Do You Want To Be Victimized By Me ?

_{Trigger warnings : 18+, murder, misogyny, references to pedophilia, femcels, depression, suicide, substance abuse, politics (lol)}

Words don’t mean much anymore, and these days, I don’t think they’re very valuable, either. The future is meaningless. “The future” is “meaningless.” Well, that’s only because there are so, so, so, so, so, so many words. The same words, too, only too many times. So many words, too many times. The same words, all over, everywhere, again and again.

I don’t know if you know, but I’m a completely different person now. I’m newer than I was on the day I was born. What’s changed is, well, nothing and everything, of course… Apathy? SSRI induced indifference? A resignation to the knowledge that I live in the best reality, as my best self, and anything and anyone in it, is here only for the best… And if they’re not in my life, they’ve nothing beneficial to add to it. Sadly or not so sadly, I’m unconcerned by it.

As a life path number seven, in addition to my Aquarius fourth house stellium, isolation and solitude are simple necessities, regardless of how desperately I may think I want human interaction. Last winter was a rare window into extreme extroversion. I don’t introspect into why. For the past six months, it’s dwindled and dwindled, until now, my new nadir, as a mother, where, once again, I don’t even go out for long walks anymore. Naturally, I go for walks with my baby, and we go to the park together. But for now, the most alone I’ve ever been, so far, rests behind me. I have my son, and my husband, my secrets, and my gods to keep me company.

A MySpace pedophile introduced me to The Golden Palominos when I was fourteen. I liked one song, the one he shared with me, “Prison of the Rhythm“, though I found their other music a bit too mature for my age. But I grew into it, because I would go back and listen to that song, and I explored more and more of their catalogue as time went on. I always reference the source of my knowledge about this music when I communicate about it. It’s important that you understand: a pedophile showed me this, and now, I’m sharing it with you. In any case, I didn’t listen to their album Dead Inside until 2019? It’s a near-perfect album, with only two skippable songs, and only one of the two is a major skip (“Belfast”).

Initially, “Metal Eye” was my favorite, and I love “Holy” and “Curses”, but I’ve been listening to “Victim” on near-repeat. A second version of the album cover features the lyrics:

As you can read, its a very dark poem. When I first listened to the song, I skipped it.

Though I’ve touched on it elsewhere, there is something dangerously erotic about being killed murdered. “Pick-me” extraordinaire—someone chose to take my life, and it wasn’t God. Someone chose me, committed a heinous crime for me , risked their soul, for me, and so on and so forth. You think to yourself, “I’m so special, he killed me”, and that’s why you’re a femcel. 

Sadly, from my ancient (33 year old) perspective, it is a common theme, in the feminine sphere, to want to die, to be sacrificed, for the pleasure of another; to be taken, completely and utterly—your very body made extinct, exhausted, deplete. A question of society, on how that ending comes about. In a patriarchal world, the highest honor is to be used up by “a man”—as wife, as mother, as a whore: butchered. Let’s also, as a side note, just brush over the fact that, in this inverted world, the most useful thing a woman can do is become invisible, remain silent, leave only a trace. In other words, the most useful thing a woman can do is cease to exist. But I digress.

My initial impression of the song, however, was wrong. It is more than the eroticization of the ultimate victimization. There is a real sense of profound annihilation. A sound near the end of the track comes to my ear as the woman’s soul being drained away, siphoned out of this reality, and this sound reverbrates such a deep hollowness. The cacophony of phonecalls is like a patch to hide that fresh hollowness. All the voices flow like noise to cover up the life that’s been stolen. Before that, as she’s close to death, with the shotgun between her eyes, she realizes the valuable nevers that she’ll never do, and lists them, with the last one being that “she’ll never write a book”.

Well, isn’t that interesting? How many of us want to write a book? And how many of us actually will? Apologies for the triviality after a gruesome and intensely triggering topic. The song reminds me of how many wishes and aspiration each of us have, regardless of how depressed or suicidal we might be. Even the alcoholic aspires to another blackout and a junkie dreams of just one more hit. Sometimes I begin to feel obsolete, and I remember my evilness, because the bright and shiny mainstream surface always shifts, in waves, but underneath, where I belong, it is always murky, fetid, and dark. The netherworld of humankind remains inert. Lifeless and predatory, consuming endlessly. It changes, a bit. The loneliness and insatiable need flickers in the shadows of that glimmering, advertisement perfect surface. The consumption of bodies changes, medium twists into another form. The blackened heart continues to beat, and want and greed circulate through the world’s veins, and I remember, I’m here to sense it, I’m here to listen and to see.

It’s only that you need love for the world to write, to create, to give something to it. You must have some affection and respect for the world, if you want to transmit your interior into it, to pour yourself out and let pieces of yourself float in the universal urinal… My website is partially that. My website is my stream of piss, that I give, not out of charity, but out of compulsion and instinct. I’m trying to build that respect, though. I can’t tell exactly what my problem with the world really is. I know other people might not respect this world, but they love a future world. They respect what might and what could be. Another type of person only respects what once was. As for me, I feel nothing. Nothing really. Really, nothing. Those people, they feel some worldly attachment through the lens time. The present is often the most troublesome to appreciate, anyway. But I can’t write. I thought I could when I knew people less. When humanity was more of an afterthought, a figment of my imagination, rather than a real body of cells. I could dream all day of love and disease, from my myopic princesswife castle, in a haze of comfort and illusion… Nothing hurts more than disillusionment. If my idol was humanity, I should’ve remained online. Going out and being in with them, it’s not that I don’t like them. It’s that we have no need for each other anymore. Do I need to say anything to you? Do I have some magic spell that could awaken you? If I wrote a special poem, what would it do? What could anything do? Nothing. Who knows what I mean, because I don’t, not really.What I think I mean is that… I can’t do anything for you, or for this world. I can only give to those in front of me, and to those very, very distant from me. Not in the physical sense, but in the temporal sense. I can give to bacteria billions of years ago, and I can give to cosmic hydrocarbons ten trillion years from now. As for now, I cannot give anything. Barely, do I even want. My life has been focused on relationships, because I love that sense of connection. Discovering another person, and watching as fantasy and possibility concretizes into a real human life, replete with tiny details and mindless repetition. To make the world so dull, and so predictable. Automated so thoroughly, you don’t need to check-in with how its doing. I guess that’s how I feel, in a way. There are no surprises left here, for me. I exist for duty, obligation, and to satiate instincts. Nothing more, and nothing less. It’s only that I must maintain an ego to keep my instincts in check, lest we allow for another predator, who strikes at the weakest, most opportune time, or worse, to let someone prey on you, because it makes you feel special. Remain inert and serene. Time is eternal when you’re still. Immortality is achievable if you embody emptiness and absolute sterile, lifeless purity. It’s time for bed. I’ll write again, soon, hopefully.

XO

The next day. . . Friday, 26 july 2024 . . .

I meant to mention how happy I am about Kamala Harris running for president in the United States. Seeing rightoids unmasked as the hateful, stagnating, disenfranchising, rapist emotionally-stunted bigots that they are, feels so… rejuvenating?

I was still actively drinking when Trump won in 2016, and I got so wasted after he won, and ended up deeply cutting my legs. Of course, 80% of that was the alcohol, but I remember when he won, and I remember moments of clarity slicing through my drunken stupor as I decided to cut myself. The alienation and the sense of betrayal, the shock that my country could elect such an embarrassing freak, who had promoted and said such repulsive things… Anytime the French elections occur, I always hope the far right never wins, because it is brutal when your own country shows its ugliest face, one that you thought was aging out of existence. Certainly, their policies and forces of demoralization are obvious, but I didn’t expect the despair and hopelessness that I felt during the Trump years. It was truly humiliating. I hate that my dad died during Trump’s presidency.

Kamala Harris, on the other hand, is a Libra (automatically better than Gemini, sorry! But Saturn wins, every time), and she’s inspiring. Whereas Trump represented a small faction of patriarchal aspiration, Harris embodies reality, she truly seems like the every-woman, in the sense of being from different ethnic backgrounds, being a step-mom, working as a state attorney, dating, etc. Trump was relatable in the way trash reality tv is relatable to a teenage delinquent. When you’re hopeless and lethargic and just want someone to do the screaming for you. Harris is relatable as a regular citizen. And it’s genuinely amazing to see a smiling, laughing woman dealing with men so patiently, and never losing her cool. The fact she’s running makes me feel proud to be American again, and I’m really so grateful. I feel that she will win, and I’m going to live in that assumption until it actualizes.

As I wrote last night, that there is nothing I can do for the world, that’s not quite accurate. To explain what I mean is to admit my weakness: that I’m nothing, hoping to be something. Material embodiment is such a mindfuck, because you really get the sense that you’re in the world, that you could operate within it, that you create waves and ripples in time. I’m not sure if that’s the case for me. And my problem with the world is that it doesn’t excite me. I’m not motivated to do anything for this world. I have no ambition, no desire. Before I let myself be victimized last November, I imagined writing novels that people would love, I imagined signing copies of my words, like paintings, and seeing my captivated audience full of light and joy after reading words that resonated with them, like when I type, I’m conducting the symphony that’s already playing in millions of human souls. A sculpture of language that casts shadows in some parts of our hearts and illuminates others that maybe had never been touched on before. But I don’t like it anymore. I don’t like the idea of being congratulated, admired, or liked. I don’t want feedback. I don’t want to hear comments about how I should and ought, and how relatable it is, how I’m just like everyone, but never seen for who I am, since I’m nothing, and, well, there’s nothing to see, when you’re nothing, is there?

But there are things I could do for this world. I can ask people on the street, or in the supermarket if they need help. I can hold doors open for strangers without being asked. I can move out of the way and smile to someone in a rush. I can try my best to be a good mother, even if I mostly feel like it’s inevitable that I will fail. It’s my endurance that counts, and my choice never to give up. I can try to support organizations who actually help people in need, I can do what I can do push back on racism, eugenics, and anti-human tribal conflict hatefulness. And I genuinely think that’s enough for me. Something bizarre happened to the human psyche when we all turned to wanting to become famous as a source of achievement. Model, singer, CEO, author, artist. As if notoriety could soothe the nothingness in our souls. A strange thing I learned is that the brightest stars have the darkest hearts, but in the pitch black darkness is where light is born (Lux in Tenebris). The sun shines to hides its horrid nature, its miserable core. The darkness hides its eternal light, conceals its vulnerability, buries in eternity its boundless illumination. I’m working on a page for my Saturnian Luciferianism, which goes more deeply into this philosophy. Nevertheless, the point is that I don’t want to shine brightly in the world, but there is a sense of pressure that one ought to, and that one ought to desire that, and that anything short of national, or global phenomenon, is a failure. It might just be a psychic assimilation of globalization. The global village made it seem like we have to become stars for the world to see, instead of mundane angels in our neighborhoods.

The truth is that I do want to write. I want to weave stories of that bleak darkness which obscures the rotten core. I want to illuminate in the darkness—clearly, simply, concisely—the perverted nature of humanity, of life, and of reality (in the most humble way possible, sorry that sounds so grandiose). I want to take the ugliness I sense, possess, and have experienced, and all that horrible sadness, and sculpt it into something magical, life-affirming and hypnotizing. In honor of my parents, my ancestors, my offspring, and in honor of my own life, which I’ve sacrificed a million times, and in honor of those I’ve hurt, whose hearts I willingly broke, so that I, in my vile selfishness, could continue to survive. The least I could do is write in their honor, and make them immortal, somehow, in words.

My problem with the world is that I don’t have someone to write for anymore. I can write for myself, when it’s like this. When it’s just me and myself, talking about ourselves. But it’s fantasy that I write my stories for, a fantasy of true love, of a prince charming who ascends hell to tempt and taunt me, who plays with my heart and drains me of all my life-force in an attempt to win him, to keep his attention, and that’s what I can’t stand about myself and this world. What a sad, sad pitiful thing, to only be able to give when it’s guaranteed to be unwanted, and to give only when it’s assumed to be unappreciated. What a ridiculous game. I know its shifting and I’m recovering, and that sense of attachment to avoidance, that pick-me-ism of “If only I wrote the most beautifully profane arrangement of words, like a spell, I could cast them and make him mine… If only my words could ensnare him the way just his air has done to my mind,” This is the dream: vampyric possession. Due to capitalism, due to the way giving birth and having sex is a reverse consumption. Just look at that image of the crocodile eating a fully grown zebra. The crocodile’s opened jaw look vaginal, and the body of the zebra penetrates the esophagus and intestines like a phallus. Ugh… blowjobs… Whatever. What does that say about reality? Let’s think about that, while doing the dishes and changing diapers.

I’ll invent my fantastical love again. I’ll craft him like a golem out of the ether, I’ll imagine him until he takes form. And I’ll write my stories for him, to impress him, to make him love me, obsessed with me, the way I’m religiously devoted to him. I’ll pour my insides out until I’m bedridden, inhaling and exhaling only words, and they’ll stream out of my fingertips like blood, because words are blood, and I blood-let for him, and give him all of it, because it keeps him alive, so long as I continue to bleed, so long as I continue to write.