The Mystery Blogger Award

Well, that’s a nice surprise! I was nominated for the…


I’d really like to thank Rhiannon for nominating me and Okoto Oke Enigma for creating it.

Here are the rules for anyone who wants to play. (blatantly copy/pasted from above)


  1. Put the award logo/image on your blog
  2. List the rules.
  3. Thank whoever nominated you and provide a link to their blog.
  4. Mention the creator of the award and provide a link as well
  5. Tell your readers 3 things about yourself
  6. You have to nominate 10 – 20 people
  7. Notify your nominees by commenting on their blog
  8. Ask your nominees any 5 questions of your choice; with one weird or funny question (specify)
  9. Share a link to your best post(s)


  1. I’ve been homeless before, though luckily got into a shelter very quickly.
  2. I’m queer.
  3. I’ve been a socialist of one type or another since I became politically aware in my teens. I don’t like to talk about it much though, I’ve always hated people who evangelize.

My Answers

1. Why do you blog the way that you do?

I try to get everything out in a single draft so that I don’t start censoring myself or start trying to piece my thoughts into a narrative in the moment. I’m sure it makes things a little harder to read, but for me this blog is a tool to create a log of my thoughts and feelings over a long period of time. Once I feel more confident in my knowledge, I think I’ll try writing more formally.

2. What is your useless super power?

I can read IPA, though I’ll admit I’ve gotten rusty because there’s really no good reason for me to have learned it.

3. What is the greatest thing that ever happened to you?

Being taught that I can be happy.

4. Do you believe in miracles?

I don’t think they like, exist in the real but… actual material space is complicated, way too complicated for us to really get second hand through our senses. And then – FUCK! – something really weird happens to us we can’t comprehend, we can’t even describe it to ourselves in a metaphor, it just is.

And we’re all steeping in this Fortean udon and collectively we assign little narratives to it. Sometimes it makes sense to lots of people at once. Sometimes not. Like, Betty and Barney Hill probably never actually floated up into a spaceship, but you hear them talk and obviously something really fucking weird happened to them. And if the narrative they constructed was a little more mainstream, would people still think that they were nuts?

You might be thinking, “why the fuck is this asshole talking about ufos” and the answer is I’m bad at getting to the point.

So, even though miracles don’t actually exist I think they’re effectively real and I believe in them, because I think they’re hardwired in us collectively and become a part of reality.

A much better answer would be, yes.

5. What would you do if you had one million dollars?

I would pay off my student loans, buy a new car, move, and go back to school. Which doesn’t sound very exciting but with that money I could do everything all at once which would be nice.

My Best Post

Sorry, I have no idea.

My Nominations

I just have these three…

The Secret Aspie

One of the most heartfelt blogs I’ve read. Very, very highly recommended.

Journey To Submission???

Uplifting and inspiring. Read it.

Femdom Ramblings from a submissive male

Very informative with a large backlog of material. His writing has been very helpful for me and a lot of people.


  1. What is a favorite song of yours you would feel most embarrassed about accidently playing in public?
  2. If you could relocate anywhere in the world, where would you go?
  3. If you could go back to when you first started blogging, what would you do differently?
  4. I’m stealing one from the list I’m supposed to answer because I’m curious. What’s the greatest thing that’s ever happened to you?
  5. What movie have you rewatched the most? Not necessarily your favorite, just the one you’ve kept going back to for whatever reason.


Early on in my writing, my mentor wrote in the margins something meant to help me distinguish between guilt and shame.

  • Guilt = I’m sorry for what I did
  • Shame = I’m sorry for who I am

Rationally I know these are different, but in the moment they feel the same for me and I end up feeling guilty for things I’m actually ashamed of, things I have no control over.

Why do I feel guilty about taking care of myself? Why do I always build up these narratives where I’m the bad guy and have to distance myself from others? Why do I always feel like I’m hurting people?

I don’t recognize my shame because it would mean acknowledging bad memories from my childhood, it would mean I’d have to stop forgetting the past. Empty memories are comforting for me, they’re a defense mechanism.

I was just a kid, and I can’t hold myself responsible for what other people did to me, and I can’t hate myself for behaving the way I did because nobody taught me any better. There wasn’t anything I could have done, sometimes things just happen to people. I can’t keep blaming myself for everything.

When I bury all that shame, it just seeps back up as guilt, and guilt needs wrongdoing to make sense. If I feel this bad all the time I must have done something. I must be making people uncomfortable, I must be crossing people’s boundaries. And because I can’t think of anything I’ve actually done I create more and more bizarre narratives about how poisonous I must be.

This is the main barrier between me and the rest of the world. It’s why I sabotage my life, it’s why I distance myself from people who care about me, and it’s why I cycle through hating myself. I have to accept that I’m not a bad person. I’m only responsible for myself. To move forward and get out of this hole, I need to absolve myself of this misplaced guilt, which is going to have to involve digging into my past. Luckily I see my therapist on Tuesday, and she should be able to help me go through some of this.


Relating to what I wrote earlier tonight, I feel like the source of a lot of my anxiety is the creeping feeling that I’m using people somehow. Looking back at some of my writing, it’s a theme that comes up again and again, and I never seriously consider that those feelings might be totally irrational rather than exaggerated. I haven’t really put it together before, but I might be projecting what other people have done to me onto myself.

Like, what have I actually done to anybody to make me afraid? I haven’t hurt anybody in my life like that, but I have all this guilt about what other people have done to me, like somehow other people’s faults have seeped into my blood and left me tainted. The things I worry about; being needy, misreading people, saying the wrong words, these are all normal human things that don’t really relate to what I mistakenly see reflected in myself from others.

Tonight – in what was a manic but productive series – I noticed another pattern that happens not as frequently as some of the others, but might hint at another problem at the heart of things. I overcorrect from playing the victim and immediately blame myself for everything. I’m lazy, I’m an asshole, I’ve built this all up for myself on purpose to get sympathy, blah blah blah.

That’s another easy narrative for me, I don’t have to acknowledge that things have been fucked from the start, all I have to do is pull myself up by my bootstraps (literally impossible) and I’ll be fine. Of course, if it was that easy, I would have done that by now. I wouldn’t have lived in a homeless shelter for a year if I could have just walked out, gotten a job, and put everything behind me.

One of my core contradictions is that I can’t seem to hold myself to the same standard as I hold other people. I’m pretty forgiving , I try not to judge, I think generally our society is too harsh to those who fuck up and can’t make things work out for themselves. But when it comes to me any mistake is a catastrophe. My sins, and my parent’s sins mark me as deserving to suffer.

Maybe that’s it, maybe I still feel so deeply ashamed of my parents that I feel I need to pay for it. I still blame myself for all of their problems, I blame myself for my shitty childhood. My therapist has told me I need to confront them while they’re still alive, but I told her there’s no way I could. Maybe I felt like I should be apologizing to them instead?


Since I’m a NEET, I’ve tried to keep myself on a schedule so I don’t spend all day staring off into space. While depressed, I really will just hibernate otherwise, and since I’m not working or going to school it all just ends up being lost time. Before I never had a problem with it, it kept me busy, kept my mind off of things. At most I’d just have to make up a new list when I’d fall into a rut. But in the last couple of weeks I haven’t been able to make myself follow it.

Right now, on paper I should be:

  • Journaling → 1 hour
    • Since I started writing the blog, I’ve started to just sketch ideas out without actually attempting to make them coherent for anybody else.
  • Blog → 1 hour
    • Either reading or writing here on WordPress, but I should try to at least draft 300 words a day.
  • Read → 1 hour
    • Blogs don’t count. It has to be an actual book, either in print or digital format.
  • Work on Python skills → guess
    • JavaScript would probably be smarter, but with Python I can actually make a thing and vomit it up in a reasonable amount of time.
  • Japanese → 1 hour
    • Now that I can talk, I should really try language exchange and get to a point where I can, you know, talk to another person in Japanese. Being able to half-decipher text based on the characters used isn’t terribly useful or impressive, especially for as long as I’ve been doing this.
  • Ride bike → 30 min
    • It’s something I have lying around and doesn’t cost too much money to keep up.
  • Other exercise → 30 min
    • But riding a bike doesn’t actually burn as many calories as you’d think, and it’s pretty cold in NY right now.

It might sound like a lot, but remember, compared to the rest of the day where I have nothing to do, this is basically the bare minimum, the equivalent of a just-barely full-time job where you do what you’d probably be doing anyways. But even still, I’ve only kept up with the bike and blogging. And these are all things I enjoy doing! No one has a fucking gun to my head, and I enjoy having structure in my day. If anything, not keeping up has been spiraling me into a depression.

The pattern for this kind of thing is for me to call myself lazy and whine about what an ass I am, but that doesn’t really fit either. If I wanted to, I could just sit around and watch shows and wrap myself in a warm little cocoon. But I’ve never been able to do that, I just get more depressed and mope around and ruminate. I have to consciously remind myself to practice self-care and to eat something nice and to do more than just sit around hating myself. And there’s no reason for it. I just enjoy being miserable.

I keep fucking doing this to myself, and I eventually get tired of it and tell myself, “Hey, I’ve realized why (again)” and then just fall into the same fucking cycle again and again. I’m disgusted and I don’t know where to put this hate, because putting it on myself will just make things worse. Maybe I can find a way to channel it into something productive. I don’t know.



There’s this aversion I have when I get close to people, this feeling that somehow I’m violating them regardless of what I’m doing and that I have to withdraw immediately or be a creep. It’s cost me friendships in the past, and leaves me cold and distant to a lot of people. There are so many things I wish to say to people now, and wish I had said in my past. It’s a feeling I’m trying to conquer, but I know it’ll be with me forever, like the ringing in my right ear from when I stood next to the speaker and let the tones completely envelop me in white-noise.

If you’ve read my blog before, you might have gotten the impression that my parents were very strict. While they did expect a lot from me, and they did hit me on occasion, that on its own I think did little to contribute to my problems now. Rather, I think the whiplash between that, and the rest of the way they raised me left me confused.

My parents were “hippies”, which to them meant being semi-naked if that, not cleaning much, and not having any structure around the house at all. We were allowed to do pretty much whatever, except sometimes out of nowhere things would immediately flip and I’d be in the corner crying wondering what happened. There was no outright sexual abuse, but firm boundaries were never established, and sometimes things just felt off.

I feel a little more comfortable picking an example from the present. While I was having dinner with family at my parents house recently, my mom out of the blue talked about my dad accidentally shooting cum into her eye when they first started having sex. Everybody just sort of laughed, and I guess in a room full of adults that was mostly just bad taste. But I remember hearing that kind of stuff all the time growing up, and I had to learn in school from teachers that it wasn’t ok to talk like that.

The only time I ever felt normal at home was when I was alone in my bedroom. There I could be in control of things. It was the only place in the house I didn’t feel like I was being watched, which was important because I didn’t feel safe leaving the house. People in the neighborhood knew we were weird, that I was weird.

I’ve never told anybody anything like this. I was afraid growing up I’d be taken away, especially if workers came by and found drugs around. As an adult I feel self-conscious, because like I said, there wasn’t any inappropriate touching with my immediate family or with their friends. I felt violated, but I wasn’t literally. Which I’m finally realizing is a fucked up way to think about it, because I could never forgive myself if even for a moment I thought that was ok for any other kid.

It definitely wasn’t ok for my sister. I think part of the reason I bullied her when I was a young was that I was jealous she had an escape. She was able to put on a “normal” face for people, she could actually make friends and get out of the fucking house. But I wa too broken at the time, so I just retreated and became bitter.


I feel like minds are like nations, a sort of conglomerate composed of distinct but entangled classes with competing material needs constantly at war with itself. The individual fragments of self can’t create a unified whole in the real, so a fictional unified self is created to sort of organize everything. But the divisions under the surface never go away, and a series of contradictions in behavior and outlook develop that threaten to tear everything down.

Could those contradictions be synthesized? Would that actually do the work of alleviating mental anguish? Or would that just destroy somebody entirely? I don’t have the background or experience to answer, let alone properly ask these questions.

I have a little money saved up, so I’ve been shopping around for books (I haven’t made a decision, but I think it might make sense to wait on makeup and clothes) but I’m not entirely sure where to start. Primary sources from Hegel and Lacan are free online but I just can’t make enough of it out on my own right now, though I could go back to what I used to do and just ignore the bits I don’t understand. unfortunately that might be the bulk of it.

psycho-sexual bullshit

I need to stop making things difficult for myself. For example, my apartment buildings a designated bus-stop, but I still ride my bike everywhere, even when it’s below freezing. Why? I can afford the fair, and while I bitch and moan about the lack of buses running I’m not on some tight schedule or anything. So I finally stopped being stupid and bought a bus pass.

But of course that’s not the end of it, I do this to myself constantly, and I worked out months ago why I do it. But it’s comfortable to suffer. It let’s me feel powerless and absolves me of the feeling of responsibility. I get to be the sad little boy who trudges through the snow for his medicine. Oh, isn’t he pitiable, isn’t he pathetic? I’ve gone back to pulling people into my weird psycho-sexual bullshit and it’s disgusting.