Tag: mental-health

Life update (10/27/2025)

On By Jon UreñaIn Escritura, Slice of lifeLeave a comment

Last night by nine, my eyes were already shutting by themselves, so I went to bed. I woke up spontaneously at half past midnight, which is something that unfortunately happens often when I go to bed early. What I remember from that hour until about half past four is me rolling around in bed trying to sleep, while getting bombarded with intrusive memories of so many cringe-worthy when not straight painful moments that somehow or another ended up in my brain. Thankfully there’s always masturbation, so I took advantage of that influx of chemicals to wrestle my brain into sleep. Woke up at nine due to my alarm (I would love to sleep in, but I know how that would end up: in my twenties I regularly woke up at midday). Upon waking up, I almost invariably feel the same dread and disappointment about having to maneuver through another day in this horrid world. As myself, no less.

I’ve been unemployed since September 14. For the last seven years or so, I’ve worked as an IT technician at a hospital. That landed me in the ER thrice due to stress; my heart and my brain told me that couldn’t go on further (two episodes of arrhythmia and one hemiplegic migraine that I suspect was a minor stroke). My boss offered me a nine-month contract as a programmer because I think he himself saw that I couldn’t go on as a regular technician. That period as a programmer was stress free, even though it frustrated me work-wise thanks to the hospital’s manager seemingly being unable to specify what he wanted, and constantly changing his mind. The whole project collapsed when the manager was replaced (literally none of the work I did ended up being used), and then I was put in charge of updating the morgue’s internal website, which was more interesting. That project led me to discover how often body parts, fetuses, and even corpses sometimes, get lost due to administrative reasons. “Family came for their fetus; we couldn’t find it.” Not much else I’d need to say about that. I’ve met so many idiots working at the hospital that it’s a miracle it runs to any extent. But I guess I could say the same about how modern societies are organized.

Anyway, I’m not looking for a job. I certainly should, but I can’t bring myself to bother. It would involve me returning to a routine of constant anxiety purely in exchange for money. I get the feeling that normal people somewhat enjoy going to work because they want to interact with people, but I hate interacting with human beings in person, and it only worsens my anxiety. So it would be sacrificing half of my day, and most of my energy, merely to earn money. As I have some savings, I’m not worried about it at the moment. I think that I will eventually look for protected jobs for disabled people; I’m 52% disabled according to the provincial government, mainly due to high-functioning autism and a pituitary tumor that wrecked my hormonal and physical development. I suspect that either may have been caused by my overzealous nurse mother sticking in me seemingly any vaccine she could find, so I would be protected. There are genetic markers for autism, though (at least in my maternal grandfather). Not much to think about either at this point other than the fact that I wish they hadn’t happened to me.

I’m engaging in plenty of suicidal ideation recently. The kind in which I sit around, imagine myself dying, and feel relief because I wouldn’t need to worry about money, about my future, or about society anymore. Sometimes I just plainly want to be dead. Or perhaps never have existed. I’ve never liked being myself. All my daydreams involve me being someone else in a way that nature doesn’t allow.

Merely stepping outside of my home is a constant reminder that the world is worsening at a rapid pace. If I reach my seventies, I will likely find myself a hated minority surrounded by a majority that will gleefully plan my extinction. Fall ill only to be treated by some shady foreigner who doesn’t give two shits about your well-being. End up in a nursing home depending on the goodwill of people for whom you are the root of all evil. For the indigenous people, modern society has become a rush to earn enough money to move somewhere where the rot still hasn’t gotten worse enough. Nothing short of mass displacement and/or mass murder will solve it at this point; I highly doubt we’ll get mass displacement, but we will very likely get mass murder. However, it will come from the imports, in the form of armies of masked, armed mohammedans.

Also, I’m not sure why you would engage with any of it, mainly meaning society, unless you intend to bring children into this nightmare. Set aside that it would be a cruelty. For the past few months, I’ve only gone out to buy food or else to play the guitar. Given that I’m unemployed, I could travel around, at least take the train to a nearby city, but I have the pervasive sense that there’s nothing for me out there other than fresh bad memories to shove into my brain.

I do keep busy. I work daily on my Living Narrative Engine, which is a Javascript app that allows me to set up narrative scenarios in which any character can be played by a large language model. While I mainly use it for erotica, progressively I’ve found myself using it for more complex stuff. Creating new actions for the LLMs to use is almost trivial at this point (I put together a whole set of vampire-related actions in a day), which leads to lots of interesting, unpredictable moments during the runs, as the LLMs can choose what action to take in context, and they all affect the simulation (if only by recording what happened, which is read in turn by other actors).

I guess that was all.

Life update (10/17/2025)

On By Jon UreñaIn Arte, Escritura, Slice of lifeLeave a comment

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.

Life update (09/22/2025)

On By Jon UreñaIn Escritura, Slice of lifeLeave a comment

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.

Life update (09/16/2025)

On By Jon UreñaIn Escritura, Slice of lifeLeave a comment

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.

Just one thing before I go

Life update (09/14/2025)

On By Jon UreñaIn Escritura, Slice of lifeLeave a comment

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.

Life update (09/11/2025)

On By Jon UreñaIn Escritura, Slice of lifeLeave a comment

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.

Life update (09/03/2025)

On By Jon UreñaIn Escritura, Slice of lifeLeave a comment

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.

Life update (08/29/2025)

On By Jon UreñaIn Escritura, Slice of lifeLeave a comment

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.

Anyway, thanks for reading, I guess.

Life update (08/14/2025)

On By Jon UreñaIn Escritura, Slice of lifeLeave a comment

Three days ago, the youngest of my two cats, who is fourteen years old or so, started breathing weirdly, in a phlegm-y way. When I put my hand on his chest, it vibrated as he breathed. I hoped that it would pass on its own, but it was clearly getting worse.

I’m on vacation for a few more days (although I’ve done fuck-all of consequence, other than programming, playing the guitar, playing VR games, and masturbating), so I took the little guy to the vet. The X-rays didn’t show anything. They injected him with a corticosteroid, and told me that I’ll have to somehow make him swallow the same thing in pill form for the upcoming seven days. The vet, a nice-seeming younger woman, told me that the corticosteroid is mainly for relief, because the real cause is likely a polyp or a mass, and at his age, it will likely not be operable. If things don’t improve in the next few days, I’ll have to bring him to a proper clinic in Donostia, thirty kilometers away, so they can perform a CT scan and similar stuff.

He’s dying. I’ve already lost three cats and it haunts me weekly. I’m way too sensitive to handle the deaths of these little creatures that I’ve loved for years. To begin with, people having pets is insane; just a replacement for the biological urge of having children. It’s clear to me that nobody should raise any living being that’s unlikely to outlast them. I’ve loved my cats, but when I look back, I don’t store any memory of my dead pets that isn’t tainted by the fact that they died. In the case of two of them, also of how they died.

I can’t take this shit. The only relief that I get from my brain bombarding me with intrusive pains is when I’m playing the guitar, when I’m lost in a very engaging experience like a VR game, or jerking off. When any of those distractions ends, the flood returns, and I have to wade through everything painful that my brain refuses to let go of. The number of those private pains only grows as I get older. I suspect that due to the peculiar configuration that my neurons settled on shortly after birth thanks to the autism-related atypical pruning, memory-wise, my brain is a machine made to discard every good experience and etch in stone every bad one. Over the years, I’ve grown wary of attempting things, talking to people, etc., because I know I’ll just be adding more shit to the pile. A classical sign, I suppose, of Pure Obsessional OCD. I don’t know for how long I’ll be able to stand this.

For the last few months or so, I’ve avoided going outside other than to work, to buy whatever needed buying, and to play the guitar, and I play the guitar in the woods, so the population and general demographics are unlike what can be found in the rest of society. But today I had to bring my cat in a carrying case to a nearby clinic, where they refused to take him in due to overwork, so I had to take a bus downtown. Society has turned into such a horrid zoo. I don’t understand how people can look around and think that everything is fine, unless you’re one of the people who are benefiting from it. And us Europeans are the ones losing everything.

I remember my maternal grandfather, who fought on Franco’s side. In the decades after, particularly during the last twenty or so years of his life, he went out as little a possible, because “out there, there’s only weird people.” If he had lived through the current ethnic cleansing, he would have killed himself. I’m no christian (the Roman Empire adopting Christianity was the biggest humiliation ritual imaginable, and we’ve been paying for it ever since. See recent examples of Trump, Mr. “America First”, groveling up to the “chosen people”), so I can’t support Franco such religious grounds, but those fucking communists had it coming. Regarding the christian thing, read Catherine Nixey’s The Darkening Age: The Christian Destruction of the Classical World. In summary, how could I look forward to anything in society when everything is deliberately going the wrong way, and it’s only going to get worse? I’m just glad that I won’t bring children to this disaster.

My cat is walking around, climbing furniture, and eating a bit, but he’s still breathing weird. Almost guaranteed, this is the decline that will end in his death. I suppose he has lived long enough. I doubt that his life has been particularly happy, given neuroses like overeating whenever he has the chance even though he pukes afterwards. But what can you do. I can’t even give myself a happy life.

Life update (07/28/2025)

On By Jon UreñaIn Escritura, Slice of lifeLeave a comment

I’ve settled into a routine that fits me: wake up at six in the morning (even in the weekends, I wake up around seven), prepare for work, put on my earplugs, take the E29 bus that carries me to Donostia, read some manga on the way, walk through the hospital complex while avoiding looking at people’s faces, sit at my desk, put on my headphones, do my programming of the day, take the E29 that carries me back to Irún, do some more programming, go to bed. From time to time I lift weights, and on the weekends, when I have the energy, I walk to the nearby woods and play the guitar for a couple of hours.

Perhaps this is what being middle-aged is, after all: you realize your shortcomings and what you weren’t meant to do. I’ve thought back on my life and the relationships I’ve had. All of them were a mistake. I’ve hurt so many people without meaning to just because of how broken I am. I keep getting reminded, by my own brain, of this girl I knew when I was in middle school. She was likely autistic as well. Awkward as hell. Very lanky, generally plain looking. She used to write me elaborate letters. I doubt I ever read any of them. I don’t have them anymore. About a year or so after she last spoke to me, some stoner dickhead slung one of those big choppers of arts-and-crafts, and bisected the girl’s forehead, leaving a massive scar. I haven’t seen her since I was sixteen. I wish I knew if she killed herself, but I don’t remember her name. People only become somewhat real to me when they turn into myths in my mind. She’s now a girl I could have helped but failed to do so because I never had the means to. Stay away from people. There’s only hurt to come, both ways.

Due to my peculiar brain configuration, my memory is abysmal: I barely remember anything. I have stronger memories of the stories I’ve written than of stuff that has actually happened to me. And what I remember is almost invariably negative. Due to my daily intrusive thoughts, I’m usually reminded of, when not directly bombarded by, stuff I wouldn’t want to remember. Not worth the effort, the pain, the bother. It’s really simple: I wasn’t born equipped to live like a regular human being. Ultimately you just end up becoming yourself and discarding the useless alternatives you tried.

I recognize beauty, though, and I’m attracted to some of the young women I see on a regular basis. I don’t know if I wish I weren’t. On the bus, at the hospital. Nurses most likely. Most of my daydreams end up involving sex in one way or another. But in these daydreams I’m not myself. Perhaps my biggest regret is that I can’t redo it with fair odds. I would have settled for a body I wouldn’t have to be ashamed of. I think I have more things to say about that whole business, but I can’t figure out what that would be at the moment.

Soon enough it’ll be September 14th, when my current contract as a programmer will end, and I’ll have to either return to work as a technician, which terrifies me (the stress of that job landed me three times in the ER, two with arrhythmias and the other with a supposed hemiplegic migraine that I suspect was worse than that), or find myself a job as a programmer at forty years old, when programmers are on their way out due to AI (not complaining, I use it all the time).

It’s all a big whatever. I just want to be left alone. That’s what I think about most of the stuff I have to deal with on a regular basis: just let me sit in peace. Just let me program in peace. Just let me play the guitar in peace. I think my biggest aspiration in life has been to sit alone in a room without being bothered. I don’t think I ever truly believed I could aspire to anything more. I’m trying to get as much of that as possible.

Speaking of manga, the hentai-with-a-plot Parallel Paradise was surprisingly great. It’s about a high-schooler who ends up isekai-d into a world where he’s the only male, and every girl (they all die at twenty) gushes out food-scented slime from their nether regions after the littlest touch of his male fingers. One of the girls is a martial artist whose martial art consists on throwing grenades. Great sense of humor, compelling plot, and surprisingly touching at times. I’ve reread One Punch Man and found it more interesting the second time around. I’ve just barely started Atelier of Witch Hat, which I didn’t want to get into because it seemed girly and I don’t like Harry-Potter-like stuff, but it’s good.

I think I need more grenade-throwing in my life.