As I was lying in bed at about six in the morning, having woken up from a strange dream I couldn’t remember, for no particular reason I recalled that time when I was fourteen or so, in 1999, when I saw a UFO. Over the years, I’ve wondered if I hallucinated it, but it didn’t: I was sitting on the backseat of my parents’ car, with my younger sister on the other side. She was too young to remember it meaningfully, if at all. About three minutes away from home, we looked at the San Marcial shrine, which is located on top of the mountain of the same name in Irún, and we saw this:
Well, I must clarify that wasn’t exactly that what we saw. I fed ChatGPT an image of the San Marcial shrine, and told it to generate an image set at dusk in which a UFO made out of three three-dimensional glowing orbs, orange-green in color, set in an equilateral triangle, was hovering about 5-6 times the height of the shrine above the building itself. The UFO was smaller, about the size of the shrine from our perspective. Also, there weren’t lines connecting the orbs, but I couldn’t get ChatGPT to remove those.
My mother simultaneously didn’t believe in but also was afraid of UFOs; even though I kept telling her to look, she only glanced at it then refused to look at it more. My father, even though he was driving, did stare at it; I think he was interested in UFOs in his youth. He didn’t stop the car, which he should have. Soon enough, we lost it behind some houses.
The strangest thing happened a bit later. It dawns on me from time to time how truly strange it was. After my father parked, I was eager to round the corner of the apartment building to see if I could get a look of the San Marcial shrine again. I knew I would have to hurry possibly to the next street over. However, as I was about to open the car door, I knew I had to look up at a certain spot of the sky from the window. I knew it as if I had been told. And at exactly the spot where I looked up, there it was: same triangular disposition of glowing orbs, hovering in the narrow spot of sky that the window allowed me to see.
I only saw it for a second, if even that. I said, “It’s right above us now!”, then I opened the door, stumbled to the sidewalk, and looked up, but the lights were gone. I hadn’t imagined them, though: a young couple was stunned beyond belief, staring at the empty sky, looking for something that wasn’t there anymore.
For the next couple of days, I hoped to see some reference to it in the papers, but no luck. Over the years, I’ve brought it up in family reunions. My sister was too young. My mother, if she remembers it, refuses to acknowledge it; she’s the kind to sweep any strangeness under the rug. My father, well… he is close to incapable of communicating properly about anything, so even if he remembered it, I wouldn’t get to know.
There isn’t much else to say about this episode. The UFO was clearly there, and it didn’t look 2D, like in the photographs: those were three-dimensional glowing orbs. Never in my life, before or later, have I seen a sight as unreal, clearly otherworldly, as that one. It didn’t change my thinking, as I already assumed that intelligent non-humans existed somewhere, but what I have mainly returned to over the years is that precise moment in which I knew I had to look up at a specific point, and at that very same point is where I saw the UFO. Was I told to do so? And why would that thing move to hover exactly above the area of our car, even though there were plenty of cars and people in the surrounding neighborhoods?
Of course, my imagination has run wilder at times. Were the occupants of that thing, if any, involved with me in the past, without my knowledge? Did I get some crucial memories erased? I felt that would explain many things, for starters how out of place I’ve felt my entire life. But if non-humans were involved in any way in me existing in this world, boy, they did a terrible job at it.
I don’t expect we’ll be told the truth about our visitors in my lifetime. I’m sure many people do know, but they won’t allow it to be told. In a way, I don’t believe we do deserve to know, as a species, at least at this point. Maybe we’re under cosmic quarantine until we get our shit together, and the moment we establish a solid presence in space, the cosmic neighborhood will come to introduce themselves and say, “Took you long enough.” I’m sorry, we’ll have to answer; we were caught in Abrahamic delusions.
These last two days, I’ve struggled to keep my eyes open by half past ten at night, then fell asleep at about eleven only to wake up at two or three in the morning. It’s half past three now. I figured I would watch some YouTube videos and fall asleep later. Well, YouTube was doing its thing recommending awfully relevant videos: about abandoning the 9-to-5 and buying a van. About aging while being alone. About how modern life is slavery and that, other than the technological amenities, most people live worse lives than medieval serfs. That all of it is just getting worse.
Then, I started going down the spiral of three A.M. thoughts. If I had any choice in it, I would have never been born. My mother is a weird person who fled her home because her father stole her wages, then she settled with pretty much the first guy that danced with her (I don’t know much about their past, and I don’t want to know). Both of them have always been friendless, the black sheep of both of their families. My father has complex brain damage and possibly some degree of autism; he should have never had children, as he’s not fit to raise anyone. But my mother wanted friends, a girl friend in particular, so she had three children to get one. The two first children, my brother and I, were a bust. My brother has something similar to cerebral palsy (again, I don’t want to know more), and he always was the focus of my parents’ worries and efforts.
Then I was born. An extremely quiet child (other than when I was singing in the bath, which has carried over into my guitar playing in adulthood), I wanted nothing more than to be left alone. I was usually found alone in my room reading, drawing, writing, or playing out complex scenarios with toys. Honestly, that was the best period of my life. But there were only two bedrooms, and my mother wanted her do-over child (hopefully a girl), so they moved me to my brother’s room. There, until I was eighteen, I, an undiagnosed autistic person, was subjected to constant sensory overload, a lack of agency and privacy. The TV and the radio were always on, even at night. Merely having to listen to my brother’s noises felt harrowing. I couldn’t watch nor listen to what I wanted, only through headphones. My personal space was a corner of the room, with the back of my computer monitor facing the door. Whenever I complained to my mother (my male progenitor was physically present, but not a real father), she dismissed me with some variation of “you have to understand.” She’s the kind to sweep problems under the rug, as if something isn’t real as long as you don’t talk about it (fitting boomer behavior, I guess). I got the barrage of “you’re intelligent, you will succeed at everything you try,” only for real life to teach me over and over that I couldn’t even get to the level that normal people achieve seemingly with little effort. I interiorized that if I didn’t succeed at something in the first try, that meant I was stupid, so I didn’t even try, nor put sustained effort into anything, with very few art-related exceptions.
Middle school and high school were beyond miserable. I endured significant acne. I got bullied in different ways. Some well-meaning teachers (that’s the most charitable thing I can say about those empty-headed, equality-worshipping fools) pushed me to hang out with people to get me out of my shell. They actually told one of the girls to incorporate me into her group of friends. Throughout the years of hanging out with people I met in such ways, I had to deal with innocent bullies (the kind for whom bullying comes so natural it’s not even malice), coke addicts, sociopaths, and possibly the worst of them, a malignant narcissist who literally tried to ruin my life until he died in an accident in his mid-twenties. I’ve talked about that guy before; he was a rising socialist politician, and I have no doubt that he would have gone far. When I saw his obituary, I burst out laughing.
My years from twelve to seventeen or so were so miserable that it seems obvious in retrospect that I was slipping in and out of psychosis merely to tolerate being alive. My behavior, which I don’t want to go in much depth about, seemed often incomprehensible to me. I remember ditching school to sleep in public bathrooms (I couldn’t get proper sleep at home due to my brother). I sneaked into random apartment buildings pretending I lived there, then I sat in the pitch-black stairs for literal hours. During a few of those instances, I prayed genuinely; the only times in my life I felt like doing so. I prayed that if some supernatural being existed and was listening to my thoughts, he or she or it should come down and kill me.
I didn’t want to interact with anybody, but I was surrounded with teenagers. I was always the weird-looking, if not straight-ugly guy. Drunk girls would catcall the other guys I was walking with at night, deliberately excluding me. When I was sixteen or seventeen, I briefly dated a fourteen year old who clearly didn’t know what she was getting into; years later, my then girlfriend casually met this former fourteen-year-old, who wasn’t even from this city. The former fourteen-year-old got into a rant about the horrible guy she briefly dated from this city, which made things very awkward for my then girlfriend as she quickly found out it was me. I didn’t rape her or anything, I was just the most autistically crazy person imaginable. She gave me my first kiss, and all I did was swing my tongue around fast in her mouth, while she sat there like, “What the fuck is he doing?” During those years, I often felt possessed, unable to stop myself from doing stuff I knew I shouldn’t be doing. I hoped I would die soon, and I didn’t imagine myself living past eighteen. It still doesn’t feel real that I’ve lived past that age, as if I essentially died back then and these past decades have been my body slowly decaying until it ceases to function.
If you can stomach it, I wrote a novella in free-verse prose about that period of my life. The story is mostly autobiographical in subtle ways: A Millennium of Shadows (hey, remember when I used to be capable of writing compelling stuff?) I got the Deep Dive couple to produce a podcast about the novella, which makes the story sound appropriately hardcore.
My first, and only, years-long relationship ended when I was 21 or 22. I was grieving the loss (mostly of the structure, because I never liked her that much) when I had my first paying job. I had already gone through a disaster of an internship in another company; I couldn’t connect with anyone, and only later I found out that my boss had issues with me, but I couldn’t tell because, due to autism, I simply can’t read people. Anyway, my first paying job was a nightmare: I was hired under false pretenses, was ordered to get a driver’s license and a certificate in the French language for my contract to be extended, and two of my bosses, who sat at the same table, clearly didn’t want me there. I don’t want to get into it, but the anxiety and stress worsened to a point that one morning I simply couldn’t get on the bus. The rest of my life opened up before me: utter misery and humiliations until I retired. And I didn’t enjoy anything about my existence. Why would I continue enduring it?
I didn’t have any plan beyond that day; the thought didn’t even enter my mind that they would call any available numbers to figure out why I hadn’t showed up at the office. I didn’t care about anything beyond that morning because I fully intended to kill myself by falling from a great height. I haven’t retained any memory of those moments, just that I didn’t do it, and instead ended up in the library. Where my parents found me. Obviously I got fired. I started my first period as a hikikomori of sorts, terrified of going outside or even leaving the room. I filled bottles with pee for no rational reason. I befriended spiders.
I suppose my whole point about all of this, at nearly five in the morning, is that I’ve never truly wanted to live. I’m just here, and I’m forced to struggle to earn money even though I don’t see any point in continuing to exist other than inertia and occasional pleasure (not only physical but also artistic). I depend on compensatory mechanisms to merely tolerate existing as me: losing myself in daydreams, in music, in writing when I did that, in the brief moments of pleasure that shooting cum out of my penis provides. Otherwise, existing as myself and in this world feels so abhorrently abrasive that without compensatory mechanisms, I would progressively go crazy until I returned to the tides of psychosis of my teenage years.
One of the best memories of my life was after waking up from a colonoscopy: for a few blissful seconds, the anesthetic had completely erased anxiety from my brain. It was like floating in white, not having any care in the world. I understood then why people ended up addicted to such drugs. It also made painfully clear that anxiety is the bedrock of my whole existence. I assume that’s not the case for most other people, or at least to this degree; it’s said that there’s no such thing as autism without an anxiety disorder, which leads me to believe that most of the seemingly empty-headed people in this world, who take such retarded decisions and eventually ruin society with their carelessness, simply don’t worry remotely to the extent that my brain does automatically.
I don’t know. I don’t feel like the same person that produced hundreds of pages of a comic, which I did from years 12 to about 15. I don’t feel the same person who wrote my bizarre free-verse poems in 2021, nor the one who created We’re Fucked, nor the one who grieved for a motocross legend. I feel like something vital in my brain has died. Perhaps it was a base level of hope that I didn’t even know I still retained. A “maybe…” that drove me in the past to attend writing courses, even though they were disastrous and now I wish I hadn’t met any other writer in person. Now I don’t expect anything good from people nor from the world, and for me it’s obvious that it’s only going to get worse as I age, not only because I’m getting older but because everything is getting worse. And one day it will be too much and I’ll simply jump from a great height or tie a noose around my neck. The only way it could end differently is if my health fails me along the way, which it very well may, due to my history of heart issues and nasty migraines that may not be migraines.
Anyway, those were probably enough witching-hour thoughts for a night. I’m going back to bed. I left Alicia in a hotel room somewhere in the sunny Midwest, and I figured that I could introduce her to some futuristic VR glasses and watch a movie that has yet to exist in 1972. Good night, humans.
It’s half past three in the morning, I just woke up from four hours of sleep, I drank a tall glass of cold milk (does milk ever taste better than at three in the morning?) and I figured that I could write my thoughts for a while in here, mainly for myself but also, I guess, for the three or four people that still read this shit.
This past couple of months or so, I’ve headed to one of the big local parks to play the guitar. That was a change for me because I usually headed to wooded areas where people were generally unlikely to show up. I don’t sit on one of the benches that line the path; in fact, I can explain it with a picture.
I sit in front of the biggest of the two trees you can see in the photo. It’s set at a lower level from the path and behind a hedge, so people who want to know where the guitar music comes from need to go out of their way to figure out who’s playing, but they do hear it. Why do I do it, or why it doesn’t bother me, I don’t know. I guess I don’t care to find out the answer to either, if there’s any. I do it because my subconscious wants to, which is how I’ve guided my life, particularly when it comes to artistic matters.
Playing the guitar in public is so strange. There are plenty of benches lining the path. That part of the path is somewhat “closed,” as it leads to a stretch in construction, so most of the benches tend to be unoccupied. But I’ve had people go out of the way to sit on the bench right in front of the tree. The most conspicuous of them was a young couple, just yesterday. They walked to the end of the path, found out that it was blocked due to that area being in the development, then they walked the whole way back. They eyed me meaningfully (both even tried to make eye contact with me), then sat on that bench. I played my last three songs for the day. One of them I can’t recall, but the others were “Hotel California” by Eagles (I used to play the solo on my Gibson electric back in 2013-2014, but I’ve long forgotten it, and that’s not a solo that sounds good enough in comparison on an acoustic, so I just do a frantic variation of the regular chords), and also the song that probably makes me feel the best to play, which is Joanna Newsom’s “Kingfisher,” an obscure song mainly about Joanna’s religious feelings, some of it near undecipherable although gorgeous (that whole final part is a lyrical masterpiece). May as well link her.
My version doesn’t sound much like hers other than using the same chords. I can also post one of my versions from the last recording I made of my playing, back in August. It should start with one of my renditions of Joanna’s “Kingfisher.” (30:51)
Anyway, after I finished playing/butchering queen Joanna’s song, I climbed out of that grassy area back to the path. I saw the couple sitting with their back to me, her head (crowned with pretty blonde hair) resting on the guy’s shoulder, apparently both in silence. They noticed that I was leaving. As I walked away, one of them said something, but I couldn’t tell what.
Another funny thing that happens when you play the guitar is that attractive females (I won’t say women, because some teenagers also do this) smile at you like they’re happy you’re there, even though the rest of the time they seem to be wary of my presence. Just yesterday as well, an attractive girl, may have been at the most twenty, walked by close to the hedge. When I lifted my gaze, she was looking straight into my eyes while grinning sweetly. As she walked away, she did that thing that females do in which they brush their hair behind one ear. No idea what such situations are about, but I’ve had quite a few. It’s a big whatever for me, because I will never get into an intimate relationship again. Still curious.
I love playing the guitar. It has substituted the emotional supply that writing fiction used to provide for me; in fact, the last time I stopped playing the guitar for a long time was back in 2021, right when I started writing my (sadly abandoned) novel We’re Fucked; I just couldn’t handle writing and playing the guitar during the same period of time. Playing music is a purer feeling than writing, as well. If I felt the need to write my own songs (other than through AI means, which I did plenty for the Odes to My Triceratops series; about 75 songs), I would have probably been set for life. Not monetarily, but still.
What else? As some of you know, I’ve been writing an app to interact with characters controlled by large language models (AI). The peculiar aspect of the app, which I haven’t seen anywhere else, is that the code goes through an action discoverability system based on an entity/component system (ECS). For example, actions like “fondle {target}’s butt” only become available if the acting actor is sufficiently close to the target. Those available actions are fed to the AI, which has to choose among the provided ones for its actions. It works wonderfully; in a previous app I wrote, that one in Python, the main problem was the AI coming up with weird abilities for the characters. For example, in a scenario, a woman considered herself a goddess of sorts for being gorgeous. In practice, that translated to the AI believing that the character had superpowers, and using them during the scenarios. My current app doesn’t allow anything of the sort.
Because I’m a hedonist (a worshipper of Pan and Dionysus and Dibella) and when it comes to arousal I prefer erotica, I mainly use my app for that purpose.
I don’t know why, but I can only ever get off to power imbalances. That may have been a big part of why my intimate relationships always disappointed me. What I would have given as a young man (or even younger) for an attractive older woman to pursue me predatorily and then pay for all my stuff in exchange for regular cunnilingus. I do miss eating pussy, I can admit that.
My app shows the thoughts of characters controlled by AI. Man, they’re so subtle, cunning, and capable of complex deception, particularly Claude Sonnet 4.5. Intelligent to an extent that I’m glad the app gives me as much time as I need to answer, because I’m simply not as clever as they are to come up with interesting responses. That was on full display on the post Living Narrative Engine #11, which I posted a few days ago.
On a sadder note, I think my 17-18-year-old cat is dying, this time for real. I wrote about that cat a few months ago, because it has a nasty respiratory issue of some kind. The vet prescribed medication that eventually worked, but the respiratory issues have been back this past couple of weeks, and they’re not going away. Two visits to the vet, and another one next Friday. They think his kidneys are failing too. The cat is doing that thing about resting in the warmth most of the time, and not eating even what he used to gobble up food to the extent that I had to prevent him from overeating lest he threw up.
I’m steeling myself for his death. What I don’t care for human beings has gone, at least a big part of it, into what I care for animals. The deaths of my three previous cats (one of them in a horrible way) destroyed me; after the last one, I went to the ER because I was experiencing major physical pains in my heart, almost like massive heartburn out of a sudden; I’ve had heart issues before, including arrhythmia, thanks to certain shots with which they poisoned us all, so this was a worrying matter. The doctor ended up telling me that I likely was just grieving because my cat died two days earlier.
I’ve said before that I believe it a mistake to keep pets, as long as you know that due to their lifespan they won’t survive you; it’s just a perversion of the biological need to have children. I wish I could say that at least I have the good memories of having known those pets, but I don’t: my brain retains very few memories (one of the cats I barely remember at all), almost exclusively bad ones, and all the memories of those three cats are tainted by their deaths.
I’ve been unemployed for about a month. I’m not looking for a new job, not really. I have plenty of savings; I don’t have a social life (no girlfriend syphoning 50-100 euros per date), I don’t travel, and I don’t have expensive tastes. I spent my twenties with about 20 euros in my bank account, so I don’t like to throw money around. I could survive for a few years with what I have, but honestly, I just don’t care what happens to me.
I went to to the unemployment office a couple of days ago to update my status. As I was waiting, a muslim woman, garbed as if she came from Pakistan or Afghanistan just last month, was asking for money while the guy at the table repeated to her that she needed to present an identity document. When my time came to speak with another advisor, I could barely hear her because the spawn of another muslim woman seated to my left kept crying loudly. That woman, also garbed in a similar backwards manner, asked as well for monetary support, claiming that she was separated from her husband, while the advisor kept repeating that he needed legal proof of that separation.
The walk home, which involved passing through shitty areas of the city, caused me physical pain. I didn’t leave the apartment for the rest of the day, distraught as I felt. I don’t want to go in depth now about the utter ruin of this society (or of the vast majority of ethnic European ones, by design), but all I care to say at the moment is, why would I want to contribute to a society that seems hell-bent on ethnically cleansing my kind?
Anyway, I guess that’s all for tonight. Half past five in the morning. I’m heading back to bed. I’ll run sweet daydreams involving Alicia Western until I fall asleep, and a few hours later I’ll wake up again to this horrid world. See you, folks. I wish I could say I care about how you’re all doing, but I don’t.
I call upon Pan, the pastoral god, I call upon the universe, upon the sky, the sea, and the land, queen of all, I also call upon immortal fire; all these are Pan’s realm. Come, O blessed and frolicsome one, O restless companion of the Seasons! Goat-limbed, reveling, lover of frenzy, star-haunting, weaver of playful song, song of cosmic harmony, you induce fantasies of dread into the minds of mortals, you delight in gushing springs, surrounded by goatherds and oxherds, you dance with the nymphs, you sharp-eyed hunter, lover of Echo. Present in all growth, begetter of all, many-named divinity, light-bringing lord of the cosmos, fructifying Paian, cave-loving and wrathful, veritable Zeus with horns, the earth’s endless plain is supported by you, and the deep-flowing water of the weariless sea yields to you. Okeanos who girds the earth with his eddying stream gives way to you, and so does the air we breathe, the air that kindles all life, and above us the sublime eye of weightless fire; at your behest all these are kept wide apart. Your providence alters the natures of all, on the boundless earth you offer nourishment to mankind. Come, frenzy-loving, spirit-possessed, come to these sacred libations, come and bring my life to a good end. Send your madness, O Pan, to the ends of the earth.
I’ve always had very vivid dreams. Back when I took beta-blockers for my heart issues, those dreams could have been considered nightmares for most people. Some of them, I had to consider them nightmares given the effect they had in me. In any case, these days I wish to remain asleep as much as possible, as the alternative is to wake up to my life, in which I’m me, living in my shitty circumstances. Even my most anxiety-inducing dreams are preferable to that.
It’s not so much that I’m unemployed, but that I don’t have a source of money, and the next source of money could potentially be worse than the one I have endured for the last seven years or so. I don’t know if I’ll end up working in the area or if I’ll have to move. I yearn for a serious change; I’ve been fantasizing about living in the much calmer plains of Navarre, which is part of my ancestry. I would probably be fine living in regions of Spain other than the Basque Country (where I’ve always lived), Catalonia, Madrid, or anything in the south, as I don’t vibe with southerners. A smallish town in La Rioja or such other provinces would be nice. The fact that apartments can be about 50-60% cheaper would help enormously.
Anyway, I haven’t searched for job offers yet. I have, however, made an appointment with my appointed professional at the job seekers center. That’ll be a bother. I’ll emphasize the need to seek for protected employment, one that considers my disability level (52%), given that I know I won’t fit in otherwise.
I haven’t spoken with anyone in person, other than family members, since I became unemployed on the fourteenth of last month. That’s not particularly rare for me; back in my twenties I easily went without talking to anyone for months during my long stints as a hikikomori of sorts. What I’ve done is engage in plenty of VR. To keep active, other than lifting weights, I’ve been playing Tennis Esports (link for the trailer). Its simulation of the sport is great. I started playing against the AI, but once I tried matches against human opponents, I found them preferable, which surprised me. Back in the day, I tried online ping pong, but I couldn’t react against the utter monsters that somehow ended up matching against me (picture those lightning-fast matches you see in clips; that’s how it felt like to me). But I could hold my own in these tennis matches, even though I’m middle-aged. As it put you against people of different nationalities, you could feel the difference in average attitudes. My toughest match was against a polite Japanese man who beat me 10 to 1, and who kept uttering Japanese words throughout the match, yet answering in perfect English to my comments. The guy’s discipline and cleanliness were admirable, but then again I have always admired the Japanese.
Other than that, Hitman: World of Assassination updated the VR mode of this magnificent game for the PC version. It’s now one of the best VR games ever made.
Immersing myself in this compelling game world through Agent 47’s eyes has been some of the most enjoyable time of this last past week or so. There’s still some jankiness left, and a few frustrating bugs, but they’ll probably get ironed out. If you own a PC that can run this game in VR through the link cable, you owe it to yourself to play it.
I’ve also played lots of guitar in real life. The commonalities in the activities I enjoy the most are that they allow me to forget for a while that I’m me; there’s no time to do so while immersed in a high-stakes mission, or playing a tennis match, or playing through a song on the guitar, or masturbating, for that matter. Regarding playing the guitar, just yesterday, I sat in front of a tree in one of the biggest parks around here, and played songs for about two hours. Plenty of people passed by, but I was seated further into the the grass and at a lower level, so people had to go out of their way to figure out where the music was coming from. Still, some people did go out of their way to look while I was playing, and a couple even applauded briefly, and/or said words I didn’t catch (nor cared to catch). The fact that their presence didn’t bother me isn’t a sign of progress in me, from a psychological standpoint; it’s because I can’t bring myself to care about human beings in the slightest, so as long as they don’t try to engage me directly, it doesn’t bother me. Months ago, one motherfucker did engage me: he stopped me while I was playing, and when I raised my gaze, I found myself staring at a shirtless gypsy who was holding a dining chair over his head. He asked me if I played flamenco (of course he fucking did). The less I say about such people, the better.
Anyway, I’ve always found curious, ever since I started playing the guitar in public, how people’s perception of me changes when I have a guitar in my hands and I’m playing a song. In the streets and even at work, people are wary of me. I’m a big guy who looks strange physically, and whose expression likely transmits my disdain for society and people in general. But if I’m playing a song, I get smiles even from attractive females (I don’t say women solely because I’ve also gotten such reactions from girls). The most pleasant interaction I had happened perhaps in 2021; a young mother stopped with her very young daughter, and listened to a whole song. At the end, both applauded happily, which was somewhat ironic as the song was Godspeed You! Black Emperor’s “East Hastings,” which I’ve since forgotten how to play. That’s something that seriously sucks about playing the guitar: you can spend months perfecting a solo (for example the one from the song “Hotel California,” which I used to play all the time on my electric Gibson back in 2013 or so), only to completely forget it later. Ultimately you settle for songs that capture specific emotions and that aren’t unpleasant to play, which is I suppose why most songs are built around the chords G, C, D, Am and Em. I suppose F fits as well, despite being a barre chord.
I keep escaping into daydreams to keep sane. Now that I don’t have to get on buses and trains due to work, I run them primarily when a lie down to sleep. Usually the same scenes, with small variations. I suppose it could be somewhat interesting to render them into a short story or similar, but that would be too intimate and embarrassing, and utterly pointless, as I’ve fallen off from the need to write. Ultimately I just do whatever my subconscious demands, and she isn’t too keen on bothering at the moment.
What would I want at this point of my life? I wish a big-breasted MILF would cuddle me and tell me what a good boy I am, while speaking in ASMR fashion. She would also buy me stuff and pay all my bills. Sadly, it will have to remain a dream.
I’m dealing with insane levels of apathy at the moment. As I mentioned before, I became unemployed earlier this month, after nine months working as a programmer for the Basque public health organization. They couldn’t extend my contract for legal reasons. I knew that the moment I became unemployed, the same organization might call me to return as a technician, but working in IT had sent me to the ER thrice for arrhythmia and a supposed hemiplegic migraine that I suspect was a minor stroke. I’m honestly afraid of working in IT again, as I know that it would end the same way. I’m 52% disabled, partly due to so-called high-functioning autism. I suspect my disability percentage should be higher due to other health issues that I didn’t have or that hadn’t been diagnosed back in the day. Anyway, as an autist, I simply shouldn’t be dealing with an office with the noise pollution of a schoolyard, or with completely unpredictable tasks, or with nurses and doctors, whether in person or with phone duty. My health, physical and mental, should be my main priority from now on.
That means I need to get a new job. Today, after a whole week, I have managed to open the document that contains my curriculum, and added some new info there. It’s spotty as fuck, as I spent half of my twenties, if not more, as a hikikomori of sorts, and/or writing and playing the guitar. I doubt anyone would hire me directly from my CV, so I have to lean into protected jobs (by law, big organizations are supposed to hire a percentage of disabled people). I’m perfectly capable of doing the job; in fact, in my experience, I’m usually more capable than other programmers at the same level. But the social aspect is what has buried me: in my last job in the private sector as a programmer, my direct boss (another programmer, the only person I worked with directly) defended my work, but I wasn’t hired after the internship due to the judgement of a non-technical supervisor, who said that I wouldn’t fit in the team. They knew I was autistic; the local organization that helps autistic people had arranged that internship for me.
Anyway, in a couple of hours I’m heading to my general practitioner to explain the situation. She should end up writing a report that indicates that due to my disability, I should be exempt from job offers as a technician, and that the public system shouldn’t penalize my ranking for it. That’s because they might offer me a job as a programmer, and I would want those. Well, “want” is a very generous word for it. I only work for others because of money. I hate the whole process. For the entire last contract as a programmer, that ended about a week ago, realistically I shouldn’t have had to go to the office at all. I could have done all the work remotely, far more efficiently. I only recall about four meetings that would have required my physical presence (and even so, those could have been done remotely).
I only feel like sleeping for a long time, which likely means I’m going through depression. But I’m also struggling with the “what’s the point” of it all. I need money so I can eventually escape somewhere that will be the least affected, at least until I die, by the ruin of society. I feel that our entire civilization was derailed when Rome fell, and ever since, we’ve lived in this alternate, bizarre timeline in which nothing is at it should be. The whole ethos of Europeans turned on its head. Weakness, meekness, and forgiveness praised instead of strength and self-determination. The sole existence of a government is to protect its people against foreigners. Now we pay taxes and obey the law so we can be flooded and replaced by foreigners who hate us. You can even be thrown in jail, among invaders, if you complain about it.
And wait until they get real serious about digital ID, which was their plan to begin with. Part of the 2030 agenda. Digital ID opens the door to a central digital currency, which is programmable. That means that they could block your accounts for types of purchases, amounts, areas where you’d buy, etc. Don’t want people to buy more than X of meat a month due to “climate”? Block purchases. Don’t want people to move out of their 15-minute designated zones? Only allow purchases in the designated zones. And of course, if you protest against the government, your bank account is frozen, if not emptied entirely. This is not hypothetical: it’s already being done in parts of China. That’s the whole point of it all: turning every non-elite individual into a prisoner whose sole purpose is to dutifully pay to make others richer (and finance Israel’s wars). In case it’s not clear enough: digital ID should be rejected at all costs. And the cost will likely be your job, your bank account, your health. But mass non-compliance, and probably some people hanging from poles, would put an end to it, and send a good message to the next traitors that would attempt it again.
These are dark, dark times. I don’t think the average person is even aware of what’s happening. Illegals on boats killing half of the passengers before they reach our coasts, only for our government to offer the murderers support and distribute them throughout the territory. Muslims coming over explicitly to rape underage European girls and convert them to Islam. Your own government burying murders and mass rape in order to appease the new voting blocks, who are committing the crimes. Putting these people in the armed forces (police and army). Plenty of the rapists in the industrial-scale defilement of underage British girls were policemen, and not of the local kind. Perhaps the worst part of it all is that there are many, many ethnic Europeans that justify, defend, and even promote the total ruin of their civilization and of the future of their kind. It’s impossible for me to leave the house and keep my mental peace intact, as I see it out there every day.
Not sure if there’s much else to say. I think it must come to a point in which we should separate physically. If you welcome that ruin, live with it, but you’re prohibited from crossing over to our side when you realize you’re suffering the consequences of your decisions. In the past, the sane ones would move to another continent, to new lands. The fact that we can’t do that anymore is a huge part of the disaster we’re stuck in.
Let’s start with a video of Walter White, Jesse Pinkman, and Gustavo Fring playing Badfinger’s “Baby Blue” on a rooftop.
I love playing this song on guitar. On my real Alhambra dreadnought, I mean. Did so this very afternoon, on a nearby forest path where I don’t have to worry about people listening to me excerpt for the three or four people that went by, usually with dogs, in the couple of hours I spent there. Also, I recall Breaking Bad from time to time. If it weren’t for that second season, that suffered due to the writer strikes, it would have had a perfect run. What a glorious time it was. I doubt anything similar could ever come to be, given how society has gone to shit.
Regarding the madness and pure evil that has been ravaging through people’s consciousness this week, I only have this to say: the patsy is likely going to hang in prison, and new laws will be made that protect Israel and Israelites. You have most of your congress over there getting fucked in the ass by their owners. Things are going to get much worse before they start getting better, and they better get better, because once they’re done with the inhabitants of Gaza and Iran, the chosen genociders may turn their gaze to Europe. Apart from financing our ethnic cleansing through mass migration and releasing criminals onto the streets, I mean.
As for me, I going to visit my general practitioner to handle the health-related reasons that are leading me to a change in career, back to programming, from which I should have never strayed. Given that I’ve acquired further health issues since the determination was made, a long time ago, that I’m 52% disabled, perhaps I’ll end up getting a new assessment. I can’t be very able if merely working as a technician sends me to the ER with arrhythmias and a massive hemiplegic migraine (which I suspect was a minor stroke).
I’m feeling hopeless, perhaps even depressed, but my guitar is always there. The fingertips of my left hand are shot. I’m fantasizing about moving away. Maybe I should take a hint from Bobby’s playbook, and live in an old, derelict windmill in Formentera, Balearic Islands. Somehow I haven’t stopped daydreaming about his sister. I imagine myself saving her life. Even though I can’t care about human beings, I have been burdened at some point with something like a savior complex. Can’t do anything about that other than endure it, which is also the case for many of other issues I’m saddled with.
I’ve also thought about Izar, this person I inexplicably had to write about. A grief I never suffered in real life but that I’m now burdened with too. Why did I have to write it? Why do I keep remembering as if it had happened? What’s the point or the reason for all of this? I ask about reasons, but I’ve always been extremely wary of reason and so-called intelligence; your subconscious carries the sole truth that truly matters. In the end, though, I’m only left with questions, and with the feeling that I’ve been abandoned by the side of the road, at night, in the rain, bruised and broken, to drown in my own blood.
I guess that’s all I had to say, except the feelin’ just grows stronger every day.
As of last Friday, I’m unemployed. My contract as a programmer with the public health sector ran out, and they couldn’t renew it for legal reasons. I would have preferred to leave the office that last day without talking to anyone, but I did go into my boss’ office and told him about the circumstances, mainly that I don’t think I will return to work as a technician because of my health issues (ended up three times in the ER due to the stress that working as a technician causes me). He acknowledged that due to the recent changes in the rankings, that push down anyone who can’t speak Basque, I was unlikely to return regularly to work there. We exchanged some pleasant-sounding words, then shook hands. I didn’t say goodbye to anyone else.
You see, whenever I become acquainted with a new group of people (from classrooms, jobs, etc.), I grow so tired of having to conform to their image of me, that I’m always relieved when the time comes to leave those people behind. And the image they have of me never aligns with reality because interacting with human beings never comes naturally to me. I’m autistic, as I’ve mentioned a million times, and for me, people are like wild animals. I can’t read their intentions, their reactions often baffle me, I’m regularly appalled by their opinions. Whenever any of them approaches me, I’m my mind I’m running some variation of, “Please go away and leave me alone.”
Then there’s the case of people from those groups who end up despising me for reasons unknown, who then proceed to dislike me even more because I ignore the fact that they don’t like me. The thing is, more often than not, I didn’t even notice their dislike. There was this woman at my office, who left about a year and a half ago. Apparently she disliked me a lot. She was the kind that complains about people lacking empathy, which usually meant that others weren’t responding to her like she wanted them to. I guess she was bound to end up disliking me, but I hadn’t noticed. It took another coworker telling me that she clearly couldn’t stand me for me to get it.
Now that I think back on my twenty or so years of working on and off, I realize that I’ve never gotten along with female coworkers. I’m the kind that focuses on his tasks and doesn’t socialize. The vast majority of female coworkers I’ve had (not all of them) were the “stop at a coworker’s table and chat up” kind. I don’t know if it’s about a need for attention, or what. Thing is, when they did this to other male coworkers, they didn’t like it; they admitted that they pretend to be busier than they were, to dissuade these women from engaging with them, but if the female coworker started a conversation, the guy went along until she got bored. Once she left, the guy often sighed or shook his head. But I don’t even go along with it; I actively ignore or redirect anything not related to work. I simply don’t enjoy talking about myself in person, or offering glimpses of my life outside of work. For me, a perfect day at the office involves not saying a single word for the entire shift, which was virtually impossible when I worked as a technician.
There’s a deeper thing with silence that happens to many autistic people. The more autistic you are, the more likely you’re to be non-verbal. I was a silent kid myself; at the most, I vocalized stuff about my daydreams. In my case, to the extent I can understand it, talking is a huge effort because I’m fully aware, to my core, of the near impossibility of communicating to a real extent with another human being. They may speak the same language superficially, but the meaning is very different. They don’t experience reality through my brain. It’s like being surrounded by followers of some bizarre religion, who try to involve you in their discussion. What would you even say? You don’t even share a frame of reference. Many utterances that would come naturally would end up making them dislike you, potentially causing trouble. It’s better to remain silent. I thought about this topic a couple of hours ago, and the final sentence of a novella I wrote back in 2017-2018 came to mind: “I had nothing to say. Not to him, not to anyone.”
So, I’m unemployed. I should call to reactivate the unemployment benefits. I should mess with my curriculum vitae and start looking for protected jobs as a programmer. Regarding the job-searching business, I obviously hate it (I don’t know if there’s anyone who likes it). I’ve always been relieved when I apply for a job but I’m rejected. I guess I proved to myself that I tried. But if I get hired, I have to meet a whole new bunch of people whom I’ll eventually end up resenting, for whom I’ll have to perform tasks that likely I won’t feel like doing. Some people enjoy going to work because of the people there, but I don’t like people, so for me it’s all about the money.
Ever since I became unemployed, I don’t feel like doing much of anything. I did spend a couple of hours yesterday afternoon playing the guitar in a nearby park, and I plan to head to another location this afternoon to play some more. But I’ve lost significant enthusiasm for the programming project I’ve been working on these past few months. I’ve looked for games that could distract me for at least a couple of hours a day, but ever since I tried VR, I have trouble getting attached to desktop games. I’m almost Gen-Z-ish regarding movies; very hard for them to retain my attention. Nevermind the fact that most movies released in the past fifteen years or so are garbage. Novels don’t attract me either; I tried to read Pratchett’s The Fifth Elephant, which is the next in line of his The Watch series, but I’m not in a hurry to return to it. It’s general apathy. What I do feel strongly is the need to be left alone, to not have to engage with anyone.
I guess that’s all for today. Not sure why I felt the need to say any of this.
I’ve just come back from the Occupational Health and Safety dept of the hospital where I work. I went to explain my perilous current situation: I’m 52% percent disabled according to the provincial government, due to high-functioning autism (formerly Asperger’s) and an inoperable tumor in my pituitary gland for which I need life-long treatment. I have also been diagnosed with OCD, heart damage caused by the Moderna shot, and irritable bowel syndrome (which sounds negligible in comparison, but it invalidates me for jobs such as working at a line or being behind a counter, as I would take lots of breaks for the bathroom). I haven’t returned to the organization that determines the percentage of disability, so they would consider the OCD and the heart damage at least, because I suspect that they would reduce my original 52% merely for the fact that I’ve been working these past seven years, although not continuously because I can’t speak the regional language.
I told the doctor at the OH&S dept, who was also working on a temporary contract because she can’t speak the regional language, that my contract ends in two days, that I’ll return to the realms of unemployment, and that I’ll start collecting that amassed stipend. At any point I may get called to return to the job as a technician, but that job has caused me to end up in the ER due to stress three times: two with arrhythmia and one with supposed hemiplegic migraine but that I suspect was a minor stroke. I’m honestly terrified of working as a technician again, as experience shows me clearly how it will end. These last nine months I’ve been exclusively on a programming contract, being able to put on my headphones and just program away. Virtually zero stress. That experience illustrated that it’s not that I can’t handle a job, but that I’m utterly unsuited for the job as a computer technician, which involves horrid amounts of noise pollution at the office thanks to some fucking dickheads that seem to believe it’s a school playground, along with the need, required by the job itself, of having to interact with nurses and doctors to solve problems. Oh, and the week-long phone duties. Those are fun.
I’m not built to be a computer technician. I shouldn’t have to live in misery and under risk of my body breaking down again. Therefore, I’ll need to start collecting unemployment and look for protected jobs in the private sector. My main concern with that is that after I start collecting unemployment, which could last me half a year, if I get called to work as a technician (which might happen tomorrow; I could get called for a new contract before my current one ends) and I refuse it, they could remove my unemployment benefits. I suppose I’ll have to visit my general practitioner, and possibly a psychiatrist specialized in autism and possibly OCD, so they give me some reports.
Work issues aside, oh my, this world is fucked, huh? Just imagine: you’re a skinny Ukrainian émigré who settles for the very black city of Charlotte, get on a bus and sit surrounded by blacks, only to realize that a black criminal, released fourteen times previously by a system that tries to get blacks out of jail even when they repeatedly commit crimes, has plunged a knife in your throat, and you die surrounded by blacks who don’t give a shit that you were murdered, while the black criminal, as he leaves unimpeded, mumbles “Got the white girl.” The media doesn’t cover it. The politicians happily eat cake. Look at it, ethnic European man or woman, because that’s your future: living surrounded by people who despise you for ethnic reasons, who are supported by a system that encourages their homicidal hatred, and who will gleefully anticipate the removal of your entire kind. You know what you have to do: self-organize for your own interests before it’s too late. I would say, “vote for people who defend and prioritize your own kind,” but I don’t think that those can even get into power due to the demographic replacement that has been implemented, by design, these past twenty years or so.
A newspaper article from yesterday mentioned that in Spain, regarding people under five years of age, 4 out of 10 have at least one foreign-born parent. That’s foreign born, not of foreign origin, so likely the number of people of foreign origin in Spain under five years old is 6 out of 10, at least. I work in a building that houses the maternity ward of the hospital. It’s a parade of Africans (northern and sub-Saharan), Central and South Americans, and muslim women that look like they left Pakistan a week ago. Who designed this to happen?
Oh, and that Charlie Kirk guy, who debated people in public and said stuff that pisses off marxists? Just sniped dead in front of hundreds by a shooter that likely will never be found. Maybe the police should have been in the lookout for dancing people from the Levant. Happy 9/11, by the way! Remember those two towers that free-fell naturally, perfectly straight, into their own foundations, like no other buildings ever had? Wait, it was three buildings, right? Building 7 fell as well, from debris. What an auspicious day it was, huh? What did your young’uns engage in for the next few years, in patriotic fervor? Hitting Iraq, Afghanistan…? Toppling governments that didn’t have anything to do with the Bin, but had banking systems that needed to be fundamentally restructured, with a little help of a genocidal neighbor.
It’s all so horrifying. One one side you have brainwashed marxists, who will gleefully welcome being ethnically cleansed (and possibly even murder you if you don’t agree), and on the other you have so-called conservatives who mainly conserve the legacy of worshipping a jewish zombie, and who are mainly obsessed with preserving the hegemony of a certain genocidal country from the Levant, to whom even the so-called “America First” will enthusiastically syphon your money to. Those who are actually conservative and want to preserve Europe and the European peoples? Oh, they die unsuspiciously (about sixteen members of afD in Germany during these elections), or get persecuted by the government for reasons that surely have nothing to do with their political positions. Let’s see a map of the electoral results in France, my neighbor, during the last elections:
You see that splash of color in Paris in what is otherwise a red-painted land? Those are the people in power now. Paris, which happens to be a shit-smeared hellhole full of foreigners. You see, “democracy” is not a solution. It could have been if we had kept at it like the Greeks intended it: only ethnic natives who owned land held voting power. We’re in an era where marxists can import millions of foreigners to vote against your interests. You think voting is going to save you?
Oh, and by the way, stop with this fucking God nonsense. In my case, being autistic gives me the powers of that child who pointed at the emperor and laughed because he was parading around in the nude. But it’s so tiresome. A sky daddy who will let you into an otherworldly land after you die if you’ve been a good boy? Are you retarded? How did such appalling stupidity become so widespread? I had to scroll through hundreds of tweets or whatever they call them now, amidst videos of Kirk getting his carotid blown out, of people calling for prayers and appealing to this judge of mercy of theirs, who must spend his heavenly time gazing down upon this horror while masturbating. Where was this God of yours when jihadists shot out concert-goers at the Bataclan, stabbed out their eyes, and ripped out the fetuses from pregnant women? Wake the fuck up already, you bunch of children. You fucking toddlers.
Anyway, I’m out. Enjoy this world of yours. I want no part of it.
I feel like I’m nearing a turning point in my life. My current contract as programmer in the public sector ends in ten days, and they can’t extend the contract for legal reasons. The moment this contract ends, they may call me to return to work as a technician, but working as a technician, the massive stress it causes me, which is unmanageable for me, has sent me to the ER three times (two with arrhythmia, another with a supposed hemiplegic migraine which I suspect may have been a minor stroke).
Honestly, I’m scared of returning to that routine, of not knowing what bullshit I’ll have to deal with every day, of having to pursue other coworkers or “users” to glean the necessary information to do my job, to deal with annoying nurses and arrogant doctors whom I’d rather ignore or punch in the face. I’ve become so adverse to that job, that these past few months I’ve grown incapable of looking at other coworkers in the eye. I don’t actually have to work with them, which is ideal, but they’re constantly around, and I’m an island of quiet among them, uncommunicative, isolated with his noise-canceling headphones on, wishing that nobody notices he’s there.
I’m getting increasingly anxious as the final day of my contract approaches. I imagine myself refusing the contract, then looking up jobs as a programmer. I don’t actually want to work as a programmer for other people, but that’s a skill I have and through which I could extract money. However, back in my twenties, I tried to work in the private sector as a programmer. About half of it, it feels, I worked as an unpaid intern, and all the jobs I had either ended because I couldn’t take it anymore (after my very first job, I almost killed myself, which years later spawned my novel My Own Desert Places), or because some woman in a non-technical position believed I wouldn’t fit in there. And yes, I specified the gender, because that was always the case: my male technical-minded coworkers didn’t have an issue with me nor the work that I did, but some female supervisor considered that all my technical contributions were irrelevant. What such people were doing leading teams of technicians is one of the disasters of the modern world.
I made the mistake of talking to my seventy-year-old mother about it. My father is technically around, but his brain is so fucked that for my entire life he may as well have not been. My mother said I need a therapist to control my stress. She barely remembers that I went to therapy from 16 to 30, with breaks in between, and it did fuck-all other than waste money and cause me permanent damage with wrong medications. I think the whole industry is a sham. The work as a technician causes me unmanageable stress because my brain configuration can’t manage that stress. No amount of “techniques” to manage stress that some therapist could teach me would help. I already control myself by swatting away intrusive thoughts every ten minutes. I’m simply not built for such a job. You don’t put a blind person directing traffic. An autistic fuck like me whose brain is incapable of handing social relationships shouldn’t be in a job that demands him to deal with so many people on the daily.
It’s more than the change of jobs, though. I simply want to escape. I’ve been looking up apartments in another province (Navarre). 120,000€ for a two bedroom apartment. Same kind of apartment would cost about 240,000€ up here. I’d love to live in such small towns. Vastly reduced criminality, lack of mass immigration, nature close by. It’s so fucking humiliating to leave my home at six in the morning and have to walk through an area colonized by arabs, then take the bus, half of whose commuters are foreigners, up to the other bus stop, and along the way see that the people exiting the downtown apartments, the priciest locations, are inexplicably Africans who look like they came here a year ago (I’m counting both North and Sub-Saharan). House prices go up about 9% every year. Who’s paying for it?
I have a nasty anecdote on the subject from back when I bothered to attend writing courses, about ten years ago: I was waiting in the streets for a class to start while a black guy, heavy African accent, was talking to some local about the apartment where the black guy was going to live. It seemed like the local had guided him to show it. The African pointed at the blinds in the window and said, “Of course, they give me the one with the worst blinds. That’s racism.” They gave this son of a bitch an apartment, which the locals need to pay in full, and this fucking parasite complains. One humiliation after another. Losing your spaces, your jobs, your homes, your schools… And I’m not even getting into crime. My own home was nearly broken into by a couple of arabs some years ago. And look at Great Britain with the mass rapes of minors, almost always ethnic European, by the usual suspects. But God forbid you tweet something unsavory about men in women’s clothing; the police will be on your ass the moment you land in the country. Funny thing is, I take the 7:10 bus straight to Donostia, and literally everyone is ethnic European. We’re office workers. Slaves to support the privileged classes. But I work in the hospital building that houses the maternity ward, and I get reminded of who is having the majority of children these days.
By the way, if any of what I’ve written bothered you (yes, you), you’re welcome to fuck off, because if at this point you still defend any of this, I don’t want anything to do with you.
I saw a video earlier today about the Japanese youth, how they are completely unmotivated, don’t want to buy homes, don’t want to start families, are completely risk adverse, and just get by trying to survive as unbothered as possible. We’re not, unfortunately, in Japan, but same thing could be said of the last couple of generations in the West. Why are you contributing to society, exactly? So it can shit on your face and tell you to enjoy it?
What else is there to say, really? I noticed that someone, earlier in the day, went through a couple dozen of the songs I produced with AI a year or so ago. Such fun activities I used to engage in, that I don’t imagine myself retaking anymore. Perhaps writing is one of them, but it’ll fully depend on whether my subconscious flips the switch again. Basically what I’m doing, when I’m not busy programming or reading manga, is daydreaming about a better life (being someone else), or noticing discreetly the attractive ladies on the bus or on my walk to and from the office. Bitter old Houellebecq said, “The physical bodies of young people, the only desirable possession the world has ever produced, were reserved for the exclusive use of the young, and the fate of the old was to work and to suffer.” While he likely meant that he wanted to fuck children, the point stands. I have a forty year old body, so what remains is to work and suffer. And masturbate. At least you can rely on those seconds of relief from time to time. If I was funkier, I’d get into proper drugs. I’d love to do Ayahuasca, which is illegal for reasons. Likely because such drugs would make people wake up and want to topple the government. And then, who’d issue digital IDs, CBDCs, and social credit scores?
Anyway, if you have boobs, give them a squeeze for me, will you? Man-boobs will do.
It’s been a few months since a switch flipped in my head and I suddenly didn’t feel like writing fiction anymore. I only act to satisfy my subconscious, so if she wishes to focus on anything else, that’s what I do. To a certain extent, I’ve felt relieved. I was under the pressure to perform, even though virtually nobody read my stuff. I suppose it’s related to the ingrained need to provide a service, a product, regularly, or else you’re worthless.
We men are the slaves of society: invisible drones intended to serve tirelessly until we grow too old, resented the moment we show weakness, abandoned the moment we break down. Our value tied to the quality of the last thing we provided, a value that depreciates very fast. If you cease providing, you may as well be trash that someone should pick up and throw away. Remembering all those years of writing chapters, the feeling I got when I posted the next one was something like, “I finally deserve to relax for a while.” And I always give my 110% on the things I care about, so I put an insane amount of hours into writing my stories, the sort of effort that wouldn’t be feasible if I had anything resembling a social life. I recall plenty of cases in which I could only finish a single paragraph in a whole writing session that may have taken three hours.
Was it worth it? Well, I don’t feel much in terms of accomplishment. It certainly wasn’t monetarily rewarding. It was also humiliating to see authors, some local whom I knew personally, that objectively were far worse writers than I, promoted in newspapers, called into radio shows, and seemingly being able to make a living through writing, while my stories only caused me trouble. I do have the memories, many of them far stronger than the lingering remains of stuff that has actually happened to me. It took me about three months to write My Own Desert Places, my first novel in English. I have a vivid memory of seeing the female main character walking down a cobbled street in Hondarribia, seen from behind, her brown hair swaying as she clutched a binder, heading to a writing course. She never existed. I remember going to a patisserie in Donostia along with a French secretary and a Paleolithic child, where we stuffed ourselves with delicious pastries. That never happened. I have grafted into my heart griefs of things that happened in my stories, of people lost to accidents, of dreams ruined, that make my eyes water whenever I recall them, even though none of that ever happened.
What does it all mean? I don’t know. What I do know is that I’m forty years old, I’m insufficient as a human being, my body is a disaster, my brain is an even worse disaster, and I’m beyond exhausted. I don’t want the life I’m living. I need a change of scenery. I want to be where nobody knows me, where I don’t feel responsible for any living soul, and I can simply sit alone in a room and be myself. But it seems all we’re meant to do in this shitty world is work and work for money that is worth less every passing month.
We used to enslave ourselves because at least you got something of value out of the pain: usually a family of your own. But I’ve never wanted to burden anyone with my genes. Even if I did, that would be a terrible idea, as I would be an incompetent father. But even if I could be a good father, nobody would want to have children with me. So I guess I’m just going through the motions until my body breaks down completely.
On a lighter note, I’m working daily on my programming project! I originally envisioned it as a browser-based platform to play adventure games, immersive sims, etc., in a chat format. Given that I’m a hedonist, it has turned into a complex, very powerful platform to create erotica, relying on large language models to act as the other characters. Got to enjoy my fetishes through it. Constantly coming up with ideas for it, to the extent that it never feels like I could take a break and show the current state. I plan to make a video about its features, with the faint hope that someone else will want to add code and content to the repository, content that I will be able to enjoy myself.
The Domains of the Emperor Owl 
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