A place for a


Misleading title

Tired of reading between the lines
Trying to get by among the lies
Exhausted from guessing what you mean
Lost in a world of things that aren’t what they seem

Hands scarred from building bridges of understanding and
Navigating the puzzles of communication neverendingly
Sick of the guilt that springs from my confusion
Verbal brain cells drowning in a growing contusion

Sleepless in a world full of misinterpreted dreams
Unsettled by brittle beams offering themselves to lean on
Trying to figure out the figures you’re presented
guilty of closing up to people that resent you

Abysses lingering in the streets covered up by light
Enemies trying to kill you by pretending to not want to fight
Brickwork without foundation appearing too solid
An endless game not far enough to call it

Betrayal proclaimed with words that seem honest
Malingering shadows calling you into the forest
Unconditional love with too many conditions
Uncertain guessworks spoken like premonitions

Light feeling danger from the dark
A tree’s festered core kept secret by its bark
A day too unique to be special
A priest that’s too rotten inside to confess to

Artificial ideas that claim to be nature
Experiences from the past turning to fate, yeah
Goodbyes that only last for an hour
Heartfelt promises too keen to turn sour


What is power? And the cabinet of lies.

Many people get pissed at people in “power”. And sometimes, sometimes people treat you like you are one of those in power and that means you deserve to be treated badly or be envied.

So how do you argue against that? Not necessarily to them, because they don’t care anyway, but how do you quantify it for yourself?

What is power?

Huh. Bummer. It’s kind of a tough question, isn’t it?

And when you think about it, there is actually a lot of trickery going on when it comes to the PERCEPTION of power.

When we think of power, what do we think of instantly?

Bankers. Rich people. Famous people. CEOs. People higher in the hierarchy.

But when we say “higher in the hierarchy”, what do we really mean?

Well, turns out we mean kind of an abstract intellectualized thing. Almost … not power itself, but a caricature of power. We mean this artificial hierarchy we have established in society. You know … employer, employee, etc yada.

But it only exists in our minds. It’s not the real thing.

Continue reading “What is power? And the cabinet of lies.


I wish I could feel my pain

When you just want to cry and hope let go one day, but your nervous system, even after all those years, is still on high alert, and you can’t even start to allow yourself to feel … and you realize you are lightyears away from healing … and too far away from it to even allow yourself to feel the devastation about how far away from it you are.

And you see life pass you by, seeing all the things you could have, could enjoy, could love. And you see that you cannot stop time. That you cannot take a time out until you’re fixed and then jump right back in. That you are forced to watch as life passes you by, and forced to listen to people telling you “well why don’t you go participate”, but you know that even if you did force yourself to participate, you would feel nothing. It would be as if a deaf person listened to Procol Harum [insert any other music that snobs think is great].

And not only do you see life pass you by. You sit on a lifetime of lost joy and pain that you cannot process. And it only keeps stacking up and getting worse. To the point that you do not even dare to admit that joy exists anymore, because it would drive you insane.

And just as you sit there and contemplate these things and feel the ever so slight hint of acceptance creeping into the moment, the inner watchdog shouts out loud and throws you back into unconsciousness, non-existence, into your nervous system’s routine of suppressing you and pretending you don’t exist.

And then you appear careless and aloof. As if nothing fazes you. But it’s not you who appears so, then. It’s that nervous system. Your nervous system is aloof and careless. Because the nervous system has learned that it mustn’t be anything more than that. So everything that is more than that, the nervous system denies.

And here the nervous system concludes the post with a cruel “Fuck life”, with another involuntary rejection of all that is desired, while the half-dead, half-alive self that mustn’t exist, doesn’t exist, can’t exist, silently weeps for half a second in the background, before it gets shut down and forgotten by the nervous system – like so many times before.


The Hounds of Violence

Hello darkness, my old foe
I’ve come to fuck you like a hoe
Like a vision, I will creep you out,
leave my seed on you when you pass out.
And the vision that I’ll plant in to your brain
will remain
Filled with the hounds of violence

In restless dreams I talked alone
in narrow corners full of hoes
‘Neath the halo of a street vamp
she turned me on, but she was cold and damp
When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon knife
That lit the plight
And touched the bounds of violence

Continue reading “The Hounds of Violence


Why do most people believe women’s lies?

If we assume women naturally pretend to be victims even when they aren’t to get what they want …

… we must also assume that people notice this every now and then …

… which results in women then not getting help when they actually need it …

… which becomes a “valid” complaint of theirs and furthers their victimhood …

… so they have to exaggerate and perfect their displays of innocence and victimhood further and further to still be convincing.

So in a way … them being manipulators is a slippery slope. They can’t stop manipulating because then they would not get anything at all. So they have to instead rise to the top of the manipulation-foodchain.

Continue reading “Why do most people believe women’s lies?



This is a standard poem.
Something with emotions,
something wiith an image
that creates a mental mirage,
a metaphor!
It may talk of bread and wine,
talk of Jesus, it may rhyme,
be religious or political,
honest or, hypocritical.
Surely it must idolize something,
more likely someone.
A maid so fair, you had a fling with,
which is just a fancy way of sayin’
yo, I banged that hoe.
Occasionally it must break the pattern,
not use any rhymes or fixed rhythm, because
that would be too cliched.
It must copy cliched poetry while struggling to appear fresh,
for example, talk of crimson lips would be considered trash.
So, thine is mine heart,
fair maiden,
thy crimson lips I worship
with devotion that is
with meaning laden.
I must go and barf now,
for my vocal chords feel dirty,
and if I keep writing such shitty poems,
I’ll be a virgin still when thirty.


Another weird dream.

I’m on some sort of vacation with my mum. It’s some sort of, how would I say, Nordic kind of thing, sauna-like place in the mountains and shite. A giant building, very … noble almost, in a pompous and Germanic style, for lack of better words. Like a real classy big hotel with a touch of “come here to rest your soul from the toxicity of the city”. It’s a very very large hall.

There is the guy leading us through there. It all stinks like chlor, like in a swimming place, to disinfect people’s piss, cause that’s what it is for, aye. I had talked to the guy on the telephone before. He’s my age. I hate my mother who’s there with me, but who else would come. I attempt to stick to the guy and have a little male banter talk. I remark “Well that’s an impressive place. Stinks like a morgue too, not bad.” I imagine to say it with a tone of feigned disrespect, to convey to him that I find it so cool that I can’t possibly honestly tell him how cool it is, because it would be cringeworthy, so I turn it into a playful insult instead.

He, though, this asswipe. He says “Stop your pretentious arrogant boorishness already!” and puts his chin up, like one of those spiritual man-bitches who thinks that a “dirty word” will infect him somehow. One of those holier-than-thou scrawny New-Age nerds.

And I realize he feels in power, rightly so. We already payed, aye. And my mother’s gonna give me shite if I fuck up. I realize it’s now those two bitches against me, the real bitch and the man-bitch.

Continue reading “Another weird dream.


My “philosophical” explanation of why religion and other oppressive belief systems are successful

Maybe the reason that religion works is this:

It is philosophically impossible to disprove something just because it has never been observed.

Of course, there is no reason to believe it either.

But then, our human nature seems strongly influenced by fear.

That is, even when there is no real reason to really believe in the existence of God, evolution has “programmed” us so that the mere possibility of the existence of a threat (hell) motivates us to avoid it, even if we may err on the side of too much safety.

Continue reading “My “philosophical” explanation of why religion and other oppressive belief systems are successful


Feminism and gaming: Far Cry 3 writer says the player’s character should have been castrated

Spoiler warning. Don’t read if you don’t want to read about Far Cry 3’s ending.

I remember playing Far Cry 3 and wondering why the fuck I have to be playing hero for some stupid indigenous tribe led by some stupid bitch whom I could not care less about other than that she was kind ahot.

I also remember wondering why I, the hapless and untrained American tourist, am chosen over literally every other male in the game for this task.

Either way, the whole story was kinda weird and the bossfight you actually look forward to is even weirder and rather disappointing.

In the end of the game, you are encouraged to make a choice:

  1. Kill your friends and stay with the stupid but hot bitch who proclaims her love for you.
  2. Save your friends and kill the bitch.

If you choose the first option, the bitch will fuck and then kill you.

Turns out, Far Cry 3 writer Jeffrey Yohalem wanted to make a feminist statement with this, to mock the “princess saving complex”. To punish the man for his “misogyny”, he suggests he actually should have been castrated. Here’s the excerpt from the linked article (Spoilers!):

In one ending, Jason chooses to live out his days with Citra, where he – being the ultimate badass that he is – will continue to protect the island. Only Citra has other plans and decides to murder the oblivious bloke instead.

As it turns out, Citra never really needed to be saved and the whole thing is a commentary on the princess rescuing complex that permeates the medium. “Jason conjures up this whole idea that Citra needs saving and he’s gonna save her, when in reality it was all a ritual she created to find a sperm donor, and she kills him,” Yohalem explained.

“Sex, violence, and the player is killed. Here are the things that satisfy our animal side as men, but they’re subverted because it’s a female doing it.” Yohalem likened the ending to Princess Peach stabbing Mario. “Now that I’m thinking about it, that final scene should have been Citra castrating Jason. Seriously, that’s the point! It is like, ‘You win, motherf*****!’ It’s totally like, ‘F*** you, you misogynist idiot!’”

For reference, here is the original article that this article quotes from on archive.org. Apparently it has been deleted since, but you can find this old version of it, so it’s all cool.

Continue reading “Feminism and gaming: Far Cry 3 writer says the player’s character should have been castrated


Arguments are power plays

When somebody is in competition to another, it is not so much whether he is actually better that counts.

It is whether the voices that most people listen to judge his performance as better.

The “critics’ consensus”. The consensus of the voices that most people think are reasonable and informed. Whatever that means, right?

When you trust a source that says “Trump totally owned Hillary, that bitch”, then that is the truth.

When you trust a source that says “Hillary is the rightful winner, Trump only tricked himself into winning”, then that is the truth.

But it’s much more apparent when there is no actual competition rules, like in a presidency.

In a debate.

Take a public debate. Most people afterwards will gravitate towards sources that proclaim that their preferred debater “won” or “totally burned” the other one.

In a debate there is no objective winner. What counts is not so much whether someone has actually won, but whether you can convince people that some particular part of the debate marked a participant’s victory.

And suddenly, after the critic says it, “it becomes obvious”. Well, why wasn’t it obvious before the critic or “expert” said it?

Continue reading “Arguments are power plays