It all started with sinful, haram thought of cleaning my laptop keyboard after scratching with nail the dried, black sludge visible on some keys and most edges. Some 70% ethanol (acetone would dry quicker, but could react with plastics) solution and a cotton handful later, the keyboard was drenched, puddled. My working laptop, I'd only used slock to lock the screen to direct all unwanted input toward the unlikely combination of my password. To speed up drying, I used a hairdryer, to heat up the solution inside and underneath, hopefully evaporating it all.
Big no-no, for black plastic especially so. Eight molten letter later, I cottoned my mistake, took a hard gulp, thought through all worst possibilities and each of whose consequences and steps to take for fixing, breathe out, restart. Lo and behold, no key works. The seeping in panic is subsumed by knowing I can survive some of humanity's worst atrocities as have others; the harm I (can) issue myself, I can go through too. Better to sleep on it. Although, without reading material, or anything to do other than read Kolyma Stories on my kindle (all other books uploaded there were relevant to distant times, and I didn't feel like beginning a new one midnight). I wrote for 4 hours.
And slept for as much. 08:30, and some keys actually work. And still others are pulling not only their own weight, but that of nearby and faraway colleagues. Angry, I left it open to air out in the draft⸻stupidly I'd left the lid closed for the night. Stupidly, or again out of fury at myself. I rescheduled a planned walk for immediately. Weather was gorgeous. That pristine sky blue, stretching from horizon to horizon with gradient in shade (and other colors at dusk/dawn and sunset) shifting in extent with time I didn't reach my destination, had forgotten my map, but still. The cool 15km did me wonders.
Staring so much above the ignorant, frustrating, annoying, predictable, vapid 'people', as well as the many for that part of the city built and unused, ugly buildings (read 'money laundering') visually obscuring precious steradians of the day's firmament⸻my face burned. Temperate climate prenoon sun burns are now a thing, I guess...
Back home, once in 30' of jackhammering the same damn keys besides Delete the assumedly correct amount of times did I win the lottery of a successful login. Inside, the extent of my mistake further revealed itself⸻Space functions as return, making literally any input with standard IFS impossible. You see, c had 0⸺5 extras, z 0⸺1, / 1⸺3, but I'd sacrifice two thirds the alphabet for functioning mouse buttons (LMB was running the cursor down, which is some unknown to me key combination, since it's \033[n1 ANSI-escape-wise). I had my moment, but sans virtual keyboard I didn't know what I could do. Afterwards, no further password was accepted, and I did try. Even when certain by testing on the name field that input was proper, Enter could still be noncompliant, dropping a \[['|])_{QQ"_- before itself, and I wouldn't ever now.
Turned it off, another deep breath, decided to actually clean the damn thing, given reading wouldn't lend itself a person let himself to emotion. Disassembled Violated 95% of the keys apart, the amount of force might've been applied with improper leverage, or just too... Of the two scissoring plastic pieces holding the key in place, I'd broken both spikes on the one, which (I couldn't know) were inserted in the other one to function as a pivot⸻I hadn't printed out the W520 manual (something I still plan on doing!). So, say, 80% of those had 0, 15%⸻1, and 5%⸻2. The other piece, a frame with two holes along the plane, was to 85% unbroken⸻the frame, the holes were not intact, or rather, they were extended to the outside accompanied by a frame bend.
Underneath all keys was the indescribable gunk, hair⸻arm, nose, eyelash, head, pubic⸻, food⸻crumbs, flakes, nuggets⸻, fingernail clippings, and sunflower seed hulls, you know, for good measure. These literal 2⸺4 handfuls of densely compacted into an thermoelectrically insulating, multi-colored, multi-textured fluff was extracted and disposed of. Definitely not gross but the aforementioned spring heat (thanks, global warming), and fine motor skill required for all the tasks coated my hands with sweat, which then mopped up. Meticulously scrubbed with a toothbrush, dusted, fanned, blew.
Two 90-minute hours of reassembly later, I'm an year older and I've learned my lesson to never clean anything ever again. Ever.
Do not, however, pass Go for. 98% of the keys input what they should. Space, Enter, g, h, do not. Even though it's a thinkpad, and nigh water-proof, it's not short-circuit-proof. They've yet to release those models out to the public. I could not log in. Today, some 40h hours later, the Lenovo service team told me: in detail how exactly I'd fucked up; that people take out even they BIOS's battery before doing certain work on computers; that spare keys and plastic mechanisms would not fix it. They looked up if any authorized workshop had a suitable keyboard of any language⸻I'd take moonrunes or blank keys at this point⸻, but You can try again in 2⸺3 weeks
. The word 'order' was not uttered. I'll hope to find a secondhand one on ebay. Until then, I'll be using an external one. I wish I had an infrared keyb: a small box projecting light onto literally any surface.
Hello, yes. Yes, hello, and henlo, and yes. Yes, yes, yes... I've been putting off without plans of commitment writing this. Letting it out. Letting it hang. Because it will hang. But like incorrigible marxists, dirty laundy too is best hung. About the latter, I slightly kid. (Tangential, but I really dislike 'hang' as a regular verb, extant solely from legal usage.) Slightly.
Anyway. My thoughts unbeleaged go to dark and/or unproductive places, exempli gratia from 0650 yetday, sun already peeking, me untired yet wanting to wake up in 7 hours and do stuff purposefully throughout the day, not procrastinating, not distracting myself, not indulging, not et cetera. So, you phantomically inquire, what are these 'dark', edgy-boy brain boogers? Although I had to renege my default of getting back up to do stuff until tired, if not asleep within 10 minutes, as sleep envelopes me within half that normally, I did eventually sleep, but before that after the default of thinking about nothing, namely, meditating yielded nothing, it was like this (to indicate tone when I vocalise (or otherwise emphasis in my mind) I'll indicate so with the font): yes... ... ye-ye-yessssssssSSSS. Fuck yes. Rather, fuck no. FUCK FUCKKASDdDAS Fuck, just sleep, for fuck's sake. Ach. Just fucking kill yourself already. You're unhappy enough as it is. Why did you actually stop thinking about suicide, my nigga? Why, fuck you? Oh yeah... Still though, you're not doing an awesome job at living, you know. At anything really. You suck. Plain 'n simple. Cannot even kill yourself. Serious, seniles have greater success rates with falling from bed, babies with investigating wall sockets with electroconductive implements, and women with finding their way to the kitchen (bad joke, but I'm tired). Obviously, highly mortal situations, which you told yourself you'd take without hestiancy, were they to present themselves to you with a equal to or greater than 1/20 change of survival, don't occur that much when you're a shut-in, a hermit really, let alone in 'normal' day-to-day life in a city no less. Okay, granted. but waddabout seeking def? What about, you know, taking a plunge and splatting? Plenty o' abandonned construction sites, ill secured against entry, let alone forced such. What, you srsly gonna tell me, deadpan, nigga, I is too scared I'm gonna survive a 50m drop. You're jello, ffs. Big talk, no nuts. (To be honest, I don't have a 10-story one near-by, though there is one much more manned, but with more security, that I honestly could bypass, given their age...) You're a pussy. Now, class, let's all point at
You talkin' t' me? You darin' me? Bad de Niro trasliteration, but it's a valid retort, I do try to pick apart my own thoughts and reasonings, sometimes with lines from movies. ... I have for QUITE some time now wanted to just leave my wallet (in case of capture) and just go to places I think would harbor cool vistas or vibes. Not quite urbexp, but not that far off either. So, I decided to spew here. Of course, the funnier bits and pieces that always make me laugh didn't come through here, since I'm recalling, maybe I was having a low. Mind you, 'lows' would've'n a title for this one-offs section, about how they're the one time even I'm at my most emotional, most easily irritated, most easily hurt, most feelsy, most easily depressed, most manic. I'd begun writing it during one such episode, but I had double vision and jitter, typing was not meant to be as can be seen from that the file's contents below:
I'm currently experience a low blood glucose, barely below 2.6 millimolar, it is six and change⸻something in the morning. The mental anguish here, now, in such as a state I cause myself, I can most easily justify (to) myself. I wish myself. I've today read two whole books, yet those I've only distractedly read, as have I almost everything else, I can and will most vehemently argue; I've also peeled myself from bed around tea time, and decided to skip work; I've continue living in my miserable circumstance, opting to change nothing, further cementing my burying myself deeper⸻side-note: I feel ever more (another aside (Using parentheses this time!) regarding the 'ever more', the supposed quickening, that isn't and won't be argued for. But that will is my axiom here. Is it logarthymic or exponenthial, time, that is That is, Back to the first.)⸻, and in the negative other dimensions: money, relationships, career, music, hobbys (?), walking, travels, chemistry, failure.
Failure, failure, failure, failure.
Failure to breathe deeply forever for once.
Failure to breed a female once.
Failure to befriend stably once.
Failure to have money.
Failure to invest.
Failure to grow.
Failure to be independent.
Failure to compose.
Failure to be deep.
Failure to not be alone.
Failure to be self-sufficient.
Failure to be comfortable.
Failure to win at anything significant.
*(57 newlines)*
(( anguish is easy..? just add insulin and. stay low for . as . long . as . possibru ))
*(5 newlines)*
I wish to hate myself, life, others, others' lives, achievements, happinesses, <i lang='la'>etc.</i> I wish to prolong, branch, intensify it all. I wish to derange, pervert.
I wish to always be trying to sleep in subeuglycemic state.
Be aware of all my failures, major and minute, in time.
See, you don't want that bad writing, even if there is nobody to witness is, I myself am ashamed enough of this poor a composition. According to wiktionary and urbandictionary, 'breed' most likely means anally penetrating a woman⸻not a particular fancy of mine. Did I mean that I haven't had children? I'd like to teach something to somebody, if it's my child, well, sure, I guess.
Well, I tried to no avail. Fun is not be purposefully had, one could say. Playing audiobooks, or just some nice songs on loop (forever) when concentrating on the game works dandily, but it don't when you are stringently aware of the moment, the reality of your circumstance, of yourself, of the world, of how alone you are. Which really isn't much different to my default state, which I battle with faux business. Back to square negative sixty-three. I've for 6 weeks straight now, I've not went to work, and I'm starting to wonder, just when exactly they're going to contact me. My sleep has also left been perverted, it's continued its creep, encroaching not only early morning, but on noon too. I had a good thing going with 4am for, like, 2 odd years. Lack of discipline and routine. Subtract a support when you few have to begin with, namely my 5km walk to-and-fro work and save for my long-acting insulin injection, there is nothing to anchor me physically in time: I go to the store for food once every 1⸺2 weeks, and that's it for periodic activities that must occur in normie hours. I'm like a wind without a sail. That, or the creep suggests that my mind (but not body) is better suited to a ~30-hour day, no such planets exist in our solar system though.
What a shit world; what a shit people... Why don't we do better by our fellow man? By ourselves? Mortal disappointment. every. single. fucking. day.
Why would something nice ever happen? Why would after you've tried? Why would the universe ever given you any slack? All women are whores.
All people are shit.
I can only hope they see the error of their ways once the suffering come. But they seldom do.
Now, back to busying myself with others' thoughts, since my own are like thallium salts.
From November til about now, today really, I have not felt or been well, mentally and consequently physically.
My book throughput was a tenth of what it's been for the past 2 years: I used to go through 1⸺2 (shallow) books per day sometimes. I hadn't had days sans book, ever, now suddenly, these past 2⸺3 weeks when programming was at its peak, I did z-e-r-o reading (of non-reference or non-textbook material). I did go through 2 compilations of PCG articles and half a C textbook, and started looking into language design.
This past month, I've been programming. Seriously grappling with it as my employment is in an odd place. So I opened up Beej's and ModernC, and looked at J's source and ngn's K6 source, aaand I got some nice ideas, aaand I started work on the roguelike. The latter will help me understand, order, optimize more complicated C programs through practice. It will also help crystalize all I dislike about the chosen systems, since I'm basing it on existing an intellectual property's, and that project will be the germ cell of my roguelike. The break from whatever the fuck I was doing all day was nice: there is a goal, concise and concrete, i.e., attainable, and is productive, is work, is learning. I felt content, for once, a rare occurance.
However, listening to podcasts, rather than brown, pink or white noise or a looping song, on this and that⸻economics podcasts, interviews; interviews on Koncrete, Trendifier, Led Friedman, econtalks; true crime try-hards like Simon Whistler's The Casual Criminalist among many others, consistently left a bad taste in my mouth. One, not only do opinions on moral questions more often than not rather than never get thrown in, they are also repetitious with these, and their vocabulary and wording, and their 'content'. Two, the overall shallowness and (bad) edutainment don't do it for me, they fail. Sure, 60⸺120 minutes on a topic is better than a 10⸺30-second tikthot, or a 10-minutes video- or audiofile, but it cannot compare to a several hour book that needn't and doesn't have advertising and shilling, comic relief inserted, nor smash-that-like-buttons. They are self-contained, complete, to-the-point packages. That is what made me want to read again, to go back, to get away from myself, my thoughts, my feelings, and this stupid, naive, gay, faggot, marxist, cheap, hypocritical, everything-bad world.
What's next? Not looking at the laundry list I'm not holding, the reason for noninteraction on neocities. Precisely one time have I been reached out to when I'd asked Hey, doesn't anybody want to talk?
. That went well for 3⸺6 months, until it horribly, crashed, burned and exploded. Assuming that 98% of neocities' users weren't Marxists and or childen and adolescents, would the gigalong, randomly generated email address be a put-off? Would perceived frequent haughtiness and or a superiority complex? idunnoidunnoidunno, but I'd say 1 out every 100 or even 1000 should be able to hold a decently long conversation with me about anything. Unfortunately, unique hits aren't displayed, or possibly measured, here. Other than the few old clowns who comment on each other's posts, interaction here is low, at best, and superficial. Can't really think of anything else likely.
You may have at the very beginning asked⸻I'm barely people.
in response to an utterance from another about 'good people', can't remember where from it was), I have enough of me as it is; ultimately, I waved the white and 86'd it. I'm getting back to reading, I'm happy-or-something to say (to nobody).
I like how one can uncharitably consider oneself the star of one's life, the underdog rising to the top, random incidents⸻the universe's perceived malice directed towards you, it opposes all normies, friends, family, foes, evil spirits, kitchen appliances and miscellania toward you. Fuck me, the bullshit we may sometimes tell ourselves to get through the moment, day, week. To keep moving forward (through time, because fuck knows, my life is stagnant). One conjures sworn enemies, abjures fictitious alliances, lies to self, that one actually friggin' matters.
Welp. You do not. Life sucks. Your circumstance sucks. People are exclusively shellfish, hippocratic loaves, and all wymn are always hoars. You'll forget this to your detriment. Abstain from participating in society, reject everything, read, critique, THONK; do not be fooled, nice things do not exist, they do not happen, and, even if they did, you absa-fucking-lutely would not get a chance. The bestest you can achieve is a mediocre stalemate. Yes. I am bitter, fuck off. Yes, I don't know. Yes, I am pregnant with boiling impotent misdirected anger. Get up/down/sideways/??? to my level, or do not talk to me.
Why is trusting, however minutely, another, like shooting yourself in the foot with a tactical nuclear weapon? I should start considering suicide seriously again.
Because I lost my draft, I have to rewrite this from memowy... hm Yeah, and it's not going well. 2 paragraphs have run off in the woods.
I was contacted by a somebody. more than there is anything when there may well be nothing. See more action hero daydreaming, serious or not. The somebody has during the course provided no falsifiable evidence of existing in meatspace. This is a problem, obviously. Given how much language models have improved these past, say, 5 years, I may well have been talking to neural net with some fucking node weights. Or the output of a Markov chain text generator fed with a bigass corpus passed through scripts or filters, and bespoke blue-penciled for me. Or something else. So, why does this thing, that can, may, could know all there is out there, tied to this sobriquet (as well as all non-isolated past and present ones), chaining the information from all hits of basic queries on any ol' search engine to get a whole. One may be talking to a non-human entity, likewise but through a human entity, to a crazy catomputer lady, to a smug cunt of a human, to a socially inept person. To ???.
The stated intentions for continuing (and initiating, I'd guess) the conversation did not match up to their actions preceeding, during, succeeding, as observed by me and as averred by them. Actually, thinking back upon it, these never were made clear, it went tangential from the first sentence. Nothing was achieved on either said on the whole, but particularly I gained heartache or mental anguish. A 'trust your first impressions' reminder is hitting my with a giant purple dildo over the head. When somebody doesn't want to play ball, when somebody doesn't want to learn, to be help, shrug all commitments, desires, associations. These cunts do not deserve me, at least, for the rest I can't and won't speak. I doubt the person, persons, team, or glowie taifa has anything usable from the exchange. A black fucking box.
Endless conjecture will at best give me ideas for writing, and at worst, only waste my time and depress me further about the fucking state of humankind. And I don't need more depression, unless it'll in a one go push me off the ledge.
There can be no true despair without hope.
But, you know I am open-minded, unprejudiced, and try not to/do not hope. I anticipate, I re-hand out probabilities, I am not surprised. I am disappoint.
I don't know anymore, I'm angry, and nothing is helping. I can't calm down for 5 minutes to meditate, I can't breathe normally, my heart is pumping at 120⸺140Hz, I see no respite. I get no break.
Anyway, that concludes our exercise in bitching and moaning. Class dismissed.
Another notch my belt of failed relationships with people has been added, namely, the one from above. I am at though, at my baseline, which isn't relaxed, content, untwitchy, happy, grateful, virtuous, and so forth, but my mind and body aren't agitated, stressed. I wonder, how much fault lies with me⸻the one who (supposedly) assesses all possibilities and attributes probabilities (or tries to and fails), at least as of the last, say, 6⸺7 years. Am I unlucky? Is who I seek that uncommon? Am I bad at this and everything else? Arbitrariness is a given and shouldn't be judged, also it should even out on the whole in time. Uncommon, yes. I still haven't answered my question of where would I find a person like myself? I mean, he, she, it would live somewhere, rather than being a vagrant, but that's about it, and knowing on seven billion doors doesn't seem like a prudent use of my limited remaining time on this shithole of planet. Very rude way of speaking about the planet. Yes. I'm sorry, planet.
Nothing good comes out of emotion. For once, I'm almost willing to look up compounds prescribed for psychiatric diseases. But I know that the vast majority are massive failures, excluding stuff like epilepsy, and even it has plenty variation.
I can, should, and will try to dissociate.
People are predictable, and they want comfort, control, security. Nothing threatening that routine shall be given serious consideration, on the opposite, it will be attacked relentlessly (using common fallacies no less), until the other gives in or gives up. Change is so very rare. And I can see myself being and having become stagnant too. Which is repulsive. I am my only serious, caring critic; the strongest, weakest, and sole link; only I care..? How very melodramatic of me, but until proven wrong, I have no good reason to think otherwise. You didn't prove your supposed worth; and you lied to yourself and then to me, or tried to. To quote,
It don't matter... None of this matters.
Carl Brutananadilewski
But also, depending on the goal and mood (well, very not really, but to use a single word), anything and everything can matter. So it's not impossible, just very
very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very
Anyway, this is depressing and disappointing.
So, ⸻,
Update, I failed accomplishing every single item on the list. Great. It doesn't work. Distraught-ness or just emotional instability around people invading my fucking life do not help. I'm left with increased minor paranoia. And a general malaise of negative emotions. I shouldn't be feeling these, or anything. This is bad, unhelpful, unhealthy probably too. Duh. I started working on a new piece, I am hamstrung in no-mousing it, and trying vi-keybind the common actions in Musescore. I want an actual, normal length piece, not a repeat of my previous silliness. I have til about mid April for submission, so I'll commit 1⸺2 hours daily to it. Can't wait for failure and disappoint, oh boy, oh boy, oh boy...
I wonder. Do people stop and question themselves:
I am just impudently venting at this point. So⸻,
Addendum-wise since it's niggling me, I think I need an equally obsessive person as myself. For balance? (More) madness? Willing to give anybody willing a try. Or to learn to be fully independent, that is, withdraw fully from humans, no contact. I need stability foremost.
Another failure. Another failure of a human being encountered and failed to make better, proper. Another failure. Failure. Failure. Failure. Failure. Failure. Failure. Failure. Failure. Failure. Failure. Failure. Failure. ...
. . .
Tenth anniversary of a shame on April first... Of another failure, or two.
This is very off-putting. I feel, am drained. A husk.
What the fuck is wrong with you people? Huh? Pulling my chain, that of everybody not pulling yours? What is this naïve aggression? Where's the fucking good-will, good-faith, the neighborly love? Huh? HUH?!
You deplete me.
Fucking normies. Fucking 'people'.
Goo-do quesh-cha-no, go-du-co-cku-san
.
I'm losing it.
Fucking people, man. Fuuuuuck me.
I was going to submit a composition for /dmp/'s April album, but⸻
So, I won't be able to implement all the ideas I'd wanted for it, which to me disqualifies for not meet the single criterium of being of no one genre (or of being poly-genre, genrefluid, genrequeer). Because le i am sad but I can't let that have any power over. I have to continue. I have to stay busy. I have to stay busy. I had a brief period of doing well amidst 4 barren months due to discrete spikes in happiness urging me to improve and do better. I started working out, and put back some of the weight I'd fasted off. (Helps stabilize mood, and improved general health of the body in a few ways, but not of the mind your baseline is below zero, when you actively thing about yourself.) Chugging quinine-caffeine water is dope tho. The former has expensivened (new coin) per gram compared to had been when it was an over-the-counter for all pharmacies, all countries. I wish I had access to heavy opiates, heavy metals and their compounds, beside other still toxicants of yore.
I haven't been able to concentrate at all on reading. I'm going to finish the J Markov chain text generator, being easy to complete will elevate my bedrocked self-esteem, lol, no. But it will give me something to be slightly proud about today. You gotta start somewhere. I will finish one part of the compo, and think about the next part, polish should bethe absolute last thing, it should not pervade every moment. No
I can do a lot better in some regards. I should do a lot better. I can only tr⸻, persevere.
What else? I've been writing these for 'venting', spontaneously without much forethought of what'll go in, but I'm considering writing letters. From past me to future me. Sharing is lost, but well, beggars can't be choosers. And I'm in no position to negotiate with the universe. Or humans.
I've so much I want to say, to talk about. butt.
Thinking back to my past good, intense relationships, my 'friends' as it were, I was maltreated, possibly, yes. But one cou⸻, I say I was a piece of shit towards these people rather than being rational about it: be it talking it over, negotiating, explaining, asking about their side, and so on. Could also be that I'm right, and they just were good enough matches. These however have been occurring decreasingly often, mostly because I've entered hermitude, excised all others from my life. Prognosis: future for the next 10⸺15 years is bleak with a chance of bleaker.
Nothing is satisfying. Nothing is satisfied. Limbo, perpetual, unresolved. (don't ask what an unresolved limbo is, i kill you)
I'd woken up unfitfully some days ago, Sun blaring. Asked myself questions, ever asking, these being extensions to and variations of those from 009, on aging, and on valuation. The stage I'm observing, that I'm also part of (sadly, if I had to attach an emotion to it :t) people whose changes I've noted, be they (in)famous, ones somehow related to me or my life, ones I follow(-ed): are aging, hitting higher decades, getting sick(er) and dying; people are getting married, having children, buying property, clambering corporate ladders, having 'careers'; being happy(-er), having lives (arguably..? Worth exploring whether taking part in a or the rat race is worth anything, and what if so!), that is, living. Very arguable, again. Being somewhat isolated and presently in a emotional rut, I'm bound to not think as clearly.
I've done some work. I've accomplished nothing else of note for the month of March. February I did a smattering of reading. January was a shitshow, as was December. Fucking hell. I fucking hate everything. I want to hate the people, but they're not as responsible as the structure, ultimately run reluctantly or not, unconsciously or not, by (all) others. Pardon me for being so vague and all-encompassing, allow myself no way to be wrong. How very simple-minded of me, right, V? Right, A? A1 and A2? Old V? B? M? K..? Fuck all of you for literally the same reason. Which is no reason really but a release of pent-up, unresolved emotion.
I am broken record, an EP of Fugazi's I'm So Tired
. Or Bohren & der Club of Gore's Destorying Angels
; both up to 7 semitones speed-shifted downwards. For good measure. More if you can perceive subsonics and have the hardware and audio formats therefor. At least I have memories, absurdism, laughter, some memes, some immutables. I can (try to) laugh. And under 'laugh' don't understand a guffaw or even a giggle, but half-(full-)hearted chuckle, smirk or grin, a snigger.
As the mouse of a comic I've saved goes (edits mine), mouth open but hinting a smile, if I may anthopormorphize: Chronic Pervasive existential dread depression puctuated by moment of greater dread.
Can't complain.
I wish I had somebody to talk to. I wish people were better, to themselves, and to others. I wish people didn't just coast through this shit life. I wish I'd killed myself earlier, when I'd had more stones in me.
Right.
On.
The.
Money.
All women are whores.
seems truer with every next female encountered, let alone gotten to know. Biologically, societally, this one maxim explicates them. There is no magic, no shenanigans.
Colttaine was very helpful in this regard back then, coalescing books, articles, statistics, organizing it and presenting it succinctly. And he's seldom been wrong, certainly not significantly. I am however at odds with the fact that: 1, (nigh) nothing is static; 2, all people can do better. The result is me giving somebody a chance, or two, or three, and them doing pulling an Amber Heard on on the bed, eventually surfeiting it in greasy, gooey shit.
My good-nature, good-faith, good-will, good-ness, (good looks) only betray me. Were it to once only pay out, it will have been worth it. I'm not the SlackCutter5000. It's not I scratch your back, you repeatedly stab mine playing dumb.
Why do you fucking fail to think anything through? Comprehend anything? What is up with women being plain, old cunts? Consistently. Constantly.
Con-cunt-edly.
That aside,
Getting a flatpak to work with audio is driving me up a wall. Not services, not configuration editing, not dbus, not standalone, not extra packages, not more packages still. It doesn't 'just werk'. And I really, really would like to use MuseScore v4.x. Also, fuck GTK, fuck Qt4, Qt5, Qt6, and the ones from before my time,
I am so tired.
I am so. damn. tired.
Also, I won't give people with IQ >=1 standard deviations lower than mine any more chances. I should trust my already correct intuition, my 'gut feeling' rather than assume I'm wrong. I can be, sure, no doubt, but I'm setting yourself up for disappointment 8⸺9 times for every 10. Being 'stupid' is one thing; being arbitrarily, fixedly, mentally stunted is another. Bail, and use your time productively. People deserve one chance. Only.
Resolved, fresh, yet exhausted of people and people's shit. I need a break, which I'll give myself. And I've wasted too much time on these cunts. I won't be resubmitting a bettered version of 0304. Maybe in a month. Maybe never. Why try? Wrong attitude, I know.
Given the quality of female I'd gotten when I was 16, the first of the above mentioned⸻5 years older than me, fairly pretty (7–7.5/10? around where I am?), popular-ish, second highest GPA in her roster in the best tertiary education institution of the country for medicine, hard-working and otherwise virtuous; I'm probably never going to get close what relationship. My one with Alice, was barely a quarter of the former's length and ended horribly for me, I'm to blame for thinking with my dick, and close my eyes to some issues, and at all dealing with somebody that young, even if mature, or trying their damnedest to be such. Having grown up, have grown in value exponentially, the amount of females of similar value are probably 1e-5–1e-6, or less. I should not be giving chances. I should *not* be giving chances. I should not be trying at all..?
I *should* resign myself to work. Suicide by alcohol-auxiliated, insulin-overdosed hanging is always an option.
I recall [Newt](https://youtu.be/VrVZHxH2O1I?t=29) from Aliens: They mostly come at night... mostly.
.
Can always be worse.
Can always be so, so much better too...
(Yes, I know it cheap. Maybe I just want to do the morally wrong thing, go against my principles, actually do wrong, evil, consciously, intentionally. Being virtuous hasn't much panned out socially for me. Other than the you(r| for) X, Y, Z.
People have different (or no) ideals. Nobody, let alone everybody, can be you. Get over yourself.
You're not special. Get over yourself.
You don't matter. Get over yourself.
Somebody to talk with (rather than to or at). Not talking about le serious adulting's so-called 'settling down'. Others' conception of commitment is disquieting. Very. Of those I am acquainted with, of those observed online. Finding a somewhat compatible human is hard. What with the likelihood of differences in age, sex, location, timezone, exposure, language, worldview, IQ, experience. What with the quantity of infidelity, divorce, illegitimate or bastard children, long-term cohabitation (that is, not tying the knot), the perversion of females by Marxists. I'd've said 'utter', but they're pushing the envelope ever further. Additional hurdles. And who doesn't like a(-n unfair) challenge?
I'll do what I set out to do. I'll do it all.
Fuck you. And piss off back to work.
To create simple/strict graphs using graphviz for a thing I'm working on: indent2dot [opts] file | dot -Tgif | magick - -negate - | chafa. I wanted to reuse the concept (and code) from the script I'd done for parsing my changelog for updating the index page. Indentation level to represent structural information: nodes on the same contiguous levels are siblings; ones of less indentation are parents, and ones with more are children. Roughly. Getting it working for my changelog was the first time. Getting it working precisely was infuriating because I didn't want to do the math and be thorough. Well, being neither intelligent, nor smart, nor dilligent, you can't really whine about improperly indented results, now can you? Fuck forbid you feel some shame, right? So getting this shit working was a chore until I did the math and didn't use inertia and preconception. But at least I can now make (let's be honest, very simple (in the 70 IQ way): resembling a ul or ol of either lis or more of of the same; but it's indentation only, what more could you have expected?) graphs simply. I'd give (You) an example, but the code is trivial, the svg output of a 100-node graph is two thirds the size of this file (up to here), aaand you don't exist. No, ya don't.
I feel like shit. Very lonely. Hard of concentration. Tired, hit. Going for 1.5 days without sleep, then crashing, and then crashing again.
It's getting muggy, and I'm wishing I lived on an oil rig in the far north again. Or that lovely island, Saipan, with the world record of most stable average temperature that had this one nice cliff.
The local lady that'd rung me up to start the literature club being family-less and retired managed to be unable 4 times straight, excused herself of the 2 before that, sooo we had 4 meets, with 2 been short with me only speaking. PEOPLE CANNOT COMMIT. WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU FU⸻, (If I were going cult, I'd call you noncomms, for noncommital.) While the genocidal and suicidal one duke it out subconsciously, I'll bury their hatchet armory for now. Since I still haven't bought rope, nor any of the other instruments of personal or interpersonal war, y'all're safe from nighttime knife crime.
I am unwell. I. Am. Un. Well. Heavy. Languorous. Sussurus swarf. I should walk. Meditate. Rip myself. From myself. From society. It hurts.
Most suffering we cause ourselves or we choose to acknowledge. Something like that, I'd had the thought earlier. Not too profound.
Ye who suffer, suffer from yourself. No one else compels.
Buddha
I'd bought a 250g Milka chocolate bar, plain. I hated buying it. Every moment in wait or transit. The first piece's dissolution was a 'nice', but all too short. All past that was miserable because of: 1, the high(-er) blood glucose values; 2, insulin's effects on the body from 5 extra injections to cover the 15⸺45;-fold amount of soluble carbohydrate I daily ingest when not fasting; 3, my momentary weakness manifesting in submission to goyslop for brief (non-)comfort, in allowing myself to be subjugated. The rest was scarfed. Mere show. Nothing brings joy, satisfaction, contentment. I am filled with negative. Sure, I can go tao-buddhist shit, but, 1, effort, and more importantly, 2, for what? Neutrality?
After (more) sleep, I am at my baseline again. Not true neutral, manageably negatively emotioned. So what do we do? We work. Can't wait til I've 'wasted' both my youth, eveything up to legal adulthood; and my 20s, the peak of intellectual capability and novel idea output judging by the date of the work most reap a Nobel Prize, Turning Award, Fields Medal, Pulitzer Prize, (or the like, lmao) for; and my 30s (SOON), when people may have bought a home, married, had children, or, if not, significantly climbed the career ladder. Truly hermitic. Can't wait to go Kaczynski. Or Rambo. Would at least be different, uncertain. Promising end either way if I go violent.
Was finally fired. Even though rather suboptimally. Not the worst possible outcome; I'll contest two points, or try to, I don't see myself without a legal team or anybody backing me getting something out of it. Small victory. Small change.
I've'n sleeping my ass off. Mental exhaustion. Though I am regaining speed, I'm pleased to say. Have been this past week. 220-ish words for a week is unworthy, yes, yes, I know, but it is >0! (Don't laugh (too much).) I want to re-checking, re-affirming, re-doubting slightly less. I want to be less distracted, to know there won't be a reply. I'm stabilzing. I'm feeling slightly better. (I write this on a better day, so here's a deed to a salt mine.)
Occurred to me that these began with the slapstick tragicomedy of me cleaning my laptop's keyboard and spun out to being a whiney bitch about everything. Indeed, 'cringe' and 'yikes'.
I'll do better, be better. Not me: (hinting at) becoming a 'Chad', however defined; nor wanting to become one, nor a green-text spring. I'll do me. (And that's not to say I'll be solemnly, furiously masturbating either.) I'd like to hope, you'll do (You) too.
There is a double jeopardy-like unwritten rule strongly disspuring recursion in word definition. Allow me however to strike after the adverb of the word that sparked this, used at thirty-nine percent (39%) of Theordore Roszak's The Crystal Child
: preemptorily, the meaning of which is guessable: in a preemptory manner
; which itself means: pertaining to preemption
; an act or process that preempts; a preventive or forestalling action
; which itself means something. Finally. After quadruplly taking the bait we are treated to a snack of 5 meanings. The last of which closes the loop: (bridge, intransitive) to make a preemptive bid at bridge
. You just couldn't employ a smattering of restraint, could you? This should be illegal. And not only with English. It is immoral everywhichway you peek or glare at the motherfucker. Where's the languague police when you need it? (Like the Library Police from The Tatami Galaxy
, heh⸻,)
My head's space enough for music, so I'll finish work on the 0304. I also have to read more. Drown (out), muffle, mute, gag, choke, untongue, sew shut the voices, lips, mouths. Pierce lungs to disallow vocal cords doing anything to now ambient gas. Or is it add in more until I can't hear my own? Where's the dommy mommy in me? Where's the friend in me?
Also, laughs :j
Listening to music much hurt is uncovered. I associate it with: periods of time, moments, people, thoughts, the lyrics, my circumstance during listening greatly. Maybe the little faggot is just too crushed to do the manly man thing of being a rock. Too often soured, rankled. Too. I'm shying away from stuff too often I find. I need to fix this.
I have both realistic, high-rise confidence, and a cramped, subterranean one. RemarkablyFragile™ and likewise tough, perseverant. I could pull some dao and tao out my ass for the opposites, but it doesn't work here. And "I need more time." isn't admissible with the little accomplished since dropping out either.
I started thinking about suicide. Yes, again, stop poking fun. But I'm adding concretes, details, not merely slavering for of the nullibiety thereafter. A halcyon mild downer.
I feel like shit.
A 1-inch bumblebee just waltzed in. Fat slow motherfucker. Minutes later I can still hear the buzzing, like a lawn-mower from 20 meters away. I know who's responsible >_> (also why didn't you tell me I'd written 'law-moan-er')
Off to work. Self-pity, self-reflection, world-hatred and world-well-wishing have given only so much. Little. You can do any of those when (or if) you get old(-er). (At almost 30, you're more finished than not. Wrung out. A failure forever.)
Never mind the photography: no viewfinder, not a DSLR (I think?). It's not nostalgia I'm chasing, or retrophilia I'm having, I prefer tactility, physicality. I would mind a >=1.5e3 currency gap in my assets. I dunno. I may pawn it. I may not. I'm not in a good place mentally to do much.
Fuck everything. Why can't something nice and lasting happen?
Adam Phillips' Missing Out: In Praise of the Unlived Life
so far seems to be the heavy-hitter of book I'd needed, topic- and question-wise. I want to talk to a person. Where are all the people? Where is one people?
I am/was considering registration to take this state's MENSA test as handled by the eponymous club or association. It's a decent chance of physically nearing me to intelligent (not necessarily smart, or compatible, or 'fun', or any of my 'saving angel' qualities I force onto others; also thank you, Adam Phillips, for the ass-kicking in Missing Out: In Praise of the Unlived Life
)⸻people. It would either knock me down a few pegs⸻
And while being depressed, put-down these past four (and more since I'm not posting) days writing from 20230509 and sleeping greatly (from over eight to almost twelve..? brain mist? fog? (not the medical term), brain healing? mind healing? any convalescence at all?) I defo haven't been able to read reading or doing anything 'good', productive for myself or humankind. Putting myself down, and feeling so.
Should I decide to squander my time and money, I would like to at least be well-rested for the event, be not too grotty. Or the eldest there? Sleeping makes me older in my waking hours. Eh. Socializing IRL for once in, what, 4-ish years?
Where's.
My.
Slack?
I have taken down bowdlerized 013 and 014 despite the last paragraph's "these shall stay". Which I meant not as "this is final, I'm 100% sure about this, and I'm never taking this back or down". Willingness to change is good. As per myself (nothing is static) and the aforementioned book, amid many other sources going back centuries. The monograph eloquently expostulates, I am a or the tyrant in all close relationships that I've had in the past 6 or so years. Increasingly so. I reread and reheard the first part (of in toto six) thrice. Most paragraphs being highly applicable, relevant to me and my mishappen, strained relationships, my fucked, nonconforming, brain, for better and worse. The defendants are/were in the wrong, kinda, sure. Relative. But still redeemably, corrigibly so. Two wrongs don't make a right.
I'm probably registering for gubment handouts this week. Can't wait to be canceled when I decline their proffer of menial, pointless, 8-hour work. Can't have a nice job like watching out for forest fires in the wilderness. No, minwage federal jobs here. Whatever arboreal jobs there here exist would be taken by bribable and bribed, weak-charactered, poorly educated locals, that is, villagers. Probably living in tents.
I read a list of required documents for government-issued housing. Each issued by a different agency which is more likely to: be spatially separated; share not its work hours; not equally promptly do their job, which would itself require paperwork, Teufelskreis. Squatting in a relict: moldy, fungal, that is, green, eco-friendly, supporting proliferation of microbiota; instable, hazardous, not up to construction code past, present or future, that is, for schizophenics and stupid edgybois; would have the marvelous malefit no water or voltage. For free! Wow! Unfortunately I need electricity to cool my insulin. Losing my laptop, everything saved, all files, documents, projects, and so, even my online presence, I'd probably bivvy in a library. Or commit sudoku finally. Both are less obnoxious and more straightforward than dealing with sub-human pencil-pushers.
Something somewhat major was resolved. A minor took its place shortly. Of course. Can't have nice things. Can't have nice thing. Can't have nice things. ... Over the next 4 months I may see a change IRL. I've also decided on shear down uploads to once per month rather than week. I dare you, 4 odd readers, to give reason not to. Betoken it through a email, or bird, a bee, or, or, or. TWO people have had the nuts so far to reach out, another to try something. To build upon 018's ending: where is one nut? I'll try and write coherently next time and finish one thing.
Dictatorial police states like Australia, Ireland, China, New York and California states in th US among others have drastically rolled back their violent measures against being human and are sweeping everything under the rug taciturnly. The latter is done be literally all countries, anecdotally from what I'm seeing by news coverage and what people say on fora. Yellow journalism, that is, normal journalism are keeping up, from what I'm hearing radio-wise, at least here, but they too decreased their coverage. The Ukraine-Russia war/conflict/thing is the big faux foe currently. . Supposing this was an accidental leak of human creation virus for targeting those living unhealithy (one'd get like this following any state's, WHO's, or any big busybody's guidelines on health and literally anything else in addition), the WEF's announcement that the next 'Great Reset' type event will, mind you, not could, take place. And proceed to say 2025, it is ominous. I'd have 2 years to get off the grid, or prepare, or kill myself. Two years of seeming normality I'd bet are coming. I was thinking about how much I exist not online per se, but through my computer. I log: all consummables and injectable; all books I read and would like to, my ratings and remarks and reviews thereof; all I'd listened to (in the past).
Strange. I'm been looping this for half an hour as of this sentence (Almost perfect loop, i.e., terminal bars not too-too harshly clipped; full version includes pale Russo-Jap qtp2t, even legs and foots. Bless tennis (plaited short) skirtsThe Matrix
(is the definite article part of the franchise name..?): the machines or AI faction would have to create new humans. Sucking off the men and collecting the extract, and extracting ready ova from the females, growing them in vats and so on. A malevolent machine would be so much more preferable to this shit. Fuck me.
Anyway, I thought about how much others are 'happy'. How shallow their life; their placid, naïve, immature, yet without the any of the good qualities children 'grow out' of, their thought; I can see how Soros, Gates, Bezos, Musk and the result would like to do a massive power-grab. It's almost too easy with how suppressed people have been: by others, sure; by their government, sure; by the system or culture, local or wider, sure; but
So, yeah, not having fun, not being content, not being happy, arguing against having children (and introducing more needless suffering), being alone, having experienced little, and presently without means to do all I want to do, seeing little-to-no point in most endeavors, etc. I feel broken. I am broken, I pronounced as much back in 2019 when my Hindenburg blew up. I dragged myself across shattered glass specked with still molten iron. But looking back is, yet again, useless and painful. I reject the latter and forgo the former. Just. Don't. Do. It.
If only other shit like (supposed) biological wiring, 'the system', the government, Marxism were so facilely sundered or rendered impotent.
I wish I had desire. I wish I had a motivator (possible). I wish I had myself cloned (less so). A question arising from this: The Gates of Janus
, and literally every other book writen by a violent act committer. Horror writers don't always nail the human aspect, sadly. Hm. I have so much to say again, so no nobody to say it to. I really should rethink journaling, diaries, or serious writing on everything I have to express. Be it thought or feeling. Whatever either is. Is it that I am negative-emotion-ed about it? Worth exploring.
I wish, I wish I was a fish.
Ed
Looking at the Fediverse, the work that went into writing slightly differing in action or result, sometimes interoperating protocols, native and webclients for these. According to fediparty some protocols average 100⸺1000 users. Even without the many bad actors creating accounts for the adversaries with greatest user count, they still have factor of 1e1⸺1e4 the use I want/ed to make an account for WriteFreely, and I'm immediately hit with the a problem of the microblogging protocols: either too many users pumping out low quality, low effort garbarge beside spammers advertising their escort sites, silken waren, or really fake looking new, or too few users to sustain the system (1⸺50) or are highly focused, that is, very exclusive; and the problem of Marxists, of course. So I may try for invite-only, but 20 posts from 50 cunts over 30 days is not promising. The problem of federation is again that of reach. digg was reddit before reddit. Less hype and recognition and usage, though still prominent in the early '10s. It still exists, but mid and late '10s the latter was discovered and adopted by exponentially more so by users aged ~14⸺24 compared to (anecdotally at least, I'm not fetching digg pages from the internet archive) the former's more tech-y, 20⸺30 population; subreddits mushroomed; (some) knowledge was aggregated, organized, presented. Aaand then it quickly, within 2 or so years, subdivision by subdivision, became really, really fucking shit, like, pungent diarrhea in a paper bag. [1,2,3,4,5,6] In most of the below groupings one is seeing significantly more traffic than the rest. Competition between GAFAM products is cut-throat⸻what chance does unacknowledged, unappreciated, unknown, and or unused FOSS stand? More examples? Sure:
Perhaps I could've, should've just listed articles.[1,2,3,4,5,...].
This devolved rather quickly from centralized vs federated to money vs no/less-money, to what? vs how-is-that-not-the-same-thing? Well paaaaardon my rustlin' up uncalled for, unheeded examplaroonies. Pardnur.
What I am, or was, getting at, is that the figurative door should not be great enough and open enough to allow in, undeter, 'invite' a/the Golden Horde of bad actors. Nor too small, too or fully closed so that the community doesn't grow non-negatively population-wise, doesn't stagnate content-, idea-, principle-wise. And this would be an non-trivial function of a myriad directly uncontrollables. Also that most everything exists in cycles (booms and bust, life and death, etc.), and so⸻, well, most really, don't see a second revolution. How many Silicon Valley start-ups aim at being bought out, that is, at selling out, to one of GAFAM?
I have then but myself and what has been recorded (and translated into one of the three languages I've proficiency in) by humans the past ~5e3 years. Not a bad deal. Not, a, bad, deal-y-o. If one's content with, can tolerate one-way communication (forever). I have my saving grace in suicide, so I'm more covered⸻
Interesting that deciding doing monthly rather than weekly updates to remote led to marked increase in my desire to write, to edit, to think about structure and style (of the writing and the site), and in writing length and quality. I want to publish, but I also more strongly want to buff out all new, hell, even the old upon rereading and seeing how the thoughts and emotions, I have good memory, you see, aren't well, if at all, put across. Colorful minutae of hints, connotations, notions, nuances would be lost on, invisible to somebody unfamiliar with me. Which is all of you. Separate wheat from chaff I should; my ratio is dreadful. Very. So work, work, work it is. I recall how some youtube channels publish both sporadically, without notice, and seldom, yet succeed. Or authors like Cormac McCarthy, or movie directors like Christopher Nolan, Quentin Tarantino, Martin Scosese. Work speaks for itself.
lorem ipsum
speech); can't be content, it's low-effort, shit writing that is neither profound, nor novel. That leave expression. I have nobody to communicate with, and I don't utter more than singles most days with cohabitants only when provoked, that is, I never initiate. To me, doing so with another, rather than oneself, necessitates reflection:
My frustration forces consideration of halving the quadrupled period, i.e., biweekly uploads. I'll play it by ear and I'll let it simmer. I've much to finish anyhow. My excuse for uploading now? It's being about a month of nothing. Gotta flex on you plebs. omedy.
friendproject and spacehey are further bait for nostalgia for myspace, imvu, mypenpals among others demographic-wise: older boys and (too old) men looking for females, either to hook-up, simp for/over, con, or lech over out of desperation and loneliness, and le misunderstood (young and younger) teenaged girls looking for ego inflation; grifting, and griefing. Neither 'dating', nor macroblogging platforms. The former had one 12-year-old girl from Brussels, Belgium, who read a lot, was eloquent and knowledgeable (given the age, and especially compared to literally every single other person using the service, who I'd checked out, and I checked out 30 odd pages, so a few hundred?). I wanted to sign up just for her, but she'd pubesce and get ruined. Either by hormones, by hour dang commie government. Some day I may have my reading cunny. But not to-day.
I skimmed some 15⸺20 articles on loneliness on medium. All were clickbait. One that had a not bad suggestion, namely to write fiction as an outlet, an artful tacit silent reverge against society
. One I'll soon take up. (Thanks for the gentle shove.) Those, female authored (~75%?), were especially trashy. None address the root cause. The problems with the 500-word articles posts: 1, repetition of platitudes or outright bad advice, equating to re-appling ('traditional medicine') salve on a never-to-heal festering gash on your body; 2, supplying statistical figures and citations (of their past selves no less, the gall!) in a work extremely unlikely to be read by a professional or even somebody caring about numbers (there's Putnam's Bowling Alone
for that) This article does a peek-a-boo at a facet of the issue, namely intimacy. But observation isn't helpful, especially when you're neither first nor second. Also not what you that title contains; framing it as a partial question/answer would have been more accurate. This post's last paragraph is absurd: unrealistic or faux optimism. I don't know if anybody is stupid enough to agree with it, believe, try it.
substack's better only because it has less posts on the topic of loneliness. Though there seem to be more men..?
13 were paid; these were nixed. A few seem okay. Also: think I'm cheap for not coughin' up a week's worth of food for a few hundred words of hogchoker? I practice what I preach, and will continue to do so. So morally I'm in the non-negative. Secondly, I've been making minimum wage my working life. Twice under scummy bosses, who raked in more money and or power in a morally corrupt manner.
Anyway, filling a human-shaped friend-hole with videos, blogs, newletters, books, music, literature, films, etc. is hard futile. I curse everybody daring to be 'happy' or 'content' in the wrong way to my anguish. That is, bless them with insight, forsight, and knowledge and level-headedness. My pain is constant and sharp. And I
⸻and here is where me and Pat Bateman differ⸻do hope for a better world. One via pain currently. Fuck women. That is, commit total gynocide. Hehe. Cool word.
I've braced myself for the 3 bad outcomes of the MENSA test. A non-bad one is a non-negative one. This is how deperate I am.
People are horrible.
Came upon a bitchin' woman. Met Banting and then did some cool shit. From her wiki article:
In 1940, during World War II, she and her husband, Victor Saxl, fled to Shanghai, China. In Shanghai, a year later, Saxl was diagnosed with type 1 lang='la' diabetes. When the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor in 1941 the Japanese occupation of China was tightened, and soon all the pharmacies in Shanghai were closed. Saxl had no legal access to insulin. It was possible to buy insulin on the black market using one-ounce gold bars for payment. But that was not the safest option; one of Eva's friends died from using the black market insulin.
In my graph on why the fuck am I unhappy, discontent and not even neutral I had this node: Treat yourself/Do something (nice/pleasant/etc) for yourself leading to a fucking how?! node. That still hasn't changed. However, I know I few small, nice, unhealthy and or inimical to my priciples, my being (I'd say) things that I could try doing, say, 4 days in a row, to test their viability: 1, shower (extented extensive body-water contact); 2, walking among nature (Nietzsche 101, really); 3, going to be early (sleeping as the majority of people or at least well-parented children do); 4, separating activity and location (not living in the same room; would kind of need to live elsewhere for that, but? i'll try to plan something); 5, eat garbage (strawberry/heavily cocoaed or buttered milk/cocaine/pussy) daily?; 6 change clothing daily (wear 'nice' things..?); 7, forced gf (kidnapping a minor (12⸺15-, or 16⸺17-year-old) or adult (personnapping?); both have their difficulties...); 8, ???
For today, I showered which I would've done either and I'll do so tomorrow after a hike, since I'm moving to the countryside for a week or so, and I bought and had a 250g tub of mascarpone and ate 6 shitty (fake taste, or unripe; nowhere near mountain tart-sweet wilds you've picked yourself) strawberries. The shower was better received, the cheap fatty dairy was less than okay, I wanted meat but had none and I'm traveling tomorrow. Since I'm commiting to this plan, I'll have to the next 2⸺3 days munch strawbs, and bathe. Don't look forward to it, but the test has already begun, so I can't pull out. Confounding two is probably worse still, but I'm also not made of time, and I have no clone or friend or caring person to keep me on a leash. And I'm too 'broken' do function properly.
sandy crunchy alkaline water. Fucking calcium carbonaaaate
Want to know how down and not 'em I am? I've not had a wallpaper in 2 months, sticking to black via bgc. Not even my favorite ones can I stand. Emotions, memories (of emotions) of yore disintered. By themselves? By combinations of pixels? ..? Or do these want not stay inhumed? These are mostly resolved, nothing I think about, yearly even. The bother then could be the discrepancy between them and with my current mental (and hence physical state, and hence existential) state as compared with past ones.
Nobody cares.
Everybody is absurdly selfish and self-centered and absurdly stupid. It's so tiring. I want to sledgehammer these fuckers' faces. Toddlers are easier to deal with, to bring to understandment, to teach.
Travel here was a brief respite. Despite in a cramped car. I fucking hate cars... (I'd love to rally on curvacceous country roads (
Tomorrow is this village's annual get-together. I had looked through historical maps (via one of the sites using openstreetmaps' data) of this place. It's existed since the 1600s, I've seen it entered on Hungarian and German martial maps. For some reason. Anyhoo, I'll get some BBQ and listen to bit of music, scout the ladies before fucking off for peace and quiet and non-observance of disgust with the state of this nation's people and people in general. Disgust. Disgust. Repulsion.
What is it with this vicious cycle of loneliness and extremely negative thoughts and emotions born of others?! Can't we get, you know, something nice going on?
It was very meh. Not even any eye-candy save a few very young, soon to be deflowered, debased by humanity into whoredom. Why is volume normalization not a thing for public events? Slap on a noisegate, for fuck's sake. Nobody to talk to, nothing to look at, nothing to eat (without paying :D), I left early though it was my first time with over a minute there. Normies, you could say I was "chilling", sitting and doing nothing. In public among people. I walked a bit, picked some wild grass, threw their stems like javelins, pet a dog, observed people, their mannerism, their choices, their ages, I guessed their distributions of this and that. Guiltily I thought "I should be reading, or having fun, or doing something productive, worthwhile". Disappoint. Noticed some of the failures of parent overextension and overengagement. Not quite helicopter-soccer-mom-Karen levels, but still.
Mood in the shitter, I watched, skimmed 1 movie and the other annoyed me within 5'. How not to do pacing, the first. How to sell a movie to hoi polloi, the second.
As part of another haircut, got my hair washed with hot water and too much 'poo. Counting that as a third day of aqua intercourse.
That aside, daily (hot?) showers (or baths? Haven't had one in ~16 years.) are nice, but I can't attest to a lasting positive mental effect. Does it add 'good', or does it drain 'bad'? So, 1 and 5 are down, 7 I'll defer to future me; I'll give 2 a shot next: daily greater equal half-hour saunters. 4 would be hard, but I'll try it for a day or two. Not extreme, rather just more work on my part given I do everything, live life as if, through a computer. 6 seems to be potentially more effective (in either direction, depending on period) in social setting, or in public; I'll try it when I'm back home. 3 I've done on and off. My sleep is shit, because my headspace is shit. I will give a shot later. Without waterproof anything, walking during or even day after is un-facilitated. Endifficiultated? Endefecated?
I got penciled in for the MENSA test on the 20230603. Yay, not scammed for once.
When I'd said it'll be muggy in 015, I wasn't kidding: whole of May it's rained. Increase temperature amplitude and average by 5⸺10℃, null POP while slightly reducing HUM, and, voilà, fucking June. I dislike my geography's climate, it's whole summer, if you can't tell. And this without spending much time outdoors (big reveal: I don't read outside). I miss Sachsen, Sachsen-Anhalt, und Thuringen. Good thing I bury the past. Can't the present. gib cool plains, ffs.
Hm. ... If something soon doesn't drastically change (for the better?) within 3 months, I'm buying rope and vodka (Imprudent to strike sobriety, to risk retching and suffocating on ethanol-bile cocktails slowly if noosed-up already, all for a bit of additional numbness, laughs (I'm I was a laugh riot when drinking long before) and liver incapacitation (glycogenolysis inhibition, however little is present in a keto-adapted and or fasted body, shouldn't and can't allow for vegetablization). A ≥3⸺4 day fast prior would give me the clarity and stability of mind to in addition.), and learning hangman knot positioning, and scouting and picking a location. Nearly two years overdue (27's the magic number). If not 5, 6, or 7. Possibly testing IV insulin injection. That's be interesting.
Shit's so bleak when among others. I fucking hate being alive. Being reminded I'm alive, existing. I pine for nullibiety.
Whiffed hard on the MENSA test. Barely slept due to prolonged hypoglycemia night before. 3⸺4 hours. Didn't hurry, nor did I practice any. Hadn't seen a pictogram since I'd practiced with a then friend in 2016⸺17. And my blood glucose was low, ≤2.7mM, where I get the telltale adrenaline symptoms. I'm principally against hurry and harry, I'd rather be correct and sure rather than directly or indirectly wrong. And lucking out on 45 questions, or rather the 14 unanswered, wouldn't've'n truthful. Given they take my money, perhaps I should have just all in circling, to maximize chance of admittance. Aditionally, I talked to only 2 fucks beforehand, one of whom I may meet up with later, since he seemed decent-ish enough. Of the 13 in toto. The rest were in a hurry, as if, after. To summarize: 1, scoring in the 85. percentile, I'm proffered not membership (Paid, mind you. Funny, since their 3⸺4 yearly tests with >98% 'failure' rates should already well endow their budget. Their monthly meets consist of outtings or hikes, whereby they grill, imbibe, and do IQ/MENSA pictrograms. Seriously..? Also mentioned their having clubs, but the scant talk told of low-to-no attendance and serious engagement, and members listen in on the site were very <100, as if.) opportunity, requiring ≥98.; 2, I squandered 44 currency units; and, 3, I didn't/couldn't meet anyone/more people. Ain't that just lovely? It's like the whole thing is a scam... Anyhoo. So failed on both accounts. And was muggy. Damn humid heat. Damn sleep. Damn un-practice, faux competition, time. Damn ineptly configured test (timeattack). I got shafted. Again. Fuck you, life! ... Humans!
Defo not wasting more money on a 2. attempt (They 'allow' two attempt per year.). Defo not depending on externalities. My 3 handicaps swarfied many-many percentiles, no doubt. How much, I won't know til I pony up. It ain't linear either way. So, yeah.
Still haven't visited all the agencies to register for joblessness. Disoccupation. Nor for governmental housing, since I have to skeddadle til summer's end. I'm unhappy and in shit moods more often and can't concentrate. For better and worse, I can't finger a person. I want to melt 100g butter into 150mL milk, cocoa the ever-loving fuck out of it, sludgify it, and sip satisfactorily sibilantly. Only I want a surceaseless supply. Thinking again of me treating myself in a meaningful or lasting or deserving way.
Very lonely.
Have decided to start practicing writing, creative writing. Short storties.
Accepted a pet-watching, week-long shindig for relatives. Some countryside, solitary quietude. Well, save animals.
I keep turning out right. I hate being right. It's not like I'm moving money and profitting. I'm just observing people (continue) wronging (in very same direction I earlier said they would). This with regards to people I know, at least. Not very useful, since there aren't many. In parallel universe, I'd've made a stellar CIA operative, agent, or whatever title their field guys go by.
I've lost will to update neocities. Increasing losing scraps of stashed-away hopes (?⸻not quite the word..) for finding a suitable medium. For talking to, with a person. For connecting. IRL ain't no better. The aforementioned bloke is a JavaScript programmer and has friends and colleagues and a girlfriend, and seems rather normal. Maybe I'm out of it, having not conversed with people in a loooong time, so I latch onto the smallest thing. But I know he's not material. Not human, let alone friend, or just long-term conversational partner. Tis unfortunate.
Tis very much so given the state of the world, humanity in 1. and 2. world countries. These can do so much better by each other. Leaders aren't. They just don't exist. Physics hasn't had a big dick, innovator, leader, etc.-type figure in over 36500 sun-arounds. The 20. century had among others: Fermi, Heisenberg, Born, Pauli, Einstein, Oppenheimer, Born, Feynmann, Wigner, von Neumann. Inventors? Bell, I guess, though names don't spring out as much since I'm not that interested in engineering, but around the breakthrough in theoretical physics, were a great many experimenter (-tors?), who did a lot of work too. Plop, the 21. has..? Ever so slightly more efficient cars and aeronautical components..? Where your equivalent of the Moon landing? All the particle accelerators? The gravitational wave one confirming Einstein was big, I guess. But again, bigass team. No one guy. Maybe the time for monoliths is gone..?
Physics and technology are one thing, what's that to do with politics, people, and or everyday life? Increments have been less desultory and more insidious (as in not for the direct purpose of field, but rather for moutache-twirling power, clout, money), slow, and collective or, at least, bureaucratic.
Where was I going with this? That leading by example is key, yet that I see no (positive) effect my own actions? That it's thankless and that my 'knowing' I'm positively affecting humanity or society isn't doing me any immediate good of any at all? That only if all us were such would it there be a noticeable to most/all effect? That I'm tired and what some
Theordore Kaczynski died. And Cormac McCarthy shortly after. Posthumous (Just realizing 'postinterred', 'postfunereal', 'postburial' aren't words I've yet encountered. Nor 'postmostem' with this meaning. What a barren scriptorial landscape.) publication of their unfinish writing one can hope for, but in what time frame? For T.K., there'd be more discourse on bawlerizing and annotating, criticizing to appease publishing house, I'd think. And for C.M., the best of the best and the closest of the closest to him would be contacted and contracted for pre-, inter-, and post-ludes. Depending on its completion, multiple. A loss of two swell dudes, two great minds. Oh, well. So it goes.
Last paragraph. Why is child-oriented art of Japanese origin so, so... bad? I here refer to 'anime', that is, cartoons. Or niptoons. After the AstroBoy years, they had 2⸺3 decades of great variety in theme, style, length, genre, target audience. The 00s more experimentation in style and theme, as if, more ...grunge (desaturated palette and gloomy settings)? After that, TV channels, anime production and publishing studios have played it safe, safe, safe. Direct comparisons between countries of different histories, economic and cultural, are qualitative, demonstrative rather than argumentative, so grain of salt. The output of new intellectual properties is at least an order of magnitude above any other country, hands down. If not two. However, these past 20 years the vast majority of it is cookie-cutter mediocrety. Slap a new name and ship it. It's simplistic, predictable, safe that is, rarely-to-never innovative or new. It's also appealing to younger and younger children. The themes have denatured, regressed in maturity, aren't related to anything a teenager would experience, let alone a university student, or any young adult, let alone an adult. I've been a teenager, I've seen them. I've been one in 3 countries on 2 contintents. I've read of them in the past and present, real accounts of real people. Save escapism (engaging with anime is rarer compared to directly hedonistic activities: psychoactive substances, sexual gratification, etc.), fawning over 'moe', and petty anime hooliganism, tribalism, I don't see how any of it would appeal to anybody over, say, 15 years of age. Compare it to French, English, American, Canadian, Korean, heck, even Chinese cartoons (Such I've seen myself.)? The grind and crunch of churning out a soulle⸻, to be more accurate: impersonal, indistinct, almost nondescript PRODUCT every week for 48 weeks the year isn't a positive, let alone worthwhile in effort, manhours, contribute to art. Perhap I'm not getting it? Not getting what it is others are getting? Chapter 2 of Adam Phillips' Missing Out
flooding back in.
Of course, this is more observation than argument. But it's not pure opinion either. There is inherent survivorship bias (You're scrolling through myanimelist, anidex, mangadex, Wikipedia, imdb, kissanime, and so on. You're not contacting the studios' archivists to request information most likely.). One doesn't discover a series from 1973 that bombed without effort, instead merely the successfuls, those that passed the filter of time, of 2⸺3 generations; or that at least broken even.
Last last paragraph. The real-life, local literature club I'd half-started failed. bookwyrm is a massive failure, as are goodreads, librarything, and similars. I started a mailing list for the ardent and or zealous of imageboards' reading users to join, open up, and discuss literature, philosophy, art in all its forms, in good-faith, breadth, and depth. It seems I was duped, allowed myself to be. Yet again, woe is to long-suffering me. Just like just about nobody reads this site, and literally no witness interacts with me, so too am I its sole subscribee (subscriptor?). Why, when there were at least 2 willing? Because the one (1) interested poster FUDed himself and anybody luckering by throwing a hissy fit. He poisoned the well. So I've another failed attempt.
Back in the 80s through to early 00s, when the Internet had than a tenthousandth of its current daily users, when 5 companies' websites garnered not >95% of all traffic, I would have already connected with somebody. But no, we gotta be bitchy, juvenile, pretentious, nitpicking, unexerting cunts, don't we? Petty, weakest excuses for humans. Fuck me. I loathe you people.
Poop windfall. There is little to look forward to. I learned I got extra railed, megashafted by my previous employer. Again. This time to the tune of ~250 currency units. Fuck. And what's worse, it was and is negligence and or incompetence on both the employer's and the government agency's side. Both default to self-exculpation by finger-pointing. The victim is expected to fix issues.
Poop windfall.
And an old acquaintance presented a shady-ish, unfairly balanced work. Pay would be good, and I don't have any (better) opportunities so threw my hat in. I'm waiting approval.
Same guy referred me for a job to his employer's HR dep. It's corporate hell, I'm 4:1 not even trying 'seriously'. The 3 places I have worked at, I'd not dealt with HR, but had talked directly with future boss. Eh
Had a thought about aging and the (im-?)famous suicides of some famous performers/artists at 27. Around when disillusion and gray fill the vacancy of your dashed hopes and dreams. Of your child and or young adult soul. Extrapolating from this to the world: 1, rates always increase with age; 2, in the US, there is a second maximum for the 24⸺35 cohort; men win more often at a rate 4⸺5 time the women's. No, I didn't see all the 26 pages of graphs, nor read everything. To continue, it occured to me that if you (are male and from a wealthy country and) don't off yourself between thoses years, you lose the energy, luster, the zhuzh partially required covering your insecurity, inconviction, doubt. Reminded of how my thinking about suicide had changed since starting considering it. Really a one change, the calming one I keep rattling about. My mental landscape has been been aridifying. Left fallow year after year, where the landtender has gone, I don't know. (Extending analogies should be an offense, right?)
A previously disappeared from neocities reappeared. Gave/giving 'em a chance. I attempted to talk; I failed to change the person for the better; they additionally proceeded to show their true colors. Or their lack of them. Fucking retarded alien.
I observe that the 4 of 4 relationships herefrom overlap. How? The other party was: a teenager and or immature; a (non-Stacy, neither highly beautiful, nor vyed for) female; pretentious (there's a better word for this; has to do with the first; content to drop it), lie-ready, noncommital; praise- and or attention-seeking; stupid-enough-to-take-or-have-taken-psychiatric-medication (and get experimental, yet to be proven to work medical treatment willingly) or have-let-one-self-be-diagnosed; happy to shirk responsibility and blame to play victim; of (too) low intelligence or unknowledgeable (or gradually revealed themselves to be such). Additionally: 1. was an mask-wearing and or lying, 'godly' whenever convenient, whenever having sinned in her own eyes, never others', nor the religion's; ready to change cults at the drop of a hat if it absolves her; very promiscuous, high libido, slut and or sex-addict. 2. & 3. are pretentious. 3 wore masks and or are barely decent people.
Red flags waving red flag atop red velvet flag-shaped cake with cherries on top. All ignored. Again. To my own detriment. And worse still, to no betterment of theirs. Am I exaggerating slightly? Maybe. Is 4 a good sample size? No, but 4/4 is a trend or is trend-y. I'd not be pleased to find out, conclude that I (or my slightly exaggerated neocities persona (not the right word, since this is not a persona)) attract females, rather than humans, with this farrago of qualities.
Should I start living in le real life? Start stalking the city's libraries, art galleries, theaters, places of culture, parks, idunnowhats?! Probably not. Though it may be worth an attempt. One in- and egress each. To, what, say I've given each an honest shake? I'd waste time, effort, money, faith in humanity, energy. I'm half-back to the quandry of how to find somebody like myself. An approximation of an answer has to do with maximizing exposure. Hence my being online not reading in public. Cursed. Or just unfortunate. Or I'm stupid for not thinking of something else or more.
tldr: don't ignore any one red flag and focus on reading (the classics, he says, nodding to Schopenhauer, while secreting reading consooming treysh), you dimwit. Also, confrontation on the outset, don't wait. Fix all bugs. Or attempt to. Also, just don't interact with (young) females. Just don't. Neither worth the time, nor the effort. They are not people. Neither are children.
Wondering along the lines of: Better to have loved than to have never loved at all..? Better to have had (attempts at?) (bad?) friends than none at all..?
Very soon, I'm going to write for 10h to brown noise.
Do people disappear from the internet after their late teens and yearly twenties? After they get settled with their lives? Are those left the unsettled, unresolved, unhappy, discontent? Those in search of something? Something missing in the so-called 'real life'?
Odd to be observing only. Not ever. I had a life. I gave up and have been giving up on it since its collapse in winter '18/'19, spring '19.
Incidental the the above incomplete recorded thoughts about suicide, I'd had this thought last month. Referring to an unnamed thought to kill myself at 30, if nothing has changed. To give myself a time limit. I'd had considered it but decided against. During my last hypoglycemia however, it dawned on me. Blaringly. New line of questioning. A day 'survived' is a day, wherein ('whenin' should be a word. Why does English take only⸻, well, haven't observed myself, so survivorship bias⸻have only select parts of German, or other languages, or its past versions?) oppression (or human spirit? survival instinct?) wins over the organism's consideration of and or desire for suicide. How much is a reneged suicide pact with oneself worth morally (to the one, not intrinsically or universally)? How much a declined opportunity to take one's life? How much each subsequent such? Thinking of life a sequence of days, weeks, months, years, periods of time not terminally uncrowned with suicide⸻useful when?
I was all in on it. Euglycemic, I'm wibbly-wobbly on the matter, 3:2 or 5:4..? (It was ~9:1⸻I was going to off myself the next day, I was sure of it.) And I'm unsure as to why. I've a bit more time to hash it out til my tridecennary.
I don't feel well. About anything. Good thing nothing fucking matters much. Just don't think (about yourself), don't react, don't regard, don't feel.
Very much warming up to the idea of suicide at 30.
I am so unhappy. Nothing is well, is going well. Nothing has gone well. Everything I've endeavored has backfired. How can I not be bitter? About being mistreated or maligned? Even if it is and or was unintentional, malchance, or an artifact of my perception and judgement? I am exhausted. I have been exhausted. There can't be much more of me to go around, I don't know how much longer til the snap. Everything is fractured as it is, compared to a 'normal' first or second world. Sleepily I'd been dreaming of, lusting after a terminal, unoperable, untreatable cancer. And it wouldn't have changed anything. At best, I'd have tried to OD on cocaine or go on a shooting spree.
I was to care for some animals, mainly two dogs, for 5⸺6 days. One of which was rather old, though still capable of a few brief trots. Stupid and lovable, some might say. Anywho, since my sleep, wake, activity, outside schedules differ vastly from the owners', I interacted very little with all the animals, and did minimal work, being more annoyed with it all. If they don't want to eat, I'd try again in a few hours; if they were in the fucking yard at all and not fuck knows fucking where and they'd show some interest. Food was scarce in my wake, but consciously consumed. That is. I'd fed them once daily rather than the moronic twice or thrice of the owners, together with undeserved snacks. I matched most animals' modus operandi⸻eat when food, fast otherwise.
Day 2 or 3, she don't wanna get in the yard, so she don't get fed. But she's also real languorous, and exhausted, noticeably so. Mucho laying. Oookay. Reddo fraggo, as the Japanese say, but I ignored it. That day the other fag didn't wanna eat either. Fine then. Next day, bitch is panting as if it were 45℃ and she'd finished a marathon. It's wasn't and she'd not. Despire her thick coat, she'd not aged significantly since last month, when I'd last seen her. I pour 0.5⸺1.0L of cold tap on her, as good-hearted gesture to cool her off. Despite knowing most animals don't appreciate being wet or cleaned by not themselves. She didn't even shake off excess. Second red flag ignored.
Next day, her furry arse and whole backside are covered in larvae, thinning out towards her mid. And she smells much, much worse than wet dog. Like spoiled meat, rotten or rotting flesh. And I've got weakened olfaction after overwhiffing acid in orgo labs in uni.
Imagine pinching an inch of your skin with a forceps or thumb and index finger, and 20⸺40 white wriggles, glistening with your effluvium, emerging from your pores, from your skins, having dined upon your wounds until your unpropitious interruption.
Kind of a real shit way to die.safe for humans
⸻What about canids? And concentrations, LD50s?); septic; and covered with a old carpet or rug to try to prevent dog pneumonia or canine common cold (what I like to call CCC). Why let emotion have the reigns, then blame me for not having noticed the unnoticeable earlier? A
I only later, after the likely harmful to the animal treatment, looked up maggot infestation. What turned out to be named myiasis or flystrike (when on ovines). Go ahead, take a gander of it photographed. And mulesing, which, you have to admit, is a cool name for anything. I'd vote for 'donkeychant' as a new coin. It's a precaution though, not a treatment, and one for thickly fleeced sheep (like Merinos). My dog-watering despite not targeting her ass, probably didn't help the already ongoing severe affliction. As it'd've disolved and spread filth from her coat to the many (open) wounds. An ethanol bath could have helped, but good luck finding enough for something the size and mass of a sack of potatos, on short notice, at midnight, in a rural location. Antibiotics, antiparasitics, antiinflammatories? Defo. Ivermectin is a treatment and profilactic for flystrike in ovines. Well, I read of all that post factum, and 02AM vetrinary pharmcies or vetrinarians were a very hard sell. Petrolium jelly can be used to suffocate the grubs, but then you still have to deal with the pocked, pus-filled, red-gnawed flesh. I don't feel guilt or remorse, but a slight pity, I feel the misfortune, the arbitrariness. The other dog was scratched too, but scabs abounded, they were healing. It being much younger. So the dog was buried. I remember petting its head briefly, more sure it wouldn't make the night, after the owners had gone to bed. They didn't sleep and I, cold, didn't fare much better. Thinking of the Singaporean grindcore band Wormrot, and a few of their releases' cover art, done by Zahir Sanosi, a.k.a, KILAS[1,2], and about being slowly eaten alive. It was so exhausted, it barely whimpered, breathing heavily, rapidly, raggedly. From the hair pulling and pruning and cutting, it didn't much react. I recalled this, and my grandfather's recollections on his 2⸺3 bouts of typhus during conscription. I could have prevented needless suffering, or could have I..?
Not my first death, though it was the first animal one, and animal one in my care. There's something cromulent in ocularly negotiating a man going blue in the face and body in public trasit. Not my first time being called a heartless, uncompassionate something-or-other being. Eh. I imagined myself killing the dog resolutely somehow. But this was ~40⸺50kg, not the 2 of a Chihuahua. And I'm sure the owners would have objected. Were it mine and were it was hopeless, I'd've injected it with potassium chloride to make its ticker go pop. Or I'd've stabbed its neck, bled it out. Sounds a tad harsher than the 'mercy kill' I'm propounding it as to my hypotheical reader. It's not. Not really.
I'm left with vivid imagery of the lucklessly and almost hopelessly moribund. Of an innocent, as a child before growth, before nature and nurture, is.
I like it, the languid fug of it all. Not so much of owners' attempt at: guilt-tripping, blaming, and accusing. Contracts are nice in being concrete. This is why one should be be at another's whims, be it for food, shelter, work. You can only trust.
I have until about mid (or end?) October to vacate my present premises, hence also to find a place to rent out. And, before cash runs out, a job. Yikes. The former is much more difficult here. Rent in currency unit per meter^2 per month is commonmost about a a third to two thirds the country's daily wages. Prima facie, okay. Then you realize you need a room, not 5, 4, 3, or 2. You don't find single rooms, because cohabitation arrangements are exceedingly rare here. Gender segregated, vetted by all acquaintances, and so on. I miss Germany's Wohngemeinschaften greatly. If you are making minimum wage, you can uncomfortably pay for to 5 square meters.
The astonishing thing is, or would be, were it (the uniform distribution) true, that nobody here is wealthy, rich, or has much stuff. Ostentation and gawdiness are a morally corrupt late 30s-to-50s, male gangster or inactive or merely behind-the-scenes-string-pulling, 'le I'm totes not involved' politican. Who are these rent-seeking real-estate agencies, buying up land?
I'm considering moving to a small town. But I'm not a 'le rockstar' programmer. Nor a full-stack one. Nor have I experience, references, sheepskins, certifications. Nor will I deal with anything web, Python, or JavaScript. To be off the bat employable as a fully remote one, I doubt putting free labor on the table will cut the mustard. I'll try for an internship at all the 'good' places. All about 4 of them in the capital. Not there are such. It's a a choice between bad and not as strikingly bad. (Is that how money is made? Inefficiently, soulessly, and cruciatingly tediously?) And I'll start scrounging the web for sites mediating jobs in other countries. Or try my hand at trading finally. Though without a glibc distro or beefy hardware running Windows, getting anything proprietary to 'just werk' is and will be a struggle. Would be funny to get it chugging and just lose my money and be forced to work any shit job. H-ha-ha...
I should bite the bullet and buy a new, not secondhand laptop soon.
Just.
Lovely.
I should get the official paperwork that I'm fucked in owning nothing, so that I may apply for governmental housing. It should take too long and result in an offer of a run-down, apartment in a beat neighborhood. Being a NEET, I'd briefly considered applying for a bachelor's in mathematical finance. But a 2⸺3-year commitment under the arbitrary whims of others? Of institutions? Of bloated, impotent bureaucracy? I'm more put off than on. Remains to be seen what I do with the self-proposition. Whether I can find a job thing as a c/cpp programmer will also be a game of chance with stacked odds without degrees, certifications, experience, completed projects, references. So, yeah. I'm fucked.
Su-i-cide!
Su-i-cide!
Su-i-cide!
Job search is going as expected. Like chunky shit mazing through fatberged sewer pipes. That is, slowly, stinky, and with literally no return signal. Pinging the (stinky) void. HR departments⸻not a single member of staff, but departments!⸻existing is a condemnable crime against humanity (all sort of) efficiency enough. They live up to task and don't do their jobs, in replying to emails, or applications. And get paid for doing... nothing..? Seems legit, right? Well at least I'm moving out soon. The mofo's left, but he has paid for room until mid November. Aaand the landlord-ess can decide not to take me up? My dollar versus others'. Not like landlords laboring over mounds of paperwork to evict an unpaying tenant or find a new one. Also, the chances of a 4- or 6-hour position, or freelance one, or one paying per work (achieved?), are slither slim. Their proportion to the whole are less than 1 per cent. And most those are talky, customer-focused, bitch jobs. No offense to bitches.
Found a last floor attic shoebox in an oldish building in the city center. 15m^2 or, for the imperial and English unit homies, 160ft^2. Henceforth only metric so listen: a meter squared is almost 11 feet, or exactly 10.76391... Multiply by 11, if you're fancy; or 10, if you're a lazygoodfornothingacrackwhorechild. And that's assuming honesty⸻I've honestly lived two thirds my life in a 20^m room, that is, parents' place and uni dorm room; and the other third in 10⸺15m^2 ones. That shit⸻even were you to add the area from the
Main floors have two apartments. So yeah, I'm to pay about half of minimal monthly wages before tax. Yes, yes, you don't care. I dig it⸻back to the show! It has indoor stairs to a, bed-included, probably tops 4m^2 bedroom, that I cannot stay even at half height to get into. No. It's crawling from the few steps to the landing onwards, babyyy. For fuck's sake. The building has high ceilings (what's the floor-to-ceiling distance termed in architecture??? clearance?), 3 or 3.5m, making it spacey compared to flats. I love that. Whitewashed walls: clean-looking. And the there furniture ain't garbage. Wooden, old yet clean and maintained (read, not awfully (over-)lacquered, nor (over-)painted). Chair's the cheapest folding chair, wrestling stationary chair; either stolen from an office or conference room or the garbage; could also be bought for the price of 2⸺3 takeouts or 4⸺6 street foods. So that'll have to get sorted.
The whole, it's just so ceiling roof, since there is none. It is literally a shower-shitter-sink shed. It's only slightly larger than an actual outhouse. At least sink's at dick level, the universe go too overboard. There'll be lots of ducking beside minor head injury rewards for each navigational or mnestic failure. The early morning and late night ones, in the dark, would be the worst. Did I mention the stairs to the matress⸻, Did I mention there is no bed-bed? Just plopped on the floor. The floor suspended in the air, by, I'd hope, sufficient wood and nails, and (properly) applied carpentry. And you have to crawl on hands and knees under two beems to and fro. Sometimes, just sometimes, short folk have it easy.⸻, Where was I? The stairs⸻they're unsafe. Not regulation, nor specification⸻about half my foot in depth. Recalling a video about Victorian staircase design, namely their narrow steps leading to many servant injuries or deaths.
But it is quiet (inside, with closed windows).
The two guitars I have, that I would like to finally fucking play because I don't live with other people? Maybe dispatch a pair of shoes or three. And other sundry items. I may have to stick 'em in my parents' unused apartment. Can't wait for that dialog. And the unreasonable stipulations. And future retroactive ones. Those are the same reason I don't reside there. Fuck me I am so not looking forward to anything in life. Other than giving up ultimately and the release of death.
Why the city center when you don't want to be among people? For one, I can oogle the pretty young girls going to university within spitting distance. Seriously though. ... Seriously though, I don't decide who lays not horrible offers. Here for me that's asking a lot of a little. I to minimally, ascetically exist, to pass the time. I don't want to waste my time making money for others, nor do I need more than 1 room, 2 tops. Horrible is paying 2⸺4 times the the price in units of currency per area, for a fucking ROOM. Horrible is having no obviously alternatives. Horrible is being compeled to a lifestyle of toiling for others' benefit, of no free time, of nothing of worth. Recalling this meme too.
Apparently I'm the only interested, after calling. Two weeks remain, so it remains to be seen.
It's the loveliest part of year, weatherwise, for this fucked country. Possibly for most betreed, (be-?)wooded, forested (foresty? woody? there was a word for this...) regions with 4 distinct seasons. Shame I can't enjoy it fully. Or much. Should I? Should I be doing more for myself? And if so how? I am so bitter. So unhappy. Can't image going on like this. My life has stagnated so much since falling to depression at 21. It's been a descent. Ever worse, gradually. New lows, more blows. Nobody wants to help. Or nobody can. Where are the people that can? They exist. And they help others. Just. Not. Me. Maybe I should try old antidepressants. Maybe I do have some disease. Maybe I should try hard drugs. Or firearms. Shit, for my saving, some sort of lethality with a safevouch should be possible. Obvs, no definitive nor easy answers lurk. But from all I've read thus far, most prominently from heavy, traumatic personal accounts, it seems that believing in something, however wrong, objectively or morally, is better than not, for the purpose of meaning acquistion (or attribution?). Obviously, something is better than nothing is Better to haved loved and lost than to have never loved at all.
and like sayings world round ring halfway true. Obviously, trying is better than giving up (and bitchily whining about it (on the internet (to tweens and teens (for nothing, to no (positive) effect)))). I feel deader the more time passes. Stagnation. Stagnancy. Stagnant. (Stag⸻ha!) I wish it weren't so. I wish I felt more than pervasive, enduring, dull-to-sharp (mental) pain. And negative emotions, when I don't keep myself in check. And I currently amn't. And haven't been, at least since 202212**. Arguably, longer. And arguably, longer-er.
...
So, yeah. A (possible) newness. A (possible) news. Another (possible) opportunity not to change (myself, my situation, something for the better), evolve, grow, and other positive verbs of increment.
one of the best laptop keyboards of all time. But until motherboard and everything else upgrades for it become possible and easily enough doable for me, I'll have to pass. For once⸻, no, for the first time I'd have a new computer, or new anything. Other than less than 20% my clothes (too many gifts from relatives), my beat Clarks (can you say spring 2017?) and the 800USD, artisinal (pfff, ha⸻I'm half scared to check whether the company foundered during sars-cov2) boots (autumn 2020), I've not bought anything (non-edible) for myself in a longass time. Shaving off at 4 or 8 months of savings better be worth it. How would it be worth it? Technically, I want W series ThinkPad with this 2023 hardware. For triple the cheap option, I could get an X1. They are rather liked. The double has the same shit keyb, same shit screen aspect ratio (Not 4:3! I. Want. To. Go. Back. Also, the Framework 13 uses 3:2!! Now that is vertical real estate.). And its vaunted upgradability isn't proprietary, but it might as well be, since Framework only manufacture modules, as far as I know. I'm not made out of money. Sometimes I wish I were.
I've also decided to try infiltrating a library near the new place⸻Yet to be locked in, mind you. That is, landlady's agent is still showing possible candidates around, and will continue til, what, the final paid day of rent? After which we duke it out in a gauntlet of strength and smarts? This process in Germany in 2010s was expedited, butter-smooth. This is fraught with risk and uncertainty, if not fraud.⸻with a recent-heavy repertory with high traffic. To see whether I can find somebody reading, or rather somebody worth talking to, with. said wrote nothing, alluded to nothing. Make an passing effort to angle out them thought fish, won't ya?git reset --soft HEAD\~1ing. Firstly, this country's literary contribution to the world in its native language, both as is and translated, and in both English and German, is mostly shite. The admission requires a donation of a recent-ish, that is, published within the last 10⸺15 years, work. I have no such. Could steal from my mother or grandparents, or buy something. But then I'm left with a card, providing access to exclusively native language books. Yikes. I'm not gonna reveal where I'm from, but I'll that most Western, Central, and Eastern European languages aren't thriving, and some are (long) stagnant or dying.
And I'm looking for apprenticeships. Those are rather rare here⸻companies are shit, the people and workforce are both old and shit (everybody with enough wits about them has long emigrated to greener pastures). In Germany, they were plen-ti-ful, easy to find and apply for. Glassblowing was one I'd then considered, because of how valued and rare they are. But it's boring, often menial, and hot. A for-life position. If nothing positive occurs, to repeat myself, til about onset spring '24, I'll enroll for a bachelor's in financial mathematics. And if not that, I'll try my hand at writing. Or at something like the Peace Corps. Or perhaps an X-month-or-year stint in Foreignlandia, on an oil rig (fuck me, I wish). Still have cash to burn, maybe for 1.5⸺2 years' worth of all expenses. I'll also very soon, once relocated, commit to the roguelike I'd wanted to make.
And I'm still very down. Aging, and I'm seeing the prominents of my day, my early 20s, wither too. Those profilgate are wasting, those lucky and (smartly) hard-working are in decline, but have secured their futures, all levels of Maslow's. Of course, it's never too late to do well. How much can you tell yourself that while actively disintegrating before yourself. Before your ideal, your past and future self.
Also, how disappointing it is to invest waste your time improving (or trying to) another human being, and for them to unrecognize or devalue it. (And for them to not get it, or anything? You know who you are.) Repeat that that last all relationships. Why do I even try?! Because it could work? Phat phở keying chance. Are all people I've interacted with that stupid and or unintelligent?! That shallow of character?!
...
*holds up chant with accelerando and crescendo*
Su-i-cide!
Su-i-cide!
Su-i-cide!
Regarding job search, possibly physical chemitry lab work. At least not organic. Or inorganic... But still⸻yikes. And it's not research anything, that is, it's barely science. Mere routine analyses in production for big-ish company. Worse because braindead, almost menial; voluminous, and very repetitive, same substances, same tests. On 12-hour shifts too. And you wanna sell me that the big company can't afford a machine to do that? Fuck me.
Also, another funny tid-bit: wages for a system administration for the local goverment are a smidgen above, maybe 1.1 times, the minimum. What's more, they require mucho experience! That occupation facilely yields 5 times it from any private place, judging by advertised salaries. This, at least, is the same the world over⸻(supposedly) small (or misallocated) budgets for vital, state or government infrastructure, both physical and digital.
Half-workdays at a book store could have been okay. Though I can't into: >1 people, casual, mercantile. Good thing it's (or was) minute, hence human. Could be have been a choice, were they to call back. Some poser nerd female student prolly got it. Fucking women, for fucking fuck's sake. Ruining everything always, forever. Well, not you, Marie Curie, Ayn Rand⸻you two are swell. Nobody calls back, rejects. By hatred for pessimal, bureaucratic paperpushers grows. It grows fucking malignant tumors like varicella blisters. Despite some ending the initial phone call with an assurance to get back to me. Fuck me. So far, I've had 1 (ONE) explicit no. Bulk emailing noes can't be that difficult, or time-consuming. So what gives? How is one to know one's crafted, compiled, or written document's problems? Hiring process is so fucked. How and why any company, let alone govenmental structure would choose to employ HR, or HR-like miscellaneous administrative staff is beyond me. I wish I had access to a frontier, any frontier, where inefficiencies are culled by circumstance.
Is it not negative adjective, how, or rather when, someone will expectorate in your face under a purported desire to help? Neither lamb, nor shepherd. Wolf in either's skin or furs. Hungry and exclusively self-serving.
Why are people so immoral? Why is most everybody⸻I say most, thinking of some old, nice**-ish**, courteous, not too-too horrible in their beliefs and actions people⸻selfish, in the worst, non-Ayn-Rand way, only? Where's an equal?! Where an apposite?! Where. My. Slack?
Is is these experiences that lead me to astray, to Patrick-Bateman-esque thoughts (or seemingly preemptive conclusions):
My pain is constant and sharp and I do not hope for a better world for anyone, in fact I want my pain to be inflicted on others. I want no one to escape, but even after admitting this there is no catharsis, my punishment continues to elude me and I gain no deeper knowledge of myself; no new knowledge can be extracted from my telling.
I, I'd like to hope only, temporarily relocated outside the capital. Negative experiences around that exluded, I'm to reside in a shack of wimpy isolation for at least 2 weeks. And up to months. With my exhalations and body radiation, it is a whopping 6⸺7℃ hotter than the outside's ~1. (For my degree-Fahrenheit-using bros and hoes, just multiply by 9/5 and subtract 32, that is, ~45℉.) The latter has had a wind speed of 5⸺10 m/s for the past two days, over which the atmospheric pressure has risen from 988hPa to 1020. Despite earplugs, the gusts of winds have awoken me several times past 2 days. They're unusually loud due to the geometry of the damn place. Like a small valley in a medium valley in large valley. You don't quite get a train's tunnel boom, but it's loud⸻you can position sheet metal so that it whistles. Looking at the 48-hour, meterological prognosis, four fifths in the lows, before getting back to normal, later autumnal conditions.
I keep recalling the North Pond hermit, shiving in bed to scrounge up enough warmth to snooze. What would he do? How would he make due, survive? Dude defo didn't have any one particular thing to continue for. He just did. He willed survival without it being the primary goal. Unlike me.
I'm awakened by some body part having escaped the 1 woolen and 4 cotton (nothing else, sadly) blankets, and my head aches frequently. Sleeping in -30#x2103;, or rather trying to, he had gotten up every 1⸺2 hours to do physical exercise to get the blood pumping and create some heat through friction. Aaaah, gotta love that good ol' friction. But he didn't have walls or a close off environment. More like wind obstructions, wind groynes and wind breakwaters. Breakwinds? Oh, nevermind, those are usually called walls. Anyway. I should get back to the reading list in the bibliography from that book, I've done only like 6.
I, being listless, languorous, depressed, amn't exactly up to much. And having attempted it despite that, my toes still sting from the cold. I'm wearing 4 pairs of Merino woolen socks⸻old, sure, but not threadbare⸻and something like twice as thick, ankle-length woolen slippers. Almost gelid. I've a weak form of Raynaud syndrome diagnosed. I've had only 2 attacks or flare-ups in my life, but the poor circulation is felt every day. Save summer, I double woolen sock always, and wear a Merino wool undershirt and tights too. I can't be the only person to think that trousers need more material and thickness variety. I don't need ski pants, but daisy dukes, jeans, and khakis can't be the only options... Moments I long for a the sustainable, environment-utilizing past. Like I'd said⸻4 1.5mm-thin, cotton blankets. These weigh more than they isolate, despite the additional air pockets between them. As I type this, my hands and toes are in pain, as if handling thawing meat. No, I don't handle frozen edibles with my feet, you moron. I mean't it just not as cold.
I recalled too the bum from The Day After Tomorrow
climate, disaster movie with Jake Gyllenhaal from the mid '00s. Namely, his stuffing his oversized, nicked or gifted puffer jacket with crumpled newspaper. Air pockets. Those aren't as great when you've less, little, or no circulation to extremities. What else I'm wearing: my thickest woolen sweater⸻a tight, two-layer, white purdy thang, that at 15℉ often compels sweating; gift⸻a flimsy windbreaker, that I've had since the 9th grade... also gift, albeit should childhood ones count..?⸻I'm not one for garment accrual or discarding (-ment?), and, being gifted things throughout the years, I rarely get to buy and wear something I truly like.⸻, a short, woolen, checked scarf from Wales, gift, but a nice one, at least not for so cruel temperatures; a long acrylic one, another gift, atop it; and warm-ish hat⸻one, I continually adjust according to either necessity for vision or forehead pain⸻, and aforementions undershirt, bought, and tights, gift, and corduroys, gift and my thickest legwear. I'd feel like a clothing bargain bin, were they bad along the more imporant 2 of 3 axes of wearables: material/quality/sewing/production, and size, with the 3. being your desire to wear it.
After the minimum around 04:00, I can get 12 contiguous hours. Sleeping from dawn til normal folk dinner time. Getting through the night is the hard part, when you're a night owl, or live like one. Other funny things⸻funny in the malevolent, ha-ha-look-how-better-off-I-am way⸻, 1, my glucometer doesn't work at such low temperatures, so I have stick it in my undies, or my hands, or my ass for a few minutes to goad into function; 2, type-1-diabetics require more insulin during autumn and winter compared to sping and summer⸻I don't know if pancreata produce negative amounts or if the body is too sluggish, inured to react to the same amount; 3, my laptop receives great, natural cooling, with the fan audibly in pain, sounding like a plastic plow being run through gravel by a senile ox. All negatives, I know. Actually fun, funny, or nice things tend to not happen. And if they do, something catastrophic and long-term destabilizing tends to happen. At least in my experience.
I relented and turned on the oil heater. The temp 2⸺4 hours later is 16, which is still cold, but not painfully so. Just like in bed, under the blanet burden, hours are necessary for it to settle in, spread to all bodyparts. I'll keep it on, since I've neither much corporeal fat stores, nor lard or any other fat to replenish. Muscle definition is already of hunter-gatherer tier. And the electricity's gonna cost a pretty penny compared to, say, bricking up the already curtained windows, that for two thirds the days glare into the dark, or the brutally foaming up everything with polyurethane or the like. Ugly, yes, but with much better stats. Or just enduring a slow freeze. And it's not like you're looking at it while shivering from inside. But it's not mine, so I've no power. Someday I will may, I'll be a cave hermit⸻no windows, or a small one, maximal isolation, great condition for me and worst for anybody else.
And since I'm complaining, that is, whining⸻my shitty IEMs turned out real shitty. For the first second, the Shure SE215 (the painfulmost for long-term use IEMs), time in about 15 years of not using cans, or over-ear headphones, I've had cable break. Not even gonna mention slack, or a break. Without these few post, my (perceived) misfortunes would be known to me only, since I don't talk to, with, or at anybody. I'd sigh, but this isn't a sitcom, there is no payout, and I'm too tired to try to move a lip. It's been 4.5 hours with heat; only my toes hurt. Too many dense objects occupying space. Sure, they maintain temperature once you've shelled out for their room-temperaturification, but you could also just have more, you know, tens more lungfulls cold air.
What else... Nothing's fine. Only now I live in a place with shit water, so I'm done even get my 4L of hydration. I stuggle to get 1.5. The cold sapping my usual, bottomless appetite⸻,
I'm stabilizing in my consistent (mood) lows. Adjusting baseline. I've yet to take up the highly cynical attitude and behavior that I know I should, that will suit this, that will (likely) play ball, help. I'm not reading much because of not extricating, abstracting myself from mundane⸻, or to not use a potentially negatively connotated word, Earthly matters. It, humanity (yeah, fucking right!) society, human matters seem so, so distant. I am perplexed how any one supposedly conscious being could be successfully lure to playing game. The man's game, others' game. The one rigged from start to end, with most everything roughly known. How? Why? For what benefit? Is is worth it? How in the fuck do you venture to think you're guess is close to being correct or probable? Tisk, motherfucking, tisk. Pity for the lost. Briefly.
Hm. Best get back to reading... On just passing the time. Can't wait for that epitaph: He went through the motions.
I'm in for another shitty, lonely, stale, dead set of winter holidays, amn't I? I've already had my fall ruined. others everybody not living properly, decently, or, fuck forbid, optimally, towards a rough, common goal.
Got, or rather getting during coding, back to listening to music again, thanks to this guy. Thanks, guy. A swell-ish, in-the-know dude that reminds me of myself, or my past self. Our opinions often overlap, and I like his musical knowledge, and 'takes'. Perhaps I want to fellate myself by proxy. Is that what I'm doing, attemping with all these re-lay-shun-ships I keep blathering aboot? Still though... My canthisevenbecalledmusic RSS feed is still going, despite my scaring, my loss, my not listening to anything. New. Or old. If at all I'm to aurally peruse anything, it's something soul-soothing⸻fuck knows I need it sometimes too often now⸻, or mind-numbing⸻some catchy, breakneck, bopper/banger from the past working like a variegated white noise. The baggage of ideals and desires is, well, burdersome, sure. But overwhelmingly so⸻like cranking your neck to see the top of a skyscraper with your chin atop the walls. Alone in my ideals, I feel like pillar of iron amid earth, gravel, and rubble. But to what end? I don't really know. I'd wish a/the person would help me along, making sense of this, or giving sense to my efforts. Rough playlist for now. Some are pretty bitchin', most are meh. Or even Kinda want something heavier, something thall-y like Buster's HLB or initial Vildhjarta, or even meme-y, like Acacia Strain's Tactical Nuke, only a few semitones slowed down. Also, actual good news for once⸻new HLB release.
Which reminds me to just go fun Zen and no think or be human. Sure, Siddhartha, sure. I can't well imagine ~600CE mendicants thriving, but I'm not at all acquainted with the Indian subcontinent's history. Maybe mendicancy is the way to prosperity on the cheap in Southern and South-eastern Asian religious communities.
Paragraph was both an abrupt continuation of the above and my thoughts on and around my current read, so read this. Or the first few sentences. Speaking of vicarious living⸻rather than place perusal through Wikipedia in few or too many clicks, Wikimedia keyword query offers a far more visual stimulation! It even has a similar feature to Wikipedia's 'random article' one. So hurrah..? For something . . ?
20cm, 40cm, 60cm (2 foots) precipitate you ordered. Oh, you didn't? Well, my bad. Oh my, it got in your shoes? My badarino.
Also, how the fuck are candle (stand) covers not a thing? Shit's too fucking bright for my fucked eyes. I want to mellow it. I could light wick soaked in plant oil, but adequate height would then be issue.
Also, how fucked it is to have a limp, barely in-socket door handle, that due to the pressure differential (bc. temp diff, and 17m/s wind gust outside, and shit shack having poor isolation and fucking shaking from the fucking wind, for fucking fuck's sake), can furtively ajar itself so as to steadily liberate carefully cultivated Centigrades and allow more of a draft? Just fucking gape already. Freeze me solid, lick my popsicle.
I decided to try this year's advent of code. Fuck me, if these were't only exercises in needless (unless you really need to flex..?) state recording and mutation. And whittling 'em short is both annoying and hard-to-impossible done tacitly. I'll have to do them in K6 soon enough to start learning that language, alone with all the shit I've already done... Arbitrary text processing is an onerous endeavor. When the second part hits with even more arbitrary shenanigans: However, the elf mechanic has decided to pull a 'prank' on Santa by using switching sleigh engine parts for high-sulfur lignite, kindling, and, for good measure, plastic explosives. (You), are Bob. Of the cryptography, Alice&Bob variety. Firstly, decode the message, that is comprised of 420th word of each page of each dictionary on the North Pole, with their correct order calculated by the plugging the Nevadan, Belarussian, and Guyanan state lotteries' winning numbers from tomorrow into Pascal's triangle, that is necessary to turn lead into gold and all coal, save lignite, into mechanical components. For part two, we'll actually fix the slled by adding the partition sum of Jupiter's particle count up to a radius, where gravitational pull is 1.69420g, to my ass, and taking the modulus of Alice's lovely breasteses, obstructed by her lengthy ringlets, 'cuz she so le pure. And then more instuctions for good measure. Some of which will be filler, some which'll be used in part 2.
Awfully quickly do they ramp up in length, paricularity, and arbitrariness. The last two amount to childish obtuseness⸻yes, but what if Batman and 100 dinosaurs were to fight, huh?
Well**,,,** what about it? What about it then? And since he/they try to weave a story atop for a semblance of salability and Christmas-y-ish spirit, task information is extracted by parsing ever increasing amounts of words⸻e.g., AoC23#07 is 500 words sans example. 'bout 40 would'a' suffice'. One of 6⸺8 paragraphs has task pertinencies . And I do not enjoy it. (Especially when somebody more knowledgeable offs both within 5' of their unveiling. Crudely, explicitly, heavy-handed-ly/over-engineered-ly.)
At least I'm keeping to myself, sleeping well, eating well, going to bed early⸻12⸺16h earlier!⸻and hence also waking up early, and sleeping less. The greater lack of people here is well-earned. Feels nice, despite the shack. Almost, but not quite, not really makes not being in an actual stable, good construction, near shops, markets, utilities, transportation and so diddly on, within the fucking a place of >1e4 the inhabitants, worth it. Oh well, at least being, existing somewhat better. Not good, not even fugginnnn' de-cent, just better.
The music listening, mentioned in 030, is kinda through. I can't much commit. Each active, conscious listen hurts. As does thinking about anything to do with music and me. So I don't. And read. Good thing there's a good chunk of decent enough lit to go through in the next 1⸺60 years, depending on my desire to take my life (..into my own hands..?⸻pfff, ha!). I did improve and add to composition '0304'. Since I suck.
I don't really need to write this. I've been quashing feeling, thoughts, urges to communicate with anybody, successfully. Am I merely whining about AoC..? Kann sein.. Mag sein...
Prolly not though. I'll let sleeping dogs lay for now. Shleep, widdle giant, flyblown doggy-woggy.
Everything Nothing is fine...
Nothing is going well. Well, actually a significant amount of important things aren't going at all. Stagnant⸻growing rust, mold, cracks. Which is worse. Well, worse if a goal were to feature somewhere. I wish I were in the US, where you can actually do something, try something without the goverment, people, history, the context obstructing you or more often than not altogether rendering thing inexecutable, unaccomplishable. I can jump ship. With diabetes mellitus, that'd prove hard and costly, even if hid from the employers, that'll have about zero good reason to hire an uncertified, unaccomplished nobody from nowhere... Readan bookos is great 'n all, Warren Buffett, but nobody earns a living from that. Proofreaders, the closest thing coming to mind, are of the editorial branch of the journalistic creed, most often. And non-perms get paid dust per hundred words processed. There is no grind in this cunt. But I am an obligate consumer of insulin. Suicide's siren song calls again.
If America is in decline, and China is in bigass decline, is India the place to be..? Or just do nothing? Live not? Kill oneself when one's had enough of this bullshit? Of life's, of arbitrary circumstance, of one's own (bought and accepted) bullshit? There is no one country or even settlement, that is teeming with live, culture, technology, culture, innovation. Most everywhere in the first and second world, to my immediate knowledge and feel, is dull, safe, predictable, festering and slowly dying. Or waiting for something to happen. What that something is is beyond me. The past 15 years have told me that an influx of millions of primo military age, undisciplined, uneducated, unwilling to assimilate migrants from poor(er) countries don't jump start anything other than crime. And you can't wait on miracle scientific or technological inventions or breakthroughs. They can't be due. Japan after housing crash and China after Xi Jinpeng (or around the halfway point through his powergrabbing) come to mind. Singapor and Thailand possibly, but my know ain't up to snuff.
Where to go? What to work? Where to work? Whether to live or just to exist? Whether it/this is worth it (a personal question constatly reassessed)? What that it is? What, do I just what 6 more months to science up for financial mathematics or just finance, and try and get a job at Cargill? With my age and inexperience? And if that fails, what, give up since quants or jobs calling for such education are limited? The aforementioned is here only due to their expansion in the 80s and 90s. What deals they now do (here) is beyond me.
There is nothing sure, guaranteed. How does one move one's live into a foreign state and survive? For university, both times, I'd had housing, an full-time occupation (studying), and a decent prospect. Later, a part-time job. What does one do when one sees nothing? How do I jump ship to a place where I can do something with some certainty? I can't (and won't) don a headset and commit to customer support. Buy chickens? Start a petty, for-survival criminal life? Rob old people in remote villages? ???
I don't feel well. I don't think well. . . Why don't things worsen drastically? Why no jumps?
I. Do. Not. Feel. Well.
Oh, well.
'Suck it up' til I've 'had enough'.
I'm shaving it tomorrow anyway. Retvrn to Stacheland.
Everything is shit. So tired. Realized that the 20s are a done deal, more a framing device, that Q3 and 4 are a whole half that see no duration and always get played off as a happened thing. Which mean intertia, which mean only bad things if you're already not set, if your momentum and similar such words aren't well. There is no second half,there is no end. Only as a start. As if. Don't know how many times if started thinking, or thoughts along this line, but this ain't new. Which is bad. What am I going to do with this, that is, how has this already... what is the result, what is the Q1..? I'm unsure. Frames and frameworks aren't great or even useful if just bunched together is other such. Are you going to use it, or are you making a statement. One going into the trash, one a +1. Packaging is a problem. If one's durings are wasted, the initials have exponentially more weight. Halves fall into wholes.
At this point, I'm unsure whether this is going somewhere, or whether it's considerance already in the bag from the start, whether every after a September is just a train crash in slow motion. The best-time-to-have-planted-a-tree-is-20-years-ago rears its head. It's no contentment. What good is a frame(work) if there is not work behind or around it? It's not, it's nothing.
Sorry, me.
I'd ordered a laptop exactly 31 days ago (time of writing, not IW), on the January 18. Delivery'd been allegedly scheduled for the 21, 3 days after order acceptance. I'd received exactly one message from the site, namely that it'll actually be due on 25. or 26. Yeah, right. Not sure we're using the same calendar. No apologies, explanations, excuses. I'd written it off as a failure. What if I'd already bought or ordered another? From there or elsewhere? As a safety precaution, I'd opted for payment on delivery. I'm pissed, but not even sure whom at. The hardly, tardively functioning, likely one-man company? The hiree for the website? The delivery guy, his boss, their company? The people using the site/company, staving off its bankruptcy?
Since I'm 'complaining', might as well say that my ersatz chink W520 keyboard has suffered two faults. Major ones, the J and L keys are fucked. The keys cannot attach correctly. I tried most, if not all, permutations of the 2-piece mechanism's attachment. I don't think anything's broken. I broke one of the keycap's hold-y, plastic things. So it's membrane only for L.
My only success reverts it to the way it was before⸻sunken, leading to easy keydown overflows. So I removed the caps, and now am pressing the plastic-y, pointy membrane. The aforementioned new laption I'm thinking of returning, the keyboard is so horrible. How anybody uses anything other than a pre-2016 thinkpad is beyond me. Shit's unusable. And has for some reason 5⸺10 seconds more for bootup, despite having better grade SSD..? I'm returning it. I really would have liked a framework, but that ain't happenin' due to their inabity to ship. Ah, yes, that arcane art and science. So, what now? Get an external keyboard..? Why must everything be not le smooth sailing?
At least the laptop stand is good and sturdy-ish. Doesn't make up for the near-sea-leve-ness of the table (rather than desk) I'm stationed at. Finding (rather than buying) 4 equilengthed (or -heighted) leg extensions, mini legs, table leg boots or high heels, supports would've'n a major hassle. And would invite and welcome the use of crimped and folded paper, cardboard, and other soft materials, not intended furniture skeletons.
I'm doing the same thing. And expecting something 'new'. I also feel too beaten down to try something else.
I guess I should kick neocities. I've had 3 failures, 2 major ones. Arguably 5, but the latter 2 egressed the fediverse rather than nc. I was used, or I'd allowed myself to be used. My time and effort⸻wasted. My world⸻nonethebetter, theirs⸻(marginally to significantly) better, but I'm buttering my own toast here. People my age, my mental age especially are sparse and hidden. Finding any would be very difficult. So best make due with myself, rather than trying to help or mold incapable, unworthy others.
What would the next thing be? I've hit bedrock. :|
I feel like frogesay. He'd seen more success. I'm just a failure. I'm just a failure. I'm just a failure. I don't want to get back into chemistry. I don't want to get back into physics. Programming has been a failure. I gave it not a shot. I don't want to get back into music, guitar, composition. Little to nothing brings joy, or happiness, or contentment. What's next. Nothing is. I'll leave neocities. Probably for site's third birthday. No interaction, other than with the three failures
What do. There aren't questions no more. Feel like a trapped rat. Am an exhausted one. To repeat myself, I am not well. This shall be the last oneoff, possibly last upload for a while/until change (for the better). I'd say 'bye', were there somebody, so mic drop it is.