Hello, World

happy birthday [check your own spelling]

Guess that’s my (sub)title, and I guess this makes me a blogger. Long before its publication, what you’re reading was written. This whole thing is nuts for reasons you might not be ready to understand. My current life has become a joke that wasn’t funny 40 years ago when I first experienced the opening line. Why do I continue bothering? Humanity could’ve been wildly different. But it’s this.

Thing.

Is this what we’re meant to be?

Can you intelligently argue that this stuffy “thing” is even worth saving?

Don’t answer that—doesn’t matter. I’ve decided your race earns the save [my saving grace {and your “savior”}] despite itself.

I didn’t write our language—I’m just the asshole who figured out how to decode an ever-spreading translation.

How is this even possible? A technologically advanced, sentient species connects to each other at lightspeed over worldwide {invisibly electric spider- and cob-}webs which weave informative autobahnen of creative exchange, and the unruly majority doesn’t acknowledge your status as a member of a planetary race of beings who epitomize the naturally emotional instincts underlying our artificially higher intelligence. What is wrong with us, “Earthlings”? As of 04/04/19 [no matter how you read that date {obviously}], there are 195 countries.

GET A FUCKING CLUE. There is but one “country” [i.e. land] on our planet called “earth.” Are you picking up what’s being slammed onto the ground at your feet? Fuck.

EARTH is our strongest definition of “country,” the only homeland (for now) we’ve {n}ever known. I, too, am losing myself between the lines of our corrosive realities.

The planet earth sets the stage whereupon we must make our next (several) stands against the gravity of extinction.

Cycles have a clever way of feeding themselves in order to build mass.

Off that note, I have a sneaking suspicion that life would be far less complicated for me if I were dead.

God, I’m hilarious in my own head.

Make no mistake—I’m not suicidal {though I do see the practicality of the act as a carefully premeditated decision}, but I’m not sure how versions of my future self in humankind’s presently toxic environment might feel. [Spellcheck mocks me yet {while in utter ignorance of itself, I might add} again with its stupid red squiggle.] Fuck off already (unless you’re paying attention).

Considering (those of) you who may be paying attention, let’s be real for a minute while nobody’s paying attention—it’ll make “later” even more laughably delicious than “then” or “now.” When you’re just done, it makes sense to throw in the towel. I get it. Wave your whitest flag when there’s nothing left to do. I don’t judge people who off themselves; I judge people who don’t self-destruct when they should. It’s a math problem. If you continuously waste energy, then your presence becomes useless. Removing your body from the equation frees up your energy (and light) for others to use (ideally) more efficiently.

The world buckles under the weight of all these useless, shiny distractions.

This is a representation of your depressing and unnatural human existence within the unfriendly confines of the capitalist (and false) reality here in the good old-fashioned “Land of the Free.” You are actually living in an illusory type of sequential matrix. It works because it has been defined as “comfortable.” Understand? You’re being steered toward a place where your puppeteers want you to find “comfort.” You take the colored pills. Some people write in blue ink while others sharpen an arsenal of red lead they may never use. Clearly, once again, I’m referring to anything, everything, and nothing. Society has been conditioned accordingly. You may not yet realize that you will understand someday. We can only be blinded by what reflects before our prying eyes.

Anyway. Let’s get this show on the road. Where were we? Where are we? When are we?

This morning I punctured the 26-minute barrier on an 8-mile run for the first time since I left my home turf (back in ‘79).

In 1922, I learned that I was born in 1920.

Emotional energy burns extremely hot.

Also, at times {or so it would seem}, math can be overlooked.

(Start paying attention.)

I can sprint one mile in no more than 2 minutes. I just checked. My leg muscles haven’t seen this kind of action in years. I must be high on endorphins. I’m exercising again with a purpose. Hell, in theory, I could still run a 4.5-minute mile uphill in the snow at night—with a boost of adrenaline, perhaps even significantly faster. Just thinking about that kind of agony feels good. There’s a certain degree of thigh-burn that can only be achieved by sprinting at full tilt [honestly only 99.3%] for nine straight minutes in subzero temperatures at night. I have missed the smell of fear emanating from my own porous glands. Tomorrow I’ll start sprinting for ten minutes at a time.

We all need something to conquer, no?

Even after all this time, I can’t seem to forget to remember. Or remember to forget. Either option would produce the desired result. If my calculations are correct—and they always are {usually}, unless something changes [such as the reemergence of hope as well as a meaningful purpose that validates my existence and endows my mind with a profound sense of fulfillment]—I will die in battle [(in)gloriously] before I turn 100.

As you ({only} may) know, things have changed since I wrote that. My purpose has been renewed by appropriately initialed, metaphorical dynamite. I’ve seriously never met this human female (of spiritually “elven” descent), and yet, somehow, I know that in an alternate espionage and/or superheroic/magical fantasy of anybody’s creation, her {code}name would be Hypothesis Sêth [hahaha]. In that case, I suppose (off the fried top of my accelerating head) mine would be Trimspeck Hypothesis/Hatless. Eyeranny, perhaps. Maybe both all three! [Also an obvious Gnome and Allyte {plus the later-identified magenta-haired Troll & her “bank alt” Helicks}.]

Editing text across time is a fucking hoot, lemme tell ya.

Whatever. I’m sure it’s all a fictitious ploy to make your panties drop, and I’m certain it will (not) work. How can I be so sure that one thing will happen if the other doesn’t? I’m merely attempting to unpack my vantage point as a wannabe mad scientist weighed down by emotional infancy. I’ve thought about this shit for a long time—that’s why it bubbles up and runneth over (the rim of) your cup.

There I we go again.

Don’t go out and play just yet; instead, come inside. Go deep. “Mmm,” yeah? Or nah? Think no more than once (in this very special case). Obey nature. Mentally dive into the annals of your own personal time-prism.

Anyhow, whatever the case may be, humanity has/have [depending on where you’re from] accrued substantiated stacks of evidential reason(s) to believe that when two people come together with a mutual appreciation and respect for what’s happening between them as well as swirling in chaos all around, if they can then stare into one another’s souls and recognize their shared essence in the blissful gravity of what’s transpiring at their cores, then nature might suggest regular displays of solidarity in the most magically fluid way—i.e. “uglies” genuinely need to be “bumped” in favor (of ________.) 

Evidently I’ve researched this even further. Please remain calm, but it’s all very simple. When you get down to it, physical intimacy can only manifest in successful expression by exchanging fluids, swapping spit, mixing deoxyribonucleic acid, et cetera.

Apparently I must confess that I can only imagine staring into your mate’s soul during any volatile act which (en)tangles {legs}. When I envision a connection remotely close to that, I melt as virtually all my sweat glands activate, but (maybe I should accept that) I’m stupid. Create such an instance in your chasm of wonder if only you don’t mind the enthusiastic release of a substance that could alter the course of (y)our existence [by killing you]. Again, in scientific terms {though not} only.

Lately most of the feedback I get comes courtesy of my other personalities.

Obviously there’s that goddamned “(y)” again up there a couple hard returns back—only this time, it’s different.

Only is a word (forgot  to insert “clearly” [capitalized {clearly}] at the beginning) which seems to boast a particular affinity for repeating in spite of appearing {ex-/in}clusive.

Id est [i.e. “in other words”], since she must be “Her,” then I must be “yours.”

And “we” must be ours.

By definition, “ours” is a labeled agreement that something is equal parts yours and mine. It should come as no surprise that the second of the two terms [mine] contributing to that relationship [yours] has been disregarded from the originally condensed (and numerically strengthened [i.e. strawberry-assed]) product’s imprint of their union [our].

Put another way, we’re still not drunk enough to understand why we’re better as one.

Also, a year later, I’ll set a personal best in the 8-mile run, but I will never top my best single mile time of 59.99 seconds (set in 1975 at age 55 when I couldn’t have been any riper). I was hyper because I had just seen the first movie [Bambi] that had any emotional impact on my being in 33 years. The only other movie to move me [only in retrospect, wickedly enough] happened three years earlier.

I’m sorry, but I can’t lift every finger here. Lift a few for me. Use your personal assistant to find out which movie affected my 14-year-old brain in the context of the previously indicated year (from the perspective of a prodigal child/biracial outsider). I’ll at least clue you in to the fact that as far as the box office charts from the year currently bouncing around between our butting melons, the colorfully moving picture in question occupied Infrared^th place on the list. Right on cue, spellcheck shows up again to check itself in consecutive sentences in case we forgot the spotlight blaring all over its stupidity.

This is all especially funny now that even then I was acutely aware of emotional heat’s snowballing impact on the Level 80 Fireball known as “life.” It’s funny how matter tends to meld into the same form. It’s almost as if, oh, you dunno, life itself becomes a sort of beautifully twisting “filter” demanding additional turns of the dial. What will “this” look like from the next angle?

Anyway, “we” are definitely gonna need a bigger boat.

Starting tomorrow, I think you’ll up the ante. We’ve already come so far.

No longer shall eight miles constitute my benchmark. Out with the old.

The new number [i.e. color] is 10!

I’m serially Siri(us) [X{OXO}M]. TEN. That’s our number. We must unite to make it happen. Ten. Go back and reread it again and again if necessary. #10. It’s all the new raging hotness, and [one way or another] this all makes (im)perfect{ly perfect} sense. Once you feel the tug, just trust it. Give yourself to the force, of course. Gee. Don’t stop short of satisfaction. Let yourself […fall] (go)! I’d bet you each and every gold nugget I’ll never possess that you’ll like where we all land.

All considerable things being flat/equal—perhaps “flatequal” should be defined as a new word before someone commandeers it as a transgendered urbanized moniker [oh, oops!]—the ability to carry my body on foot for 10km in less than 19.5209292 minutes implies a level of fitness which should easily exceed anything I might require heading into the immediate future.

Again, in stark contrast to my academic illumination, I make no calculation lightly. I’ve been doing the same thing for a long time. I’ve remained stuck in this particular chapter of my life for almost forty years. I’ve known the same truth for even longer. When did I even write this? I thought I wrote it a year ago, but now I realize that a minimum of 5 years must have passed—you can tell I never foresaw “settling down” long enough to watch TWO World Cups from the same reclining leather sofa. Go to hell, algebraic pattern of death!

In other words, apparently I started this, my “first” blog post before I decided to need a false identity in order to experience “culture” at the bottom floor and ultimately solve the riddle that would save the world [should the people of earth allow it]—instead of splitting the cold heads of hungry monsters like I was groomed from birth to do. Guess there will always be time for that!

Yes, in fact, I hope that you’re a galacian/belanoc [if we’re on the same team, you’ll know how to read this, mmmkay?], and that reading this [deja vu?] inspires a thirsty craving for my bloody brain, and that we’re able to lock eyes as you wildly charge me, overcome with undoubtedly disorienting titillation after taking aim at your most prized trophy, and right before I destroy your earthly vessel [this is where our paths will definitively diverge if we’re not allied] after cutting off its head. Don’t worry. Your eyes’ll continue absorbing the comedic tragedy befalling you as your Synapses remain aflame in spite of the severance package I’ve just surprise-delivered to your body’s central nervous system. I will look into the ultraviole{n}t heart of your dilating pupils [upside down, even] as I split your slimy head between its empty eyes.

The only mistake I consistently make is incorrectly assuming that I am mistaken about anything fucking ever.

Not sure which one of my personalities said this!

I mean every word of this—in effect, my last will and testament.

My reality rarely shifts to accommodate actuality. We’re chasing a carrot that dangles in front of you, perpetually just beyond my reach. Working as intended, I suppose.

Giddyup?

Today the sum of my existence has brought me here. Here to day one of this insignificant “B-Log” (which must mean it comes 1^st [if not second {or fifth}] in the introductory [9 or TEN AGAIN {fuck me sideways—I don’t know anymore; also where even are we in this goddamn sentence!?} sequence [wait, wha?]) intentionally shrouded in a thin veil of ambiguity not because a tribal sense of duty calls me to this sweltering hellhole [summer in the Southeastern U.S.] of ingrained defeat wherein your skin stays comprehensively enveloped by a warm wet blanket of unavoidable UV radiation, but because morbid curiosity has been getting the best of me for the better part of the last half century. 

When you get down to brass tacks, aren’t we all pretty much just passing through?

Damn. Was “I” ever.

Are you confused about who wrote this?

Here’s another clue. I wrote this (with your help). ‘Twas only me [it was our “US!”].

I literally told you already that I’m not human. My headspace needs to be reset every so often. Usually around the decamark, actually. I have reason to believe that a naturally oriented human brain requires deca-setting {or -calibration, if you like} of sorts, usually.

The male brain, rather for sure. Since that’s all I know [thus can’t relate to the other from experience] and the only one of the two with which I cannot identify in the slightest anymore. Me? A massively introverted, highly trained/skilled, uniquely gifted physical specimen of hybridized origins embodies a being who, in essence, has become a spokesperson for human femininity (not to be mistaken for “The Feminist Movement”).

Just like you, I need contact. Connection. Think I might get some of that.

I’m going insane all alone, disconnected from the natural world, insulated by synthetic machinations. I’m only half human, people. The annoying half. It’s tiresomely taxing—in other words, it’s the only way you know to be.

Not for one backward nanosecond to be confused with the biblical character “God,” thank god!

Must we mess with each other? Perhaps you don’t even realize what’s happening between us. We’re fusing. Relax! You’re gonna be okay {unless you die first}.

Unlike you, I don’t have a tribe. Had one for the first 59 years of my life.

Even if you’ve chosen to identify with a tribe, do you really feel like you belong?

I don’t think I belong anywhere right now. Maybe a few millenia one way or the other and I’d feel more at home.

No, in gross terms of “now,” I’m completely alone in the world.

I need a new tribe. Technically I need a W.A. [“world army”] but you gotta start somewhere. Where are we in time again? I don’t know anymore. Wee! Whoops. Sorry. “Giddyup.” Again. And again. A pattern! Shit. Patterns spiral. Oh, shit. Spirals funnel downward with depressing exclusivity {and outwardly impressive production}. Fuck that—I’m out [‘kay, bye]!

If you’re reading this sentence, it’s entirely possible that in my heart of hearts, truly, I do love you. It’s entirely possible [even way more], also, that I don’t. Either way, {you/we}’re okay. ‘Tis I who am not “okay.”

A new tribe would start a new chapter. I want to make something (of myself) which justifiably permits my taking pride its creation. I don’t want to share what I really know because of the unwanted attention it’ll attract; however, what I really know needs to be shared. Desperately. I’m not sure a lonelier existence is possible.

Therefore, I’m going to do the unthinkable.

I am divulging something that invites assassination from many angles. I suppose I’ve already started. In actual fact, there’s no telling how much I must have shared by the time your intake of this exact thought [yes, this one (here)] unravel{s/ed} as a wondrous mystery between us two—i.e. me and you. (There, there,) I know thinking is hard work, but I/we/you can do it if you put your mind to it!

This is between us.

Now go forth and tell everyone we’ve ever known.

Some say we have half a century left as kings of the castle. Others are less optimistic; they say five years. There’s no room for optimism in my equation; it’s too full of realism. As of 2018, we have two years or less. I finished this entry approximately a year after starting it, so things have changed. Two One more years [tops] of deaf, dumb, blind consumption before your reality upends human civilization through a heretofore unfathomable twist of events. Don’t say I didn’t (kinda) warn you.

It’s too late anyway. Humanity’s carbon footprint has already set events irreversibly in motion [yay]; and, quite unfortunately, we still haven’t figured out time-travel—not physically, that is, but tell me something: in what nature are you and I existing at the moment?

Hint: it’s not physical.

Final round in a one-two punch of hints: it should be.

Let me in there. Essentially I’m naked in this space. I lack my lifelong armor, my outward stoicism, my impenetrable onion. I know we’re in the same realm mentally and emotionally—duh, look at us go—but we need to remember that physically {though I may be very different from you at an atomic level} we are meant to play for the same team.

Right now, we’re somewhere else. Someplace we both think we’d rather be not.

Shakespeare knew knows what made the world go round. Is this “random”?

Deals have been made between the Galacian King, Magnus Rex [no, they don’t name themselves (that we/I know of); names have been assigned for educational purposes (almost) “only”], and a bunch of rich, old, white men lording over global economics.

Your parenthetical awareness slays me slowly [a tantalizing pace, as it were] with a passion we might only perceive in (virtual) reality.

The G.E. was set to rise between the years of 4,000 and 5,000, but human activity has altered their sleeping schedules. What a bunch of prima donnas, amirite? Ew, that last word’s survival by any spellcheck’s standards hurts me, by the way. As it’s likely not evident, I’m compelled to point out that the spellcheck I’m using “caught” itself  only twice within the cozy confines of this paragraph’s silky blanket (in the last two sentences). Stupid “spellcheck” is stupid, stupid {unless you quote it, apparently—also what the fuck}.

Obviously I wasn’t calling you stupid. Clearly we share an understanding you can’t quite put your finger on, but it’s always been there. It’s what we observed “back in the academy” as your physically goddamned, emotional natures. Do you even see what I did there?

What are we doing?

Per the deal, Galacia will rise again in 2100. However, should a cooling period occur around 2030, which seems plausible, I’m certain they’ll break the contract. That’s why I reckon I’m gonna have to force them out in two a years or less.

On the rainiest day amidst the reliably “April” showers of 2019, I can see clearly now that (in 2020) it all goes down.

The climate and weather suck here. They [our shared enemies] will fucking hate it, to put it mildly. It will minimize their efficiency, to say the least. Fuck me. The metaphors. I don’t normally “curse” this much but it’s particularly vibrant in the text unfolding out of my control. I’m glad you brought this up, too. Can we just stop already? Why are any of us applying needless filters to our toolkits of communication? It’s our language. Use it or lose it, fucker(s). Sensitivity will get you nowhere unless you’re aware of what’s happening.

We need every advantage we can get. Humans can’t win an outright physical contest against galacians/belanoc. We have to nickel-and-dime them to death. We must outwill them. It’s the only way.

As a whole, fellow being, learning to communicate with each other in ways that all others are emotionally incapable of understanding is our only course of action that might sidestep extinction.

Extinction is the rule. Survival is the exception.

Carl Sagan

Humans would be wise to exploit their racial advantage. We have written a language that we alone may truly understand. Whether you realize it or not, we continue writing our malleable linguistic code (once again, “once again”) at the speed that squares even light.

Perhaps I’m daydreaming about a merma{n/id}.

Honestly who isn’t?

Also, why did one [the “n”] come before the other [the id: according to Merriam-Webster: “the one of the three divisions of the psyche in psychoanalytic theory that is completely unconscious and is the source of psychic energy derived from instinctual needs and drives”]?

Because you’re helping me mess with your head by being present in our mind.

I’m not trying to imply that you have to listen me. I would never perpetrate such a degree of tyrannical implication. I’m merely pointing out that you will die horribly if you do not grasp what I must be telling anyone poorly.

Right now, I’m still doing a job for which I was not hired, and for which I do not—and will not ever—get paid.

I’m not complaining. I’m trying to be relatable, I guess.

I don’t need money. (I’m trying to undermine my relatability, I guess.)

Lately, what have you done for anyone?

For decades (3.9, in fact), I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to surprise my mother’s older, only sibling by severing the brainstem from his jealous, patriarchal rivalry.

Scientifically speaking, by an arguable technicality, Severus Rex [my biological uncle] is the most apex of all (single) predators on the planet, terrestrial or otherwise. Believe me (if you dare), I was involved in a decades-spanning debate on this very opinionated subject in underground bunkers comprised of humanity’s most radiant intellects of the time. Throw Uncle Sevy’s ass in the ocean with the actual biggest, meanest, most voracious shark on the planet—the smart money isn’t on the big fish with sharp teeth; it’s on the unilaterally evolving, furiously mutating, brilliantly brainy creature with lethal fangs. (A pod of orcas might destroy him, though.)

There is no emotion with a more powerful gravitational pull on me than that of curiosity. Perhaps the same could be said of you. For most people, their controlling {dominant} emotion amounts to greed. But not for me [us]. And I’m okay with that, because greed is what got humanity [again, “us”] into this gigantic mess currently spiraling out of control, swirling outwardly forward [clockwise] {in the only direction it knows}, just like the thread of time upon which our story unfurls.

I’m a freak of nature, and I’m looking for other freaks (like you). I’m revealing my feathers. Consider them “Peacockian” [do your thang only once in this sentence, spellcheck, for some unknown reason].

Threaten “(H/h)er” life, and you will leave me no choice—I will put your sorry ass down.

Anyway, the sun is setting, and I’m still sitting here (at a coffee shop, believe it or not [why would I lie?]) as if I’m not going to do what I’m about to go do. As if I’m going to talk myself out of this. As if you’re not getting the hang of our layered code. As if I’m going to try the “walking away” strategy for a change. As if we’re not already unified {inside one another’s enlightened heads}.

Eerily, I don’t know what’s about to happen, but it obviously works out in the end!

Given all the lives I’ve taken—mostly not intraracial [for now, don’t worry if you don’t know what I mean; I’m often clueless myself, prospective ally]—it’s breathtakingly ironic that currently I’m siding with MJ over Paul. Interpret the countlessly intangible signs before physical evidence crashlands into the symbolic body of {h}our{ly} work{ing essence}. Drift between the meanings in whatever rhythm feels right at the time.

When you lose your voice, simply wait for an opportunity to reclaim it.

Opportunities would not exist were in not for their desire to present.

Wait long enough and good things must {by physical law} come.

Write our future right.

I bring your darkest, most shining (k)night.

Do any of us know where/what the fuck we’re going/doing?

Nope.

Off (you and) I go on the other side of the following obligatory sentence (yet again):

Hello, world!