Since about 1994, 1995, I have been wanting to know what the fuck is wrong with you. Probably since before then, but that was when I came onto the Internet scene, and that aspect of your species, your very core personalit(ies), became entirely too prevalent. I had to know: what the fuck was your problem? I still don’t know; but, I know the answer to my question.
I need to get the fuck away from you.
It’s been 30 years. The jig is up. The game is over, and, every single day, I stare in awe at how fucking stupid this species is. Ladies and jellyspoons, I’m not even fucking sure the vast majority of you are sentient. Okay?
And a lot of people, at this point in time, turn to me and go, well, I’m not going to read your book! I’m not going to give you money! I’m not going to do this! I’m not going to do that!
Well, shit, duders. Not like anything’s going to fuckin’ change, then, is it?
This has to be addressed. There’s something wrong with you. I’ve known this for some time, and, after 30 years of staring at you, I can no longer jingle the keys and tell you what a good and special boy you are. You have something wrong with you, and I have to admit that to myself and each other, because, holy shit, dude.
You don’t make my life better.
When I was about five years old, we went from an idyllic life, with basically no technology (other than the accursed telephone), and I would watch cartoonies with my mama on our big screen TV. It was a CRT. It weighed more than our entire family combined. The car, too.
More than the house, really.
There’s something that always bothered me, since back then.
The telephone was scary.
Because people called you on the telephone.
The mail was scary.
Because people talked to you through the mail.
I liked none of these things. Hell, I barely liked the car— because, it took me to you.
And I told myself— just wait a while! You’ll warm up to them!— and I never did.
You know why?
It’s been 30 damned years, and I’ve had so much contact with human beings that, at this point, the conclusion of all my life’s research must be attested to. I must admit to myself, the truth of it all.
You don’t make my life better. At all.
And you never fucking will.
Scorpion(s) and Crabs
There’s the parable / fable of the scorpion and the frog. That’s what you are.
There are crabs in many buckets. That’s what you all are.
You tell me that you’re good. But you know what?
I have never seen it. I have never seen it as en masse as you tell me that you are. Even in Japan, the place where I saw human beings act the best I ever have seen, you weren’t. We were trying to wash my eyes out using water from a fountain, after a terrorist attack, and I had a salaryman elbowing me out of the way.
You’re not good. And I’m not interested in pretending that you are.
Because you’re not.
As much as I’d like to pretend that there’s something in this for me, there isn’t. Initially, I was interested in the concept of human friendship. People tell me that they’re good: so, I’ll make some fucking friends. Right?
I have friends now.
Now.
But, every so often, I just lose a friend. Sometimes I’m not even saying anything, where I can track what might have pissed them off— but, poof! Just like that, 11 years of friendship, and they’re gone. They won’t even talk to me, and I don’t even know why.
Human beings can be friends. I know you all can. But you do so so fucking rarely with me, on any level that I’m interested in, that— it’s not that I’m ‘giving up’. It’s that, I’m finally admitting to myself— no.
No.
You are so rarely stable enough, for me to take even a passing interest, that I just don’t fucking care anymore. You have many problems. Fickleness; vindictiveness; untrustworthiness.
I’m tired.
This is it.
No.
I used to wonder why I was always full of adrenaline. Why I had constant stomach problems. Why I felt sick every time I ate.
It’s you.
It was always you.
When I’m away from you, I feel healthy.
The only answer is to get away from you.
I used to think that putting myself out there, talking to people, that this was all a great and noble ‘crusade’. That I could help people.
So much nonsense has happened in the past 3 months, let alone my entire life, that I don’t even want to talk to you anymore.
I have a great and abiding need(?) to create; but I don’t want to talk with you anymore.
I don’t even want to talk at you.
I want to make beautiful things, and then, I don’t want to hear from you.
A Post-Mortem
The thing that bothers me the most now is that I did all of this because I didn’t want to be shouted down by stupid fucking humans. And, obviously, throughout the course of my Internet ‘career’, that’s happened— time and time again, I’ve gotten banned for speaking truth to people who thought they had power. And, I can, of course, always ban-evade. That’s practically effortless for me.
But why?
This is, in fact, a game where I can always win. And I can keep talking, and talking, and talking, and talking . . . but the reality is, there’s no real point in it. And it’s always going to turn out the same. Even if I ‘win’— what the fuck have I ‘won’?
Ultimately, it makes no sense to continue pursuing social medicine as a method to communicate with human beings. These people are stupid and/or crazy.
I like the Internet. I like the place that it is. Just like I like the real world.
I don’t like human beings.
I’ve never liked human beings.
And I never will.