*Warning: These are ramblings for myself. I have little to offer you as the reader.*
The tweet is self explanatory. We’ll put my story on pause, opting for another time, another place. Insights into modern psychoanalysis and childhood psycho-sexual development, the importance of understanding the phallic stage, will be ignored. Instead we’ll just make everything awkward and in vain. Everybody wins.
How about a private journal? For later? To be continued? There’s a string of events which tie one story to the next. A logical timeline. A sequence. A book maybe? Who knows.
Anyway, I’d prefer not to migrate a website over to Substack. Social media ownership comes and goes. Terms of service — updated, Although Substack’s built a platform on preserving free speech, drawing names like Matt Tabbi, Matthew Shellenberger, Chuck Palanhiuk, Walter Kirn. Controversial, political, and establishment dissidents. The website is easy, maneuverable, and even allows video up to 20GB. A community, an algorithm, an aura of charged thought. A back up, at least, because you can never expect a hacker, intervening authority, or cyber event. Best to never keep all eggs in one basket. WordPress removed my blog within a single day or so of being notified. Substack held their ground. I repeat, Substack held their ground.
However, like I’ve said in previous posts, I’ll be showing people how to create a safer website. A website that preserves free speech, because I don’t think you should have to be dependent on Locals, X, Substack, or other social media platforms. These social media platforms have moderators, owners, investors, opposing interests. Shadow bans, warnings, suspensions, expulsions, surveillance. However, I could totally eat my words and end up using one of these pages in the future.
At the very least, it’s a back up page.
A website allows for the full portfolio: Video, Audio, Store, Blogs, Short Stories. Everything under one umbrella instead of hopping around sites. The goal is creating forums. A possible hangout, a chat for all things related to THEBADBOOB.com. I used to be obsessed with indymogul.com/. The forum page in particular. A website and YouTube channel dedicated to independent filmmakers. I’d hangout on the miscellaneous forum most days, shooting the shit, asking questions, getting to know other filmmakers. This was an impactful era of my life. I moved from RuneScape to Habbo Hotel, and then into the forums of IndyMogul.com.
I’d like to create something similar, unless using Discord is easier. Is Discord easier?
Anyway work in progress, I’ve already created a Discord server, but it doesn’t prioritize the website. It’s another off-site application, another thing to remember.
Although a chat requires moderation, so we’ll see.
Not a priority.
(Priority) Secure site: WordPress never returned my email. A major red flag and i’m mentioning this here. How can you claim you preserve free speech when you remove a post and threaten actions, yet refuse to return the site owner’s emails. Dumb, the whole thing is dumb. But I needed the litmus test, I was just surprised how quickly the site folded. Incentive to moving to another provider. Tick, tock, tick, tock. Time is counting down for my days on wordpress.com.
I can’t get any writing done in the morning or afternoon because I can’t hear myself think. It’s too loud. I’m picking up the highway and the rest of my neighborhood, the intersecting road between two towns, the trailer park next door. It never ends. A continuous thumping in my stomach, gnawing at my brain, anxiety tracing my nerves. It never ends. In the meantime, push through. Life is narrowing down tasks.
Things still feel terrible. I often feel sick. It never ends. But on the positive, life is narrowing down my tasks. Am I supposed to be writing? Yeah just not about certain subjects apparently. And not in the morning, and not in the afternoon, and you’ll be tired and exhausted by night, but that’s when you can write. At night, after you’ve spent the whole day running from a bad vibe, smoking, tired. Not writing. Great. At night, when everybody’s gone to sleep.
I’m accomplishing a lot. Not.
In fact, I’m hitting walls and slowing down and I don’t really want to shoot movies. And I’m receiving no ideas for writing and I don’t no where to go from here. I’m having a difficult time staying motivated, supposed to be pursuing movies but everything I do is solitary. Solitary.
Where do I have room for other people right now?
I don’t. It looks like another dead end.
Difficult. Difficult to write. I start falling asleep while I’m writing because the vibe is so dense, so i’ve gotta smoke concentrated cannabis to continue writing. Everything written on my blog was written under the influence of cannabis. High, stoned, lit. Maybe a couple of the first essays I held back a tiny bit, but I usually wrote the endings stoned. Or started the essay a few hours after a toke. I can’t hear myself think otherwise. I’m trapped. I can’t hear. Myself. Think.
I wrote a short story the other night, but I fucking hate it, so I’m not going to finish it and I’m not going to upload. In fact, it was so terrible it inspired me to write the essay about my childhood trauma. The one that got me in trouble.
“This is an obvious sign I shouldn’t be writing fiction. Time to write the real shit.” I said to myself and began writing essays. I can’t hear myself think most days so its difficult to create a reliable world. I’m stoned, and I often feel terrible and sick to my stomach. I lose interest writing fiction. Why do I want to be responsible for a reader when I can’t keep my thoughts straight? I don’t. Right now my stomach is pounding, I feel nauseas. Sick. It’s nothing new, its everyday. It’ll never end.
Not sure where I go from here.
I guess you’re going to get more stoned ramblings, more stoned short stories, more stoned music. More whatever. Can’t wait. Fucking head hurts all the time from a car accident, my eyes do UFO patterns on the computer screen, hands twitch and stutter from permanent injuries. It’s not the worst. I could’ve blown them up with fireworks or something, but they’re still fragile. They still don’t feel great. I’m still a writer, ya know? And I’m reminded of the stupid shit that happened everyday, every fucking time I try and write. And cant event tell my story, cant tell people why my hands are fucked up, can’t tell you what happened. Can’t tell you why I wake up and feel stiffness in my goddman hands everyday and glass shards pointing from my fingers. Anyway, enough complaining, you Jew. Kyke. Get your shit together.
Where do I go from here?
I don’t know.
I’m supposed to teach myself how to write again, so as long as I’m behind a computer typing, or a phone tweeting, or a notebook writing. That’s what I’m supposed to be doing. But I’m meeting resistance from physical and mental dimensions here, and honestly, I’m fucking exhausted. It’s been years since I’ve slept in. Years. When was the last time? When I got drugged at rave. And I slept from eleven until noon the next day. Otherwise it’s been almost a decade of constant sleep problems, constant intuitive paralysis. Constant noise and chatter. Constant. Won’t shut up. Screaming. Yelling. Can my neighbors hear me?
In the words of my grandmother, “Annnnnywaaaaaay”.
Movies.
Not a priority, right now, probably later.
I think its a dead end. Is it a dead end?
Will continue writing music, listening to podcasts and we’ll go from there. I don’t feel myself channeling anything, writing wise. It’s more just ramblings like this.
So, stay tuned for……………..
More. Or whatever.
THE BADBOOB 