New Year, new me!

And so I'm back.

This blog used to be my public diary. It was an endless cacophony of noise. It was the death rattle of a concept torn apart by gravitational forces. It was the frame by frame of my heart's apocalypse. Every couple years, I must experience a love so cataclysmic, so powerful and destructive in nature, I lose everything and am reduced to the axiomatic. Every couple years, I live off these axioms I find because I have nothing else to see. Last year was one of those years. I made sigils with names and concepts, inked in blood. I wrote songs with beats and melodies that nobody else in the world will ever hear. I drew pictures for myself, made photo bashes and collages. And of course I authored a blog that I then showed EVERYONE. This time will not be like last time. I found a million ways to not be that thing which was so grievously wounded by the only delight to surpass Nature, and then at the end, I found a way to be myself and deleted the blog. I had boiled away everything that did not matter, and I was left with this. A simple, pure ideology. The ideology of that famous Lithuanian Count, of Robin Hood, of Marquis de Sade, of Her Innocence, and of The Image. This will not be like last time. This year is the year of the superstar. I will take just one post with me into this year, posted down below for you to see.

Thought Complete

Rigorous [Rational] Self-Critique

Here it is. Hard facts from the man you are [not]. You once [never] jerked off in the locker room and were caught. You [never] held a young woman by the arm and kept her in your apartment for 20 minutes against her will. That's right, these are not flights of fancy. These are [not] *real deeds*, Harry [Gloria], emerging from the darkness of your past [self-hatred]. You [never] tried shooting a fleeing suspect in the foot but hit him in the pelvis, crippling him for life. And above all, you [never] let life defeat you. All the gifts your parents gave you, all the love and patience of your friends, you [only almost] drowned in a neurotoxin. You let [never] misery win. And it will [not] keep on winning till you die -- or [You will] overcome it.

Breakthrough Imminent

Thought Complete

Superstar Rivers Cuomo

Only you think you're stupid. Only you think you're an incel. Everyone else agrees, they all think you're playing up your own artificial disaster in your mind. You kept insisting, you kept telling yourself these things until they said for you, to you, fuck off and die, in a cool voice. You're really not Harry. He's not Jean Vicquemare, there is no Kim Kitsuragi, and she's definitely not Cuno. All this "I'm literally Pinkerton" business has done is hurt your psyche, and for what? Mere catharsis? Relaxation? You can relax when you're dead; it's unbecoming. You're a hyperstellar mathematician, you can be Monika any time you want, you just have to choose it. It's up to you to make love come true.