erikthedead

[erikthedead]

entry #4

Started reading FYODOR DOSTOYEVSKY’s ‘Notes from the Underground,’ and I just got into the second half of him rambling and reflecting on his behaviour in detail. I never would have thought a Russian man from the 19th century would make me feel a little bit less alone in this world (or at least the ‘character’ delivering the narrative). Yet the more I read about what goes on in peoples’ heads the less insane I feel, or at least comforted by realising that everyone is a little bit insane, as long as they’re being honest. Should that be comforting? I feel like that should actually be disturbing, but I kinda like being disturbed. The bit that struck me to get writing about myself was how he recurringly mentions this need to be seen and heard and be a noble member of society, but flip flops between that and a state of isolating himself and being a recluse, ashamed by how his own face looks. I hope I’m interpreting it right, as I’m not so sure I’m smart enough to fully understand everything the man was trying to convey. The whole thing reads as him trying to make sense of himself, if anything. But if I am right in that, I can totally relate, and it causes me much distress as it seemed to have tormented him too.  His way was to throw himself into busy streets and bars, never feeling comfortable with it from what I’ve read, and possibly did it on purpose to feel uncomfortable, because he was getting bored with the current discomfort of isolating himself in his room with his books. That’s the interesting thing about it, he never once says he ‘leaves the comfort’ of his own home, like you’ll hear many well-adjusted introverts say. People who are content on their own. He obviously wasn’t content, he was bored, sick of his own brain, he tells us how he would break down into tearful fits from some sort of mental anguish that he tried to escape from through consumption of literature. I do exactly the same thing with media of all kinds, not because I ENJOY spending time with myself and my things, but because it helps me COPE with it. I am so envious of consistently introverted people who relish in their alone time. That SHOULD BE ME. All the same, it annoys me to death when someone complains about being ‘stuck in the house’ all day when they want to go out and mingle and see the world, because that is too exhausting a thing to wish for compared to creature comforts and solitude, surely. Both of them irritate me because I’m jealous of their seemingly consistent understanding of themselves, their desires and what makes them content on a regular, general basis. I’ve been trying to hard to figure out my own. I’m twenty-six now, yet I still feel juvenile as hell. I still feel like a child that goes up to the next thing that catches its eye and wants to ask, ‘can I have a go?’ And of course, to an innocent child, you let them have a go, without any expectations. You don’t get that luxury as an adult. You are expected to choose, commit, KNOW what you want. But again, I can’t help but think this isn’t me being special, that everyone probably feels this way, you certainly hear it from a lot of old people who humbly state that they are still always learning and discovering new things. Then again maybe they miss the point. Discovering things is fine, all the time. Learning is appreciated and encouraged. But actually changing or choosing not to change (both can be bad, right?), that is unsettling. We’ve given up good and evil for behaviourism and yet still people like me, Fyodor and to name a few other people I relate to when I read their autobiographies, Russell Brand, Stephen Fry, Steve-O (oh yes I compare myself to the greats, in all my unheard mighty feats), people like us can’t even get that right. Creative, expressive, bipolar people. People with big heads and sensitive souls, I’d say. Although I connect deeply to people like this I’d never want to be around them for too long. I know their torment and quite frankly my own is enough to contend with. There is a feeling of ‘pay attention to me but leave me alone.’ ‘Love me more than anything but don’t care too much about me because I’m bound to hurt you or make a fool of myself.’ Actually, in Notes from the Underground, Fyodor talks about man’s unconscious desire to smash up something he has been building, because he is unconsciously terrified of what to do what he has completed it, and Brand actually mentions this quite a bit in his Bookywooks. How he’d personally reach a level of fame and notoriety but then sabotage it, fearing the peak or what comes after – the come down. I hope I’ve interpreted these guys correctly, because it does make sense to me. The only thing that really sets me aside from these guys is my utter lack of ambition. At least in these peoples’ hypomanic states they were achieving something. What do I do? I’m the classic, slightly mentally ill underachiever that never sticks to anything. The sheer magnitude of my unconscientiousness could be used as an example of how not to be during a Jordan Peterson lecture. My downfalls were not self-sabotages, conscious or unconscious for the first half of my life. The rest you can blame on me, that’s fair enough, but puberty hit me early and like a train, and all that meant was I was spotty and got a bullied a bit, but that didn’t excuse me from performing well in my exams and essays. I was predicted to come out with some of the top grades in the whole school. I even started finding my confidence and standing up for myself to bullies after a few years adjusting to adolescence. Then my mother died suddenly one night from an overdose when I was fourteen, and my whole world flipped upside down. Like an anime main character backstory right there. It wasn’t perfect beforehand, anyone who knows my whole childhood situation will agree, but I had a bloody good chance up until she died. After that, I became nihilistic, rebellious, promiscuous and generally self-destructive. ‘How would your mother feel if she could see you now? She wouldn’t have wanted this.’ Oh how I wish I slapped anyone that said this to me. How dare they even try to assume what she would have wanted, having never known her. Of course, I said it to myself all the time, I still do sometimes, but I have that right. The rest of you don’t. Hah, rights. What a joke, even as I try to be dominant through typing to imaginary figments of the past and the future, I’m not even convincing myself.

The inconsistency, of my desires, my attitudes, my cognitions, my emotions and ultimately my behaviour is what pains me. I would rather be a complete abolition that was sure in himself than be like this. What’s even more frustrating is that it’s not that uncommon for people to be like me in that sense, but they just go with the flow with it, seemingly unaware of their inconsistency, and become incredibly defensive when you point it out. It’s understandable, I get defensive with myself, which could be an early sign of schizophrenia, who knows, time will tell. At the moment though I am without doubt an anxious, depressive, inconsistent muddled mess of a person, and even the HOPE for my future self comes and goes in powerful forms. I have the grandiose fantasies of being interviewed by people because I’m just that interesting and my achievements are that remarkable, and I also have the sheer terror while preparing to talk to the shop assistant when I’m buying something. Oh yeah, buying things, that’s a tricky one for me an’ all! The trick with me is not to give me too much choice, because if I have I will never decide, or I will make a silly last minute decision or pick the third thing after debating with myself for ten minutes between choosing from the first and the second. Not only indecisiveness, but impulsiveness plagues me. Not just buying things I don’t need, or don’t even want yet because I haven’t finished the last thing, but even charitably so. I saw a stranger E-begging by chance and decided to send him money. I have no idea why. Am I just a good person? I don’t have enough money for myself, and even if I do have some to spare, that should go to others who have helped me financially before a stranger on the internet. Maybe I’m not a good person, and I just did it to cleanse myself of some feeling of shame or guilt for wasting money on myself. As well as the positive fantasies of my future where I am destined to greatness through nothing other than my own conviction and virtues, I have the other vision in the crystal ball that shows myself destitute and addicted to hard drugs, homeless or institutionalised, ultimately suicided. Addiction and suicide run through my veins afterall, and I’ve been close to becoming the 3rd generation of my bloodline to go out by my own hand. The decently sized scar on my arm from a self-inflicted slash that was intended for my neck, that nearly severed my nerves and would have left me with a malfunctioning left hand had I gone any deeper. Sometimes I look at it and feel ashamed for doing it, for trying to throw away my beautiful, special life, and other times I look at it and feel ashamed for missing my real target, my consciousness. I battle with my consciousness a lot, I try to minimise it through drink and drugs or healthy mental exercises, distract it with my media, sublimate it through writing and drawing, but rarely do I get peace from it. Then other times, I count my blessings and praise the universe for bestowing onto me just the ability to think and feel and be a person. Neither approach to life is crazy to me, what’s crazy to me is not being able to bloody pick one and settle on it for more than a couple of days at a time. Like Fyodor describes his character going out into a busy bustling area in his urges to be part of society after a stint of isolation, I will go out some weekends and do the same, but that’s only a more recent, probably more healthy advance in my development than what I have been doing for a long time which is going online to provoke and debate people with my thoughts and opinions, and sometimes cheeky insults. I really resent when people who know me call it ‘trolling’ when I go off on these episodes. Trolling to me is when you put something out there that you don’t actually stand by, but you know will get a reaction out of people because you’re bored and want to mess with people. Now fair enough, there’s a lot to be said for that last part, but I have no reason to say things I don’t really think/feel/believe when the things I say genuinely are enough to upset people on their own, things I sincerely believe are correct. I’ll feel ever so right and convicted during these online tirades, then the next day want to delete all my social media and wipe my name from the planetary database. Perhaps I could just delete my existence while I’m at it. Seems like my self-doubt and my self-assuredness play equal part in my misery, because like everything else, I can’t choose one. The same happens if I go out and meet new people on the weekend, I’ll exchange numbers and add people with all intention of meeting up in the future, only to ghost them afterwards. I don’t know why.

#rambling #4 #entry #entry 4 #four

[erikthedead]

(Poem I just wrote about professional critics:)

Tell us what you think

Tell us what you really think

Your opinion is your capital

Shame it isn't actual

Subjectivite not factual

Trading beliefs for profits

This betrayal is close to biblical

Top reviewer bottom honesty

Never known a critic with a shred of modesty

No truth no shame

When that fat paycheck came

Sick of the shills

Write anything to pay the bills

Better keep them lot happy

God forbid they lose their lacky

Your thoughts are yours but your words are theirs

They'll be null and void when nobody even cares

If only I could peek into your mind just to compare

What you really think versus what you've written there

How much did they pay you for you to sell your soul

If credibility's up on a pedestal you'd be deep in a hole

Holes not enough bury you in a ditch

Right next to the flaky politician and the dirty little snitch

You're all the same you're the ones to blame

Nobody thinking for themselves what a crying shame

Such a waste of words when they're not really yours

Read your review? No I'll get on with my chores

Should put you in the stocks and make you eat your words

See if you can taste the difference between Rotten Tomatoes and turds

[erikthedead]

draft

Hannigram fanfiction

[Scene/set up: (canon) Will and Hannibal consummate their relationship by killing the Red Dragon together. While hugging each other after the battle2, Will pulls Hannibal off the edge of the cliff, along with himself. Hannibal let’s himself go over with Will. They both metaphorically and literally surrender their lives to that moment. (end of canon)

After searching for each other along the coast, the two killers reunite and swiftly move to find shelter and medical equipment. Hannibal leads them to the house of an old colleague from his time being occupied as a surgeon. He was aware that the man used to perform under-the-table surgical procedures from his home; a middle-class, sanitary, secluded but well-equipped house, and would therefore be the ideal place to be their temporary sanctuary. Upon arriving they find the old co-worker and ask him for assistance, threatening to kill him if he informs the police. He complies and deals with Hannibal’s gunshot wound, while Hannibal stitches up Will’s cheek that had been stabbed, both inflicted by the Red Dragon. Hannibal then uses anaesthetic to put the surgeon to sleep, ensuring he will not escape and inform anyone of the two murder-husbands’ current whereabouts.

Hannibal recommends to Will “You should avoid talking as much as you can during the healing process. I will quickly make us something easy to eat, in the meantime you should use the shower and get cleaned up. Blood isn’t quite as beautiful once it dries. Will grabs Dr Lecter’s arm as he leaves, avoiding eye contact, he nods towards the shower, silently asking the doctor to join him and get clean together.

 ((intimate shower scene - lots of touching and washing each other without talking))

 “It seems we have both survived. Does that mean that the embrace we shared on the edge of that cliff is not destined to be our last?” They were standing incredibly close in front of one another, but not close enough. Will moved in to press his head against Hannibal’s chest, and with that they held each other again, caressing each other’s arms and sides. Hannibal’s hands moved across and down Will’s back, feeling the younger man’s body tense up slightly as he did, but continued anyway, expecting Will to say something in protest, if he were to protest this touch. Will did say something, albeit quietly and with softness: “This is all new to me.” With his voice next to Will’s ear, Hannibal matched his tone and volume to reply with “This is all new to me as well, Will.” Will looked back up into Hannibal’s eyes with curiosity and asked, “Being with a man?” Hannibal shook his head before adding “Being with somebody I love.” Will then broke the embrace, looked down and took a second to gather his thoughts about Hannibal’s first direct vocal confession of his love for him, before solemnly stating “You’re a psychopath. Your love is very conditional...” Hannibal could tell Will had a question to add to his statement, so he allowed him a moment to continue. Will did indeed ask a question, while returning his focus directly into Hannibal’s eyes. “So, what happens when you get bored of me?” After a slight pause to take a breath in, the psychopath bluntly delivered his response: “I would have to kill you.” Although he attempted to say this with a straight face, one corner of Hannibal’s lip curled up these words left them, keeping his eyes locked with his ideal partner. Will noticed this, and his own expression of horror from first hearing that broke into a grin and a little laugh, which made Hannibal fully smile as well. He could tell by Hannibal’s slipped up micro-expression that he was only being half-serious with his answer. Hannibal didn’t want to kill Will anymore, but more importantly, he didn’t want to want to kill Will, ever. Will backed up to lean against the large oblong shaped dining table and cheekily said “I suppose I better keep you entertained then.” His body language was inviting to Hannibal, whose eyes were filling with lust and excitement. They had built up so much sexual tension from the shower earlier, which was evident from the erections they both maintained throughout the whole washing process; it was time they both saw to do something about it. They could not kiss because of Will’s stitches, and Hannibal was far less threatening than usual while his torso was wrapped in bandages from his wound. This gave Will the confidence to hop up onto the table and start to undress himself not long after they had just gotten dressed again in clean clothes. The height of the table aligned both their groins together and Hannibal pressed in between Will’s legs, undoing his belt while watching Will reveal his smooth, toned upper body once more. Trying to hold on to some form of control over the power Will had over him, Hannibal pushed Will down, so he was lying his back flat on the table before pulling his bottoms down after removing his own. They were both done with softly stroking their bodies and avoiding the sensitive areas like they had in the shower; Hannibal grabbed Will’s cock as soon as it was revealed and started squeezing the shaft. They both knew Will’s member was considerably smaller than Hannibal’s, both of them looking at each other’s and comparing, as men do. Hannibal had a smug look on his face about it, too. Will gasped and blushed, not expecting to be grabbed so quickly, he instinctively grabbed the other man’s hand to stop him but stopped himself from stopping him. For a moment he felt awkward, not knowing what to do with his hands. Hannibal released Will’s dick after he felt it getting hard in his hand, to take both Will’s arm’s and fling them back so they were up above his head, then swiftly returned one hand to Will’s erect penis, using his other hand to lift up his thighs, encouraging Will to spread them open. “Leave them there.” Hannibal was being authoritative, as he wasn’t going to let his partner’s lack of sexual confidence get in the way of their pleasure. “Tell me what you want, Will.” After a big gulp from Will, he spoke up, “I’m on the dining table for a reason… I want you to devour me, Doctor Lecter.” That was all the permission Hannibal required, and the cannibalistic innuendo only made him more sexually ravenous to taste Will’s body the only way he now could. Ignoring the pain from his gunshot, Hannibal lent down and took Will’s whole hard on into his mouth, his lips pouted and mouth-watering. That was it for it for Will, he couldn’t bare to look due to his embarrassment. The whole time he had spent with his wife, he had only received oral sex from her very occasionally and with little enthusiasm. This felt entirely different, because Hannibal was licking and sucking on Will’s cock as if it were the tastiest treat known to man, all the while using his hands to keep the empath’s thighs propped up, leaving his tight virgin hole exposed and vulnerable. It was only a matter of time before he turned his attention to it, starting by sliding his tongue up and down the sack and crack. Hannibal was curious what Will’s reaction was but did not want to make him speak unnecessarily, so he tested it by removing his hand’s placement, hoping Will would keep them spread open voluntarily, and he did. This caused Hannibal to take things a step further: he returned his mouth to engulfing Will’s wet stiffy, before sliding his index finger just inside the now wet sphincter. Will gasped and exclaimed “That feels so strange.”

Raising himself back upwards, Hannibal responded “It’s going to feel strange, it’s your first time.” As per usual, Hannibal was valuing the opportunity to tease Will rather than comfort him, but Mr Graham was used to that by now, and so took a deep breath and trusted the dominant cannibal to continue. The pace and depth of the fingering increased, feeling better and better, to the point Will couldn’t help but start wanking himself off in unison. Hannibal was so pleased by this, with himself and with the response. He paid particular attention to watching his lover pleasure himself, along with his expressions and the noises he was making; Little whimpers that morphed into low growls. This continued for some time, neither one of them knew exactly whether to take it further, as this would have been enough to satisfy them both for a while. Eventually Will leaned back up to grab Hannibal’s wrist, bringing and end to his fingering action, only to say, “I want you inside me now,” while grabbing Hannibal’s throbbing dick just to ensure he knew what he meant by that. He then let go and relaxed his body back onto the table and waited. With that, Hannibal pressed the tip of his thick bell-end against Will’s hungry hole and began to insert it inside. As he did, Will let out a yelp of surprise that only grew louder the further he felt Hannibal enter inside him, stretching him out and deflowering him. He looked up to see Hannibal’s expression, and saw eyes that looked possessed. Hannibal did not meet Will’s eye contact, as he was so focused on the action happening downstairs. He was trying immensely to take it steady and not hurt either of them, his lips tight with both concentration and pleasure. The top moved his hips to pull back, and slide back inside, slowly but deeply. After a few thrusts, he could feel Will either consciously or unconsciously moving his hips out of rhythm to his own, trying to increase the pace they were going. As soon as Hannibal noticed this, he began fucking Will faster and harder, holding onto his hips with a tight grip. From behind, Hannibal’s impressive glute muscles could be seen tensing and working their magic to give them both the best first time they could have. This was almost too much for Will, who was now being incredibly noisy, rubbing his own dick furiously. Before they knew it, Will was shooting his load, making Hannibal finished inside him from the sight and feeling Will’s hole tighten from the orgasm.

  (pillow talk scene) “Do you think you could ever stop… Doing what you do?” Will asks Hannibal and Hannibal answers with this “It was the most powerful feeling in the world to do what I did, and I was the most powerful person I knew. That was before you, and my feelings for you. If I could spend the rest of my life with you, I would probably never feel the need to mercilessly kill and consume again.”

#hannigram #erotica #gay

[erikthedead]

entry #3

Jordon Peterson just encouraged me to write more, so here we are again. Sat on my bed with my little laptop, letting the streams of consciousness manifest into the tippy tapping of the keyboard, a noise I really like. I normally can’t stand little noises like that. Clocks ticking for example, drives me crazy. The beeping of a low battery fire alarm is even worse. Fascinating, I know.

The concept of family has been knocking around my head lately, I always find it strangely coincidental when the themes within my own mind are outwardly validated by what is going on externally around me. When I’m thinking about something and then the subject happens to present itself to me in some form, through a TV show or a film or a podcast or a real-life event. I went with my grandad to visit his daughter (my auntie), and her two teenage sons to have a Sunday Roast together today. It was good to see them because my family has always been small and fragmented. It feels positively ritualistic for us to gather together like that even briefly. Then later on in the night a podcast pops up in my YouTube subscriptions of Jordan Peterson and his daughter talking with Russell Brand about family. Also, coincidentally, Brand and Peterson have written the books that I’m currently reading. Both of them are great men. Brand was an inspiration for me due to his journey from addiction to recovery. He actually first got clean in my hometown of Bury Saint Edmunds by the same organisation that my mum and nan worked with to kick heroin. Another strange coincidence. Or maybe it really is just a small world with a very few central themes that transcend through time and space for humanity, hence I see them everywhere. The very heavy, important themes that surround the meaning of existence: Love, life, death, sacrifice, devotion, duality, surrender, forgiveness, hatred, progression, conflict, values, ethics, symbolism, truth, illusion, punishment, good and evil. All sounds very religious actually. Which isn’t much of a surprise if the purpose of religion is to reconcile with these themes which we all deal with in life. Religion never clicked with me; it still doesn’t. I consider myself an extreme atheist and sceptic, to the point where I jive heavily with the vibes of LaVeyan Satanism. I read the satanic bible when I was about 14, but I can’t recollect if it was before or after my mum died. I just remember how it was the first book that truly resonated with me and gave me the courage to stand up for myself in the face of tyranny, which at that time were bullies at school, some of those bullies were teachers. This is a little post I recently submitted to the r/satanism, the online Satanist forum on Reddit:

‘Growing up in the Christian country of England, we had to sing hymns and take part in attempted brainwashing in our public schools from an early age. Not only that but teachers usually had 'good vs evil' (authority = good) philosophy that this culture has instilled into us that really is not that helpful on its own. I was SO frustrated with the whole system and the people in it. There were some bullies too, and I was always told to 'be the bigger man' by never retaliating. I was about ready to do something extreme to get myself expelled. Then I got hold of this book when I was about 14, read it all in one sitting, and it was so comforting to me to read Anton spin everything I had known on its head, and he was the first person who ever told me to smite those who have infringed upon me, not turn the other cheek. And it worked. I never took shit lying down from bullies or teachers after processing the book mentally. After that, when they dished it to me, I threw it back at them, and many times I would win. I won by getting through school and passing my exams despite hating the environment I was in.’

I don’t really want to read the book again, because I may have outgrown the deliberate edgy nature of it, and I have so many new books to read, but I will always keep it close to me as a symbol and reminder of what I took from it. It was a really important step for me towards self-love and self-respect, as well as being able to discriminate between the people that deserve my love and those who deserve my wrath, or even better, those I should take no consideration for at all. If I have to sum it up, the philosophy of satanism encourages you to challenge God’s authority, not just submit to it because ‘that’s just the way it is and has always been.’ Through doing that, we become our own gods, which is a far more appealing position to be in than the sinner damned to suffer for eternity, for me anyway. Satan himself is the good guy in the story if you really think about it. The advances we have made culturally, legally and socially are mostly thanks to those brave enough to challenge the status que and authority. The first couple waves of feminism, LGBT rights, protection of the sanctity of childhood, better care for the sick and disabled are a few crucial movements. And without discrediting the brave soldiers who fought in the world wars, because what they went through really was hell on earth, the Armageddon, it’s an example of what happens when people are encouraged to follow their false gods. It is still mind boggling to me how the world nearly ended in all out nuclear warfare only recently. Well, I say ended, but we’ve all seen Jurassic Park… ‘Life finds a way.’ That dark fetishization of destruction within me I have mentioned before still sort of wants that to happen. Or even better, the whole planet being obliterated into pieces by something hurtling through the abyss directly into us. Not just a small asteroid that disrupts the atmosphere like the one that killed the dinosaurs off, I mean something BIG that gives life no chance of recovery. Perhaps the reason for this ultra-mega-death wish is because the alternative is so cruel and unappealing. The sun will burn out and everything will slowly wilt away. I just want us to go out with a bang, you know? Again, it is just me trying to control fate and death. I’m sure any astrophysicist would be able to ruin my Earth killing fantasy by informing me that it’s not even possible because of gravity and all that other magical shit that’s beyond me. That’s if I ever bad the balls to even talk about these terrible things out loud.

#ramblings #3 #diary #entry #entry3

[erikthedead]

entry #2

If there is one thing that deeply unsettles me about myself it is my attraction towards destruction. From the 9/11 twin tower attacks to bodily mutilation. It both disturbs and delights me how such seemingly powerful and intricate things that take so much effort to create can be swiftly smashed to pieces by one mindless solid strike of force, revealing their true fragility. It’s undeniably beautiful to me, and terrifying. While I have no desire or even the capacity for such terrible acts of violence, you can guarantee I will be paying top price for front row seats to the action. I first noticed this when I was little, watching nature documentaries with my family. Everyone else would grimace and turn away at the carnivores biting and clawing at their prey, blood and guts being swallowed and spewed everywhere, while my eyes remained wide and fixated on the screen. This coupled with a baseline morbid curiosity has taken me down some dark rabbit holes. I suppose that’s why it unsettles me about myself, because I know I’m not psychopathic, but I have enough darkness within me to watch a psychopath do what they do without intervening, at least if they are not targeting me or my loved ones. I might even silently encourage it if they are targeting someone bad. I have a lot of empathy, but it’s much more cognitive than affective. I suspect myself to have Asperger’s Syndrome, although I’m yet to be diagnosed. I have all the typical traits except the need for routine, perhaps because I never had one instilled into me. I actually resent routine, though. It makes things a bit boring and too predictable, which is not representative of life at all in my opinion. At the same time, I’m not particularly fond of spontaneity or surprises either. I am scared and unprepared, but part of that is exciting, no? Or at the very least true to life.

I think a lot of people have their arousal wires crossed. For example, the masochist who gets off on being threatened or hurt. How do you explain that one, Evolutionary Psychology? Where is the advantage in ‘my life is in danger, better get an erection!’? Is it pathological? If so, then why is it so prevalent? Even the most vanilla people tend to enjoy a bit of light spanking. Why should fear and pain turn anyone on at all? I don’t have the answers beyond my ‘crossed wires’ theory. Wires being the synaptic activity within our brains. It might also apply to people whose proclivities lean towards children or animals. The correct response to seeing either of them should be that of adoration and/or activation of protective instincts, not sex and predation. But somehow somewhere up there some stuff got all muddled up, and now they are inclined to hurt others for their own sexual gratification, either directly or indirectly. Paedophiles and animal abusers are the only groups of people I see fit for genocide, and I don’t think I am alone on that. But it’s the slippery slope, right? We kill a few thousand people for these offences, we then become desensitised and start killing other groups of people for different reasons. I mean, we’ve done it before. We need to do something different to the scum of the earth though, because right now we don’t have enough rooms to lock all these people away and our current system isn’t really working for preventing or halting their harmful behaviour. Some cling onto wishful thinking, believing we can rehabilitate and redeem even the worst of people. I think this is true when it comes to such things as uncontrolled aggression and kleptomania, resulting in murder and thievery, but when it concerns sexuality, oh boy. They tried to rehabilitate homosexuals (still do in some places) for years and years, and it obviously doesn’t work. Sure, you can train the sheepdog not to attack the sheep, but it still wants to. These carnal desires within us can’t be taken away or changed much, that’s my belief from interpreting the evidence. Let’s not waste our time and money trying; it’s not in the public’s interest to do so. If we can’t genocide them or lock them away, perhaps a special type of punishment should be reserved for them. Public shaming seems like a good idea. The scene from Game of Thrones where Cersei (also the name of my pet royal python) was walked naked through the city streets past all of her people shouting and spitting at her while a bell was ringing to the word ‘shame’ was really provocative to me. So often are we encouraged to keep private matters concealed and to mind our own business, but I don’t think that should apply to such serious transgressions as the crimes I am on about. We certainly now have an abundance of media coverage, which is our modern walk of shame, having your face plastered on everyone’s news feeds with the headline of what you’ve done. But I don’t think that’s enough. The next headline soon pops up, rendering the previous one almost meaningless. It has no real impact on us, while the perpetrator is hushed away into a quiet and protected safe place out of public sight. As useful as para-social interactions can be, they can never fully replace that visceral ‘in real life’ experience of lobbing a piece of mouldy fruit at the nonce in the stocks. It would bring the community together, I think. I imagine that people travelled quite a distance to gather and watch the local witches getting burned back in old England, giving them a show while having the chance to catch up with the other respectful, or at least harmless members of their society. Sharing a common evil has always brought people together, you can’t deny that. We just never seemed to get the people we put on display right. Religion and racism have clouded our minds and judgements for centuries, but that’s a whole other topic for me to write about.

#entry 2 #destruction #ramblings

[erikthedead]

entry #1

I have finally acquired Microsoft Word! I really didn’t want to pay a monthly subscription for it, but it is the best writing software out there. Every time I mention myself spending money, a small prayer goes out to all the tax-paying members of the nation, since all my money comes from Universal Credit, which is the United Kingdom’s cute name for a type of welfare money. I much prefer just calling it ‘welfare,’ or even better ‘NEETbux,’ which I discovered used in online forums as a word for the money people receive when they are not in education, employment, or training (N.E.E.T), which has been my status for about two years now. Then ‘bux’ is just ‘bucks,’ obviously. Bucks is just money, obviously. Many people receiving Universal Credit also work as well; they just receive less - enough to supplement their wages if they aren’t getting enough money from their jobs.  

My last job was working in a busy restaurant for just about a year. Before that I was in university, but I dropped out after only completing the first year out of three. Before that, I worked as a carer for elderly people for just under a year. Before that, I was in college for two years, and I actually passed the course. I only passed it because the subject was forensic science, which included lots of writing about psychology, criminology and lab reports. I was never that good in the lab practically. I got flustered and bewildered in such a bright, sanitary environment that required precision and organisation to achieve the desired results. When it came to scrambling together a report to submit the next day though, I was pretty golden. I only dropped out of university because I had a mental break down as a result of poor mental health and just the fact that going outside and interacting with people was and still is incredibly exhausting for me. After a year of doing that consistently it seems, I get fatigued. In the end I got an average grade for the college course because some of the work was difficult, or boring, and that fatigue was hitting me by the second year. However, the grades I was getting on my university assignments for psychology and sociology were anywhere between top marks and good marks (Between 1st – 2:2 in UK student language). I never once read the feedback from the tutors who marked my work. All I needed to know was the mark was okay and moved on to the next assignment, firstly because I was arrogant and secondly, I couldn’t handle criticism. The mental break down itself involved me walking through the campus one day only to find myself slipping into a dissociative state. Nothing had happened immediately prior to trigger this, it just happened. It felt strange, like I wasn’t really real, and neither was anyone else. Everything felt distant and off, both externally and internally. It was frightening and strangely peaceful, as if at any moment someone could come in and blow the building up and I wouldn’t even react to it. That wasn’t normal. The only way to snap out of it was to lock myself in a toilet cubicle and lightly slice my arm with a tiny knife I had on my keys. It worked, but now I was in floods of tears and a state of distress, so I went to the student welfare services to see if they could help me or at least let me sit somewhere nicer than a toilet while I calmed down. It was an open office waiting area at the side of the bottom floor of a building that matched the layout of a prison ward with the stairs and the upper floors creating a square boarder of classrooms, that would have been cells for a prison. More for practical purposes than for aesthetic reasons, I’m sure. Still sobbing, and hiding my self-inflicted cuts, I asked the person behind the desk if I could ‘see someone,’ which is one polite British way of asking for help. After waiting a little while, a plump middle-aged lady appeared and brought me into her own little private office to ask me what had happened. She gave me her sympathy and asked me about my life and my history, and gave me some more sympathy, while relating her own experiences to mine. She was a good counsellor, basically. But having a good counsellor on site wasn’t enough to keep me on the course after that incident. Getting a degree just wasn’t worth it at the time. Being such a depressed and pessimistic person, I was only actually doing the course for ‘fun’ anyway, not for the hope that it will bring me a better future. Until recently, I never saw a future for myself. It wasn’t even a bleak future I imagined; it was just blank. I couldn’t even conceptualise it.

It’s not a mystery where all my misery came from. My childhood was a bit inconsistent to start, and from what I’ve observed, children need consistency more than anything to develop promisingly. I remember reading a study once that found children raised by parents who were consistently abusive to them were in fact more mentally stable than those raised by parents who could be lovely one day and nasty the next. It was not knowing what treatment they were going to get that did them in. It makes sense because if you’re always expecting to face a thrashing or a shouting at every day, you can at least prepare for it and train yourself to deal with it. We’re very adaptable creatures, but we need to be able to recognise patterns around us to do that. If there is no pattern, then how can we possibly make predictions? Without predictions, how can we possibly feel secure about our future? Having said all that, I was never abused in any way growing up, but I was sometimes neglected by my young mother, who was only 16 when she gave birth to me. Of course, it’s understandable now, but from a child’s perspective all you think is ‘why doesn’t my mum want me?’ When she sends you to your room for no reason and tells you not to come down for hours at a time. I asked ‘why’ a lot. Never got a good reason. I’m sure plenty of people who were raised by a drug-addicted parent can relate to this. She herself was a good mother, not amazing, but good. She told me she loved plenty of times, she gave me what she could, including a little sister when I was three years old. I think it was shortly after her birth that mum started taking heroin. It was only during drug education in year five of school (I would have been about 11) that I put the pieces together. She hid her addiction pretty well from us, but I sometimes found pieces of tin foil lying around the living room with lines of black residue on them, and once or twice witnessed her junkie friends ‘nodding off.’ There’s also a clear memory in my mind of being taken along by her and my nan to score some brown out of town and I can picture in my head the massive set of old-fashioned scales this drug dealer had sat on his coffee table right in front of me. I was too young to understand any of their lingo, though. Yes, I mentioned my nan, my mum’s mum. They got smacked up together, and they eventually got clean together. I’ll never know the details of how that came about because neither of them are alive anymore to ask. Mum died when I was 14 by taking an overdose of her methadone, then nan died when was 21 of a heart attack, likely due to the COPD she had developed from years of smoking.

My nan was so full of love for my mum, my sister and me. Some of my favourite childhood memories are being snuggled up in bed listening to her read me stories, which she did with flare and enthusiasm. She would affectionately call us her ‘wobblies,’ and give us more hugs kisses than we ever wanted. My mum definitely inherited her loving nature from her. But love on its own isn’t enough to keep kids clothed and fed and able to go out and do things. This is where the legend that is my grandad comes in. He is still going strong at 66 years old as of writing. God knows where I’d be without him. He’s been my father figure all my life since I never knew who or where my real dad was. He’s hard-working, reliable, responsible and strong. He supported us immensely despite not relating to him biologically. My biological grandfather was a free-spirited busker who liked to smoke and drink a lot, who I only met a hand full of times before he hanged himself when I was 19. His death did not affect me, but my mum’s and nan’s certainly did. I’ll probably have to see my grandad die as well eventually, and I don’t dread anything more.

Although I started off describing my family background by saying it’s obvious where my source of misery comes from, I must emphasise that my family is not the source of my misery. My childhood overall was pretty forgettable. I only have a few memories and they’re fond memories, despite the unfortunate situation I just described. Even getting my face ripped open by the neighbour’s dog when I was six didn’t faze me. It was only when puberty hit me that life started to feel horrible, and it just got worse.

I was an early bloomer, if blooming is what you call it. I call it mutating. I started getting hairy and growing tits when I was 10, and got my period about a year later. Now THAT is a traumatic memory. Waking up and going for a morning wee as usual, sitting down on the toilet and being overcome with horror at the sight of blood covering my pyjamas, realising there’s only one place that could have come from, then investigating the source only to confirm ‘Oh shit, I’m bleeding from between my legs!’ I was living with my nan and grandad at the time and I stayed there (or here, since I’m still living in the same house as of writing) under their guardianship while mum sorted herself out. After the shocking discovery of blood, I immediately ran into nan’s bedroom to wake her up. I vividly remember what and how she responded to me. With a sigh of what seemed like unsettling disappointment she said “Oh, darling, I’m sorry, I’m afraid you’ve got your period.’  I wonder now if she said it like that because she felt guilty for not warning me about this, as she should have. Someone should have. In all fairness I was young, but the other kids in my year at school were soon popping into adolescence alongside me, so I thought that soon enough everyone else would be going through what I was going through, but that wasn’t the case. I was bullied for having chronic acne. I was also a bit of a chubby boffin, but it was mostly the acne that people targeted me for. The girls shaved their legs once they started to get hairy, and I remember thinking ‘Damn, I suppose I’ve got to do that too,’ despite never wearing a skirt. They also seemed to relish in showing off and comparing their bras in the changing rooms, while I hid away as very best as I could. Make-up was a constant battle between students and teachers because they all wanted to look pretty, but it wasn’t allowed in middle school (Year 5-8), so luckily, I had an excuse for not wearing it. I’d regularly complain to my family about hating going to school, and how depressed I was, but it was all put down to teenage blues. ‘You’ll be alright once your hormones settle down,’ I was told more than once.  I remember my nan telling me I would miss going to school when I was older and so far she’s been proven wrong.  

#life #life 1 #ramblings #transgender #diary

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Blood and Guts

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hisoka

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5/2015 (pre-literally everything) >>>> 5/2020 (4 years + a few months on t, and 8 months post top surgery!!)

This post is sponsored by google photos which showed me a pic of me getting ready for prom in high school 12 fucking years ago and I just looked so completely entirely 100% miserable!!! I can hardly believe that person was ever me tbh. I’m gonna go ahead and keep that pic to myself, and also fuck u google ugh I hated that dress

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I don’t wanna be equal, cuz I know I’m fuckin better than you!!!

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Some dark Hannigram-Fanart- what a stunning series

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PAPA TAKE ME

Mads Mikkelsen by Vincent Capman

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