image: earnthenecklace.com
It’s Saturday. April whatever. The 21st maybe. I read one work related email. May have to perform one work related task. This instantly incinerates whatever spirituality I’d accumulated. Four years of prayer and getting crack smoking fetal alcohol homeless fathers sober. There’s a God made of nature and trees and a Satan made of work and money and we all know who’ll win.
I also read Twitter for 3 hours. Listened to the Beardson Beardly Weekly Sweat YouTube stream with Matt Forney. That might have done it. I also watched a fight between (REDACTED) Instagram stars called Lil Tay and Bhad Bhabie or some shit. Then did extensive research into who Lil Tay and Bhad Bhabie are, so… what was that, another nine hours. Heated up some chicken and ate it for lunch at 8:45AM and now I’m in a bad mood.
What was I supposed to do. Wake up and write a long complicated chapter of Finally, Some Good News. It’s called Red Dawn. The characters go to the Nike missile base in whereverthefuck I went to– Chatsworth. I have some of it written. Key opening scene. I know the beginning and the end but the middle’s a bitch. Even trying to type I become like Nikolai Gogol, whose brief biography I also read this morning. Who went crazy trying to force himself to write. Convinced himself it was making him sick. Burned his books and starved himself to death. Nine months older than I am now. Before that he taught a history class for young ladies. At least he got laid. I wrote Mark one month ago and I wrote Industrial Society and Its Future and 2052 three weeks ago. It feels like another person did it and I’m pretending to be that person. People have already stopped reading them. They’re getting six page views a day.
Does it matter. What is success anyway. When a girl wants to fuck me, basically. They liked me more when I publicly trashed them. Privately assaulted them. A woman’s purpose is to propagate evil. An idea I shoehorned into a story already. But since my posts have a shelf life of two days I can just reuse exact sentences. No one will notice: a woman’s purpose is to propagate evil. We all know who’ll win.
So what, now it’s 10:49. What the fuck can I do. After listening to The Weekly Sweat I had an extended daydream. I was a surprise co-guest on with Matt Forney. My face appeared and I started barking at him in Tagalog. Unfair of me since he lived in a Cebuano-speaking area. The island he stayed on is now off limits to tourists due to open warfare with Islamic state. There’s aerial bombardment. The island I visited merely has an occasional beheading. The victims are Canadian. I have a concept of myself as having graduated past “the Manosphere” into loftier ideas. But my work is mostly appreciated by anti-Semitic rape advocates. A few girls who write me asking: please kill me during sex. Could you pick literally any other time.
delicioustacos 
Have you ever thought that the reason you are still negative and such a whiner is because you aren’t fully embracing or living the 12 Steps like you are supposed to in AA? The problem isn’t everyone else or society: it is you. It is how you choose to see the world. It is your disease.
Embrace stepwork. Don’t keep embracing the disease and romanticizing the wreckage of the past.
Also, don’t give advice to others like I am doing right now. That is ego.
No, the problem is getting free of addictions and then still having no plentiful young pussy.
I can’t even fathom the guys I see walking around with ugly old bags. Inconceivable.
I fucking love you man. Been following your shit for many years and have read everything you posted on this blog one or more times. That is all.
Thank you
Writing decent fiction is tough. But you built a decent reader base with what amounts to a diary, and that has to be validating. You have a strong voice – pkease keep writing.
I was at a bookstore yesterday. Your musings are better written and more substantive than anything I was reading. Beyond shitty girl fiction it’s a bonfire of pop psychology, beige political commentary and the print version of these pyramid scheme internet marketing motherfuckers. I too have read every post you’ve ever published. Life is better because of it. I think you are more talented than anyone in the manosphere, but as long as love seems dead and satisfying basic needs becomes a herculean effort of game, and carefully cultivating psychopathy there will be an audience for you. I wish others would find this place.
Don’t stop writing.
I could offer you a million stiff upper lip phrases like “if you’re going through hell keep on going” or some other canned bullshit from hemingway on the difficulty of writing, but I know you’ve heard them all.
What I’m going to tell you is that, while I greatly enjoy your dystopian fiction series (don’t stop writing), it’s your posts like this that keep me checking your site every single day for over 6 years running. I don’t have the credentials to be a literary critic, so I can’t tell you high and mighty things about your work and proclaim it’s place in the heavens with flowery prose.
What I can tell you is that most of the time when you write a post like this detailing your inner thoughts and mental processes it connects with id-based feelings I sometimes didn’t even know I had. I usually feel relieved after reading these musings, because you have exactly described some of my thoughts. I am glad to see I am not the only human male to have them. As fucked up as it can be, I am comforted to know there are other people seeing the same things in ourselves and our declining civilization.
I dislike repeating myself, but I’ll say it again.
Don’t stop writing.
Thank you
Hey, I may be anti-Semitic, but I’m not a rape advocate. I noticed that you repeat sentences. The repetition is consistent with your voice. I take the short entries as part of a larger work; the lines that return are mnemonic aids, like the rosy fingered dawn of the iliad.
On occasion it’s a nice touch. .
Thank you
Every time I wake up with the clock reading double digits (ie 10, 11, 12…) that “missed the school bus” feeling sinks in and the rest of the day just feels like purgatory, lost time until I can try to get it right tomorrow. Thank you based factory schooling for crippling us so we may never feel the weight of responsibility of self-possession.
From there on out, it’s pretty much YouTube until my eyes feel stiff like they had leg day yesterday. I don’t even compulsively jack off anymore, so no mindless punching in default porn URL to serve as launchpad for prolonged edge-sesh. Porn stopped being good enough when it sank in how little I related with standard incel grievances, I thought “I deserve better”, which, when I type it out reads a lot like self-flattery.
Porn stops being good when you watch hardcore stuff. Just watch teens in underwear stuff. It strengthens and clarifies. Buck you up, never cuck you down.
I remember getting into my dream creative writing MFA program and having people I admired with sub-10/day view count online “literary journals” coming up to talk about their degree. One of them wrote Jesse James or whoever the fuck did that shitty motorcycle reality show and cheated on Sandra Bullock – they ghostwrote the autobiography and talked about how they wait tables in LA.
This isn’t very related to your story. I shitpost in blog comments because it makes drunk me feel better. You’re a good writer, please keep going.
“It feels like another person did it and I’m pretending to be that person.” So true. It’s ok, the dragon sleeps but never dies.