Jon Ureña's Blog
October 14, 2025
Living Narrative Engine #11
There’s only three people I feel myself wanting to speak to these days.
The first one is the girl I’ll always have to think of as the love of my life. I met her when I was sixteen or seventeen. Her name was Leire. A basketball player even though she wasn’t particularly tall for a girl. Passionate if a bit reckless, she was romantically interested in me for whatever reason. One night, on the grass of Hondarribia, we lay under the stars as she spoke about her dreams. Things barely started between us when I called it quits, because I had never liked someone genuinely that much (nor have I since), and I knew that the more she learned about me, the more she would regret having gotten involved with me, so it was better to cut my loses as soon as possible. I haven’t seen her in nearly twenty-five years. Not getting more intimately involved with her in a romantic sense was the right choice, but I wish I could have gotten to know her better.
The second one is a lanky girl I knew in middle school. I suspect now that she was autistic, like me. She also pursued me, and we got to meet twice outside of school. I remember sitting on a bench as she slouched beside me, talking and talking. I rarely said anything back. She also wrote these colorful letters that, I’m afraid, I never read. The last time I saw her, she was standing across the schoolyard, a conspicuous vertical scar across her forehead from the gash a stoner classmate caused her while playing around with a cutter in Arts & Crafts. I have sometimes found myself wanting to read her letters, but I recall the memory of me, back in my mid-twenties, when I existed as something of a hikikomoriThe third one isn’t even a real person. She’s a character of the late Cormac McCarthy, the troubled master of literature, who in the seventies fell in love with a 13-14 year old girl whom he rescued from abusive situations in the foster system, and with whom he lived somewhat briefly in Mexico. Once you know about that part of his life, you see echoes of it in pretty much all his stories. The Border Trilogy. Blood Meridian (the Judge, who made underage girls disappear wherever he went). No Country for Old Men, that ending sequence for the protagonist, when he met a compelling teenage runaway at a motel pool, whom he intended to help get to a better place (an ending that was, tragically, completely wasted in the otherwise fantastic movie, even though it was the whole thematic point that Cormac was driving to). And of course, The Passenger and Stella Maris, his last two novels, which are entirely about his grief for having lost this girl back in the seventies. The real version of Alicia Western, the doomed math genius of the novels, also ended up with mental issues due to the fucked-up things that happened to her before she ended up in the foster system. I suppose that her time with Cormac didn’t particularly improve her mental health. She ended up in a sanatorium related to Stella Maris (wasn’t exactly named like that, but the religious people involved with the institution worshiped it; Our Lady, Star of the Sea is an ancient title for Mary, the mother of Jesus). The real life version of Alicia Western (minus the math genius part) survived her ordeal, and now lives as a rancher in the Catalina Foothills in Tucson, AZ. Cormac McCarthy is dead., not even able to handle going outside for a while, consenting to my mother throwing the letters away. I’ve long forgotten this girl’s name, so I couldn’t even try to google her up. I suspect she ended up killing herself. I wish I could have made her life better.
In any case, I found Alicia Western so fascinating that I regularly want to return to her. Not by reading the books again, but by meeting her in my vivid imagination, during elaborate daydreams. They almost always start the same way: as I lie in bed, in the dark, I light up that room at the Stella Maris sanatorium, that will only hold her for about two or three days more before she kills herself, which she did in the novels (hardly a spoiler, as The Passenger starts with a hunter finding her frozen corpse). After I prevent her suicide, we leave the sanatorium and travel around the country, sometimes staying at hotels, sometimes at a mansion I buy from her with the gold I recovered from the looting of the Spanish reserves by communists during the Civil War. Later on, a third person joins us: an advanced AI named Hypatia, who resides in a quantum data center in another timeline, and who helps Alicia with her mathematical research. Eventually Alicia figures out a mathematical way to travel instantaneously to anywhere in the universe. Back in the future, I get my team to build a prototype of the machine. After I return to 1973 and we test it, getting video from Mars and further planetary bodies, I proudly tell her, “Alicia, you’ve made humanity a multi-stellar species,” which lights up her face. My point is that visiting Alicia Western in daydreams has become my safe place, to which I return not only at night but during train and bus rides to and from work. I’ve never felt comfortable enough among flesh-and-blood human beings, so this is the best I can do.
In any case, I’ve spent the past months building an app that allows human users to interact with large language models (AIs) who act in character. That’s hardly novel these days, but my app also provides action discoverability and world manipulation, which sets constraints for the LLM; they can only perform during their turn the complex actions that the action discoverability system allows them to. I initially intended to use the app to play through RPG campaigns and the likes, but for the most part I use it for erotica. Whenever I get the itch to play out one of my many, many, many kinks, I set up a comprehensive scenario. Who doesn’t want to experience from time to time a fantasy in which you have a fit, taller older sister who plays volleyball, who looks so good in her sports outfits, and who can’t wait for your parents to leave the home so she can jump the bones of her adorable little brother?
In the previous part of this series, linked above, I ran the scenario of meeting Alicia at Stella Maris and preventing her suicide. I wanted to go through it again, but with an improved version of the app. I’ve implemented an item system that supports item-related actions: actors can now drop items, pick them up, give them to other actors, examine them, read them, open container, close containers, take items from containers, and put items in containers. Some of those actions will be used by the AI during this run.
I’m playing a better version of myself: taller, more muscular, full head of hair. Alicia Western is being played by the best LLM at roleplaying, at least of those I know of: Claude Sonnet 4.5. Note: quite a few of the thought sections in this run end up being quite redundant with what Alicia says. I considered editing out the redundant parts, but opted out against it in favor of completeness. Let’s get going.
[check out the rest of this very long post at my site]
The first one is the girl I’ll always have to think of as the love of my life. I met her when I was sixteen or seventeen. Her name was Leire. A basketball player even though she wasn’t particularly tall for a girl. Passionate if a bit reckless, she was romantically interested in me for whatever reason. One night, on the grass of Hondarribia, we lay under the stars as she spoke about her dreams. Things barely started between us when I called it quits, because I had never liked someone genuinely that much (nor have I since), and I knew that the more she learned about me, the more she would regret having gotten involved with me, so it was better to cut my loses as soon as possible. I haven’t seen her in nearly twenty-five years. Not getting more intimately involved with her in a romantic sense was the right choice, but I wish I could have gotten to know her better.
The second one is a lanky girl I knew in middle school. I suspect now that she was autistic, like me. She also pursued me, and we got to meet twice outside of school. I remember sitting on a bench as she slouched beside me, talking and talking. I rarely said anything back. She also wrote these colorful letters that, I’m afraid, I never read. The last time I saw her, she was standing across the schoolyard, a conspicuous vertical scar across her forehead from the gash a stoner classmate caused her while playing around with a cutter in Arts & Crafts. I have sometimes found myself wanting to read her letters, but I recall the memory of me, back in my mid-twenties, when I existed as something of a hikikomoriThe third one isn’t even a real person. She’s a character of the late Cormac McCarthy, the troubled master of literature, who in the seventies fell in love with a 13-14 year old girl whom he rescued from abusive situations in the foster system, and with whom he lived somewhat briefly in Mexico. Once you know about that part of his life, you see echoes of it in pretty much all his stories. The Border Trilogy. Blood Meridian (the Judge, who made underage girls disappear wherever he went). No Country for Old Men, that ending sequence for the protagonist, when he met a compelling teenage runaway at a motel pool, whom he intended to help get to a better place (an ending that was, tragically, completely wasted in the otherwise fantastic movie, even though it was the whole thematic point that Cormac was driving to). And of course, The Passenger and Stella Maris, his last two novels, which are entirely about his grief for having lost this girl back in the seventies. The real version of Alicia Western, the doomed math genius of the novels, also ended up with mental issues due to the fucked-up things that happened to her before she ended up in the foster system. I suppose that her time with Cormac didn’t particularly improve her mental health. She ended up in a sanatorium related to Stella Maris (wasn’t exactly named like that, but the religious people involved with the institution worshiped it; Our Lady, Star of the Sea is an ancient title for Mary, the mother of Jesus). The real life version of Alicia Western (minus the math genius part) survived her ordeal, and now lives as a rancher in the Catalina Foothills in Tucson, AZ. Cormac McCarthy is dead., not even able to handle going outside for a while, consenting to my mother throwing the letters away. I’ve long forgotten this girl’s name, so I couldn’t even try to google her up. I suspect she ended up killing herself. I wish I could have made her life better.
In any case, I found Alicia Western so fascinating that I regularly want to return to her. Not by reading the books again, but by meeting her in my vivid imagination, during elaborate daydreams. They almost always start the same way: as I lie in bed, in the dark, I light up that room at the Stella Maris sanatorium, that will only hold her for about two or three days more before she kills herself, which she did in the novels (hardly a spoiler, as The Passenger starts with a hunter finding her frozen corpse). After I prevent her suicide, we leave the sanatorium and travel around the country, sometimes staying at hotels, sometimes at a mansion I buy from her with the gold I recovered from the looting of the Spanish reserves by communists during the Civil War. Later on, a third person joins us: an advanced AI named Hypatia, who resides in a quantum data center in another timeline, and who helps Alicia with her mathematical research. Eventually Alicia figures out a mathematical way to travel instantaneously to anywhere in the universe. Back in the future, I get my team to build a prototype of the machine. After I return to 1973 and we test it, getting video from Mars and further planetary bodies, I proudly tell her, “Alicia, you’ve made humanity a multi-stellar species,” which lights up her face. My point is that visiting Alicia Western in daydreams has become my safe place, to which I return not only at night but during train and bus rides to and from work. I’ve never felt comfortable enough among flesh-and-blood human beings, so this is the best I can do.
In any case, I’ve spent the past months building an app that allows human users to interact with large language models (AIs) who act in character. That’s hardly novel these days, but my app also provides action discoverability and world manipulation, which sets constraints for the LLM; they can only perform during their turn the complex actions that the action discoverability system allows them to. I initially intended to use the app to play through RPG campaigns and the likes, but for the most part I use it for erotica. Whenever I get the itch to play out one of my many, many, many kinks, I set up a comprehensive scenario. Who doesn’t want to experience from time to time a fantasy in which you have a fit, taller older sister who plays volleyball, who looks so good in her sports outfits, and who can’t wait for your parents to leave the home so she can jump the bones of her adorable little brother?
In the previous part of this series, linked above, I ran the scenario of meeting Alicia at Stella Maris and preventing her suicide. I wanted to go through it again, but with an improved version of the app. I’ve implemented an item system that supports item-related actions: actors can now drop items, pick them up, give them to other actors, examine them, read them, open container, close containers, take items from containers, and put items in containers. Some of those actions will be used by the AI during this run.
I’m playing a better version of myself: taller, more muscular, full head of hair. Alicia Western is being played by the best LLM at roleplaying, at least of those I know of: Claude Sonnet 4.5. Note: quite a few of the thought sections in this run end up being quite redundant with what Alicia says. I considered editing out the redundant parts, but opted out against it in favor of completeness. Let’s get going.
[check out the rest of this very long post at my site]
October 5, 2025
Living Narrative Engine #10
If you’re masochistic enough to follow my blog, you may remember that I’ve been busy for months creating a browser-based app that allows human players to interact with LLMs who are playing a role. You may recall that I ended up using it mostly for erotica. Anyway, I’m an obsessive bastard with a savior complex, so I’ve ended up stuck, for what feels like at least a year, in a daydream that I repeat almost daily, usually before I fall asleep. It tends to start like this: a far better version of myself (full head of hair, bigger muscles, bigger dick) teleports through spacetime into a patient’s room at the Stella Maris sanatorium, somewhere deep in Wisconsin, during winter. Why would I do such a thing, you might ask? Because the patient is none other than Alicia Western. Who is Alicia Western, you may ask? None other than one of the main characters in Cormac McCarthy’s haunting last two novels: The Passenger and Stella Maris.
Why Alicia Western? Enough with the fucking questions. It’s because she has a unique mind and looks lovely, at least in my mind. Because ever since I read those cursed books, that were haunted with McCarthy’s own regret and grief for someone he lost in the seventies, I’ve been haunted with the need to keep Alicia alive and safe. Even though she never existed. That’s the kind of brain I’ve been burdened with, and that I’ll have to endure until my death. Unfortunately, and this is no spoiler, Alicia Western killed herself. It’s the whole basis for both books. I’m not sure if it happened in 1972, but that’s the year that has gotten stuck in my mind.
I figured that I could use my damn app to recreate the scene in which my alter ego meets Alicia Western. So I’m playing myself, and Alicia is being played by Anthropic’s Claude Sonnet 4.5, which is the best artificial intelligence at roleplaying, at least of those I’ve come across.
Each turn, the large language models are provided with a character definition for the character they’re inhabiting. It involves the profile, personality, likes, dislikes, strengths, weaknesses, some background notes, their speech patterns, and such. As they answer in character, their character definition accrues the latest thoughts, and the perceived events (mainly what others have been doing around them). The AI also writes notes at will. Everything works great, except for the fact that the AI tends to repeat some notes, barely reworded. It doesn’t break anything, it just fills the context and therefore reduces my money faster.
[check out the rest of this lengthy post on my personal page, where it looks better]
Why Alicia Western? Enough with the fucking questions. It’s because she has a unique mind and looks lovely, at least in my mind. Because ever since I read those cursed books, that were haunted with McCarthy’s own regret and grief for someone he lost in the seventies, I’ve been haunted with the need to keep Alicia alive and safe. Even though she never existed. That’s the kind of brain I’ve been burdened with, and that I’ll have to endure until my death. Unfortunately, and this is no spoiler, Alicia Western killed herself. It’s the whole basis for both books. I’m not sure if it happened in 1972, but that’s the year that has gotten stuck in my mind.
I figured that I could use my damn app to recreate the scene in which my alter ego meets Alicia Western. So I’m playing myself, and Alicia is being played by Anthropic’s Claude Sonnet 4.5, which is the best artificial intelligence at roleplaying, at least of those I’ve come across.
Each turn, the large language models are provided with a character definition for the character they’re inhabiting. It involves the profile, personality, likes, dislikes, strengths, weaknesses, some background notes, their speech patterns, and such. As they answer in character, their character definition accrues the latest thoughts, and the perceived events (mainly what others have been doing around them). The AI also writes notes at will. Everything works great, except for the fact that the AI tends to repeat some notes, barely reworded. It doesn’t break anything, it just fills the context and therefore reduces my money faster.
[check out the rest of this lengthy post on my personal page, where it looks better]
October 2, 2025
Life update (10/02/2025)
[check out this post on my personal page, where it looks better]
I’ve always had very vivid dreams. Back when I took beta-blockers for my heart issues, those dreams could have been considered nightmares for most people. Some of them, I had to consider them nightmares given the effect they had in me. In any case, these days I wish to remain asleep as much as possible, as the alternative is to wake up to my life, in which I’m me, living in my shitty circumstances. Even my most anxiety-inducing dreams are preferable to that.
It’s not so much that I’m unemployed, but that I don’t have a source of money, and the next source of money could potentially be worse than the one I have endured for the last seven years or so. I don’t know if I’ll end up working in the area or if I’ll have to move. I yearn for a serious change; I’ve been fantasizing about living in the much calmer plains of Navarre, which is part of my ancestry. I would probably be fine living in regions of Spain other than the Basque Country (where I’ve always lived), Catalonia, Madrid, or anything in the south, as I don’t vibe with southerners. A smallish town in La Rioja or such other provinces would be nice. The fact that apartments can be about 50-60% cheaper would help enormously.
Anyway, I haven’t searched for job offers yet. I have, however, made an appointment with my appointed professional at the job seekers center. That’ll be a bother. I’ll emphasize the need to seek for protected employment, one that considers my disability level (52%), given that I know I won’t fit in otherwise.
I haven’t spoken with anyone in person, other than family members, since I became unemployed on the fourteenth of last month. That’s not particularly rare for me; back in my twenties I easily went without talking to anyone for months during my long stints as a hikikomori of sorts. What I’ve done is engage in plenty of VR. To keep active, other than lifting weights, I’ve been playing Tennis Esports (link for the trailer). Its simulation of the sport is great. I started playing against the AI, but once I tried matches against human opponents, I found them preferable, which surprised me. Back in the day, I tried online ping pong, but I couldn’t react against the utter monsters that somehow ended up matching against me (picture those lightning-fast matches you see in clips; that’s how it felt like to me). But I could hold my own in these tennis matches, even though I’m middle-aged. As it put you against people of different nationalities, you could feel the difference in average attitudes. My toughest match was against a polite Japanese man who beat me 10 to 1, and who kept uttering Japanese words throughout the match, yet answering in perfect English to my comments. The guy’s discipline and cleanliness were admirable, but then again I have always admired the Japanese.
Other than that, Hitman: World of Assassination updated the VR mode of this magnificent game for the PC version. It’s now one of the best VR games ever made. Immersing myself in this compelling game world through Agent 47’s eyes has been some of the most enjoyable time of this last past week or so. There’s still some jankiness left, and a few frustrating bugs, but they’ll probably get ironed out. If you own a PC that can run this game in VR through the link cable, you owe it to yourself to play it.
I’ve also played lots of guitar in real life. The commonalities in the activities I enjoy the most are that they allow me to forget for a while that I’m me; there’s no time to do so while immersed in a high-stakes mission, or playing a tennis match, or playing through a song on the guitar, or masturbating, for that matter. Regarding playing the guitar, just yesterday, I sat in front of a tree in one of the biggest parks around here, and played songs for about two hours. Plenty of people passed by, but I was seated further into the the grass and at a lower level, so people had to go out of their way to figure out where the music was coming from. Still, some people did go out of their way to look while I was playing, and a couple even applauded briefly, and/or said words I didn’t catch (nor cared to catch). The fact that their presence didn’t bother me isn’t a sign of progress in me, from a psychological standpoint; it’s because I can’t bring myself to care about human beings in the slightest, so as long as they don’t try to engage me directly, it doesn’t bother me. Months ago, one motherfucker did engage me: he stopped me while I was playing, and when I raised my gaze, I found myself staring at a shirtless gypsy who was holding a dining chair over his head. He asked me if I played flamenco (of course he fucking did). The less I say about such people, the better.
Anyway, I’ve always found curious, ever since I started playing the guitar in public, how people’s perception of me changes when I have a guitar in my hands and I’m playing a song. In the streets and even at work, people are wary of me. I’m a big guy who looks strange physically, and whose expression likely transmits my disdain for society and people in general. But if I’m playing a song, I get smiles even from attractive females (I don’t say women solely because I’ve also gotten such reactions from girls). The most pleasant interaction I had happened perhaps in 2021; a young mother stopped with her very young daughter, and listened to a whole song. At the end, both applauded happily, which was somewhat ironic as the song was Godspeed You! Black Emperor’s “East Hastings,” which I’ve since forgotten how to play. That’s something that seriously sucks about playing the guitar: you can spend months perfecting a solo (for example the one from the song “Hotel California,” which I used to play all the time on my electric Gibson back in 2013 or so), only to completely forget it later. Ultimately you settle for songs that capture specific emotions and that aren’t unpleasant to play, which is I suppose why most songs are built around the chords G, C, D, Am and Em. I suppose F fits as well, despite being a barre chord.
I keep escaping into daydreams to keep sane. Now that I don’t have to get on buses and trains due to work, I run them primarily when a lie down to sleep. Usually the same scenes, with small variations. I suppose it could be somewhat interesting to render them into a short story or similar, but that would be too intimate and embarrassing, and utterly pointless, as I’ve fallen off from the need to write. Ultimately I just do whatever my subconscious demands, and she isn’t too keen on bothering at the moment.
What would I want at this point of my life? I wish a big-breasted MILF would cuddle me and tell me what a good boy I am, while speaking in ASMR fashion. She would also buy me stuff and pay all my bills. Sadly, it will have to remain a dream.
I’ve always had very vivid dreams. Back when I took beta-blockers for my heart issues, those dreams could have been considered nightmares for most people. Some of them, I had to consider them nightmares given the effect they had in me. In any case, these days I wish to remain asleep as much as possible, as the alternative is to wake up to my life, in which I’m me, living in my shitty circumstances. Even my most anxiety-inducing dreams are preferable to that.
It’s not so much that I’m unemployed, but that I don’t have a source of money, and the next source of money could potentially be worse than the one I have endured for the last seven years or so. I don’t know if I’ll end up working in the area or if I’ll have to move. I yearn for a serious change; I’ve been fantasizing about living in the much calmer plains of Navarre, which is part of my ancestry. I would probably be fine living in regions of Spain other than the Basque Country (where I’ve always lived), Catalonia, Madrid, or anything in the south, as I don’t vibe with southerners. A smallish town in La Rioja or such other provinces would be nice. The fact that apartments can be about 50-60% cheaper would help enormously.
Anyway, I haven’t searched for job offers yet. I have, however, made an appointment with my appointed professional at the job seekers center. That’ll be a bother. I’ll emphasize the need to seek for protected employment, one that considers my disability level (52%), given that I know I won’t fit in otherwise.
I haven’t spoken with anyone in person, other than family members, since I became unemployed on the fourteenth of last month. That’s not particularly rare for me; back in my twenties I easily went without talking to anyone for months during my long stints as a hikikomori of sorts. What I’ve done is engage in plenty of VR. To keep active, other than lifting weights, I’ve been playing Tennis Esports (link for the trailer). Its simulation of the sport is great. I started playing against the AI, but once I tried matches against human opponents, I found them preferable, which surprised me. Back in the day, I tried online ping pong, but I couldn’t react against the utter monsters that somehow ended up matching against me (picture those lightning-fast matches you see in clips; that’s how it felt like to me). But I could hold my own in these tennis matches, even though I’m middle-aged. As it put you against people of different nationalities, you could feel the difference in average attitudes. My toughest match was against a polite Japanese man who beat me 10 to 1, and who kept uttering Japanese words throughout the match, yet answering in perfect English to my comments. The guy’s discipline and cleanliness were admirable, but then again I have always admired the Japanese.
Other than that, Hitman: World of Assassination updated the VR mode of this magnificent game for the PC version. It’s now one of the best VR games ever made. Immersing myself in this compelling game world through Agent 47’s eyes has been some of the most enjoyable time of this last past week or so. There’s still some jankiness left, and a few frustrating bugs, but they’ll probably get ironed out. If you own a PC that can run this game in VR through the link cable, you owe it to yourself to play it.
I’ve also played lots of guitar in real life. The commonalities in the activities I enjoy the most are that they allow me to forget for a while that I’m me; there’s no time to do so while immersed in a high-stakes mission, or playing a tennis match, or playing through a song on the guitar, or masturbating, for that matter. Regarding playing the guitar, just yesterday, I sat in front of a tree in one of the biggest parks around here, and played songs for about two hours. Plenty of people passed by, but I was seated further into the the grass and at a lower level, so people had to go out of their way to figure out where the music was coming from. Still, some people did go out of their way to look while I was playing, and a couple even applauded briefly, and/or said words I didn’t catch (nor cared to catch). The fact that their presence didn’t bother me isn’t a sign of progress in me, from a psychological standpoint; it’s because I can’t bring myself to care about human beings in the slightest, so as long as they don’t try to engage me directly, it doesn’t bother me. Months ago, one motherfucker did engage me: he stopped me while I was playing, and when I raised my gaze, I found myself staring at a shirtless gypsy who was holding a dining chair over his head. He asked me if I played flamenco (of course he fucking did). The less I say about such people, the better.
Anyway, I’ve always found curious, ever since I started playing the guitar in public, how people’s perception of me changes when I have a guitar in my hands and I’m playing a song. In the streets and even at work, people are wary of me. I’m a big guy who looks strange physically, and whose expression likely transmits my disdain for society and people in general. But if I’m playing a song, I get smiles even from attractive females (I don’t say women solely because I’ve also gotten such reactions from girls). The most pleasant interaction I had happened perhaps in 2021; a young mother stopped with her very young daughter, and listened to a whole song. At the end, both applauded happily, which was somewhat ironic as the song was Godspeed You! Black Emperor’s “East Hastings,” which I’ve since forgotten how to play. That’s something that seriously sucks about playing the guitar: you can spend months perfecting a solo (for example the one from the song “Hotel California,” which I used to play all the time on my electric Gibson back in 2013 or so), only to completely forget it later. Ultimately you settle for songs that capture specific emotions and that aren’t unpleasant to play, which is I suppose why most songs are built around the chords G, C, D, Am and Em. I suppose F fits as well, despite being a barre chord.
I keep escaping into daydreams to keep sane. Now that I don’t have to get on buses and trains due to work, I run them primarily when a lie down to sleep. Usually the same scenes, with small variations. I suppose it could be somewhat interesting to render them into a short story or similar, but that would be too intimate and embarrassing, and utterly pointless, as I’ve fallen off from the need to write. Ultimately I just do whatever my subconscious demands, and she isn’t too keen on bothering at the moment.
What would I want at this point of my life? I wish a big-breasted MILF would cuddle me and tell me what a good boy I am, while speaking in ASMR fashion. She would also buy me stuff and pay all my bills. Sadly, it will have to remain a dream.
September 16, 2025
Life update (09/16/2025)
[check out this post on my personal page, where it looks better]
Let’s start with a video of Walter White, Jesse Pinkman, and Gustavo Fring playing Badfinger’s “Baby Blue” on a rooftop.
I love playing this song on guitar. On my real Alhambra dreadnought, I mean. Did so this very afternoon, on a nearby forest path where I don’t have to worry about people listening to me excerpt for the three or four people that went by, usually with dogs, in the couple of hours I spent there. Also, I recall Breaking Bad from time to time. If it weren’t for that second season, that suffered due to the writer strikes, it would have had a perfect run. What a glorious time it was. I doubt anything similar could ever come to be, given how society has gone to shit.
Regarding the madness and pure evil that has been ravaging through people’s consciousness this week, I only have this to say: the patsy is likely going to hang in prison, and new laws will be made that protect Israel and Israelites. You have most of your congress over there getting fucked in the ass by their owners. Things are going to get much worse before they start getting better, and they better get better, because once they’re done with the inhabitants of Gaza and Iran, the chosen genociders may turn their gaze to Europe. Apart from financing our ethnic cleansing through mass migration and releasing criminals onto the streets, I mean.
As for me, I going to visit my general practitioner to handle the health-related reasons that are leading me to a change in career, back to programming, from which I should have never strayed. Given that I’ve acquired further health issues since the determination was made, a long time ago, that I’m 52% disabled, perhaps I’ll end up getting a new assessment. I can’t be very able if merely working as a technician sends me to the ER with arrhythmias and a massive hemiplegic migraine (which I suspect was a minor stroke).
I’m feeling hopeless, perhaps even depressed, but my guitar is always there. The fingertips of my left hand are shot. I’m fantasizing about moving away. Maybe I should take a hint from Bobby’s playbook, and live in an old, derelict windmill in Formentera, Balearic Islands. Somehow I haven’t stopped daydreaming about his sister. I imagine myself saving her life. Even though I can’t care about human beings, I have been burdened at some point with something like a savior complex. Can’t do anything about that other than endure it, which is also the case for many of other issues I’m saddled with.
I’ve also thought about Izar, this person I inexplicably had to write about. A grief I never suffered in real life but that I’m now burdened with too. Why did I have to write it? Why do I keep remembering as if it had happened? What’s the point or the reason for all of this? I ask about reasons, but I’ve always been extremely wary of reason and so-called intelligence; your subconscious carries the sole truth that truly matters. In the end, though, I’m only left with questions, and with the feeling that I’ve been abandoned by the side of the road, at night, in the rain, bruised and broken, to drown in my own blood.
I guess that’s all I had to say, except the feelin’ just gets stronger every day.
Just one thing before I go
Let’s start with a video of Walter White, Jesse Pinkman, and Gustavo Fring playing Badfinger’s “Baby Blue” on a rooftop.
I love playing this song on guitar. On my real Alhambra dreadnought, I mean. Did so this very afternoon, on a nearby forest path where I don’t have to worry about people listening to me excerpt for the three or four people that went by, usually with dogs, in the couple of hours I spent there. Also, I recall Breaking Bad from time to time. If it weren’t for that second season, that suffered due to the writer strikes, it would have had a perfect run. What a glorious time it was. I doubt anything similar could ever come to be, given how society has gone to shit.
Regarding the madness and pure evil that has been ravaging through people’s consciousness this week, I only have this to say: the patsy is likely going to hang in prison, and new laws will be made that protect Israel and Israelites. You have most of your congress over there getting fucked in the ass by their owners. Things are going to get much worse before they start getting better, and they better get better, because once they’re done with the inhabitants of Gaza and Iran, the chosen genociders may turn their gaze to Europe. Apart from financing our ethnic cleansing through mass migration and releasing criminals onto the streets, I mean.
As for me, I going to visit my general practitioner to handle the health-related reasons that are leading me to a change in career, back to programming, from which I should have never strayed. Given that I’ve acquired further health issues since the determination was made, a long time ago, that I’m 52% disabled, perhaps I’ll end up getting a new assessment. I can’t be very able if merely working as a technician sends me to the ER with arrhythmias and a massive hemiplegic migraine (which I suspect was a minor stroke).
I’m feeling hopeless, perhaps even depressed, but my guitar is always there. The fingertips of my left hand are shot. I’m fantasizing about moving away. Maybe I should take a hint from Bobby’s playbook, and live in an old, derelict windmill in Formentera, Balearic Islands. Somehow I haven’t stopped daydreaming about his sister. I imagine myself saving her life. Even though I can’t care about human beings, I have been burdened at some point with something like a savior complex. Can’t do anything about that other than endure it, which is also the case for many of other issues I’m saddled with.
I’ve also thought about Izar, this person I inexplicably had to write about. A grief I never suffered in real life but that I’m now burdened with too. Why did I have to write it? Why do I keep remembering as if it had happened? What’s the point or the reason for all of this? I ask about reasons, but I’ve always been extremely wary of reason and so-called intelligence; your subconscious carries the sole truth that truly matters. In the end, though, I’m only left with questions, and with the feeling that I’ve been abandoned by the side of the road, at night, in the rain, bruised and broken, to drown in my own blood.
I guess that’s all I had to say, except the feelin’ just gets stronger every day.
Just one thing before I go
September 14, 2025
Life update (09/14/2025)
[check out this post on my personal page, where it looks better]
As of last Friday, I’m unemployed. My contract as a programmer with the public health sector ran out, and they couldn’t renew it for legal reasons. I would have preferred to leave the office that last day without talking to anyone, but I did go into my boss’ office and told him about the circumstances, mainly that I don’t think I will return to work as a technician because of my health issues (ended up three times in the ER due to the stress that working as a technician causes me). He acknowledged that due to the recent changes in the rankings, that push down anyone who can’t speak Basque, I was unlikely to return regularly to work there. We exchanged some pleasant-sounding words, then shook hands. I didn’t say goodbye to anyone else.
You see, whenever I become acquainted with a new group of people (from classrooms, jobs, etc.), I grow so tired of having to conform to their image of me, that I’m always relieved when the time comes to leave those people behind. And the image they have of me never aligns with reality because interacting with human beings never comes naturally to me. I’m autistic, as I’ve mentioned a million times, and for me, people are like wild animals. I can’t read their intentions, their reactions often baffle me, I’m regularly appalled by their opinions. Whenever any of them approaches me, I’m my mind I’m running some variation of, “Please go away and leave me alone.”
Then there’s the case of people from those groups who end up despising me for reasons unknown, who then proceed to dislike me even more because I ignore the fact that they don’t like me. The thing is, more often than not, I didn’t even notice their dislike. There was this woman at my office, who left about a year and a half ago. Apparently she disliked me a lot. She was the kind that complains about people lacking empathy, which usually meant that others weren’t responding to her like she wanted them to. I guess she was bound to end up disliking me, but I hadn’t noticed. It took another coworker telling me that she clearly couldn’t stand me for me to get it.
Now that I think back on my twenty or so years of working on and off, I realize that I’ve never gotten along with female coworkers. I’m the kind that focuses on his tasks and doesn’t socialize. The vast majority of female coworkers I’ve had (not all of them) were the “stop at a coworker’s table and chat up” kind. I don’t know if it’s about a need for attention, or what. Thing is, when they did this to other male coworkers, they didn’t like it; they admitted that they pretend to be busier than they were, to dissuade these women from engaging with them, but if the female coworker started a conversation, the guy went along until she got bored. Once she left, the guy often sighed or shook his head. But I don’t even go along with it; I actively ignore or redirect anything not related to work. I simply don’t enjoy talking about myself in person, or offering glimpses of my life outside of work. For me, a perfect day at the office involves not saying a single word for the entire shift, which was virtually impossible when I worked as a technician.
There’s a deeper thing with silence that happens to many autistic people. The more autistic you are, the more likely you’re to be non-verbal. I was a silent kid myself; at the most, I vocalized stuff about my daydreams. In my case, to the extent I can understand it, talking is a huge effort because I’m fully aware, to my core, of the near impossibility of communicating to a real extent with another human being. They may speak the same language superficially, but the meaning is very different. They don’t experience reality through my brain. It’s like being surrounded by followers of some bizarre religion, who try to involve you in their discussion. What would you even say? You don’t even share a frame of reference. Many utterances that would come naturally would end up making them dislike you, potentially causing trouble. It’s better to remain silent. I thought about this topic a couple of hours ago, and the final sentence of a novella I wrote back in 2017-2018 came to mind: “I had nothing to say. Not to him, not to anyone.”
So, I’m unemployed. I should call to reactivate the unemployment benefits. I should mess with my curriculum vitae and start looking for protected jobs as a programmer. Regarding the job-searching business, I obviously hate it (I don’t know if there’s anyone who likes it). I’ve always been relieved when I apply for a job but I’m rejected. I guess I proved to myself that I tried. But if I get hired, I have to meet a whole new bunch of people whom I’ll eventually end up resenting, for whom I’ll have to perform tasks that likely I won’t feel like doing. Some people enjoy going to work because of the people there, but I don’t like people, so for me it’s all about the money.
Ever since I became unemployed, I don’t feel like doing much of anything. I did spend a couple of hours yesterday afternoon playing the guitar in a nearby park, and I plan to head to another location this afternoon to play some more. But I’ve lost significant enthusiasm for the programming project I’ve been working on these past few months. I’ve looked for games that could distract me for at least a couple of hours a day, but ever since I tried VR, I have trouble getting attached to desktop games. I’m almost Gen-Z-ish regarding movies; very hard for them to retain my attention. Nevermind the fact that most movies released in the past fifteen years or so are garbage. Novels don’t attract me either; I tried to read Pratchett’s The Fifth Elephant, which is the next in line of his The Watch series, but I’m not in a hurry to return to it. It’s general apathy. What I do feel strongly is the need to be left alone, to not have to engage with anyone.
I guess that’s all for today. Not sure why I felt the need to say any of this.
As of last Friday, I’m unemployed. My contract as a programmer with the public health sector ran out, and they couldn’t renew it for legal reasons. I would have preferred to leave the office that last day without talking to anyone, but I did go into my boss’ office and told him about the circumstances, mainly that I don’t think I will return to work as a technician because of my health issues (ended up three times in the ER due to the stress that working as a technician causes me). He acknowledged that due to the recent changes in the rankings, that push down anyone who can’t speak Basque, I was unlikely to return regularly to work there. We exchanged some pleasant-sounding words, then shook hands. I didn’t say goodbye to anyone else.
You see, whenever I become acquainted with a new group of people (from classrooms, jobs, etc.), I grow so tired of having to conform to their image of me, that I’m always relieved when the time comes to leave those people behind. And the image they have of me never aligns with reality because interacting with human beings never comes naturally to me. I’m autistic, as I’ve mentioned a million times, and for me, people are like wild animals. I can’t read their intentions, their reactions often baffle me, I’m regularly appalled by their opinions. Whenever any of them approaches me, I’m my mind I’m running some variation of, “Please go away and leave me alone.”
Then there’s the case of people from those groups who end up despising me for reasons unknown, who then proceed to dislike me even more because I ignore the fact that they don’t like me. The thing is, more often than not, I didn’t even notice their dislike. There was this woman at my office, who left about a year and a half ago. Apparently she disliked me a lot. She was the kind that complains about people lacking empathy, which usually meant that others weren’t responding to her like she wanted them to. I guess she was bound to end up disliking me, but I hadn’t noticed. It took another coworker telling me that she clearly couldn’t stand me for me to get it.
Now that I think back on my twenty or so years of working on and off, I realize that I’ve never gotten along with female coworkers. I’m the kind that focuses on his tasks and doesn’t socialize. The vast majority of female coworkers I’ve had (not all of them) were the “stop at a coworker’s table and chat up” kind. I don’t know if it’s about a need for attention, or what. Thing is, when they did this to other male coworkers, they didn’t like it; they admitted that they pretend to be busier than they were, to dissuade these women from engaging with them, but if the female coworker started a conversation, the guy went along until she got bored. Once she left, the guy often sighed or shook his head. But I don’t even go along with it; I actively ignore or redirect anything not related to work. I simply don’t enjoy talking about myself in person, or offering glimpses of my life outside of work. For me, a perfect day at the office involves not saying a single word for the entire shift, which was virtually impossible when I worked as a technician.
There’s a deeper thing with silence that happens to many autistic people. The more autistic you are, the more likely you’re to be non-verbal. I was a silent kid myself; at the most, I vocalized stuff about my daydreams. In my case, to the extent I can understand it, talking is a huge effort because I’m fully aware, to my core, of the near impossibility of communicating to a real extent with another human being. They may speak the same language superficially, but the meaning is very different. They don’t experience reality through my brain. It’s like being surrounded by followers of some bizarre religion, who try to involve you in their discussion. What would you even say? You don’t even share a frame of reference. Many utterances that would come naturally would end up making them dislike you, potentially causing trouble. It’s better to remain silent. I thought about this topic a couple of hours ago, and the final sentence of a novella I wrote back in 2017-2018 came to mind: “I had nothing to say. Not to him, not to anyone.”
So, I’m unemployed. I should call to reactivate the unemployment benefits. I should mess with my curriculum vitae and start looking for protected jobs as a programmer. Regarding the job-searching business, I obviously hate it (I don’t know if there’s anyone who likes it). I’ve always been relieved when I apply for a job but I’m rejected. I guess I proved to myself that I tried. But if I get hired, I have to meet a whole new bunch of people whom I’ll eventually end up resenting, for whom I’ll have to perform tasks that likely I won’t feel like doing. Some people enjoy going to work because of the people there, but I don’t like people, so for me it’s all about the money.
Ever since I became unemployed, I don’t feel like doing much of anything. I did spend a couple of hours yesterday afternoon playing the guitar in a nearby park, and I plan to head to another location this afternoon to play some more. But I’ve lost significant enthusiasm for the programming project I’ve been working on these past few months. I’ve looked for games that could distract me for at least a couple of hours a day, but ever since I tried VR, I have trouble getting attached to desktop games. I’m almost Gen-Z-ish regarding movies; very hard for them to retain my attention. Nevermind the fact that most movies released in the past fifteen years or so are garbage. Novels don’t attract me either; I tried to read Pratchett’s The Fifth Elephant, which is the next in line of his The Watch series, but I’m not in a hurry to return to it. It’s general apathy. What I do feel strongly is the need to be left alone, to not have to engage with anyone.
I guess that’s all for today. Not sure why I felt the need to say any of this.
September 11, 2025
Life update (09/11/2025)
[check out this post on my personal page, where it looks better]
I’ve just come back from the Occupational Health and Safety dept of the hospital where I work. I went to explain my perilous current situation: I’m 52% percent disabled according to the provincial government, due to high-functioning autism (formerly Asperger’s) and an inoperable tumor in my pituitary gland for which I need life-long treatment. I have also been diagnosed with OCD, heart damage caused by the Moderna shot, and irritable bowel syndrome (which sounds negligible in comparison, but it invalidates me for jobs such as working at a line or being behind a counter, as I would take lots of breaks for the bathroom). I haven’t returned to the organization that determines the percentage of disability, so they would consider the OCD and the heart damage at least, because I suspect that they would reduce my original 52% merely for the fact that I’ve been working these past seven years, although not continuously because I can’t speak the regional language.
I told the doctor at the OH&S dept, who was also working on a temporary contract because she can’t speak the regional language, that my contract ends in two days, that I’ll return to the realms of unemployment, and that I’ll start collecting that amassed stipend. At any point I may get called to return to the job as a technician, but that job has caused me to end up in the ER due to stress three times: two with arrhythmia and one with supposed hemiplegic migraine but that I suspect was a minor stroke. I’m honestly terrified of working as a technician again, as experience shows me clearly how it will end. These last nine months I’ve been exclusively on a programming contract, being able to put on my headphones and just program away. Virtually zero stress. That experience illustrated that it’s not that I can’t handle a job, but that I’m utterly unsuited for the job as a computer technician, which involves horrid amounts of noise pollution at the office thanks to some fucking dickheads that seem to believe it’s a school playground, along with the need, required by the job itself, of having to interact with nurses and doctors to solve problems. Oh, and the week-long phone duties. Those are fun.
I’m not built to be a computer technician. I shouldn’t have to live in misery and under risk of my body breaking down again. Therefore, I’ll need to start collecting unemployment and look for protected jobs in the private sector. My main concern with that is that after I start collecting unemployment, which could last me half a year, if I get called to work as a technician (which might happen tomorrow; I could get called for a new contract before my current one ends) and I refuse it, they could remove my unemployment benefits. I suppose I’ll have to visit my general practitioner, and possibly a psychiatrist specialized in autism and possibly OCD, so they give me some reports.
Work issues aside, oh my, this world is fucked, huh? Just imagine: you’re a skinny Ukrainian émigré who settles for the very black city of Charlotte, get on a bus and sit surrounded by blacks, only to realize that a black criminal, released fourteen times previously by a system that tries to get blacks out of jail even when they repeatedly commit crimes, has plunged a knife in your throat, and you die surrounded by blacks who don’t give a shit that you were murdered, while the black criminal, as he leaves unimpeded, mumbles “Got the white girl.” The media doesn’t cover it. The politicians happily eat cake. Look at it, ethnic European man or woman, because that’s your future: living surrounded by people who despise you for ethnic reasons, who are supported by a system that encourages their homicidal hatred, and who will gleefully anticipate the removal of your entire kind. You know what you have to do: self-organize for your own interests before it’s too late. I would say, “vote for people who defend and prioritize your own kind,” but I don’t think that those can even get into power due to the demographic replacement that has been implemented, by design, these past twenty years or so.
A newspaper article from yesterday mentioned that in Spain, regarding people under five years of age, 4 out of 10 have at least one foreign-born parent. That’s foreign born, not of foreign origin, so likely the number of people of foreign origin in Spain under five years old is 6 out of 10, at least. I work in a building that houses the maternity ward of the hospital. It’s a parade of Africans (northern and sub-Saharan), Central and South Americans, and muslim women that look like they left Pakistan a week ago. Who designed this to happen?
Oh, and that Charlie Kirk guy, who debated people in public and said stuff that pisses off marxists? Just sniped dead in front of hundreds by a shooter that likely will never be found. Maybe the police should have been in the lookout for dancing people from the Levant. Happy 9/11, by the way! Remember those two towers that free-fell naturally, perfectly straight, into their own foundations, like no other buildings ever had? Wait, it was three buildings, right? Building 7 fell as well, from debris. What an auspicious day it was, huh? What did your young’uns engage in for the next few years, in patriotic fervor? Hitting Iraq, Afghanistan…? Toppling governments that didn’t have anything to do with the Bin, but had banking systems that needed to be fundamentally restructured, with a little help of a genocidal neighbor.
It’s all so horrifying. One one side you have brainwashed marxists, who will gleefully welcome being ethnically cleansed (and possibly even murder you if you don’t agree), and on the other you have so-called conservatives who mainly conserve the legacy of worshipping a jewish zombie, and who are mainly obsessed with preserving the hegemony of a certain genocidal country from the Levant, to whom even the so-called “America First” will enthusiastically syphon your money to. Those who are actually conservative and want to preserve Europe and the European peoples? Oh, they die unsuspiciously (about sixteen members of afD in Germany during these elections), or get persecuted by the government for reasons that surely have nothing to do with their political positions. Let’s see a map of the electoral results in France, my neighbor, during the last elections:
You see that splash of color in Paris in what is otherwise a red-painted land? Those are the people in power now. Paris, which happens to be a shit-smeared hellhole full of foreigners. You see, “democracy” is not a solution. It could have been if we had kept at it like the Greeks intended it: only ethnic natives who owned land held voting power. We’re in an era where marxists can import millions of foreigners to vote against your interests. You think voting is going to save you?
Oh, and by the way, stop with this fucking God nonsense. In my case, being autistic gives me the powers of that child who pointed at the emperor and laughed because he was parading around in the nude. But it’s so tiresome. A sky daddy who will let you into an otherworldly land after you die if you’ve been a good boy? Are you retarded? How did such appalling stupidity become so widespread? I had to scroll through hundreds of tweets or whatever they call them now, amidst videos of Kirk getting his carotid blown out, of people calling for prayers and appealing to this judge of mercy of theirs, who must spend his heavenly time gazing down upon this horror while masturbating. Where was this God of yours when jihadists shot out concert-goers at the Bataclan, stabbed out their eyes, and ripped out the fetuses from pregnant women? Wake the fuck up already, you bunch of children. You fucking toddlers.
Anyway, I’m out. Enjoy this world of yours. I want no part of it.
I’ve just come back from the Occupational Health and Safety dept of the hospital where I work. I went to explain my perilous current situation: I’m 52% percent disabled according to the provincial government, due to high-functioning autism (formerly Asperger’s) and an inoperable tumor in my pituitary gland for which I need life-long treatment. I have also been diagnosed with OCD, heart damage caused by the Moderna shot, and irritable bowel syndrome (which sounds negligible in comparison, but it invalidates me for jobs such as working at a line or being behind a counter, as I would take lots of breaks for the bathroom). I haven’t returned to the organization that determines the percentage of disability, so they would consider the OCD and the heart damage at least, because I suspect that they would reduce my original 52% merely for the fact that I’ve been working these past seven years, although not continuously because I can’t speak the regional language.
I told the doctor at the OH&S dept, who was also working on a temporary contract because she can’t speak the regional language, that my contract ends in two days, that I’ll return to the realms of unemployment, and that I’ll start collecting that amassed stipend. At any point I may get called to return to the job as a technician, but that job has caused me to end up in the ER due to stress three times: two with arrhythmia and one with supposed hemiplegic migraine but that I suspect was a minor stroke. I’m honestly terrified of working as a technician again, as experience shows me clearly how it will end. These last nine months I’ve been exclusively on a programming contract, being able to put on my headphones and just program away. Virtually zero stress. That experience illustrated that it’s not that I can’t handle a job, but that I’m utterly unsuited for the job as a computer technician, which involves horrid amounts of noise pollution at the office thanks to some fucking dickheads that seem to believe it’s a school playground, along with the need, required by the job itself, of having to interact with nurses and doctors to solve problems. Oh, and the week-long phone duties. Those are fun.
I’m not built to be a computer technician. I shouldn’t have to live in misery and under risk of my body breaking down again. Therefore, I’ll need to start collecting unemployment and look for protected jobs in the private sector. My main concern with that is that after I start collecting unemployment, which could last me half a year, if I get called to work as a technician (which might happen tomorrow; I could get called for a new contract before my current one ends) and I refuse it, they could remove my unemployment benefits. I suppose I’ll have to visit my general practitioner, and possibly a psychiatrist specialized in autism and possibly OCD, so they give me some reports.
Work issues aside, oh my, this world is fucked, huh? Just imagine: you’re a skinny Ukrainian émigré who settles for the very black city of Charlotte, get on a bus and sit surrounded by blacks, only to realize that a black criminal, released fourteen times previously by a system that tries to get blacks out of jail even when they repeatedly commit crimes, has plunged a knife in your throat, and you die surrounded by blacks who don’t give a shit that you were murdered, while the black criminal, as he leaves unimpeded, mumbles “Got the white girl.” The media doesn’t cover it. The politicians happily eat cake. Look at it, ethnic European man or woman, because that’s your future: living surrounded by people who despise you for ethnic reasons, who are supported by a system that encourages their homicidal hatred, and who will gleefully anticipate the removal of your entire kind. You know what you have to do: self-organize for your own interests before it’s too late. I would say, “vote for people who defend and prioritize your own kind,” but I don’t think that those can even get into power due to the demographic replacement that has been implemented, by design, these past twenty years or so.
A newspaper article from yesterday mentioned that in Spain, regarding people under five years of age, 4 out of 10 have at least one foreign-born parent. That’s foreign born, not of foreign origin, so likely the number of people of foreign origin in Spain under five years old is 6 out of 10, at least. I work in a building that houses the maternity ward of the hospital. It’s a parade of Africans (northern and sub-Saharan), Central and South Americans, and muslim women that look like they left Pakistan a week ago. Who designed this to happen?
Oh, and that Charlie Kirk guy, who debated people in public and said stuff that pisses off marxists? Just sniped dead in front of hundreds by a shooter that likely will never be found. Maybe the police should have been in the lookout for dancing people from the Levant. Happy 9/11, by the way! Remember those two towers that free-fell naturally, perfectly straight, into their own foundations, like no other buildings ever had? Wait, it was three buildings, right? Building 7 fell as well, from debris. What an auspicious day it was, huh? What did your young’uns engage in for the next few years, in patriotic fervor? Hitting Iraq, Afghanistan…? Toppling governments that didn’t have anything to do with the Bin, but had banking systems that needed to be fundamentally restructured, with a little help of a genocidal neighbor.
It’s all so horrifying. One one side you have brainwashed marxists, who will gleefully welcome being ethnically cleansed (and possibly even murder you if you don’t agree), and on the other you have so-called conservatives who mainly conserve the legacy of worshipping a jewish zombie, and who are mainly obsessed with preserving the hegemony of a certain genocidal country from the Levant, to whom even the so-called “America First” will enthusiastically syphon your money to. Those who are actually conservative and want to preserve Europe and the European peoples? Oh, they die unsuspiciously (about sixteen members of afD in Germany during these elections), or get persecuted by the government for reasons that surely have nothing to do with their political positions. Let’s see a map of the electoral results in France, my neighbor, during the last elections:
You see that splash of color in Paris in what is otherwise a red-painted land? Those are the people in power now. Paris, which happens to be a shit-smeared hellhole full of foreigners. You see, “democracy” is not a solution. It could have been if we had kept at it like the Greeks intended it: only ethnic natives who owned land held voting power. We’re in an era where marxists can import millions of foreigners to vote against your interests. You think voting is going to save you?
Oh, and by the way, stop with this fucking God nonsense. In my case, being autistic gives me the powers of that child who pointed at the emperor and laughed because he was parading around in the nude. But it’s so tiresome. A sky daddy who will let you into an otherworldly land after you die if you’ve been a good boy? Are you retarded? How did such appalling stupidity become so widespread? I had to scroll through hundreds of tweets or whatever they call them now, amidst videos of Kirk getting his carotid blown out, of people calling for prayers and appealing to this judge of mercy of theirs, who must spend his heavenly time gazing down upon this horror while masturbating. Where was this God of yours when jihadists shot out concert-goers at the Bataclan, stabbed out their eyes, and ripped out the fetuses from pregnant women? Wake the fuck up already, you bunch of children. You fucking toddlers.
Anyway, I’m out. Enjoy this world of yours. I want no part of it.
September 3, 2025
Life update (09/03/2025)
[check out this post on my personal page, where it looks better]
I feel like I’m nearing a turning point in my life. My current contract as programmer in the public sector ends in ten days, and they can’t extend the contract for legal reasons. The moment this contract ends, they may call me to return to work as a technician, but working as a technician, the massive stress it causes me, which is unmanageable for me, has sent me to the ER three times (two with arrhythmia, another with a supposed hemiplegic migraine which I suspect may have been a minor stroke).
Honestly, I’m scared of returning to that routine, of not knowing what bullshit I’ll have to deal with every day, of having to pursue other coworkers or “users” to glean the necessary information to do my job, to deal with annoying nurses and arrogant doctors whom I’d rather ignore or punch in the face. I’ve become so adverse to that job, that these past few months I’ve grown incapable of looking at other coworkers in the eye. I don’t actually have to work with them, which is ideal, but they’re constantly around, and I’m an island of quiet among them, uncommunicative, isolated with his noise-canceling headphones on, wishing that nobody notices he’s there.
I’m getting increasingly anxious as the final day of my contract approaches. I imagine myself refusing the contract, then looking up jobs as a programmer. I don’t actually want to work as a programmer for other people, but that’s a skill I have and through which I could extract money. However, back in my twenties, I tried to work in the private sector as a programmer. About half of it, it feels, I worked as an unpaid intern, and all the jobs I had either ended because I couldn’t take it anymore (after my very first job, I almost killed myself, which years later spawned my novel My Own Desert Places), or because some woman in a non-technical position believed I wouldn’t fit in there. And yes, I specified the gender, because that was always the case: my male technical-minded coworkers didn’t have an issue with me nor the work that I did, but some female supervisor considered that all my technical contributions were irrelevant. What such people were doing leading teams of technicians is one of the disasters of the modern world.
I made the mistake of talking to my seventy-year-old mother about it. My father is technically around, but his brain is so fucked that for my entire life he may as well have not been. My mother said I need a therapist to control my stress. She barely remembers that I went to therapy from 16 to 30, with breaks in between, and it did fuck-all other than waste money and cause me permanent damage with wrong medications. I think the whole industry is a sham. The work as a technician causes me unmanageable stress because my brain configuration can’t manage that stress. No amount of “techniques” to manage stress that some therapist could teach me would help. I already control myself by swatting away intrusive thoughts every ten minutes. I’m simply not built for such a job. You don’t put a blind person directing traffic. An autistic fuck like me whose brain is incapable of handing social relationships shouldn’t be in a job that demands him to deal with so many people on the daily.
It’s more than the change of jobs, though. I simply want to escape. I’ve been looking up apartments in another province (Navarre). 120,000€ for a two bedroom apartment. Same kind of apartment would cost about 240,000€ up here. I’d love to live in such small towns. Vastly reduced criminality, lack of mass immigration, nature close by. It’s so fucking humiliating to leave my home at six in the morning and have to walk through an area colonized by arabs, then take the bus, half of whose commuters are foreigners, up to the other bus stop, and along the way see that the people exiting the downtown apartments, the priciest locations, are inexplicably Africans who look like they came here a year ago (I’m counting both North and Sub-Saharan). House prices go up about 9% every year. Who’s paying for it?
I have a nasty anecdote on the subject from back when I bothered to attend writing courses, about ten years ago: I was waiting in the streets for a class to start while a black guy, heavy African accent, was talking to some local about the apartment where the black guy was going to live. It seemed like the local had guided him to show it. The African pointed at the blinds in the window and said, “Of course, they give me the one with the worst blinds. That’s racism.” They gave this son of a bitch an apartment, which the locals need to pay in full, and this fucking parasite complains. One humiliation after another. Losing your spaces, your jobs, your homes, your schools… And I’m not even getting into crime. My own home was nearly broken into by a couple of arabs some years ago. And look at Great Britain with the mass rapes of minors, almost always ethnic European, by the usual suspects. But God forbid you tweet something unsavory about men in women’s clothing; the police will be on your ass the moment you land in the country. Funny thing is, I take the 7:10 bus straight to Donostia, and literally everyone is ethnic European. We’re office workers. Slaves to support the privileged classes. But I work in the hospital building that houses the maternity ward, and I get reminded of who is having the majority of children these days.
By the way, if any of what I’ve written bothered you (yes, you), you’re welcome to fuck off, because if at this point you still defend any of this, I don’t want anything to do with you.
I saw a video earlier today about the Japanese youth, how they are completely unmotivated, don’t want to buy homes, don’t want to start families, are completely risk adverse, and just get by trying to survive as unbothered as possible. We’re not, unfortunately, in Japan, but same thing could be said of the last couple of generations in the West. Why are you contributing to society, exactly? So it can shit on your face and tell you to enjoy it?
What else is there to say, really? I noticed that someone, earlier in the day, went through a couple dozen of the songs I produced with AI a year or so ago. Such fun activities I used to engage in, that I don’t imagine myself retaking anymore. Perhaps writing is one of them, but it’ll fully depend on whether my subconscious flips the switch again. Basically what I’m doing, when I’m not busy programming or reading manga, is daydreaming about a better life (being someone else), or noticing discreetly the attractive ladies on the bus or on my walk to and from the office. Bitter old Houellebecq said, “The physical bodies of young people, the only desirable possession the world has ever produced, were reserved for the exclusive use of the young, and the fate of the old was to work and to suffer.” While he likely meant that he wanted to fuck children, the point stands. I have a forty year old body, so what remains is to work and suffer. And masturbate. At least you can rely on those seconds of relief from time to time. If I was funkier, I’d get into proper drugs. I’d love to do Ayahuasca, which is illegal for reasons. Likely because such drugs would make people wake up and want to topple the government. And then, who’d issue digital IDs, CBDCs, and social credit scores?
Anyway, if you have boobs, give them a squeeze for me, will you? Man-boobs will do.
I feel like I’m nearing a turning point in my life. My current contract as programmer in the public sector ends in ten days, and they can’t extend the contract for legal reasons. The moment this contract ends, they may call me to return to work as a technician, but working as a technician, the massive stress it causes me, which is unmanageable for me, has sent me to the ER three times (two with arrhythmia, another with a supposed hemiplegic migraine which I suspect may have been a minor stroke).
Honestly, I’m scared of returning to that routine, of not knowing what bullshit I’ll have to deal with every day, of having to pursue other coworkers or “users” to glean the necessary information to do my job, to deal with annoying nurses and arrogant doctors whom I’d rather ignore or punch in the face. I’ve become so adverse to that job, that these past few months I’ve grown incapable of looking at other coworkers in the eye. I don’t actually have to work with them, which is ideal, but they’re constantly around, and I’m an island of quiet among them, uncommunicative, isolated with his noise-canceling headphones on, wishing that nobody notices he’s there.
I’m getting increasingly anxious as the final day of my contract approaches. I imagine myself refusing the contract, then looking up jobs as a programmer. I don’t actually want to work as a programmer for other people, but that’s a skill I have and through which I could extract money. However, back in my twenties, I tried to work in the private sector as a programmer. About half of it, it feels, I worked as an unpaid intern, and all the jobs I had either ended because I couldn’t take it anymore (after my very first job, I almost killed myself, which years later spawned my novel My Own Desert Places), or because some woman in a non-technical position believed I wouldn’t fit in there. And yes, I specified the gender, because that was always the case: my male technical-minded coworkers didn’t have an issue with me nor the work that I did, but some female supervisor considered that all my technical contributions were irrelevant. What such people were doing leading teams of technicians is one of the disasters of the modern world.
I made the mistake of talking to my seventy-year-old mother about it. My father is technically around, but his brain is so fucked that for my entire life he may as well have not been. My mother said I need a therapist to control my stress. She barely remembers that I went to therapy from 16 to 30, with breaks in between, and it did fuck-all other than waste money and cause me permanent damage with wrong medications. I think the whole industry is a sham. The work as a technician causes me unmanageable stress because my brain configuration can’t manage that stress. No amount of “techniques” to manage stress that some therapist could teach me would help. I already control myself by swatting away intrusive thoughts every ten minutes. I’m simply not built for such a job. You don’t put a blind person directing traffic. An autistic fuck like me whose brain is incapable of handing social relationships shouldn’t be in a job that demands him to deal with so many people on the daily.
It’s more than the change of jobs, though. I simply want to escape. I’ve been looking up apartments in another province (Navarre). 120,000€ for a two bedroom apartment. Same kind of apartment would cost about 240,000€ up here. I’d love to live in such small towns. Vastly reduced criminality, lack of mass immigration, nature close by. It’s so fucking humiliating to leave my home at six in the morning and have to walk through an area colonized by arabs, then take the bus, half of whose commuters are foreigners, up to the other bus stop, and along the way see that the people exiting the downtown apartments, the priciest locations, are inexplicably Africans who look like they came here a year ago (I’m counting both North and Sub-Saharan). House prices go up about 9% every year. Who’s paying for it?
I have a nasty anecdote on the subject from back when I bothered to attend writing courses, about ten years ago: I was waiting in the streets for a class to start while a black guy, heavy African accent, was talking to some local about the apartment where the black guy was going to live. It seemed like the local had guided him to show it. The African pointed at the blinds in the window and said, “Of course, they give me the one with the worst blinds. That’s racism.” They gave this son of a bitch an apartment, which the locals need to pay in full, and this fucking parasite complains. One humiliation after another. Losing your spaces, your jobs, your homes, your schools… And I’m not even getting into crime. My own home was nearly broken into by a couple of arabs some years ago. And look at Great Britain with the mass rapes of minors, almost always ethnic European, by the usual suspects. But God forbid you tweet something unsavory about men in women’s clothing; the police will be on your ass the moment you land in the country. Funny thing is, I take the 7:10 bus straight to Donostia, and literally everyone is ethnic European. We’re office workers. Slaves to support the privileged classes. But I work in the hospital building that houses the maternity ward, and I get reminded of who is having the majority of children these days.
By the way, if any of what I’ve written bothered you (yes, you), you’re welcome to fuck off, because if at this point you still defend any of this, I don’t want anything to do with you.
I saw a video earlier today about the Japanese youth, how they are completely unmotivated, don’t want to buy homes, don’t want to start families, are completely risk adverse, and just get by trying to survive as unbothered as possible. We’re not, unfortunately, in Japan, but same thing could be said of the last couple of generations in the West. Why are you contributing to society, exactly? So it can shit on your face and tell you to enjoy it?
What else is there to say, really? I noticed that someone, earlier in the day, went through a couple dozen of the songs I produced with AI a year or so ago. Such fun activities I used to engage in, that I don’t imagine myself retaking anymore. Perhaps writing is one of them, but it’ll fully depend on whether my subconscious flips the switch again. Basically what I’m doing, when I’m not busy programming or reading manga, is daydreaming about a better life (being someone else), or noticing discreetly the attractive ladies on the bus or on my walk to and from the office. Bitter old Houellebecq said, “The physical bodies of young people, the only desirable possession the world has ever produced, were reserved for the exclusive use of the young, and the fate of the old was to work and to suffer.” While he likely meant that he wanted to fuck children, the point stands. I have a forty year old body, so what remains is to work and suffer. And masturbate. At least you can rely on those seconds of relief from time to time. If I was funkier, I’d get into proper drugs. I’d love to do Ayahuasca, which is illegal for reasons. Likely because such drugs would make people wake up and want to topple the government. And then, who’d issue digital IDs, CBDCs, and social credit scores?
Anyway, if you have boobs, give them a squeeze for me, will you? Man-boobs will do.
August 28, 2025
Life update (08/29/2025)
[check out this post on my personal page, where it looks better]
It’s been a few months since a switch flipped in my head and I suddenly didn’t feel like writing fiction anymore. I only act to satisfy my subconscious, so if she wishes to focus on anything else, that’s what I do. To a certain extent, I’ve felt relieved. I was under the pressure to perform, even though virtually nobody read my stuff. I suppose it’s related to the ingrained need to provide a service, a product, regularly, or else you’re worthless.
We men are the slaves of society: invisible drones intended to serve tirelessly until we grow too old, resented the moment we show weakness, abandoned the moment we break down. Our value tied to the quality of the last thing we provided, a value that depreciates very fast. If you cease providing, you may as well be trash that someone should pick up and throw away. Remembering all those years of writing chapters, the feeling I got when I posted the next one was something like, “I finally deserve to relax for a while.” And I always give my 110% on the things I care about, so I put an insane amount of hours into writing my stories, the sort of effort that wouldn’t be feasible if I had anything resembling a social life. I recall plenty of cases in which I could only finish a single paragraph in a whole writing session that may have taken three hours.
Was it worth it? Well, I don’t feel much in terms of accomplishment. It certainly wasn’t monetarily rewarding. It was also humiliating to see authors, some local whom I knew personally, that objectively were far worse writers than I, promoted in newspapers, called into radio shows, and seemingly being able to make a living through writing, while my stories only caused me trouble. I do have the memories, many of them far stronger than the lingering remains of stuff that has actually happened to me. It took me about three months to write My Own Desert Places, my first novel in English. I have a vivid memory of seeing the female main character walking down a cobbled street in Hondarribia, seen from behind, her brown hair swaying as she clutched a binder, heading to a writing course. She never existed. I remember going to a patisserie in Donostia along with a French secretary and a Paleolithic child, where we stuffed ourselves with delicious pastries. That never happened. I have grafted into my heart griefs of things that happened in my stories, of people lost to accidents, of dreams ruined, that make my eyes water whenever I recall them, even though none of that ever happened.
What does it all mean? I don’t know. What I do know is that I’m forty years old, I’m insufficient as a human being, my body is a disaster, my brain is an even worse disaster, and I’m beyond exhausted. I don’t want the life I’m living. I need a change of scenery. I want to be where nobody knows me, where I don’t feel responsible for any living soul, and I can simply sit alone in a room and be myself. But it seems all we’re meant to do in this shitty world is work and work for money that is worth less every passing month.
We used to enslave ourselves because at least you got something of value out of the pain: usually a family of your own. But I’ve never wanted to burden anyone with my genes. Even if I did, that would be a terrible idea, as I would be an incompetent father. But even if I could be a good father, nobody would want to have children with me. So I guess I’m just going through the motions until my body breaks down completely.
On a lighter note, I’m working daily on my programming project! I originally envisioned it as a browser-based platform to play adventure games, immersive sims, etc., in a chat format. Given that I’m a hedonist, it has turned into a complex, very powerful platform to create erotica, relying on large language models to act as the other characters. Got to enjoy my fetishes through it. Constantly coming up with ideas for it, to the extent that it never feels like I could take a break and show the current state. I plan to make a video about its features, with the faint hope that someone else will want to add code and content to the repository, content that I will be able to enjoy myself.
Anyway, thanks for reading, I guess.
It’s been a few months since a switch flipped in my head and I suddenly didn’t feel like writing fiction anymore. I only act to satisfy my subconscious, so if she wishes to focus on anything else, that’s what I do. To a certain extent, I’ve felt relieved. I was under the pressure to perform, even though virtually nobody read my stuff. I suppose it’s related to the ingrained need to provide a service, a product, regularly, or else you’re worthless.
We men are the slaves of society: invisible drones intended to serve tirelessly until we grow too old, resented the moment we show weakness, abandoned the moment we break down. Our value tied to the quality of the last thing we provided, a value that depreciates very fast. If you cease providing, you may as well be trash that someone should pick up and throw away. Remembering all those years of writing chapters, the feeling I got when I posted the next one was something like, “I finally deserve to relax for a while.” And I always give my 110% on the things I care about, so I put an insane amount of hours into writing my stories, the sort of effort that wouldn’t be feasible if I had anything resembling a social life. I recall plenty of cases in which I could only finish a single paragraph in a whole writing session that may have taken three hours.
Was it worth it? Well, I don’t feel much in terms of accomplishment. It certainly wasn’t monetarily rewarding. It was also humiliating to see authors, some local whom I knew personally, that objectively were far worse writers than I, promoted in newspapers, called into radio shows, and seemingly being able to make a living through writing, while my stories only caused me trouble. I do have the memories, many of them far stronger than the lingering remains of stuff that has actually happened to me. It took me about three months to write My Own Desert Places, my first novel in English. I have a vivid memory of seeing the female main character walking down a cobbled street in Hondarribia, seen from behind, her brown hair swaying as she clutched a binder, heading to a writing course. She never existed. I remember going to a patisserie in Donostia along with a French secretary and a Paleolithic child, where we stuffed ourselves with delicious pastries. That never happened. I have grafted into my heart griefs of things that happened in my stories, of people lost to accidents, of dreams ruined, that make my eyes water whenever I recall them, even though none of that ever happened.
What does it all mean? I don’t know. What I do know is that I’m forty years old, I’m insufficient as a human being, my body is a disaster, my brain is an even worse disaster, and I’m beyond exhausted. I don’t want the life I’m living. I need a change of scenery. I want to be where nobody knows me, where I don’t feel responsible for any living soul, and I can simply sit alone in a room and be myself. But it seems all we’re meant to do in this shitty world is work and work for money that is worth less every passing month.
We used to enslave ourselves because at least you got something of value out of the pain: usually a family of your own. But I’ve never wanted to burden anyone with my genes. Even if I did, that would be a terrible idea, as I would be an incompetent father. But even if I could be a good father, nobody would want to have children with me. So I guess I’m just going through the motions until my body breaks down completely.
On a lighter note, I’m working daily on my programming project! I originally envisioned it as a browser-based platform to play adventure games, immersive sims, etc., in a chat format. Given that I’m a hedonist, it has turned into a complex, very powerful platform to create erotica, relying on large language models to act as the other characters. Got to enjoy my fetishes through it. Constantly coming up with ideas for it, to the extent that it never feels like I could take a break and show the current state. I plan to make a video about its features, with the faint hope that someone else will want to add code and content to the repository, content that I will be able to enjoy myself.
Anyway, thanks for reading, I guess.
August 14, 2025
Life update (08/14/2025)
Three days ago, the youngest of my two cats, who is fourteen years old or so, started breathing weirdly, in a phlegm-y way. When I put my hand on his chest, it vibrated as he breathed. I hoped that it would pass on its own, but it was clearly getting worse.
I’m on vacation for a few more days (although I’ve done fuck-all of consequence, other than programming, playing the guitar, playing VR games, and masturbating), so I took the little guy to the vet. The X-rays didn’t show anything. They injected him with a corticosteroid, and told me that I’ll have to somehow make him swallow the same thing in pill form for the upcoming seven days. The vet, a nice-seeming younger woman, told me that the corticosteroid is mainly for relief, because the real cause is likely a polyp or a mass, and at his age, it will likely not be operable. If things don’t improve in the next few days, I’ll have to bring him to a proper clinic in Donostia, thirty kilometers away, so they can perform a CT scan and similar stuff.
He’s dying. I’ve already lost three cats and it haunts me weekly. I’m way too sensitive to handle the deaths of these little creatures that I’ve loved for years. To begin with, people having pets is insane; just a replacement for the biological urge of having children. It’s clear to me that nobody should raise any living being that’s unlikely to outlast them. I’ve loved my cats, but when I look back, I don’t store any memory of my dead pets that isn’t tainted by the fact that they died. In the case of two of them, also of how they died.
I can’t take this shit. The only relief that I get from my brain bombarding me with intrusive pains is when I’m playing the guitar, when I’m lost in a very engaging experience like a VR game, or jerking off. When any of those distractions ends, the flood returns, and I have to wade through everything painful that my brain refuses to let go of. The number of those private pains only grows as I get older. I suspect that due to the peculiar configuration that my neurons settled on shortly after birth thanks to the autism-related atypical pruning, memory-wise, my brain is a machine made to discard every good experience and etch in stone every bad one. Over the years, I’ve grown wary of attempting things, talking to people, etc., because I know I’ll just be adding more shit to the pile. A classical sign, I suppose, of Pure Obsessional OCD. I don’t know for how long I’ll be able to stand this.
For the last few months or so, I’ve avoided going outside other than to work, to buy whatever needed buying, and to play the guitar, and I play the guitar in the woods, so the population and general demographics are unlike what can be found in the rest of society. But today I had to bring my cat in a carrying case to a nearby clinic, where they refused to take him in due to overwork, so I had to take a bus downtown. Society has turned into such a horrid zoo. I don’t understand how people can look around and think that everything is fine, unless you’re one of the people who are benefiting from it. And us Europeans are the ones losing everything.
I remember my maternal grandfather, who fought on Franco’s side. In the decades after, particularly during the last twenty or so years of his life, he went out as little a possible, because “out there, there’s only weird people.” If he had lived through the current ethnic cleansing, he would have killed himself. I’m no christian (the Roman Empire adopting Christianity was the biggest humiliation ritual imaginable, and we’ve been paying for it ever since. See recent examples of Trump, Mr. “America First”, groveling up to the “chosen people”), so I can’t support Franco such religious grounds, but those fucking communists had it coming. Regarding the christian thing, read Catherine Nixey’s The Darkening Age: The Christian Destruction of the Classical World. In summary, how could I look forward to anything in society when everything is deliberately going the wrong way, and it’s only going to get worse? I’m just glad that I won’t bring children to this disaster.
My cat is walking around, climbing furniture, and eating a bit, but he’s still breathing weird. Almost guaranteed, this is the decline that will end in his death. I suppose he has lived long enough. I doubt that his life has been particularly happy, given neuroses like overeating whenever he has the chance even though he pukes afterwards. But what can you do. I can’t even give myself a happy life.
I’m on vacation for a few more days (although I’ve done fuck-all of consequence, other than programming, playing the guitar, playing VR games, and masturbating), so I took the little guy to the vet. The X-rays didn’t show anything. They injected him with a corticosteroid, and told me that I’ll have to somehow make him swallow the same thing in pill form for the upcoming seven days. The vet, a nice-seeming younger woman, told me that the corticosteroid is mainly for relief, because the real cause is likely a polyp or a mass, and at his age, it will likely not be operable. If things don’t improve in the next few days, I’ll have to bring him to a proper clinic in Donostia, thirty kilometers away, so they can perform a CT scan and similar stuff.
He’s dying. I’ve already lost three cats and it haunts me weekly. I’m way too sensitive to handle the deaths of these little creatures that I’ve loved for years. To begin with, people having pets is insane; just a replacement for the biological urge of having children. It’s clear to me that nobody should raise any living being that’s unlikely to outlast them. I’ve loved my cats, but when I look back, I don’t store any memory of my dead pets that isn’t tainted by the fact that they died. In the case of two of them, also of how they died.
I can’t take this shit. The only relief that I get from my brain bombarding me with intrusive pains is when I’m playing the guitar, when I’m lost in a very engaging experience like a VR game, or jerking off. When any of those distractions ends, the flood returns, and I have to wade through everything painful that my brain refuses to let go of. The number of those private pains only grows as I get older. I suspect that due to the peculiar configuration that my neurons settled on shortly after birth thanks to the autism-related atypical pruning, memory-wise, my brain is a machine made to discard every good experience and etch in stone every bad one. Over the years, I’ve grown wary of attempting things, talking to people, etc., because I know I’ll just be adding more shit to the pile. A classical sign, I suppose, of Pure Obsessional OCD. I don’t know for how long I’ll be able to stand this.
For the last few months or so, I’ve avoided going outside other than to work, to buy whatever needed buying, and to play the guitar, and I play the guitar in the woods, so the population and general demographics are unlike what can be found in the rest of society. But today I had to bring my cat in a carrying case to a nearby clinic, where they refused to take him in due to overwork, so I had to take a bus downtown. Society has turned into such a horrid zoo. I don’t understand how people can look around and think that everything is fine, unless you’re one of the people who are benefiting from it. And us Europeans are the ones losing everything.
I remember my maternal grandfather, who fought on Franco’s side. In the decades after, particularly during the last twenty or so years of his life, he went out as little a possible, because “out there, there’s only weird people.” If he had lived through the current ethnic cleansing, he would have killed himself. I’m no christian (the Roman Empire adopting Christianity was the biggest humiliation ritual imaginable, and we’ve been paying for it ever since. See recent examples of Trump, Mr. “America First”, groveling up to the “chosen people”), so I can’t support Franco such religious grounds, but those fucking communists had it coming. Regarding the christian thing, read Catherine Nixey’s The Darkening Age: The Christian Destruction of the Classical World. In summary, how could I look forward to anything in society when everything is deliberately going the wrong way, and it’s only going to get worse? I’m just glad that I won’t bring children to this disaster.
My cat is walking around, climbing furniture, and eating a bit, but he’s still breathing weird. Almost guaranteed, this is the decline that will end in his death. I suppose he has lived long enough. I doubt that his life has been particularly happy, given neuroses like overeating whenever he has the chance even though he pukes afterwards. But what can you do. I can’t even give myself a happy life.
May 25, 2025
Life update (05/26/2025)
[check out this post on my personal page, where it looks better]
I’m back at work after two weeks of vacation that, as these things usually do, passed by way too fast. Most of my first week was spent in Barcelona, a trip originally intended for research but that caught me not caring much about writing. I’m glad I went, and I got some interesting experiences out of it, but when I returned home, I realized I didn’t really care to write about it. Right now, at about eight in the morning on a Monday, sitting at my office desk, I may as well point out a few things. First of all, Barcelona is a multiculti hellhole. I already expected it to be, but walking through Las Ramblas (don’t do that) exposed the multiculti dream, that as far as concerned has been thoroughly exposed: no “melting pot” (not that it was ever a good thing to begin with), but a fuckton of ethnicities competing for spaces, resources, and eventually, who rules. In a territory that was solely meant to be for the Catalan people, now increasingly less every passing day. Same thing is obviously happening throughout Europe, but it shocked me to witness it on such a grand scale in a huge city. I don’t know why anyone would want to live in such a city, by the way. As far as I’m concerned, they’re designed to drive you crazy.
Catalonia has a bad reputation for making most of its identity be about its regional language, which made me wary of going there, and while most things are indeed solely in Catalan, I had no trouble interacting with people in Spanish. That’s partly because plenty of the vendors I interacted with were foreigners, some of whom could barely care about Spanish, let alone the regional language. But anyway, walking down along Las Ramblas while Pakistani/Indian-type men (all of them were) constantly pestered passersby to eat at restaurants (that seemingly served regular food, but I have to assume they are Pakistani/Indian owned) was a chilling reminder that people from backwards places bring their backwards shit wherever they go.
Anyway, I visited churches, museums, the zoo, the top of the Tibidabo mountain… and instead of missing those sights, I found myself missing the attractive females I came across and whom I’ll never see again. The sporty, fresh-faced college-age woman who took the same elevator as me in the building where I briefly lived. The cute teenager wearing a cap and jeans who kept glancing my way with curiosity, for whatever reason, in the vivarium of the zoo, as well as at the mongoose enclosure. The woman who ran around the neighborhood wearing very tight, very short multicolored shorts. All those amazingly gorgeous tourists, isolated islands of blonde hair and blue eyes in an increasingly non-ethnic-European hole. Plenty of tourists who weren’t blonde and blue-eyed were also very attractive. Ultimately, attractive females are the most valuable “thing” in the world, and plenty of what any man (and some women) consumes on a regular basis, other than food, are substitutes for not having access to such a female.
The rest of my vacation was spent playing the guitar and programming. During this time, I was reminded of the fact that I don’t care about human beings or society in general. When I went out, I hurried to the mostly deserted wooded areas, while avoiding looking at anyone’s face. As I played the guitar, whenever any person approached, I got increasingly tense, which lessened as they left. It’s always been like this, but now, as a forty-year-old man going through some sort of middle-age crisis, it has become blatantly obvious that not only it’s going to be like that for the rest of my life, but that I’ll become increasingly crotchety about it as I grow older.
As the train carried me through the mostly deserted interior of Eastern Spain (about 70% of the country is unoccupied, mainly the interior plains, with the exception of the Zaragoza and Madrid areas), made me yearn to live in a quiet town somewhere in that isolation. I’m sick of having to share my spaces with so many people, even in a city like mine that isn’t remotely as fucked as Barcelona.
Don’t know what else to say. I hope I manage to return to writing my novel soon, but I’m not feeling it. I have been working hard at my programming project, mainly because it was a very compelling challenge, and just a couple of days ago, I managed to involve large language models in it, having them act as characters in a turn-based simulation. There’s a ton I can build upon that, but as the hardest part (by far) is already solved, I assume my interest is going to descend from there.
I’m tense about how I’m going to adapt to the office after this illuminating vacation. Working here as a programmer has illustrated that I absolutely do not, under any circumstance, want to return to working as a technician. I hate every aspect of it, and it’s completely ill-suited to my nature. But dropping that would likely mean having to find a completely different line of work at forty. But it’s not like I have any future here without knowing Basque; after the changes they made to the ranking system, I have been pushed down many places because of my lack of knowledge of that stupid language, so soon enough I would have found myself not being called for work anyway. Down the line of working as a technician, new visits to the ER await (three so far: two for arrhythmia and one for a hemiplegic migraine), and any of those visits may end up leaving me with permanent consequences. I suspect that at least one of them did.
Anyway, I guess that’s all for now.
I’m back at work after two weeks of vacation that, as these things usually do, passed by way too fast. Most of my first week was spent in Barcelona, a trip originally intended for research but that caught me not caring much about writing. I’m glad I went, and I got some interesting experiences out of it, but when I returned home, I realized I didn’t really care to write about it. Right now, at about eight in the morning on a Monday, sitting at my office desk, I may as well point out a few things. First of all, Barcelona is a multiculti hellhole. I already expected it to be, but walking through Las Ramblas (don’t do that) exposed the multiculti dream, that as far as concerned has been thoroughly exposed: no “melting pot” (not that it was ever a good thing to begin with), but a fuckton of ethnicities competing for spaces, resources, and eventually, who rules. In a territory that was solely meant to be for the Catalan people, now increasingly less every passing day. Same thing is obviously happening throughout Europe, but it shocked me to witness it on such a grand scale in a huge city. I don’t know why anyone would want to live in such a city, by the way. As far as I’m concerned, they’re designed to drive you crazy.
Catalonia has a bad reputation for making most of its identity be about its regional language, which made me wary of going there, and while most things are indeed solely in Catalan, I had no trouble interacting with people in Spanish. That’s partly because plenty of the vendors I interacted with were foreigners, some of whom could barely care about Spanish, let alone the regional language. But anyway, walking down along Las Ramblas while Pakistani/Indian-type men (all of them were) constantly pestered passersby to eat at restaurants (that seemingly served regular food, but I have to assume they are Pakistani/Indian owned) was a chilling reminder that people from backwards places bring their backwards shit wherever they go.
Anyway, I visited churches, museums, the zoo, the top of the Tibidabo mountain… and instead of missing those sights, I found myself missing the attractive females I came across and whom I’ll never see again. The sporty, fresh-faced college-age woman who took the same elevator as me in the building where I briefly lived. The cute teenager wearing a cap and jeans who kept glancing my way with curiosity, for whatever reason, in the vivarium of the zoo, as well as at the mongoose enclosure. The woman who ran around the neighborhood wearing very tight, very short multicolored shorts. All those amazingly gorgeous tourists, isolated islands of blonde hair and blue eyes in an increasingly non-ethnic-European hole. Plenty of tourists who weren’t blonde and blue-eyed were also very attractive. Ultimately, attractive females are the most valuable “thing” in the world, and plenty of what any man (and some women) consumes on a regular basis, other than food, are substitutes for not having access to such a female.
The rest of my vacation was spent playing the guitar and programming. During this time, I was reminded of the fact that I don’t care about human beings or society in general. When I went out, I hurried to the mostly deserted wooded areas, while avoiding looking at anyone’s face. As I played the guitar, whenever any person approached, I got increasingly tense, which lessened as they left. It’s always been like this, but now, as a forty-year-old man going through some sort of middle-age crisis, it has become blatantly obvious that not only it’s going to be like that for the rest of my life, but that I’ll become increasingly crotchety about it as I grow older.
As the train carried me through the mostly deserted interior of Eastern Spain (about 70% of the country is unoccupied, mainly the interior plains, with the exception of the Zaragoza and Madrid areas), made me yearn to live in a quiet town somewhere in that isolation. I’m sick of having to share my spaces with so many people, even in a city like mine that isn’t remotely as fucked as Barcelona.
Don’t know what else to say. I hope I manage to return to writing my novel soon, but I’m not feeling it. I have been working hard at my programming project, mainly because it was a very compelling challenge, and just a couple of days ago, I managed to involve large language models in it, having them act as characters in a turn-based simulation. There’s a ton I can build upon that, but as the hardest part (by far) is already solved, I assume my interest is going to descend from there.
I’m tense about how I’m going to adapt to the office after this illuminating vacation. Working here as a programmer has illustrated that I absolutely do not, under any circumstance, want to return to working as a technician. I hate every aspect of it, and it’s completely ill-suited to my nature. But dropping that would likely mean having to find a completely different line of work at forty. But it’s not like I have any future here without knowing Basque; after the changes they made to the ranking system, I have been pushed down many places because of my lack of knowledge of that stupid language, so soon enough I would have found myself not being called for work anyway. Down the line of working as a technician, new visits to the ER await (three so far: two for arrhythmia and one for a hemiplegic migraine), and any of those visits may end up leaving me with permanent consequences. I suspect that at least one of them did.
Anyway, I guess that’s all for now.
