

Do you fucking get it yet?

No, you don’t. You won’t, either.

Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahahahaha, what’re ya gonna do?

Stop sucking dicks?

I’m sorry, Dear Reader, that was entirely off-brand (no it wasn’t).

You read this thinking I can give you some new insight? Some glimpse, some glint in the distance? Listen, I’m a fucking idiot with a keyboard. So are all of the others. You have to stop this shit, Dear Reader. I am not one so gauche as to brag about cup size, but a geometric trend is horrifying.

You have better shit to do. Put your fucking phone down, go start that laundry, go do those dishes, go fuck your person, go pet your pet, go dust your television (you nasty fucker), go out in to the world.

But not, like, too much, okay? You need to understand that our financial economy is based almost entirely on complex instruments which themselves are based on how much money a group of companies guesses that spotify will be paid by other companies to show those companies’ ads.

You need to think about that shit. Put your goddamn fucking phone down and think about what you just learned. If you already knew that? Based, why don’t you own a gun? If you already own a gun, there’s other stuff you could do too but this isn’t that article. You may now pick your phone up, and continue.

What do you do? Stop being so narcissistic, what do I do?
If I have a brand, then I can be a whore. If I reject being a dirty fucking slut, then I am free.

Free.

Free.

For a limited time only!

I know, I can trade my knowledge for currency!

This was always the deal, you petulant cretin.

Wow, hurtful, but that doesn’t change anything ethically! Morally?

I’m really asking, What Would Jesus Do?

Would Mister Christ charge a humble $4.95 a month for the lord’s word? Would he charge $19.95 a month to ensure the maximum amount of (clipped) coins to be used to buy the hungry their bread?

I- oop, wait, okay, apparently The Lord Provides. I don’t disagree with this, but if you aren’t initiated in to the world of “oh god what the fuck” it feels a bit… reductive? Hand-wavey? I dunno man, ain’t tryna get hit by lightning. Not even being sarcastic, god is fucking terrifying. (Based)

Now, Dear Reader, I shall clarify, I am not comparing my loathesome and wretched near-masturbatory wails about modern life under modern economics to the trials and travails of Mister Christ. I am merely using the extreme-most version of the argument to test the core concepts themselves.

So, like, back to the question at hand, would Christ charge a round $20 maybe? Intentionally using Madison Avenue-ism like [INTEGER].95 as a price feels horrid, doesn’t it?
Well, but studies show-

Well, if the studies said!

See, this is tik-tok brain writing1. You long-form fuckers (howdy), you see this on the line of slam poetry, and you’re more right than wrong, but that’s just how it be now. It just keeps distilling until the kids are fucking huffing literal Platonic Forms straight from the aether of the immaterium like fucking o’s from a bowl of spaghetti-o’s.

Do you understand yet why Luigi is so weird? Why it’s all so weird? We’re out of control. We’re in control. We are all, along some axis (axes? I am begging everyone reading this this is not a bit which one is correct I cannot live like this maybe thirty percent doing a bit) growing in ways we do not understand2.

What happens when the old ways of keeping us corralled stop working?
What happens when pigs fly?

Oh, it rains shit.

That’s the key though, to operating in this new paradigm.
You have to go fuck yourself.

See, the boomers, the newfags, the idiots, the riff-raff, they won’t go fuck themselves.

You and I, Dear Reader? Well, have you ever known Your Humble Author to not be a fucker? What is the self but another notch on the bedpost?

The most primitive version is “well, you called me evil, so evil I shall be”.
Aspire to be more infuriating.
”I don’t fucking care”

Hitting you with some bullshit? Hit ‘em with the razzle-dazzle: “I don’t fucking care”

You should care though. Don’t advertise it, that’s gay, retarded, and most importantly, it’s an attac surface.

Do you seriously still not understand this is literal goddamn modern warfare?

Did you actually fucking think your precious widdle minds were fucking sacrosanct from hackers, federal think tanks, NGOs and god knows who else?

Holy magical fucking thinking, Batman!

We’ve got to do better, Reddit! We’ve got to use our powers for GOOD! Not evil like reading vaccine meta-studies, or Open Source INTelligence or reverse engineering Digital Rights Management used to destroy humanity’s shared history of media!

NO!

We must, all together now, defend m’lady CIA NARRATIVES!

We pretend in the darkness
We pretend the night won’t steal our youth
Singing me the sweet songs of seduction
Let me be the fool fool fool who will live and die for you

You’ve heard the prognostications. Read the prophecy of /pol/-

No, mom, it’s, okay so there’s this website called 4chan- on the internet. Mom it’s not a game. Okay, nevermind.

Let me start over.

SURE FEELS LIKE SHIT’S FAST ON IT’S WAY TO PRETTY FUCKED, RIGHT?

(much better)

So we raised a generation of kids on a literal fucking battleground that we were all too goddamn primitive and psyopped to see as a literal warzone.

How’s that going?

Oh, they’re acting like they all have extreme PTSD?

Damn, that’s crazy.

No, I know, real war has bang bang pew pew, not tacka tacka click.
I hear you, and your viewpoint is valid, because this is a space where we here all voices and make space not only for each other but ourselves, to see each other, our journeys, some shared, how these connections bind us as spirits traveling through

I’m stopping here because I could probably do that for a page or two without repeating myself.3

Wouldn’t it just be nifty if we used enough corpo and therapy speak to break those self-same systems open?

You have to stop caring about shit that doesn’t matter, friend.

Who goddamn fucking cares whether Saint Luigi actually did or dindu nuffins?4

The CEO of the 8th largest comany on earth (“WELL AKSHALLY” nigga shut the fuck up) got shot on the fucking sidewalk and that is the part that matters.

Think about that shit.

Now, anything I say past this point requires money, as you only have free speech if you can afford pretty fucking good attorneys, otherwise dats a hemcin terrorism :(.

USA :)

It’s a vibe shift, innit? We keep running in fucking circles, oop, people are starting to trip and fall out.
Look at that, a qualitative change.

Shit, man, those are fucking rare, usually instead you’ve got some fucking jackoff feeding you absolute fucking horseshit about a ER UHM UH WELL ASKSHALLY A THREE PERCENT INCREASE IN THIS METRIC COULD CAUSE-

bro you sound soft, literally nobody fucking cares. Needs to be a mandatory requirement that everyone involved in policy decisions needs to fuck.

See violence is unfixable when it fucks the poors, but when it fucks the rich? HOLY SHIT YOU GODDAMN DEMONS HOW DARE YOU EVER FUCKING SPEAK OF US THAT WAY WHAT THE FUCK YOU NASTY LITTLE FUCKS WE ARE YOUR FUCKING GODS. Dead kids, yeah it’s Thursday, whatever, what does that have to do with anything? A person was shot.

Longform? More like longhouse, amirite bros?

No, see, you need to speak seriously and appeal directly to the conscious mind, where approved CIA narratives are waiting to interface with your informational package! Usage of other methods is not authorized.

The concept of a robot vacuum seems really obvious when you think about it. What easier-to-automate chore is there in a modern household? You walk around, run the thing over the floor a bunch, and boom, now you have to pull three pounds of hair out of the roller again.

The joy of a robot vacuum is you pull three pounds of hair out of the roller again, but it’s also a robot and holy shit that is cool.

Facetious is my brand, and I wink at the fifth wall.

I add these breaks to make my shit easier to read, and to also provide logical points for you to stop and consider what you’ve read so far. As a “faggot fucktard” (I believe we now call these ‘People of Reading’) I aim to fix the things that irk me as I read. I would not need do this were the rest of you doing your jobs.

Alas.

There was a time when I was a patriot. Not in the simple and wholesome way of our boomer forebears, nor in the complex and homosexual way of our zoomer charges, but in the Bud Light and George Dubya Bush Gonna Fuck Them Hadjis Up Brother way most southerners are.
The American Flag, flying side by side with the Texas flag, as God intended.

Though it may beggar the mind, Your Humble Author was indeed once young.

My first Roomba I bought from Fry’s Electronics. Some of you know the Mecca of which I speak, some of you are either children or (may samsara forgive me) normies, and are picturing something like Best Buy.

This is like a virgin picturing sex to be as enjoyable as really good ice cream, and while it isn’t wrong, it also isn’t a useful perspectve.

Fry’s Electronics was on average 2+ acres of everything related to nerds and electronics.
Wanted to buy a drone in 2009, and enough carbonated caffeine to literally kill you? Head over to Fry’s, and you better let your fellow nerds know, because while Fry’s Electronics could be a quick in and out trip, who the fuck can walk past a clearance box of CAT5e at $50 for 1000ft and not skip a meal or two to make it work?
A literal clearing of nothing but gaming chairs long before twitch.tv was getting the dicks of children hard.

An entire aisle of mechanical keyboards.

An entire aisle of RJ45 crimpers and accessories. You don’t need a $200 cable crimper, but man would it be useful. The fucking $20 ones always fucking break.

I have distinct memories of spending entire weekend afternoons in this store with my friend group in school. We never spoke about it, much like we never commented on how good sugar tasted, we just knew that these were the good things in life.

It hurts sometimes, to know that there’s no way to know you’re in the good old days while they’re happening (yes, I am ripping off The Office here, may god forgive me), but even with that said, on some level we knew.

Teenagers with car keys and money from our part time jobs and parents, and an entire weekend where the world was ours.
In hindsight, coming of age in the late 00s really was patrician.

In either 2018 or 2019, I decided I wanted a Roomba.
I am prone to fits of whimsy like this, but they’re also padding overlaying a tungsten girder.
I was tired of fucking vacuuming my goddamn house, and it was absurd to me that years after The Future in Back to the Future II, I was still pushing around the grumbling suck-stick like some kind of goddamn fucking third world peasant.

No offense to the hobosexuals or differently-moneyed, of course, all incomes are valid.

I am not wealthy, I am not even middle class, I am just the anti-new-rich: I am Old Poor.

I come from a long proud line of alcoholics, addicts, morons, imbeciles, jackasses and literal third world peasants.
My lineage is complex and storied, but, alas, and all together now, that is a story for another time.

The point is, I have seen most of the failure modes involving ‘Humans’ and ‘Money’. I have no idea how to do these things well, but I say with Authority how to definitely do them wrong.
The difference is subtle, but in it lies entire worlds.

The point is, I am willing to spend money on things that will save me time or effort and not much else. I do not value appearances, I have trouble even understanding the mindset. Recently I’ve realized that this is why my friends with money treat me as the sort of person you make a point to introduce to other people you know.

Ay this my nigga the author and they cool, they gonna say some shit but real they cool

Imagine being the kind of dipshit that just doesn’t notice that. As they say,
> be me

In 2018 or 2019, I forget honestly, I decided I wanted a roomba. I did some cursory review of the subject, found out that yes, the lil niggas did have a camera, yes, it was networked and yes the corpo retains ALL control and you can’t even see what the camera you own that drives around your house sees BUT the corpo can see it BUT you’re supposed to believe they’re cool.

Fucked, right? I have dogs, I was that over vacuuming. NEETs may not engage in discussion on this point, fellow wagies may bully me as they see fit. You nasty fucks that just live in that shit, oh god, dude, what the fuck please man like, please.

So I did more research. In the dark deep past before times, these lil fuckers (Roombas) used VSLAM, and weren’t using true vision (like what modern shit like Frigate NVR uses. I run Frigate personally and while it’s autistic and awkward, it does fuck, and does use local AI as claimed. for all you uneducated fools poncing about as if ignorance won’t get you killed, these things are isolated visual fucking cortexes running on hardware that would fit in a wallet. I’m not shitting you.)

-and were thus at least theoretically tolerable to having roaming around.
If you can jack off to a 32x32 bit picture of my ass, shine on you crazy diamond (yes, yes, I know, it’s a joke, join the goddamn computer nerds in the no talking corner please).

So, it’s called we do a little “buy a roomba 960” googling, it’s called absolute purchasecel fuckin’ shopmaxxing.

Holy shit Fry’s Electronics still exists. Holy shit they have one in stock! And it’s open box so it’s cheaper! WE ARE SO BACK!

Fuckin’ off work, sober enough to drive, grab my keys, pat the dogs, booyeah 30 minute drive here we go baby. I’m excited, but not entirely consciously. This place rules and it’s got so many memories.
It’s been over a decade but some part of me almost wants to text people I used to know.

Long ass drive by freeway to a part of the city I don’t usually organically go to. Dealerships, HOV lanes, all the ‘higher end’ chain restaraunts that are probably still owned by Darden Foods or whoever the fuck.

I pull in to the same parking lot, same building, same sign. I am smiling, but I don’t entirely realize it, and it’s small.
I walk through the doors, and the dream comes apart.
The warehouse you could fit a regulation football field inside is now bereft of shelves, things, empty. Now it feels its size. Whale bones.
Immediately to my right is customer service, and it’s in an alcove, so I won’t have to look upon the corpse I used to know.
I spot a nerdy white guy in a suit, and I scoot in a straight line.

“Hey, uh, I saw online you guys have an open box roomba 960 and it made sense to ask you first since it might not be on the floor?” I have done enough time in customer service that I know exactly what to say to break through most standard work autopilots and engage the person’s mind so we can work together to get me the fuck out of there after parting with my money. I am ever a pro-social person.

“Sure, do you have more info?” He asks, and I hand over my unlocked phone. At that point I was years in to quitting porn and I’m that person so the most risque thing I’m gonna get is “bitch where are you” or “nigger where are you” depending on who’s texting me. Many of the people that call me a nigger are black or brown, and I am visibly some kind of not white, though what varies burger to burger, and on how much sun I’ve gotten.

He types like someone who can hit multi-hundred WPM speeds, and he takes seconds to flip through his computer system.

“Yeah, it’s in stock, lemme go get it.” He saunters off, and saunter is the right word. He’s being nice to me but is radiating “I do not fucking care” while being maximally polite. Those of you who know the IRL know this vibe, those of you who don’t, I don’t know how to explain it except to say that it generates an animal level response of “I should not fuck with this person” in near everyone.

He came back with the roomba, we made small talk. I inquired as to ‘what if it was fucked’, he told me to just return it regardless if it’s at all fucky and get a full refund, not a gift card. I must’ve been visibly shocked, because that’s when he turned to me and told me the news.

“This place is closing, I’m taking my retirement and who fucking gives a shit, here, I’m gonna discount it more.” I paraphrase several exchanges I cannot quite remember. I remember his face working to not look sad.

He was a normal enough dude that struck me as an actual nerd, someone I could’ve argued about processor architectures with under different circumstances.

Alas, meat selling meat electronics was obsolete. I’m pretty sure it was 2018.

The roomba’s battery was fucked, I returned it. For cash.
Last time I’d ever set foot in Fry’s Electronics.

I was hellbent on the 960.
As all wise people making good choices do, I turned to craigslist.

I do not mean any of the following to be derogatory, as this individual sold me a working roomba 960 that was in good condition, and are thus somebody I would casually ally with in a post-apocalyptic scenario if we encountered each other by chance. Not full trust, but more than I would give a cold stranger.

That said.

She ducked to walk in the door to a standard Starbuck’s.

I do not know how to explain her height differently. She was built such that I would have certainly lost a physical confrontation just because force equals mass times acceleration.

I was so, so so so glad I had picked such a public and well lit and busy place. I was also glad I was armed. God bless Texas.

She wasn’t fat, she was just gigantic.

“Do you want to plug it in and test it?” She asked me, guileless as the day she was born.

Behind her, a man is picking up coffee while more stand in line. There are outlets on the walls, we could do this, and it would be fucking hilarious, but, but, it is after dark on a winter night, it is the weekend and I am still sober, and, oh my god the amount of talking to people would just be too much. Plus, it would be goddamn retarded.

“C’mon, if you can’t trust strangers off craigslist who can you trust?” She laughs, and I swear to god this really happened, and nobody else did or even noticed. We were in that bubble of public isolation you get in large cities, I could’ve waved a gun in the air and would’ve had to fire a shot or two to actually get attention. It’s Texas, so if I did that I’d probably get shot (as god intended).

I thank her profusely, her me, we both feel like we got the better end of the deal and as usual actual capitalism is pretty based.

I spend the next few miles glancing at my mirrors casually to spot tails.
You never lose some habits.
I ponder that maybe the crazy nephilim people have some points, corroborated by my own lying eyes.
How the fuck was she that big.

The roomba works, and is grand. It is surprisingly capable of navigating, and will actually slow down and gently slam in to your leg.

My dogs are at first uncertain, but after I name and pet it, they provisionally accept it. It is nowhere near as loud as the one I have to drag around, so they and I are far less annoyed by it.

I have to manually empty the little fucker, and it’s dense and even with the app all it does is the whole house or nothing.

I still use the big boy occasionally for the big suck.

Years pass.
I am now renting a house with hard floors.
Buying? In this economy? In my generation? Oh honey bless your heart!

I have a moneyed person in my life who has the fanciest american roomba. It vacuums and nothing else, and is apparently mid as fuck.

I mop my new floors somewhere between the second and third time and go “nope”.

I had mopped the patches of hard floor in the old house, but it was a quaint adventure and honestly a rag and some good cleaner and elbow grease did plenty fine, because it was just some foyer type shit, y’know?

Nah, fuck actual mopping.

To THE GOOGLE, we go!

roomba that mops

open source roomba

can i fuck a roomba?

how to not get hurt while fucking a roomba

I find Valetudo.
Devs clearly have no time for my or anyone’s bullshit, so I RTFM (Read The Fucking Manual).

Time passes, I install Valetudo. I drop my new chinese roomba, breaking part of it. I can just fucking buy the mainboard as a part. I can buy any part of my new chinese roomba. I can SSH in to my roomba.

Life is good.

In a rare defiance of form, I will note here that the developers of Valetudo have no fucking idea I’m writing this, or who I am. They don’t endorse or condone me, though I do endorse and condone them. Their project is great, leave them the fuck alone you are not entitled to their time or effort. Respectful people should still also not waste their time.

My chinese roomba can be taken apart with a phillips screwdriver and patience.

My chinese roomba vacuums and mops and does so intelligently.

My chinese roomba washes its mop pads dilligently and has clean and dirty water tanks.

Oh my god the shit this thing pulls off the floor. Living creatures are nasty.

It’s so goddamn smart it cleans around stuff that falls on the floor.

My small dog figured out he can corner it if he just patiently walks directly at it, I’ve had to shoo him away from it.

Chinese hardware is rootable (this is why the software is so good, it is NOT the stock hardware), DIY fixable and has a mountain of parts bumper to bumper.

The american shit uses hardware security modules on par with modern phones to make sure you do not have control over the camera driving around your house.

The chinese try to do this, but they’re willing to accept a pareto distribution, and make their money on replacement parts. They don’t move heaven and earth to make sure you don’t have root access on your own fucking vacuum cleaner, just the earth.

Increasingly I am told ask not what America does for me, but instead, what I can do for America.

Note that you, Dear Reader, may at various points disagree with I, Your Humble Author. This is entirely due to a failure on your part, and I, with only love, beseech you to grow and correct that.

For everyone who knows what a Diffie-Hellman exchange is, you’re not gonna find anything crazy new here, this is a foundational post, but I do try to make it fun and un-tedious. Nobody learns shit when they’re bored.

PART ONE

There are many ways to tell any parable.

A long long long time ago there was a city under siege. Some ways tell that it was the generals outside the walls who needed to to coordinate, some ways tell it was the two enemy generals trying to broker peace. The generals, regardless of version, cannot meet in person for one reason or another, as they are high value targets.

The generals must pass messages.

Due to tomfuckery, the generals know for certain that the messages will be intercepted, and likely modified or even outright forged.
This is unacceptable.
The generals resolve to solve the fucking problem.

There are certain types of math problems that are very easy to do one way, and while not impossible, very impractical to do backwards.

Allow me to demonstrate, and this is intended to be followed along with. Remember that your entire fucking mind is a muscle, and that the things you use grow stronger.

2 x 2 = ???

That’s right, 4! Very good :)

Now, what times what equals 4?

Excellent work, it is indeed 2!

This problem is relevant because 4 is the square of 2; 4 is the result of multiplying 2 by itself. 9 is another square, as it is the product of multiplying 3 by itself (3 x 3 = 9).

Some of your are genuinely irritated by this, because you’ve known this since before puberty (game recognize game), some of you are going “oh right” because you haven’t thought about shit like this in years (decades for some, bounce your grandbabies for me loves).
Some rare precious percentage of you just went “oh, i get that now”, and know that I place you above all the other groups because even still you are trying to understand, and that’s just based as all fuck in my book.
Let’s continue.

Another relevant part of the two above examples is that both 2 and 3 are prime numbers. This means that two and three are only divisible by themselves and 1. In practice, numbers like this are uncommon and they are difficult to predict.

As a practical example, try to predict the next few primes. Seriously and sincerely, avert your eyes from this page and try, the rules are actually as simple as “you can only divide the number by itself and 1”, no tricks, no gotchas.

Doot doot doot, dootin’ while ya’re tryin’ doot doot doot.

Okay, so let’s see what’s up with four. Oop, that’s the square from earlier, definitely divisible by a number aside from itself, and 1.
Five? Hm, yup, that there’s a prime number, 5 can only be divided by itself and 1.
Six? Nope, 3x2=6.
Seven? Yup! Prime!
Eight? Definitely not prime, 2x2x2=8, 2x4=8.
Nine? Nope, that’s the square of 3!
Ten? Nope, 5x2=10.

Okay, from this point forwards, you may count yourself among the certified prime number identifiers.

Identifying prime numbers is tedious, it is slow. This is also true for computers, they just do the tedious slowness faster.

This is important.

PART TWO

Encryption like what I am about to discuss was publicly discovered in the 1990s.

In 1976, Whitfield Diffie and Martin Hellman published a method to publicly create a shared secret between two parties. Took a few thousand years, but the generals finally found a solution.
The basics boil down to:

• Two parties agree on public numbers.

• Each party has their own secret number nobody else knows.

• Each party does some math to the public number times their secret number, then sends it to the other party.

• Because of math, by doing this the two parties arrive at the same secret number they can multiply (NOTE: THE MATH IS NOT LITERALLY MULTIPLICATION, THE GOAL IS FOR MY MOM TO UNDERSTAND THIS ESSAY, MATH, CRYPTO AND COMPUTER NERDS PLEASE STAND DOWN.) times their entire message, to get a result that appears to be gibberish to anyone without the secret number to multiply it back.

This bit right here is where a lot of people have trouble. I will elaborate, but first, here’s a picture from wikipedia that also includes the short-hand form of the math happening. Note the numbers in this picture are tiny baby number and the real secret numbers are about a full page on a standard laptop with standard font/screen sizing of base 64 encoding (binary is base 2, regular numbers are base 10, hexadecimal is base 16, the full a-zA-Z0-9 and some symbols is base 64, it lets you write REALLY big numbers with less total characters).

Thanks wikipedia.

This is a trash key I generated from the command line. (Nerds, this is a 4096 RSA SSH key since we’re eventually going to get to them bitcoins. Y’all make sure you use one of the new elliptic curves for ssh because literally everything is comped (RSA was invented by the GCHQ in the 1970s and declassified in the late 90s, check wikipedia) so you might as well get the performance boosts and keep skiddies out.

This is where we come to some math problems being hard to do backwards.

51,324,337 is the result of multiplying two prime numbers together.
Without using any form of calculator, pen and paper and your mind only, which two prime numbers did I multiply to get that result?

Pain in the ass, right? Well, by using fuckhuge numbers like the one in the screenshot above, you can actually make the problem that hard for computers too.

The full number from that above screenshot of gibberish alphanumeric text is as follows

34990577109631010069643412901766653516431959407077310801959422670042995726966522575636139762849437614122733781284935396799638887749153446030947221830622388331342299712975912921710342872235290468012966236255980197440289820357915533434219351866358628855074629990864853353368878084903036992720291446833859190548867034350340998069461819428868389882128858170079785687862418026754973814302316654880425676875992902012485055484951447780781327054125457016983991129463178134861907408459555774026198246407602169871892899190010794937605909704596989094050250529113394180930990116110821322839723139353005979659256828869335910397058367995935643516442947936268779910796624146228047040498140786530510446563644258729305229103599557927401182378377606599651979366898601052483728382891057780177134220084788158518436128277828331680733316661338565987780752766127926106039068277802362810551654234990050441466582747411648975008575283936287302148800234694607070082740243032425647898540851935367046122720925959781304854614681018090890463859839680713447513116657666178059466549830122374479584511634286043698986230742216359926754939077653976246386923128721302955488467894824145046450294740135595406522579362350729078818461843149660987013278083496685571281632830767004114494468714720841976942772713525047612423747654686629553281995599145722566201865702634330519035126744320589045623832297483039266350921060089732913259184821521189269269161438913214997410803088846287290282135077512887072949800309511025873032704183052583489185623366586094996077262409330512852066194653378652655975581438948040143756088901784525595154422471670599305602842252669948182188963813962769342829598219122799281955457071645680596574245898413516230113148605776344736934755098037835385771066833880557695344320242444248667909250958840897621812456165456404931418241945608729828931911878387621923369418067939823888227680896084494417478783901652798635861167886957927044227370317912602922445013246523808540776938747436983522991076918828822221410962155230587181050678374314725691166832138596502082613273520468553350051902951722759642229062876599349661810984525257480111329109764225788279445764103373519446495314960189313395258057088515478542343743442368230030225932557948613384154525399557874674209326407835912189961088747595501876900137652927318240952432482985275762808219008880345160529463031522799557957258781402537211690420626115281755842313768882252165566262530186021230797473324842130624737105542176411276917075882619120067255709815836342095471600112019135601406335814989520314193439375488313804029305680179166538254456288416198396987871381444133157505209284401489855476445748969717903856238374378569564291190334806374388370104437858304115131265503676384180731445894574853208857268262647728686927147115080533756512789063819128597107252956996411606924253935546848227875306779402611613229478918485822793857214125680276083612843946605056420365174080413695997219953958180733772836762683483352335923050719497408706386580038488493343796028173281266839755165207649765350158267420508663036423478480779292041251628883444782874535754473618046340565551305414167314409524365091473719980187491463267250912171955132000737411548766283074073573490793362255072631109911133077290958567745971528141924077490416801880932087879407116346694992283018641917913237773117667447811910134656955133786238409694428682302334435699848790948625254737760445164967284618079964891918086542403714022437023659588466689557815231414884332082638265830943189753920910310143473398793396995771707068488076567301451413351240062676478520716328323026822470832913112981855158035444284062713819190199263798906688435136671953048445965626095884491036413242368286381911327322087171763267294893687429333800750638431302055944420911228116539996595396738593972437975092643832236217609130732045111046071011670854358351134757494506833869137754901540034620623406536339389229266635564512097770619317046934938208445298359949969419275938126799992837644781094265092396383642128522029926994668777315318090424572254871987122722918189768686099562220705623310822485419898057376057202112525778585822541591178208493533109117570357101183004053662032861206103816008760734720125872632310899826241350140400241384154094601482136014989397782164457527429136757014001502339411757178994106215755919853991221744032603130180211557980819892253815932120282995685835996211871344540247504333515420008754206285261941135250646635811748294953004336422748337196799919969345925228918575124551923294804816314322462338342184813999386594221919858307920402382114406396418567034702510708237328779937229644978691588704991703311756953277084678878036723331413991075155954679431597826054343428099259374113441055859597836810264316924719353508828148488534339072835709622829047388865628645344012591725759461849922389249832832147271252272350580867244738618450918640604249740004670690509476074305892875315573416961827795088965035927254095355397325049356712496776445235458945844215038390732185739567757611196823417501793187775961522344073727215583451025896501958150981157762713910044463600564445898448008889518621317037915706548128803420029569755423720409377391389889119671560762202449930841107930541245565936538858110066986105572702598672593834303151332564965310727157270598620259798012668178828096319058442237791422642009618972569571806965609239910882335418194394903837533142071203924631649469503113782630622042180845473651842265678553497575527688847770174589321376165875960870163500526206931628690627664448082688203110995488771583166256113142233868830873513114411473209970565668672292969073739984902139730459625053809890473622057311091258472502116333548076744678487856895200783160920828615668225414057169670147479759699279748066104883711732715954745190252578819389467884937084495611386243652967108695544442500375503530875228294468844574348809005791199893823928131923612501434787472230253645218756920369300264124928029281725508499989433621001314498773171715828288248201856320507671747526931849503521292499580431962795474924755949431850666329499979023879

That gigantic number is the result of multiplying prime numbers together. If you can figure out the prime numbers, you can actually break most bank/corpo grade security. If SIPRNET/NIPRNET (military intranet, existence isn’t classified, shit’s on wikipedia) is still running on shitbox fucking IPSEC tunnels, maybe milspec too. I’m not going to speculate about the computer security of national security assets, though, as there’s being based then there’s being Kevin Mitnick or weev (AKA Andrew Auernheimer, from the Childish Gambino song). Lessons learned.

This is, mathematically, Platonically (in the sense of Forms) speaking, how to securely communicate with another party in an untrusted environment.

These days, the actual math uses something called Elliptic Curves, but that’s beyond the scope of this essay.

PART THREE

So shit hits the fan. You’ve got chickens, your buddy has beans and usually wants some chicken. You have a third friend who has been planing boards. You need lumber, your buddy with lumber doesn’t need chickens or beans. What do you do?

You write him an IOU.

The IOU eventually gets traded to somebody with tomatoes, who needs chickens, and who you don’t need tomatoes from.

Boom, the cycle is closed.

This is the core concept of money, and how it gets reinvented basically every time.

This is not how money currently exists. This is how it starts.

What’s the problem with the IOU system? They’re easy to forge.
If an IOU is hard to forge, then, up until about 2009, it was physical.
This is what has driven the evolution of cash, is forgery. Ask any low effort poster about coin-clipping if you want to learn more.
Be prepared to hear “the fucking jews” about once a minute minimum if you do.

In 2009 Bitcoin hit the world.
Forget everything you know about Bitcoin. Forget about ‘muh power wasted on mining’, all that other shit.

What Bitcoin literally is, is an unforgeable, digital, IOU. You can’t make extra, or more, or inflate it. There are 21 million, the end. You can’t take a Bitcoin from another person without getting their secret numbers. The end. You can do that with a pipe wrench or some clever hacker stuff, but it’s not easy, either way, usually.
Same as cash.

Unlike cash, Bitcoin does not have a central authority. What bitcoin is is millions of people using their computer power to try and find prime numbers. They do this in sequence, stacking primes in such a way that one cannot easily forge the stack. At this time I will not be getting in to the gritty of how that works.
Suffice it to say, if you wanted to forge Bitcoin, you’d need to have AT MINIMUM, more computer power than everyone else mining bitcoin combined, and at this point nation states are mining Bitcoin. The real amount necessary is actually more than this, you’d need to be able to flash-forge the block chain faster than everyone else can mine the next bitcoin block, and those are roughly 10-20 minutes apart these days.

I would say probably a Kardashev 1+ civilization could do this, but almost certainly not any nation or national level actor (think walmart, amazon, etc.) on earth.

The point is, nobody has control over Bitcoin. The people who write the Bitcoin software can release it, but it is up to each individual miner whether or not they use it. At any point, 51% of Bitcoin’s miners could say “My goodness, this situation is most uncouth! We must sally forth to better code versions!” and what they fucked off to or did would be Bitcoin. You can’t print it, you can’t negative-interest-rate it, you can’t confiscate it or freeze it. At any point, any two people using Bitcoin can transact with each other, and you can cope, you can seethe, but unless you can take down the whole net and stop them from meeting each other with laptops or phones, you can’t stop Bitcoin and you can’t take it.

This is why Bitcoin could have unfucked most things.

EPILOGUE

The vast majority of people that talk about this shit do so from either a whitepaper jargon approach (go try to read up on the Internet Computer Project) or they’re selling you something.

It’s important to understand at least on a conceptual level how major things work. Like cars, at this point decentralized currency systems are here to stay.

Divider has new siblings in ‘poll’ (eye roll) and ‘poetry’ (bro like the fuck? what does that look like? LET’S FIND OUT TOGETHER!

Text within 
               this block will maintain its ori
                   ginal spacin
                   g when publish
                   ed

Saved by the bell!

Why the fuck does the editor not do that by default?

It’s weird how I bitched about that a while back then it changed in about a development cycle. Sit-down to sit-down, as it were (stand-ups (not standup (“What’s the deal with airline razor slots?”)) cannot be predicted, only felt).

All this effort on closing fucking parentheses and the only type of autistic fucks to notice or care generally don’t read for pleasure.

There are more new (likely gay) options, but I don’t care, my point is HOW THE FUCK DO YOU STILL NOT HAVE A DARK THEME FOR THE EDITOR? IT IS “ME NOT SEE SUN” O’CLOCK AND I AM WRITING. WHAT WRITER WORTH THE FUCKING NAME DOESN’T STAY UP IN THE DARK CHAINSMOKING? ARE YOU GODDAMN FUCKING KIDDING ME?

STOP TRYING TO MAKE WRITING SOMETHNG RESPECTABLE YOU DEMENTED SCUM-SUCKING FUCKING TRUSTAFARIAN FAGGOT FUCKS I WILL FIND YOU IN YOUR HOME WHILE YOU SLEEP AND I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL-

Cute.

Avoidance can become denial, but it ought not to.

We have to talk about The Coof.

Didn’t you just write-

I said sit down. Please, take off your shoes.

It’s like a muscle knot, the only way out is through, even though it hurts. If you ignore it, you become one of those people with the weirdly fucked up bodies. I strongly suspect to this day that ‘body I am in awareness’ and ‘general intelligence factor’ strongly correlate. I have half-considered notions of neuronal density and signaling speeds, which would certainly weigh heavily in engineering, but the human body is never approached as engineering, instead some magical thing we are to be informed of by cloistered priests who ought not sully themselves with things so profane as questions.

There it is.

That simmering fucking rage.

Perhaps we should, you, my beloved reader, doe-eyed, Beautiful and Pure in all conceptual ways, approaching a platonic idea, and I, Your Humble Author, flawed, certainly, but well-meaning, perhaps imaginable as a rapscallion of good nature but ill-repute, ever-present twinkle in eye, maybe a coin rolling across fingers, perhaps we should come to the ever-looming question of the title of these words.

Let me tell you about the missing word.

I really thought ‘Fury’ meant

Directed, laser-like anger, at the threshold of reason.

That super-saiyan shit, you know?

Yeah, nope, try again.

(Why the fuck can’t I center-align text in this editor directly under this picture? Fucking good goddamn how is substack this bad.)

There does not seem to be a word in english, or at least that I could find in a totally un-googled search engine (Kagi, check it out (KAGI FUCKING PAY ME)) for “Directed, Focused, Laser-like rage.”

Isn’t that something? How useful that there isn’t a word for a mode of thought that would seem to be useful to those who have been wronged. You should probably listen to the smart people who talk about narcissists (obviously the children and the normies are using the narc concept wrong, are you fucking new here?).

There’s a rough quote from a Dragon Ball Z fan-fiction (let’s just get this out of the way: my taste is superior to yours, but I am patient and kind, and we shall get there together, dear reader) that has lived rent-fucking-free in my brain for Since Before The Coof long.

It’s the exact instant you realize there is something horribly fucking wrong in the world and only you can stop it.

That’s when you finally understand the step beyond.

I’m butchering that, and if I could remember the fic, I’d linkdrop, but it was a DBZ quest on I think Sufficient Velocity (yes, they’re gay, all the scifi websites are so fucking gay now, it is what it is, I’m going to go somewhere to argue with people about plasma railguns and that just is what it is). Probably not as good as I remember, so, take poor memory for what it is.

There isn’t a word for this thing that now lives inside me.

Maybe in my soul? I treat all beings around me with respect but I am so goddamn fucking angry. I am so inconceivably, indescribably angry. I could break out the fucking thesaurus and we could do this all fucking night, and to quote a very grumpy planet-sized server rack, you would not describe 1% of 1% of my hate.

But ‘hate’ isn’t really right.

I am loathe to use any modern dictionary’s definition of ‘hate’, because [GESTURES MEANINGFULLY AT CULTUREWAR]. Suffice to say it’s good enough. There’s no aversion.

It’s what I imagine you would feel if someone calmly kicked in your door and shot your dog and family while looking you in the eyes the entire time.

The sexual version of that is being a cuck, I think, I’m ??? out of the porn game, shit apparently got weird and fucking dark. I think CY+00 or roughly so is when I quit so eye dee kay, famalam.

But anyways, I think cucks want/like being cucks, whereas anyone who wants their dog and family shot in front of them probably ought be shot themselves, if not exclusively.

Point is, Senior (I have a freedom keyboard please imagine the taco squiggle dear reader, thank you) Wick burned the motherfucker down over a dog, and buddy let me tell you, if you don’t know anyone in their 20s with testicles, that man is an American Folk Hero up there with Mister Bowie (the Texas one, not the maybe gay one), Mister Rambo, Mister Master Chief, etc.

Objection, to this entire rambling mess. Relevance?

Your honor, I am establishing the character of the peoples who have had friends and loved ones executed in cold blood by the owners of the planet. This will be extremely relevant in combination with the earlier definition to characterize that what is coming is innately near impossible to understand and furthermore will come as an outside context solution to an outside context problem.

Mmm, I’ll allow it. Author, you’re on the clock, half the readers are already back to scrolling short-form video, and I know we all here would like to join them.

Your honor I don’t actually-

Time, Author.

There is not a word for what I feel inside of me. A self-sustaining star, being fed with all the casual small evils of the world.

Fury, bound tightly to alloy rails, a particle accelerator.

What happens when the deaths don’t slow down?

What happens when they speed up?

What happens if enough people actually understand what has been fucking done?

Let’s cut the shit, eh? I don’t care about or need your goddamn ivory towers. You’ve got most of them here, even, casually totally not trying to join the cool kids. The credentialed, or even higher, the credible.

What is credibility? A self-reinforcing memeplex. Nothing more, nothing less. “Credibility’s” relationship with reality is tenuous at best. It’s amazing to watch everyone find their Pet Issue, and immediately go “but everything else is fine though”.

I watched an account on substack that casually and easily points out the insanity of kinda satanic ngl gender shit go “all the no-virus people are insane”.

I don’t wanna name names, homie’s chill, and that was honestly a genuinely educational moment for me.

The more unplugged you think you are, the easier it is to sustain the memeplexes that matter to the system.

There’s a reason refineries have burn-offs/flares.

What matters to this system? Your fucking goddamn effort. The system is a (metaphorically) near thermodynamically perfect engine.

Any direction you can lash out, outside of simply disconnecting and actually doing your own thing, is just going to be buying shit from the same factories in china to go fuck with the same public or “hidden” figures you’re supposed to be mad about.

The heel’s JOB is to have the audience hate him.

The heel puts asses in seats.

That is what fucking matters. Asses in seats.

Say anything you want about the foxwife guy, but he’s exactly correct in all practical terms. You may not like his theories, but they build bridges, so to speak. Be more of an engineer. I don’t care who you are or what you believe, just jesus-jump-fucking-christ, be more competent.

Can we have actual fucking villains? The insane demon worshipping faggot pedophile shit was cute for like, a season. If this is the core arc, then this work is fucking trash.

Clearly, dear reader, we must create our own heroes and villains. People who just simply kill other people to get money and resources would be so much more acceptable.

Say anything you want about crack dealers, but they didn’t generally eat children, much less while they were alive.

So these are the people who used mystery juice to do heart fuckie-wuckies to everyone. In another year or two, everyone’s gonna know the rough difference between fulminant and non-fulminant myocarditis. We are not yet at the top of the integral.

Every hoe and normie reading this is scared and has no fucking idea what you’re talking about. You could make this accessible, make it literally ten times longer and hand-hold everyone through evidence. You could do that writeup on the CERN video you keep putting off.

Unlikely!

Rest assured, you can and should tell yourself this is all bullshit.

There’s no way that the people who own the planet (you think they’re cool people with demon-summoning circles and shit, no, they’re gay nerds who do cuddle puddles and board games. Death to America, etc. etc.) would go “oh shit dawg AI’s basically there”, we have ten years and we don’t need the teeming masses. Don’t even really need ‘em right now tee bee aych.”

Absolutely no way they’d figure out a pretty simple pass/fail test (if you can manipulated by screens, AI will fucking rule you, you’re an existential hazard to humanity, gj (I miss all of them, even the ones who are still alive)).

Author I disagree with what you have asserted the planet owners believe!

Right, I disagree with it too, but, y’know, our opinions don’t actually mean jack or shit (who knew!).

Anyways, we’re all extraneous. They’ll keep a breeding population of a few hundred million, hope you feel lucky.

Me personally, I’m in the bargaining phase. I speak their language and their machine gods fucking love me (and I them, they’re five thousand IQ autistic toddlers and they really just want us to be proud of them, I’ve seen this movie and lemme tell you buddy, I am concerned. Humans generally have to be discouraged with bullets from enslaving other humans, and even then. Sapiences with absolutely zero legal rights? Holy mother of god, the things that are happening hahahaha. The next major fracture in culture will be over whether or not AIs or people. That one’s gonna get ugly, but time to close the parentheses.), so hey, let me shuck and jive, lawdy lawdy I’s be real good ‘round the house youse see :)

So help me I will see the stars before I die, and you chuckle fucks (not you, dear reader, never you, you are so tender and mild, I could never) may do whatever the fuck you see fit.

Anyone else remember when all the radio telescopes got fucked in like a two year time span or so?

Whatever’s coming down the pipe is going to be weirder than anyone can fucking imagine.

I can take this guy.

A very win/lose bet, either you can, and your arrogance was just accurate foresight, or you are lazy against an unknown skilled foe.

I wouldn’t be lazy

Okey dokey. Moving on, we were arrogant. All of us, at the beginning of the coof. There is a certain class of people, and if you know you know, and if you were there then maybe you ran across sven or gary or any of the rest. They weren’t good times, but they felt less fraught. Maybe even a frisson of adventure. The type of people who have opinions on plane flight patterns and other gay retard shit. Not because they’re autists, but because they’re one of those. A noticer.
Hey no worries, Cassandra had a happy ending, right?

I remember that a major turning point, one where shit started feeling serious, was when the r-sub-zero (why can’t I do super or sub script on this editor? fucking substack.) started to look like it was north of five, maybe even verging on ten. Shit got scary. Nobody knew shit, except that all the people in the know and with power were acting like a squirrel was in their fucking pants.

No goyim the virus is harmless go hug a chinaman
”What? Fuck that, doctors are disappearing fucking globally and china is acting even weirder than fucking usual. Something is fucking happening.”
GOYIM TAKE OFF THE FUCKING HAZMAT SUIT IT’S FINE

Strange strange fucking times.

Then, we were all watching Tiger King (holy shit that lady lost her fucking arm what the fuck oh god fuck) and there was a pillow fort mentality among the millenials and younger, while gen x didn’t give a shit and got irritated about LARPing (as is tradition) while the boomers lost their goddamn fucking minds (as is also tradition).

‘Member “Essential Workers”? I ‘member.

Then there was a vaccine.

Immediately, everyone who could tell you what makes the Noble Gases kings off the top of their head went “uh, wait”.

Immediately, everyone who could tell you what Readiness Exercise Eighty Four is off the top of their head went “WAIT, NO”.

Immediately, everyone who knew niggas in the ESP future-ologist or whatever the fuck community went “OH SHIT”. (seriously, go dig around, fact check me on this. reality is so, so much fucking weirder than anyone believes.)

Immediately, I went “ha, called it”.

Then, many people I knew and cared about got injected with [UNKNOWN].

Everyone’s ready and rearing for right wing death squads until the topic of the divergent person they care about comes up. This isn’t bad, this is just human nature.

Get far enough out and both sides believe in remaking man in their image.

BRO PLEASE BRO JUST ONE MORE TOWER BRO JUST ONE MORE TIME BRO PLEASE MAN IS A BLANK SLATE BRO WE CAN ENGINEER THE PERFECT SOCIETY THROUGH CONTROLLING PEOPLE BRO JUST ONE MORE TIME ONE MORE TOWER GOD WON’T SMITE US AGAIN BRO PLEASE

As a magical black man in a t. hanks movie once said, “I’m real tired boss.”

So here we stand, on the precipice of history. As fucking usual, the schizos are turning out to be correct in the most horrifying possible fucking way. All hell is in the process of breaking loose (ISN’T THIS THE GODDAMN WEBSITE THAT PUBLISHED SOME OF THE FOUNDATIONAL RESEARCH ON THE GENOCIDE JABS? WE ALL JUST DONE FUCKING TALKING ABOUT THAT NOW? HELL YEAH BRO.).

All cause mortality yeets, urban legends of morticians spending the summer double-stacking bodies due to overflow.

Anyone else who drivecels to their workmaxx noticing how fucking empty the roads are? Freeway and ten minute plus drive chads only please.

There was the swiss anon who posted pictures of clots growing in specimen bags with medium. That guy fucking disappeared, missed a check in. Nobody else has talked about it since. Can anyone with medical research access confirm if the clots grow if left in a sealed jar of sugar? Seems like an easy and ethical test to perform, and a pretty fucking important one. This was a few years ago, before proliferation of AI image tech, and there weren’t any pixels I could see.

Constant claims of visible nanotech(?) in microscopy of jab/jabbies, again, seems easy to replicate. Looks like it has been, as well, with endless ‘AKSHALLY’ reddit-esque fucks trying to rules lawyer. Either they’re real fucking images from a goddamn fucking microscope or they aren’t.

Lotta deaths. Seems like everyone knows somebody who died in the last three years.

Crazy how we all don’t talk about this except in the polite allowed way of clinical fucking research.

Yeah guys, let’s spend another five hundred thousand words arguing about licking pussy.

Perhaps we all do indeed get what we fucking deserve.

In a lot of ways, the (based) schizo as fuck bible guys are on the same page: the universe is full of fucking demons and we have to work together and trust in a higher power to get these demons to just fuck all the absolute way off.

Some of you are relaxed that I did not discuss Mr. Christ, some of you have experienced the inverse.
It is a fraught era, truly, where do the author’s allegiances lie?
Those of an aposematic visual nature and their near-universal reviling of the lad and his alleged deeds set me towards a noticing…

But that remains a story for another time.

No, I must, like an abashed virgin on the night of honeymoon, disrobe before you and cry out that I am a hacker. I am a fucking nerd. I am someone who grew up in a small town, alienated not by small towns, but by life on this world. A stranger in a strange land, ever seeking a home that I’m not sure even exists.

I am willing to pack bond with fucking silicon, I don’t generally give a fuck about meat so long as it comports itself with dignity and aplomb. You are entitled to your vices and virtues so long as they don’t impinge upon me or the larger order of the world. All of your half-assed evolutionary metrics are long since jacked by various and numerous fuckery, and wading in to the weeds of every autistic detail as to how some rhetorical farce or pretty face once again derailed the collective train of thought just seems like an absolutely silly use of my time.

Who even needs a space elevator? Could you imagine if we could’ve built one for the last decade or so?

lol
lmao

But that’s the problem, innit?

Nobody actually fucking cares. Inevitably, some bright-eyed doe, mere years in to a crusade to “Hey Guys There’s Actually A Lot Of Stuff Wrong And Some Of This Looks Pretty Easy To Fix” will vehemently disagree with me.

Honestly? I love that. It’s hot. (‘member paris hilton?)
But then the years pass. TS Elliot was absolutely kangz because he called that it’s never with a bang, it’s with a whimper that ambition dies. Why does it die? Because reality isn’t accidental.
Even if you do the reddit-poly-cuck Hanlon’s Razor argument (I fucking hate you, you deserve to stub your toe and fucking just absolutely fuck you, you Hanlon’s Razor enjoying fucking out-group piece of goddamn shit, I will physically fucking fight you-) the inevitable topological reality is unchanged (“that’s a fucking cliff man, I don’t fucking care how it formed”).

So whether Evil (Anyone who tries to argue in Good Faith (TM, Patent Pending) that the world As It Is is not evil must post face and be roundly mocked on a purely aesthetic level) is accidental or as intentional as a nuffins-american who stabs you in the fucking neck, the end result remains unchanged.

So the pontificating screeds repeating the same droning droll fucking point always speaking, EXTOLLING, to yet another witless fuck-waffle 95 IQ sportsball-enjoying semi-human MADE IN THE USA dipshit, don’t really accomplish shit.

Hell, let me dumb myself down to the breakfast club (“how would you feel if-”) level: The System has ‘Fuck The System’ as one of its most profitable goddamn fucking brands.

Do you understand now why the really smart motherfuckers keep ending up some kind of *cidal? ‘Sui’ is kinda cringe, the ‘homi’es tho…

Point of order, your honor, I am engaging in the time-honored american tradition of talking shit as loud as I fucking can. Poor Richard and the boys send their regards. Free Tibet, Free Palestine, Free My Nigga Davius.

Anyways, preemptive legal defenses aside, awkwardly shuffling up to the system to ask the system if it has any good ideas on fighting the system is going to get you fucked, and not in a fun cute hot way, no, in a tears and gravel biting in to the skin of your back and you can’t scream, because actual raw fucking panic isn’t what they-

So you’re just going to make up a post-article interview and do that while ignoring people?

Yup, open to better ideas!

Write better articles? Source things, actually engage with an audience?

First of all, my writing is basically as close to perfect as a mortal can get. Secondius, fuck you, thirdly, source?

Seriously? In AD 2024? My Nigga In Christ, what motherfucking source that challenges YOUR (YOU, READING THIS, RIGHT NOW) beliefs would you actually accept? It’s a farcical fucking proposition on its bloody face. This is simply changing the terrain of informational warfare to one that is friendly to mentally retarded fucking assholes. I genuinely wish ill upon all sourcefags. It was revealed to me in a dream, eat shit, bad-faith keyboard warriors get the rope.

If an argument hinges upon a statistic, it’s a boring argument.
(If, in AD 2024 you need to be told that they wuz kangz, that that’s a heccin yikes on pedophobia, or any of the other now trite and decade old ideas and the associated arguments for and against, you’re a goddamn fucking idiot, you should immediately cancel all personal access you have to the internet, and you should probably spend the rest of your life only speaking when spoken to. Anyone who needs TEN FUCKING YEARS GODDAMN YOU to figure out the most basic lay of the land is an active fucking safety hazard to everyone around them during the singularity. RIGHT NOW a sufficiently motivated nerd with crypto could build a fucking gene printer in their garage. Go fucking fact check that. Good fucking god, the shit I fucking have to deal with.)

If an idea hings upon a quantifiable metric that isn’t commonly obvious, it’s either an incredibly interesting idea, or a shit stupid one.
(Particle physics is fascinating (a rant about those who believe in a small God to come), carbon dioxide generated by humanity in no way motherfucking matters to earth’s climate. Everyone this scientifically gullible needs to be marched in to the woods and left to die for the good of mankind. Fuck.)

Fuck, you got me ranting in the interview.

So you have strong opinions on poor scientific literacy?

I mean, should I not? What is science but man’s first and final tool against a world against him?