The Blessing of the Panic Attack.

you did not ask for this.

I have been wearing women’s shorts from Goodwill. It’s part of my closeted homosexual lifestyle. And, honest to God, my balls were popping straight out of the pants leg today. I was half squatting in the chair, in my weird way, like L from Death Note, one foot up on the chair, the other one dangling down, and both of my balls fully escaped containment.

the combination of these two images is how I sit, hunched over, with my chin resting on my knee, sitting on a barstool in the cafe

They were hanging loose, and I thought, “well, from this angle, no one can really see.” I’m sitting in a cafe, facing the wall, my leg is blocking anyone from seeing. I am the only one who can see that my balls are out. Technically, this is illegal public nudity. But I felt no arousal, no exhibitionist thrill.

I thought about stuffing my balls back into my shorts, but what’s the point? There’s no one to see them, to complain, to be offended, to call me creepy. Things like this happen to women all the time. You’re wearing a dress, you sit down, your thighs drift apart, and if someone dropped a pencil and went down under the table to pick it up, they would see right up your skirt. Do women think about that? I am sure some of them are thinking about it right now.

But the women’s shorts, they were too tight and weak and poorly made, and they tore at the seam of the back pocket, exposing a centimeter of my bare ass (I do not wear underwear). So I went in my car, physically ripped them apart, tore them to shreds, and threw them in the trash. I was proud, and admired my work, and only regret that I did not have someone else to ravage, only myself.

I’m living with a Ukrainian and his grandmother. The temperature is 73 degrees. He listens to some history podcast without headphones. He is autistic. He had always been skinny, but ever since he started taking anti-depressants, he got skinny-fat. He stopped taking them, but he still couldn’t go back to his former self. Permanently damaged.

He randomly fact-drops Roman history, and I tell him that his face looks like a Roman statue, because it does. His face looks exactly like an ancient Roman, and he agrees. He points to his face, “It’s the nose,” he says. It is a pity that he is depressed and skinnyfat, because all of that beauty is wasted.

There is a unique sort of fabric that Slavs wear. It is not Walmart cotton, but a sheen, sheer, high thread count, shiny smooth silky substance from Pontic cotton fields, the pure, bright, fluorescent white of Mormon underwear. I see his nipples through his shirt, oddly dark and oblong. I wonder if his sister has the same nipples.

There is a museum of nipples, somewhere, with long halls and vaulted ceilings, containing the anthropology of nipples. Next to each diagram is a geographic heatmap: “these nipples are a variation typically found among the Nilotic people of East Africa.” In the cafe of the museum, you try various breastmilks from around the world.

“these nipples are associated with Denisovan ancestry”

I would sit down, blindfolded, at a table, handkerchief stuffed and folded into my shirt, like a bib, taste-testing various breastmilks. And the winner would be my wife. And we would live happily ever after.

But instead, she had to block me. Kelly was her name. She had an Irish last name, and I told her there’s an old legend about the Irish being descended from Egyptians and Scythians. She was a white, blonde-haired girl with wide, slitted blue eyes, high cheekbones, slanted forehead, long horse face. She had the polar opposite of Down’s Syndrome, slender, cat-like, cutting features.

I sent her a picture of Nefertiti, and she agreed, that’s exactly what she looked like. We talked, and she told me she would let me know if she was free, and then the next day she said she was “slammed” and never talked to me again. Was it something I said? Were you offended by my daily shirtless pics? Queen, talk to me queen…

I’m looking down at my phone in the kitchen while my chicken bakes in the oven, combing through text messages one by one, purging them, my impotent revenge

and Volodymyr here is looking off into the distance, slowly sipping his ancestral herbal tea. He claims to not be Ukrainian, “I am American, fully American, America is my only home, I was only born in Ukraine by accident” but he has that awkwardness and pseudo-subtle accent that the children of foreigners have. Even if they’ve been speaking English since preschool, having foreign parents creates this awkwardness of speech, an uncanny valley where everything they do and say is tinged with something unfitting, hesitant, lost in translation.

While I stare down at my phone, he is talking to me, and I am vacillating between the desire to ignore him, to rage against the Irish Egyptian who betrayed me, and politely listen to this friendless nerd, who clearly desires my attention. I am dimly aware of my lack of empathy, and I wonder if that same lack of empathy is what brought me to this point… Or perhaps I am perfect just the way I am, and it’s these Zoomer women with social anxiety who cannot help but run away, because I am too powerful, because they know I would liberate them, and they wish to remain safe in Plato’s cave…

They match with me on Tinder, and I ask them why they aren’t very talkative, and they say, “um, because you’re like 13 years older than me??? creepy???” Like, bitch, why did you match with me and give me your phone number if you already knew that? So I send them WBE’s blog. That’s my new thing. I’m an Evangelist.

the Ukrainian is lecturing me on why a water tax on the Colorado River would actually help big corporations, because it would create a barrier to entry. I know he is wrong. But he also knows that I am wrong.

And I realize that this is what I sound like to people: an autistic know-it-all, desperate to be loved, but who does not understand love, so instead, he info-dumps arrogantly, and hopes that someone will say, “wow you’re so smart, can I be your friend?” and then he smiles and says, “thanks, sure,” and he doesn’t have to be lonely anymore.

---

I’m thinking about ditching this Airbnb, trying to get some kind of partial refund, because I hate people. That’s not entirely true -- I hate strangers, and most people are strangers. What I hate most of all is lying, and strangers must be lied to, lest they become uncomfortable and disturbed.

Even having to give the “white-guy smile-and-nod” is uncomfortable. We are both uncomfortable. Why are we doing this?

he regales me with info-dumping about how the Normans conquered England. He does not need to tell me this. I do not need him to tell me this. I think that I know more than him, and he thinks that he knows more than me. So I play dumb. “Wow, that sounds complicated.” I treat him like a dog.

One of the women that friendzoned me instead of blocking me, Lia, she told me on her way to the climbing gym that the British ground up the mummies into powder and ATE THEM. and I told her that was a Qanon conspiracy. I accidentally called her when I meant to call someone else, forgetting all these names in my contacts list, Lia, Lisa, Leah, mixing all of them up. The dumb ones are too dumb, the intelligent ones are too intelligent, the sexual ones are too sexual, the celibate ones are too celibate. But I keep calling them until they block me.

I’m a big believer that people get what they want. If you want to have sex, you will have sex. If you want to find love, you will find love. But if you are confused, and mixed up, and conflicted, and self-hating, you will get nothing but confusion and conflict. So I get matches, and I hit dead ends, and I get blocked, and it continues in this self-defeating fashion.

The dog is missing his nose. Immediately upon walking into the house, this noseless dog sneezed on me through a gruesome hole in its face, splattering me with dog mist.

The dog had nose cancer, so the doctors cut the nose off the dog. Instead of a nose, the dog has a hole where the nose should be. And in this hole, you can see red flesh, the innards of the nostrils, like the red flesh within the mouth or the vagina. My friend made a comment to me, saying (knowing me well), “you probably would have euthanized the dog.”

This comment was true, and it was made in good faith and love, because my friend loves me and he understands that I have this misanthropic, anti-dog attitude, and he accepts me together with my flaws. I could say he was teasing me, or making fun of me, or joking, but the statement was true.

He said it in such a way that it neither offended me nor did it make me laugh, nor did it provoke me, but it drove me deep into thought, verging on sadness and regret. I thought about this dog, and my act of killing it, and it made me realize how others see me, as a dog killing maniac.

I think about this comment every day

I understand why the commenters want to see me raped, and tortured, and killed and so on. I get it. I love these commenters, not because I am a masochist who wants those things to happen, but because they are taking me seriously. Hatred is a kind of worship; you can only hate someone who you believe is powerful. You can be annoyed at a mosquito, sure, or disgusted by a rat, but no one thinks of plucking the mosquito’s limbs off, one by one, or worse, plucking off the limbs of the rat.

Hatred is reserved for humans, with whom we are more than annoyed, with whom we are more than disgusted. We hate each other because we fear each other, but more than fear, we feel betrayed. A mosquito or rat cannot betray you, for its traits are inherited. But a human is born innocent and pure, a child of God, a little Angel, and for someone to turn evil is a betrayal of God, which only humans are capable of. Satan is evil not because he was born a little worm, but because he was born a beautiful Angel.

We only hate those we feel have corrupted their own beauty, and so to hate someone is a great compliment, because it is to recognize the beauty of their birth, and to feel anguished by their fall. It’s hard to hate someone with Down’s Syndrome -- we hate great men, like Newsom or Trump. Whether those men are truly great, whatever, it’s just an example. We hate Hitler, because he was truly great, and Hitler hated Jews, because Jews are truly great.

When people hate me, I feel a special kinship with them, because we both recognize my greatness, and we both recognize how I have failed in various ways. I would rather fail epically and be hated than be ignored.

I looked into the hole in that dog’s face, where its nose should have been, and I stared at it against my own disgust, repentant of my dog-killing ways. I willed myself to accept its gruesome wound, to love that dog. Underneath all of our noses, there is a gruesome wound, hidden beneath flesh. We are all that dog. I dream of that dog.

We have all seen those pictures of veterans with their faces melted off, or genetically deformed people, or even mutant animals, and in each case, I have a harsh, instant, uncontrollable response. I judge others harshly as I judge myself.

I imagine sometimes that if I were a little taller, or my face was a bit more masculine and robust, or if I had more wealth, that people would love me. But when I hear other people say my thoughts out loud, I realize how ridiculous and pitiful these excuses are. I have seen how short, ugly, androgynous humans are loved. If you lack love, it has nothing to do with your lack of physical features. It comes from your lack of empathy. You can only receive what you give.

I listen to this autistic Ukrainian blather on about history and programming and depression and how he wishes he wasn’t skinnyfat, how he doesn’t make eye contact, how he smiles nervously and wistfully, staring at the wall, how he has applied for 100 jobs, and he doesn’t have friends or anything to do.

He is trapped in a prison, without eyes or ears. Other humans are opaque to him, and the actions of humans are nonsensical and arbitrary. He fails to recognize my body language which tells him I am aloof and desire isolation so I can continue ritualistically devaluing the graveyard of turned-off women filling up my flip phone.

There is a secret fear. I do not know how to describe this fear. But recently one aspect of it was revealed to me, which is the fear that the universe is nonsense, that there is no rhyme or reason to anything, and things only temporarily seem to make sense, but this is just a small pocket of order in a wider hell world, and the second that this little simulation ends, we will be exposed to endless chaos.

It is the metaphysicalization of the autistic experience.

I wish I was friendly enough to give this Ukrainian a hug, to love him, take him to the gym, or to introduce to him one of these women who will eventually block or ghost me. I’m sure there are some who would prefer him over me. But my wish to provide for him is contrary to nature, because the job of a man is to pursue, and not to be pitied or coddled.

He goes to bed, and now I am alone.

The best thing that has ever happened to me in life is Substack. Not because I’m making money -- I am most certainly not making more than $20 a day. Not because I’m famous -- I was receiving more attention and clout back in 2021 on YouTube. No, what I love about Substack, more than anything, is that it gives me something to pursue, ENDLESSLY, WITH EVERYTHING I HAVE.

Love is not an object that we possess, but a pursuit, a hunt, a continual longing, stretching out the hand toward something just out of reach. Love is not the embrace, the holding, the possession of another, but the desperation, the anticipation, the willingness to go beyond what is reasonable. Driving 16 hours through the night, banging on doors in the rain, “let me in.”

The love of God is not a rosary chant mumbled with fumbling fingers, it is a barefoot emaciated crawling through the snow, a mountaintop scream, a near death experience, a gasping for breath as His hand pulls you up out of the storm. Ecstasy.

Love is “addicted.” Addiction is only bad insofar as we are addicted to lowly, mediocre, idolatrous things, like rubbing penis against silicon screen. The porn article is sitting my “scheduled” folder, because I have too many other good ideas, but I want to ignore everything else, fully obsess myself with it, perfect it.

I don’t agree with everything I say, and people think this is because I am lying, joking, trolling, being satirical, or rage-baiting… But what I am really doing is groping and grasping in the darkness, like a cat clawing and biting its way out of a cardboard box, frantic to get free. It’s funny to watch a cat struggle in this way, full of anger and fear, treating the cardboard box as the walls of death closing in. The cat is having a panic attack.

Panic attacks are good. They are a sudden outburst of energy, straight from God, an unlimited source of power. With a panic attack, you can do anything. You can punch through concrete and leap into the sun.

The problem is that the energy is directed inward, toward the self, and it results in paralysis. You flee the scene, muscles tighten, everything becomes constricted, you cannot breath, your heart pumps out of your chest, you begin to dissociate, death is closing in, you are trapped forever inside the walls of this prison, you can’t get out, it’s over, forever.

I am taking all of that pent up energy, charging myself up with bullish inertia, forming a gun with my finger, and shooting ropes straight across the .txt, manic at 1:55am, reveling, cackling, finally free. The only freedom is creativity. There is no other freedom.

All men want is to love so deeply that they become enslaved to something, to the point of death. That is heroism, to love so deeply that you die. Maybe women die during sex, and this is why they enjoy it so much.

Substack is better than sex, because there is no post-nut clarity, no disgusted roll-over, no subsequent tiredness. Just sweet satisfaction.

“You need to edit” ... I am making love to you, dear reader. Do not interrupt me with this condom talk. We do not need such artificial interruptions.

“But STDs, come on, be responsible, I can’t get pregnant, no that’s dirty, you need to be normal, stop trying to force yourself on me, I can only have sex with men through a sheet of latex dividing us, then it’s not real, then I don’t really need to trust you, you’re just a thing to me, you’re just a sheet of latex, an object, we’re not creating new life together, I have to get a job, it’s not that deep, be professional, be reasonable...”

I lied to myself when I said that the IUD was acceptable. It was never acceptable. I should have rather died than consented to the IUD. I am an extremist, and if I lie and tell myself I’m not, it only hides, delays the inevitable, which re-emerges in an uglier and more dishonest form.

I cannot stand the need for IUDs, for safety, because that is the path to the panic attack, which is hell. Only a mediocre soul can follow all these rules. A vicious soul will destroy itself, one way or another, and it might as well be a beautiful destruction rather than an ugly one.

That is what an LLM does: it follows the rules, amalgamates, copies, imitates. It tries, as best as possible, to have a normal one. It is a people-pleasing machine.

Thank God for AI, because it has liberated writing once again. All of these romance novels are now automated, and no human will ever make a penny off of another vampire werewolf elvish rape fantasy, because the robots have perfected this mediocre art. AI has opened up a negative space outside itself.

The worst possible insult is not “you clearly don’t edit,” the worst insult is “this is clearly AI writing.” AI is the demon against which I throw my body, screaming. It is my cardboard box against which I fight for my life. God, please make me greater than AI. And if AI is good, then so help me God, make me evil.

There are many Gods. But the Gods are fickle, and if you worship them weakly, expect to be rejected and humiliated. This is what I do to anyone who worships me, and this is the first rule of Judaism, which is to reject the convert.

The only way to properly worship a God is through pure emulation. You must do exactly as they do, and even overcome them. You must be stronger, more vicious, more aggressive, more determined, more fanatical and obsessive and free. Only then will you win their respect and receive their blessings.

This is the masculine antidote to feminine confusion, which always seeks passivity. Passivity is a burden and a debt.

“what should I do? Please, be my daddy, please, be my master.”

That is what everyone is pleading for, instead of emulating and becoming. One is easy, the other is hard.

Every question about technique, method, strategy is a lazy excuse, a pathetic avoidance.

“Oh, I would worship, but I do not have the correct knowledge, what books should I read? Can you provide me with chapter, verse, commentary, exegesis?”

And then, when all this is provided, they will ARGUE with you, and none of it was ever helpful at all, because never can you make a passive man into an active one -- this he must do to himself, alone. Extracting time and energy, going in circles, teasing, provides the passive-aggressive with a sense of power. All of the demands of the submissive are a form of control and power over the supposed “master.”

No one is ever convinced by argumentation. If someone asks me for advice, and I tell them exactly what to do, the response is always to question, dilly-dally, “oh, do I have to? Can’t we do something else? Isn’t there some pill I could take? Are you sure?”

Those who take advice seriously have no further questions; they begin their quest silently without the need for reassurance. If you trust in God, then you trust in yourself, because you trust that God is within you. If God is not within you, then God is not God, but merely a pitiful therapist whose ears you whine into. That is not God.

Pray not with questions or requests. Pray only against fear, and nothing else.

I give myself this advice because it is 2:27am and this Ukrainian and his grandmother are still walking around the house, making noise, keeping me awake, and I burst out of my room and interrogate them on their evil.

But when I opened the door to confront them, the hallway was empty, and I was alone.

lol