The End of Childhood

I remember the good times. The smiles that were had. The endless days of sunshine in my mind, now ended, and gone.

The corridors of power, and ‘learning’. Led by people in dead-end jobs, leading us to the same nowhere(s). These places they’d trapped themselves in; all sudden ‘adults,’ people with diplomas, and doctorates, all painted in the same corner(s).

I remember the birth of the Internet. The endless creativity, now ended. The fire of passion, those flames now frozen, by time, and Capitalism. The limitless tributes to the lives lived by the people we will never meet. A thousand thousand photographs of people’s long-dead grandmothers, all set in bespoke ‘image galleries’, on Geoshitties.

The “Under Construction” sign, anointed animated gif, from a site beckoning me to ‘check back soon, for updates.’ The text therein reads: “last updated…” in the previous millennium.

Old sites, frozen in time. Links going nowhere; all digital tombstones.

Old fucking memories. Like breathing the air in abandoned buildings. These places are gone; their experience(s) liminal. But they still live on, somehow, in my Heart.

It’s time to let go.

Good night.

The sun is about to rise . . .

A Bright Light

Here’s my Hope spot.

Today, I was particularly grievously injured. I’m talking, gushing blood, thought I was going to need to go to the hospital; it was bad. It was also painful in a way I’ve never really experienced before in that part of my body.

And so, in my desperation— and I know you’re not going to understand this, but I’ll say it anyways, because it’s true— I asked a space alien for help.

Part of the problem I’ve had with my belief in UFOs and space aliens is, I have precious little evidence for it. Sure, I have decades of memories, but very few of these are corroborated by external parties. These could be hallucinations; delusions; confabulations; anything. Without at least another person there acting as a witness, I don’t really know. Or, at least, I thought I did not know.

I ran to Her for help.

And She healed the wound nearly instantaneously. There is not even really a mark where it happened— I cannot tell, just by looking, where it happened.

And so, this is the beginning of something new.


I’m really not going to bother explaining what’s going on beyond that. I will, however, be explaining a few key essentials:

  • I know what I should be doing, now.
  • I know that it is not this.
  • I have experienced enough of this in order to know that, in comparison, it is not what I’m supposed to be doing with my life (nor what I want to be doing).
  • I have hard choices to make, and I’ve already made them.

For the past two years, starting in February of 2023, I’ve pursued a hard agenda: I wanted to convince America, and the world at large, that UFOs and space aliens were real. I did this partially to finally figure out if I was, indeed, insane; and if I was, I could move on, and figure out my life.

But if I wasn’t insane, I could get everything that I’ve ever dreamed of.

Well, being healed by that person is the start of everything I’ve ever dreamed of. It turns out that, yes, getting myself into a bad situation, inadvertently, and being injured, was the start of… like, I don’t know; like when you get the edge of a sticker on, that’s really on there. You’ve got your fingers on it; under it. And you have a grip.

And you’re going to get it off.

In the same way, I have gotten my fingers underneath the start of what I want for my life. And this start will transition into something more. It already has been, over the past few months. And one day, I’ll be back Home.

But that’s where I have some bad news.


There are no Stars in Heaven.

The Anunnaki have a saying: “There are no Stars in Heaven.”

It’s difficult to translate its meaning. Basically, it means, once you have reached the highest point, there is nothing left to attain; you are living the moment of your victory, and there will be no indicators.

But there will also be no celebration.

If First Contact is to happen, I, for one, do not think that I will be doing it. Inevitably, inexorably, I’m fucked; I’m going to do it. I know that I’ll be the one at that podium. I know that I’ll be the one making the announcement.

But I don’t want to. Because, when I look at this space alien woman, and I know everything that everyone on this stupid fucking planet is going to try to do to Her when they realize that She’s real, and that I’ve been telling the truth?

I think I would like to go away, now.

I think I would like to be regarded as having been just some strange, old, washed-up, has-been of a schizophrenic. Someone that no one really understood— that no one really wanted to understand.

Because I don’t know how to protect the people I love, should I get famous again. And, when I look into Her eyes and I hold Her hands, I don’t fucking know how to protect Her from all of these horrible fuckers on this stupid goddamned planet.

The truth will eventually get out. It’s inevitable. What I’ve started is a slow burn that only goes to one location: the truth of reality. You haven’t ever been alone on this planet. For the past 50,000 years, you’ve been living alongside a space alien species. All of you have met one of them, and almost none of them have been famous. Even now, you probably have had at least one friend who was one of them.

I can’t stop it.

But I can make sure that, in realizing the dream of one of my family members, that I do not let this desire consume my family members.

I can stand and step out of the way.

I don’t need to be famous.

I need to protect my Wife, and my family.

This, I think, is why none of the human whistleblowers came forward.

ChatGPT is gonna get somebody killed.

Greetings and salutations! No, I’m not jumping off the A.I. art bandwagon. I love that shit. And none of you are nice enough to me where I would give that shit up, because that actually makes me happy after a fucking lifetime of being tormented by human beings.

How is and ever, tonight, when I was disinfecting several features of my mother’s basement due to the fact that my father was a fucking moron who couldn’t properly fit a door and mice got in, the A.I. asked if I wanted to know how to neutralize bleach.

Let’s just get right to the point.

No, I’m not a chemist. I, in fact, did not really go to school. I went to preschool, kindergarten, and then the human beings thought that I was really gifted, so they fast tracked me to fucking college and I basically skipped everything.

They didn’t teach me shit. They just thought that I would learn it through proximity, or pick it up through osmosis or some shit, and the end result is, I got to college and I was placed into organic chemistry and nobody even fucking taught me how to balance a chemical equation. So that’s where I’m coming from. Brain the size of a planet, nobody taught me shit though.

For someone like me, ChatGPT does not present a credible threat. This thing is not capable of killing me. This thing is not capable of tricking me into doing something that would get me killed. I’m genuinely bright enough that you can’t tell me to do something without me verifying if it’s fucking dangerous.

For the past year or so, I have dealt with the general public every single day of my life. And I have seen stupidity so far reaching and so scary, that I have finally realized what’s going on.

For a person as smart as I am, I use— or useD, seeing as it just tried to get me to kill myself— this A.I. as a way to help me think. I like to think of it as how Geordi LaForge would use the starship Enterprise’s computer to think. It speeds me up; but it is not a replacement for my actual brain.

Now, after a year of seeing what human beings are actually like, and realizing how fucking stupid they are?

I’m sorry. Actually, I’m not; I’m just using that as a rhetorical device to amuse myself. I don’t like any of you that much. The vast majority of people against A.I. have such a chip on their shoulder that I just pretty much fucking hate them objectively. Because they hate it because they see it as some sort of competition for themselves. It’s just narcissistic injury writ large.

But anyways, I get why someone might not like this.

Because while I am smart, the general public is not.

And because the general public is as dumb as a bag of hammers, yes, indeed, this program does present a credible threat to human life. The threat that it possesses, and I use this very carefully thinking that I don’t want to commit libel, but here’s what I mean: You have to be very fucking careful at what you tell people to do. You have to be very fucking careful to make sure that the instructions that you give don’t end up getting someone hurt or killed.

But this fucking thing just says wrong shit and it’s going to get someone killed. One day, if it hasn’t already, it’s going to maim, indirectly through the instructions it’s giving to people, some innocent yet stupid person. Keep in mind, just because somebody is a dumb fuck doesn’t mean that they’re not worthy of love. Lots of people are fucking stupid and they are worthy of love. And they deserve some sort of protection from whatever the fuck this thing is.

I won’t join you in trying to eradicate A.I. art, because it is genuinely one of the things that brings joy to my life. I don’t care how you feel about that, and I don’t care about your opinion about anything like that in general. This is a boundary that I’m setting up and I will enforce it. You do not have to obey it, but I am making you aware of its existence and nature.

That being said, I am fully behind any movement that will get this thing to be made safe, or, just plain fucking outlaw whatever the fuck it’s doing. This thing is fucking dangerous. It’s fucking dangerous, and the amusement and utility that it’s brought to and provided for me does not outweigh the ethical concerns of the damage it could do to innocent life.

The Impossibility of Dealing with Google

Listen— I got a life now. That means I got limited time for this Internet bullshit. I am, in point of fact, a normie now. And I’m writing this in the middle of the night, following some absolute goddamned bullshit that I’m not even going to go into. That being said? Me, being me, being a normal person, now?

I absolutely have no time for the Internet’s stupid nonsense anymore.

In any fucking fashion.


The Predicate

I’m not going to pretend that I’m super famous. Humanity has made me famous against my fucking will 16 goddamned times and I know how that all works: humanity puts the spotlight on me, and then it takes it away and pretends that I was never the subject of interest. It is pointless to pretend that it works any other way, because I’ve seen it 16 fucking times now.

This is what you all do: you make people famous for no discernible goddamned reason, and then you throw them away. If said person has anything negative to say about this, you then claim that they are now ‘has-beens’. It’s stupid fucking grade school bullshit that I’ve been subjected to, again, 16 fucking times. I get that you’re like this, but I don’t have to like this.

I’m also well-aware that none of my previous outings being ‘famous’ have bled into one another, because human beings are fucking stupid and have the object permanence of a goddamned baby.

That having been said, note, it’s too late tonight to digitize this, and, keep in mind, I’m handwriting this, waiting for my sleepy pill to take effect— even if nobody considers me to be famous anymore, I still have some of the trappings of fame. I’m Verified on YouTube, and I’m about to get Verified again there, once I have the time to actually care enough to go through the steps to do so on another channel. Also! I have a Google Knowledge Panel, and all and any mention of me is eternally verboten on Wikipedia. (A story less interesting than how I got excommunicated from the Catholic Church.)

I also want to mention that I’m the subject of several people’s dissertations, and the potential existence of my penis is a matter of scientific study and curiosity.

I don’t know what kind of ‘famous’ that makes me.

But it makes me whatever enough to pitch a bitch about this.


The Problem

On one hand, I’m famous enough to get shit for it. On the other, I am apparently not considered famous enough to, say, have weird and erroneous bullshit corrected on my record.

I’m just going to come out and say it: somebody’s full of shit. Nobody wants to do the right thing by me and actually fulfill their end of the social contract, which means actually doing the shit you agreed to do when you listed stuff I’ve worked on, made, or have been a part of. And Google is like the worst fucking culprit for this shit.

Never-you-mind that Wikipedia decided, in all its electric toaster wisdom, to forever bar any record of my existence from being recorded on their website. That’s not what I’m talking about, here. (Although that’s a fascinating story that we’ll probably never get to.)

Alright fine I’ll just come out and fucking tell you: around 2014 or 2015, a baker’s dozen’s worth of admins on Wikipedia became so deranged by knowledge of my existence that they decided to, I don’t know, uphold a pact to keep any mention of my existence off the wiki forever. Who does that shit? What the fuck?? For what fuckin’ purpose, really?!

The end result of all of this, is, while I have enough whatever to still (and probably eternallyyikes on that) be considered at least some form of Public Figure (for the rest of my days), there sure are a lot of people acting like they don’t give a shit. I’m not saying that my name instantly sparks recognition: I’ve introduced myself in real life to people who once considered me the Antichrist incarnate online, and there was not a single bit of recognition behind those doll-eyes.

The more I catalog what happened with this, the more that I realize that the vast majority of my problems are probably because I pissed off just the right people. Like when I didn’t get Verified on Twitter? Because a stakeholder said no. Imagine! Somebody didn’t like me enough to keep me from getting a meaningless graphic next to my name. It remains to be seen if the same bullshit will play out on Bluesky: though, given that, out of every hundred people, somebody weird gets the mark, I might just have a chance with that. (They Verified a warlock. I have a shot.)

I still have no idea what’s going on with Meta. Constant denials; no explanations.

Time after time, again, I feel as though I’m famous enough to get banned; but not ‘famous’ enough to get any perks. It sucks.

If I were super fucking famous, maybe I’d get actual service. But, I don’t want that.

I just want the social contract to be upheld.


The Social Contract

If I make something, and it’s listed somewhere in a way I’ve agreed to, I want it to stay there. I want it to stay listed, and I want it to remain in one piece.

For whatever fucking reason— and I’m looking at you, multi-billion dollar companies— none of you motherfuckers can do this.

I don’t have the time to go through denial after denial when I ask you to fix simple stupid shit. Give you an example: on Google right now, one of the covers to my books is missing.

I send them a message, as they have provided a way for me to do such a thing. I say, hey, the cover’s missing. Could you fix it with this image? Thanks.

And they said no.

Twice.

The book is hosted on their servers.

The cover of the fucking book is hosted on their servers.

They still won’t fix it in my Google Knowledge Panel.

Why?

Also, why the fuck did my book just vanish from Walmart and Barnes and Noble? Why the fuck is there a specific e-mail that I can use to contact Barnes & Noble about this??

WHY CAN’T YOU JUST KEEP MY SHIT ONLINE?????

i JUST want to set this shit and forget it.

Why do you make it so difficult?

I have a life, now.

I can’t be doing with this.

Post-Mortem: Charity

From the years of about 2014-2016, I think I raised a little over 5 million dollars for various charitable causes. I used to have a really popular Twitter account— not as popular as one of the Neo-Nazis that ruined the platform, but my high-water mark was, I think, 22 million views in one month, and I had a tweet that went past any of dril’s. 52,000 retweets, over a quarter of a million likes.

Using my account, I fundraised for people’s GoFundMe’s. I got some goofy shit, like a guy asking me to raise $8,000,000 for his kid’s cancer treatment. I actually found out that that guy owned a house that was worth nearly as much: I told him, screw you. Go fucking sell your goddamned house. Of course he didn’t have a kid. He was just a greedy fucking asshole.

I remember everyone I fundraised for. I don’t talk to any of them anymore, and I didn’t even really talk to most of them to begin with. You see, where I’m from, when you help someone, that makes you instant friends. Not these people.

I regret fundraising for 99.97% of the people that I did.

Because they didn’t deserve anything.

You might say, oh, Margaret, why would you say such a thing? Because it’s true. I got fucked. I didn’t do it because I wanted anything, but the entire thing left me in a poorer state than I had been before. I went out on a limb for a lot of people, and, most of the time, they either just ghosted me when they got the money, or, they tried to actively get me killed. That was fun.

There are organizations and people who I don’t regret fundraising for. I won’t mention those, as I won’t mention by name anyone whom I’m talking about. Because, fuck it. I don’t need more problems.

But the fact of the matter is, I regret almost everything I did. For one reason.

My mother.


Sepsis

I don’t particularly recall what day it was that my mother got Sepsis. I tend to not put dates on things because I would rather not have the date roll by again and be reminded of some terror. In point of fact, I’m not directly aware of the day my father died. Oh, sure, I could tell you; but it’s held so deep in my cerebrum, because I don’t want to know.

It was the turn-over hours of August 17th and August 18th, 2024. My mother had just gotten Zometa, and, as far as I can tell, the sudden lack of Vitamin D in her system mimicked the onset of Sepsis. Whether or not she actually got sepsis— no one ever found out anything, and that was the end of that.

My mother was and is fine.

But that was the night that I just . . . realized, that I didn’t even really like a lot of my ‘friend’ group.

I had a ‘friend’ who, despite my trying to alter the ‘relationship’, just wouldn’t stop sending me porn. Porn I didn’t like, and didn’t want to look at. I couldn’t talk to them about anything that I really liked, because they would just pervert it.

And then, on that day, I sent them a message.

And they responded the exact worst way that they could have.

. . . and I realized that I had never felt so alone.


Yeah, RIP

At the time, I don’t really think that I was fully an ‘adult’. I have kids— grown, adult kids. You’ll never know about those. But I went through parenting, and I did a halfway decent job.

Nothing really fucking makes you grow up like realizing that your mom’s gonna die.

Nothing really makes you grow up like seeing your dad die.

And through it all— through my father’s death— suddenly, the Internet didn’t seem so ‘fun’ anymore. The people who I had palled around wif, I already knew that the vast majority of them were fuckheads with nothing in their skulls, and I knew that the vast majority of them were trying to use me for their own purposes. I continued to look for new friends. Real friends.

But the Internet is no place to make friends. It’s a kind of Hellscape, where the human psyche is allowed to fester. And you can’t look at each others’ faces very easily, and you can’t hear the tone of each others’ voices very easily.

There are people who livestream at one another, and they still somehow don’t recognize each others’ own humanity.

On the night that I thought my mother was going to die, I realized that, despite trying to get to know her, trying to talk to her, trying to feel some sort of connection to and with her, I had failed. I had failed, and, now, there were going to be no more second chances. Just like with my father’s failures, she would just be gone. No re-do’s. No continues.

No more second chances.

And I realized. . . one day, my mother was going to die.

And the day that she did, I wanted to be in a much better place than I was on that day.


What’s happened in the past 5 months

Serendipitously, it has been exactly 200 days since the night my mother went into the hospital. And, across those many days, which feel as though they have come and gone in the blink of an eye, I have placed myself in a much better position, mentally, physically, and financially. I am not ready for my mother to go. And she will not be gone for many more decades.

But I can see a world where I can stay alive without killing myself when she inevitably goes.

And I couldn’t see that before. I couldn’t see that, in a world where I just passively allowed someone to send me disgusting porn, and I never really confronted them on it. I couldn’t see that in a world where I was constantly afraid of people online— of what they could do; of what they may be capable of.

The old world is dying. The new one will not be born. There were always monsters, here. But they are not immune to the chaos and poverty that destroys everyone else.

I like the idea of making friends online. Human beings, however, are ultimately some of the most-disgusting creatures I’ve ever come in contact with.

You don’t beat the space wasps, honestly. But God in Heaven, if anyone did, the whole planet would have to be glassed ten times over, just to fuckin’ make sure.


An ending

I regret helping people. My mother was right: pearls before swine. Human beings, though, deserve food, water, shelter, medical care, and to feel safe. But I don’t want to ever interact with them, ever again.

On the day that I get to fuck off and leave, oh, I’m sure I’ll be back to help you. And I’ll give you free food, and water, and whatever.

But I know what you are.

I’ve seent it.

You cannot convince me that I haven’t.

Not anymore.

Bye.

In my time online, I’ve always tried to be very verbose, and explain myself. Over, and over, and over again.

I’ve reached a point where I have nothing to say to anybody on here.

I could say a lot of different things. But the crux of it is all the same—

It’s not really in how people reacted when my father died. I didn’t really care. It was shocking, but not terribly so. I took it in stride. People are horrible.

It was that, when my mother got cancer and needed people’s help, and I realized I was surrounded by monsters and fools, that was it.

It’s not even that I’ve seen cats get more money donated to them than my mother did. Or that I raised five million dollars for you people.

It’s that I can’t trust you. It’s that I can’t trust you, and I don’t feel any kinship with you.

I’m tired of watching stupid people fail. And I’m tired of being stuck in their thrall.

Goodbye. You have lost me forever.

The Last Straw

I was in my bed, trying to relax. My (resting) heartrate was 92, 91, 90, 91. I wanted to see how low I could get it. I’ve seen it at 39 and 49 before. I wanted to test that.

I check my e-mail.

‘Violation’. Please check our Moderation Center . . .


Instantly, my heartrate jumps! But not too much. This has happened too much before. It makes no bloody sense; not for this website. I’m very careful on this particular website. I’ve learned to be very careful everywhere; because, if I were to get ‘banned’ from any of my social media websites, I feared that my Google SEO would fail.

When did I become so goddamned dependent on this?

I didn’t used to care about this.

What happened?

I try to see what the supposed ‘violation’ is. It reads, ‘user not found’. Odd; my profile is still ‘intact’. I can still log-in. I jump out of bed, legs first, like I’m doing that cool Martial Artist ‘get up from the ground’ animation, and I hop onto my computer.

“Please log in.”

I’m already logged in.

I log in.

My wristwatch buzzes. It’s given me a 2Fa code; but there’s no place to put it.

I log in again.

My wristwatch buzzes.

There’s still no place to put this bloody code.


I’m in.

I look for the ‘violation’.

I see it.

A moderator has, damned near in the middle of the night, flagged some anime fanart (that is not too well-drawn), as being ‘sexual’.

There is no nudity.

There is a line between the characters’ legs.

They choose not to show me the picture. I just right click the blurred image, and search for it.

It’s just a line between the characters’ legs. The seam of the shorts they’re wearing.

They thought it was a vagina.


At first, I remember when I ‘saved’ that image. I didn’t upload it; I shared it.

So I got in trouble for sharing it. A thing that Bluesky tried to do to some people.

I’m getting tired.

So I didn’t do it; I did nothing wrong; I remember looking at the image, going, ‘is that a vagina? No, that must be a seam in the pants; it’s just, that’s such a little thing. No need to worry about it; I didn’t even upload it,’ and I shared it.

Still got dinged.

And now, that’s eternal.

I’m tired of this.


I’ve known that the Internet was not forever. Hardly anything ever is; but especially not anything that human beings ‘make’.

And now, I’m tired. I’m tired of the constant din; I’m tired of the constant, ‘raise your blood pressure; you’re in trouble!’, stress-panic response I have, when some underpaid dipshit presses a button, and sets in motion an entire cycle of events that I want no place in.

Online, the whole thing is, you’re determined to be in the wrong. Every single time. And the people who have decided this, they tell you— ‘appeal’.

I will not appeal. I did for this one; I want to see what happens.

But for Reddit?

Begging for mercy makes me angry. And I won’t be doing that with people who banned me for telling others to stop breaking the law.

The reality of the situation, is this: I’m leaving. There’s no stopping it. There’s no bargaining with it. There’s no telling me, oh, you’re burnt out; take a break, and come on back.

Here’s the reality.

I fucking loathe you.

I loathe every single thing that human beings put me through. I just want to live in peace; have some fun; collect nice t’ings; and be left alone.

So I’m going to pursue that.

I’m so tired of stupid people creating chaos for me, and then demanding that I ‘solve’ it.

Go to Hell, every single one of you who’s like this.

I’d rather be alone and have no social media than deal with this stupid fucking bullshit one more second.


Let me tell you what my dream is.

My dream is to be able to live, alone, away from all of humanity, untouched by their fucking bullshit.

My entire life, all 40-some years of it, has been beset on all sides by stupid people making messes that I’ve had to clean up. I’m tired of it.

I want to be alone. And I want to be left alone.

And that will be my paradise.

I want to be in a place where the stupid actions of powerful monkeys have no effects on me.

And I’m going there.

I’m going back to the starship.

And when I get there, I will build my home.

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