I disappeared from the internet for several weeks and no one sent me a message saying, are you okay. Did you get kidnapped by the CIA. Did you fall of a cliff in a hiking misadventure. Did you get bit by a skanky cougar’s denture. Thanks a lot, everyone. I hope your poofy koi turn into megalodons and gnaw through your vas deferens.
So anyway, I clambered up the crumbling embankment and garrotted the agent (is that alpha? cos they have lady ones now) and I’m back in the cockpit, doing whatever it is that I do.
What is it? This blog has no particular focus or purpose, or audience. I sit down with a head full of shit and type away until I’ve put some of it in your head instead, then I feel better. Like after going to the toilet. This is a toilet blog. Remember 1998 and that guy who uploaded a photo of his shit every morning? That’s kind of what this is.
I think normal people are like this, up to a point. Normies have issues they dwell on, obsess over, ruminate about. And then they go down the pub and whine to their mates about them. Their mates say, ‘You still cut over that slag? You need to harden the fuck up. Root some other bird. What about that one over there? The fat one with the lip ring and the facial tattoo that says “Masculinity is a performative act”? Get in there!’ The problem remains unsolved but the whinger feels better, a superearth lifted from his shoulders.
But I can’t do that because I don’t know anyone in this country who could handle my shit, such is its bizarre and troubling nature. They’d freak. They’d blab. I’d lose my job and never work again. If this is confusing, look over my old posts. Think: would you hire this guy? Would you let him babysit your wife’s kids? Would you let him water your plant? I am one weird fellow.
This blog is not an attempt to become less weird. I’m cool with that. This is where I communicate the unspeakable thoughts that I can’t tell anyone else. Instead of confiding in one close, bored friend, I confess to the whole bored world. I see a few clicks. Some people have read it. No one has convinced me (in most cases) that I am wrong or evil or that I should change. And so I go on, as though all the finest experts in their respective fields had gone over the post in painstaking detail and failed to identify faults of logic or evidence in either my primary or auxiliary assertions. Nikolai 1, World 0. I feel like each one of my posts helps to make the world a little bit worse. It gives me a buzz to think that I may have sullied someone’s good mood, or dampened someone’s cheery outlook. Like a prisoner with AIDS who enjoys spreading it around a bit.
And we come back to my unnoted absence. It was not due to any lack of shit in my head – that never happens. It was partly a focus on meat-level affairs and partly angst about the US election. I could see which way the wind was blowing and it was towards mass censorship, doxing, denunciation, unemployment and subsequent eating of cat food stolen from bins behind the 7-11. Exaggeration? I don’t know. At the moment we are enjoying an unprecedented level of freedom of speech. An ordinary nutbag like me can pontificate to the entire world, or at least to the 14 individuals who choose to read this blog. Look at what you can find out there. People saying that Hitler was right. People saying that Stalin was right. People saying that Satan was right. Japanese porn involving giant, animated aliens with phallic tentacles and an unwilling spacegirl of uncertain maturity. The world is much freer for expression now than the United States was in 1800 just because technology allows the rapid dissemination of even the most hideous and unpopular ideas. How can it possibly last? Soon we’ll have a new Hitler, a new Stalin, a new Satan, and new phallic-tentacled aliens. Because some one said it, and that will make it so. I can’t imagine that this London sunshine is going to last.
But then the black swan arrived and our crimethought seems safe for a few more years. So here I am again, spewing hate and bile and the odd bit of snot for good measure, hoping that some of it sticks to your coat, and that as you wipe it off you’ll think, that nutter has a point.
But he’s still a nutter, I dislike him, and if he’d lived in any other time he’d have been justifiably burned.
We’ve one more shrimp for this barbie. My honored reader, thoughtful fellow that he is, wonders: are there any ideas too otherwordly, so ‘ist’, that I keep them even from these dark and gloomy pages?
Yes there are. But as I age, I care less. We’ll see.
Ah, that felt wonderful. Wench of the Stool! Come hither.
Further Reading: The Best of SovietMen