Crunchy numbers, wobbly words

Curated selections from my blog posts

  • Antichrist Manifesto – 4,500 words
  • Epistles – 8,700 words
  • Apocalypsofa – 19,300 words

Blog posts

  • Livejournal 2001-2009 – 37,800
  • August 2018 – 16,500 words
  • September 2018 – 12,600 words
  • October 2018 – 52,000 words
  • November 2018 (the “deleted” posts, first half of the month) – 31,000 words

These are the word counts of my blog posts, copied and pasted into word documents. This is not everything I have written.

I do have other word documents of more crap I’ve written.

This does not include the stuff I have posted on my blog since then. This does not include all my poetry, prose, secrets nor recorded comments.

There is bound to be overlap though. I’ve reposted stuff. I’m really crap at categorizing. If you’ve seen my Pinterest boards, you’ll see that my categories rarely stick to anything so clearly defined.

They start off clearly defined, but eventually they overflow and overlap into each other.

I’m at this same familiar crossroads again. I am so very close to exporting all of my blog posts and beginning again. Clean slate. In an attempt to redefine this niche of mine.

Who the heck I am (I know who I am. But I mean how I want to represent myself – who I am to be, to you), and why it matters.

Because in the end, nothing truly matters. It doesn’t matter who I am to you. I could be an overweight, balding 47 year old man living in the basement of his parents house.


Or I could be an anthropomorphised companion animalien, sent from outer space, to guide you humans into the next phase of your evolution.


Or I could be a schizophrenic James McAvoy alternative, with super telekinetic psychic powers that channels the personalities of fictionalized character tropes from much loved family cinema.


When I used to be employed, I was a huge advocate for WATCH YOUR WORDS, FOR WORDS ARE CENTRAL TO THE STATE OF YOUR WELLBEING. Because your words should be used to build each other up, not tear each other down.


Because the shit that you say might not mean anything to you, but you don’t know the impact they have on other people. You don’t know their life, you don’t know what they have to deal with when they go home. You don’t know the shit that goes on inside their head.

You don’t know me, except for what I say. You don’t know how much of what I say is based on my reality, on my personal experience, on the experiences I have personally shared with others, or on the experiences others have personally shared with me.


I’m nobody. Well, obviously that’s a lie. I am somebody. I’m just nobody of significance. There’s nothing that sets me apart from anyone else. There’s nothing exceptional about me.

I’ve often lamented that I’ve been an NPC in my own damned life. My narrative has had me as a supporting character in everyone else’s adventures and stories. I am guilty of all sorts of crap mostly because I was just there.

I started as an attempt at taking charge of my own narrative. To be a source of wisdom for others… so that I may share my story for others to learn from my mistakes.

My mistake – passivity! The fence sitter. The enabler.

Devoid of passion, except my passion for people. I have “been there, done that, came out with a bitchin’ story to tell”

I’ve got an anecdote for many of life’s ills.

Aesthetics are incredibly important to me for I understand the packaging of a product is absolutely paramount to it’s success. Because we all want to look good, and well presented things are more appetizing and likely to be selected than a ratty, shabby, scabby looking alternative – regardless of the quality of the product.

But I’m not a product. I’m a service. I’m a networker, a connector of unrelated dots.

You all may be stars, burning bright and beautiful against the dark backdrop of the emptiness of space. But nothing means anything until you trace the invisible lines and see the stars as constellations.

Groups of inherently separate things, but that when combined a certain way they begin to take shape… and thus take on meaning.

I’m just a bullshitter. A beautiful Taurean dump in a farmer’s field. I’m beautiful because I have a level of self awareness that refuses to accept I’m just a piece of shit.

Even if I am shit. Why can’t I dream of being something more?

Because I’m constantly reminded (by my memories of things people have said to me) that I am a manipulative, infuriating, obstinate, liar. Because my message is one of “new age propagandist falsehoods.” Because it is wrong to dream. It is wrong to hope. It is wrong to perpetuate any thing other than cold, hard, indisputable FACT.

And you all know my definition of what is fact and what is truth… CONTEXT. Context is the only thing that separates the two. And nobody has time for context, they want the easiest and fastest path to success and it’s secrets of wisdom.

Categories: The Real Deal

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