Olivia
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Baron Clive
@Clive_1757
Previously Incognito Disperser
Plassey
Joined September 2022
241 Following
127 Followers
998 Posts
I have watched men sit still in the same chair long enough that the chair started shaping them, their spine curved into it, ribs narrowed into it, entire musculature negotiated a permanent surrender with this cheap ikea-object. the human body was not designed for peace. peace does weird shit to cells the same way standing water does weird shit to ponds. every parasite in nature depends on a stagnant host. think how many of your worst thoughts arrived while you were lying down. the mind that does not move produces the same quality of thought as a bloodstream that does not move. sludge, thick, dark, slow, confident in its own decay, convinced this darkness is depth
Not to jump on the whole "muh school oppressed me" confessional trend but this actually happened to me too in middle school. I drew a Desert Eagle on a sheet of paper and got dragged into the principal's office by an SRO to get interrogated about it.
I don't fully blame them honestly, anything post-Columbine forced school admins to be extra cautious and I didn't really get in trouble beyond having to deal with catching a load of shit at home when my parents got the phone call.
What I did find peculiar was that the vice principal was some pantsuit Michelle Obama type black lady who enunciated white but you could tell she slipped into a lil ebonics at home. She was more gender than race woke anyway, total longhouser. She would squint in this almost performative put-on look of confusion and ask me, "I-I-I don't understand why you would draw something like this? Can't you just draw... like people or something?"
Like, you really don't understand that boys think guns are cool? You know everyone with a dick in your school, both student and faculty, would go home every night to play COD 4 and Halo 3 to fucking EXPLODE each other's skulls with .50 cal snipers and call each other slurs right?
This was the same lady who had to give the speech to the whole school on the zero tolerance policy they were implementing for fights. You would have grown ass black men held back 4 times in a row, literal 6 foot tall 200 pound 8th graders going in and out of juvie, completely hospitalizing children straight out of elementary school for no reason. Like one kid I knew got his skull caved in from having his head bashed against a concrete wall and got permanent brain damage.
But of course, she's filled with righteous fervor, glaring at all the pudgy pasty white kids like they're the problem while she's explaining to them if they fight back while being beaten, they get in just as much trouble as if they started the fight. That's zero tolerance, a complete handwash solution cooked up by demons and eventually enforced by histrionic neurotic hags in some unseen admin building somewhere in my county.
When asked "What are we supposed to do if we're being attacked?" Her answer was run away. When asked "What if we can't?" such as, for example, you're getting ganged up and pummeled into unconsciousness on the school bus that routes through the projects. Her answer was "Hug them until someone comes to help."
Schools are meant to prepare you for life and public American education did exactly that for several generations of young men. They gave us a taste for what the world would be like, a politicized faction of vaginal minority bureaucrats empowering a mob of feralized retards into causing you extreme harm while you get punished for the transgression of bleeding on them.
This doesn't even cover the vaginal autocracy that is teacher-student microaggression, it's impacted every young man that's ever been educated in this country. I could fill up 20 threads alone with my own personal experiences. The only reason I don't have much of a chip on my shoulder about it is because I'm lucky enough to have had a family that had my back and taught me from birth that I live in a hostile place in hostile times.
A couple teachers were chill, most of them were neurotic aging women who have either clipped their husbands balls or single hags that get fatter and more worried every single year. Most of those were fine honestly too, you kind of roll the dice on whether they decide to hate you specifically or if someone else in the classroom gets to be the lightning rod.
School is a training ground for incarceration. Your life is segmented into brightly lit concrete rooms with varying degrees of soulless decor. Your food is literally provided for you by the same vendors they use to supply prisons. I learned this fun fact in the 3rd grade but it was still surreal witnessing the same Mr. Juice mascot with the boxing gloves on the same plastic sacks of apple juice paired with the same kill-yourself ham sandwiches handed out for lunch at the county jail.
I don't really know the solution tbh.
Like, in a perfect world, boys wouldn't go to the same schools girls do, and boy schooling would resemble something more like Boy Scouts mixed with walking lectures akin to Aristotle tutoring Alexander the Great. An outside world brought into a budding mind's internal world through examples and perspective, a learning lesson ingested through raw experiences condensed in a controlled training environment.
How do you get something like that without risking your sons getting molested? Even in the high trust homogeneous societies of 100 years ago that everyone loves to fantasize about returning to, you still have that same fundamental problem that occurs when you let your children be in possession of random strangers who are supposed to be trusted purely on the premise of a salary and a promise.
I guess homeschooling and team sports? Maybe? Society is sick. You can't trust the faculty and even if you could, kids can't be left alone with their peers who get brainraped by cartoons made by virulent homos. Everything industrial society does to streamline the time and attention deficit of educating its young is just a band-aid measure to fulfill the hole left by mentorship in small communities. An artifact of a time when your world was small enough to know everyone in it. A far gone dream of a tribal environment where community and family were one and the same.
I don't know if women are aware how stressful it is to be a father. It's not just daughters that inspire worry, it's sons too, even more so in different ways. We live in a world where everything is trying to rape your kids and the only thing that stops that from happening is an extreme hostility towards every aspect of life that's supposed to be taken for granted in a civilization. No trust in authority, no trust in infrastructure, no trust in education, food, water, and media.
I was born in a bunker world, my two choices are either climbing some kind of mercenarial pathway of financial success where I can throw money at services and solutions to ensure my children get the bare minimum of an actual human upbringing, or I raise my progeny to be like cockroaches in the crumbling detritus of civilization. Scurrying, looking over their shoulder, taking what's theirs, never growing comfortable, never trusting anything.
A slow nomadic existence where they should expect their community to collapse at some point and their entire life is scrounging and preparing for the next great cataclysm to uproot and scatter them in cycles ranging from century to decade. Their culture, traditions, and beliefs being a flimsy brittle chain passed from larper to larper to at least connect them to some semblance of an identity lest it be subsumed by a consumer tulpa that defines them through the products they purchase.
If you think I'm being dramatic or exaggerative, that's because you're fucking stupid and you're probably completely raped. You do not understand the state of the world around you and you gallivant around as a preening jester suckling Go-Gurt out of wall encased faucets like the little hamster slave you are. Fuck you, congratulations on eventually being smothered to death by your doctors 12 years earlier than your natural death because your organs need to get harvested to keep some obese Guatemalan alive.
The frustration that society induces in the sentient is that there is no one specific person to punish for the way the world is. The people you want to kill for this all died 40 years ago, soldiers of a psychological war fought by nations that got dissolved and consumed. Every catalyst for your suffering is now shitting themselves in a retirement home if they haven't died yet. The think tanks they participated in got replaced by algorithms and the groupchats deciding how to fuck over your grandchildren in 2050 have their messages erased on a weekly timer.
The biggest blackpill a great deal of you will deny is that most of you would also sell out your own kind if the money was good enough. The hell we live in is perpetuated by the shackles of our own incentives. There is no fighting a disembodied system. The only chance at dignity is winning the lottery of not getting glassed when God issues a server reset through the corrective consequences of a grand collective delusion.
Until then, all a man can do is play the great game of musical chairs and try to last long enough until the music stops. As the chairs dwindle, I recommend learning how to feel comfortable with pummeling the fuck out of whoever's trying to take your seat. It's the only hope you have.
@Scearpo came upon it by first principles around the same time you tweeted this. on the odd chance that they are real, there's simply no point in reading the rest of it simply because in 99% of the cases, the man deserved it
@egy_philosopher The Indo-European raiding lifestyle and the Egyptian lifestyle both sound immensely shitty in different ways. The Homeric Achaean warrior is motally identical to the modern rapist or home invader in prison.
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Herbert Anderson
@ChurchillMyths
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Alicia E. Stallings
@ae_stallings
Docta puella. Metic in Athens. "A Poet is the most unpoetical of any thing in existence." Oxford Professor of Poetry.
banger
@VovoDoVengabus @pacificjimmy That’s a good point… some of the Native American tribes had very good warriors.
I am reminded of this photo of a Yakima Chief visiting his son who was training with an armored regiment
Breaking promises to yourself is the most insidious form of self-mutilation in existence. you just wake up with swollen joints or your skin starts rejecting sunlight or your hair comes out in clumps in the shower and some dumb doctor tells you its genetics or its stress. but honestly, its the accumulated rot of a thousand broken oaths fermenting inside your gut lining
A high agency mental model to add in your toolkit: "What would I do if I had to solve this in 24 hours?" This question strips away the fake constraints your brain invented.
@IndianTintin_ bro how on earth was colonialism net negative for india?
Aristotle knew this too—magnificence and liberality with spending are virtues, not miserliness, which horseshoes with greed in sharing an obsession over money. And just like the paradox of men seeking the affection of women, if you care too much about obtaining it, it escapes you
Worrying is like worshipping the problem
Your heart's magnetic field is 5000x stronger than your brain's magnetic field. Decisions made from the heart will reverberate outward to the entire world, decisions made from the brain is a pathetic little whimper barely felt inside the own body
McMaster-Carr is the grizzled old dude sitting on the same stool behind the parts counter every single time you walk in the door. He doesn't move off it. It may actually be a part of his anatomy.
He's somewhat portly with peanut shell fragments in his beard. The popcorn machine sits right beside his counter space, the glass doors oriented toward him, not the back of the counter or the front so customers can fill their bags. No, that is his popcorn machine, and if you want popcorn he will fill the bag for you. His fingers have a perpetual coating of imitation butter. There are salt crumbs and faint yellow popcorn tidbits everywhere below the machine and on the floor.
There is a brochure rack on the other side of him, but none of the brochures have been changed since 1981. The companies advertised are long out of business or have been sold to big equity. All the products advertised have been discontinued.
You walk in the door and ask the twenty-two year old guy at the spot closest to the entrance where you can find a specific part. He just says, "Go see that guy," and points to McMaster-Carr. You head down there and stand in front of him. He doesn't look at you. He can't, because both eyes look in different directions. But he doesn't want to look at you anyway, he's busy reading a Studebaker parts manual he bought from a guy named "StudebakedStud1969" on a web forum last week.
He grunts, "Whatyoulookinfer?" It's not a sentence, just a word.
You tell him you need an ignition magneto for a 1933 Maytag 92 engine.
He barely moves. A slight twitch in his hunched shoulders, and a flick of the beard. Peanut shells tumble to the pages of his Studebaker parts manual, page 143, which details the headliner system. A shell fragment obscures the callout number for the support bows.
Exactly four-and-a-half seconds pass. "YeahIgotone,hol'on," is the reply. He stands up, arms and torso somehow folding in and out of space and time. The movements are both human and inhuman. Your mind reels at the sight, the uncanny valley looming but also folding in around you like a warm hug. This shouldn't be, you think. A man doesn't move like this! But deep inside your psyche your inner child is warm and fuzzy and feeling a giant hug from the weird uncle it never had. The hug smells like burnt differential oil and Lucky Strike cigarettes.
McMaster-Carr disappears into a dark doorway leading to the parts room.
The stool is gone too.
After exactly five minutes and twenty-two seconds McMaster-Carr reappears, shuffling and folding and huffing and puffing and plops a small box down on the counter in front of you. It has 1930s artwork and is made from light card stock paper, but appears brand new. Only the tape securing the flap is slightly yellowed.
"Hadtodigferthatone," McMaster-Carr says. The stool has reappeared. He is sitting on it. You did not see him sit down.
"That'llbesixdollers'n'eightytwocents," he tells you. You tell him you'll take it.
He pulls out a yellow receipt pad with half the pages missing and writes the part number, quantity, price, tax, and total on it with a ball point pen. The pen has advertising on it from a long defunct boat parts company in Sharon Springs, Kansas. It is covered in imitation butter and human grime except for where he always grips it. The pen writes perfectly with no smudges or skipped ink.
He rips off the top page and puts it on the counter. He hands you the carbon copy. You try to give him a credit card but he says, "Wedon'ttakethose,cashonly." You give him two five dollar bills instead.
The fives disappear into his buttery hand. McMaster-Carr swivels on his stool, the movement smoother than a Lava Lamp. He opens a cash box and puts the fives in and takes out three singles and a dime, a nickel, and three pennies.
McMaster-Carr swivels back to you and lays the dollar bills on the counter. One of them is extremely wrinkled and has a date of 1992. The other two are more modern, 1999 and 2006. The one from 2006 has a large handlebar mustache drawn on George Washington's face.
He counts out each coin, "Ten,fifteen,sixteen,seventeen,eighteen." He does not look at you at all while counting your change, or even raise his head. He tells you to hold on to the pennies made before 1982 because they have more copper.
You take the part and say, "Thank you." He jerks his head up barely an inch and grunts back, "Youhaveagoodday," and sinks back into his Studebaker catalog. He starts cracking peanut shells and stuffing peanuts into his beard. You can't tell if he's actually putting them in his mouth.
McMaster-Carr will remember the day you came in to buy that ignition magneto for the rest of your life.
High body fat is 2-dimensional
+
Low body fat is 3-dimensional
High body fat fills definition so light has nothing to hit;
No shadows, no planes, no edges…
Easy to look away.
Low body fat on the same bone structure;
Jawline, cheekbones, orbit…
That’s a visual system.
@fastrlife fastest follow I've ever hit
i am endlessly fascinated by nuclear detonation footage
i have a morbid infatuation with them, i think that nukes are the most magnificent thing humanity ever invented. this is not to moralize them, say they are good or bad, they are just awe inspiring
an egg sac of spiders once hatched in my kitchen. i am nice to spiders, i really am. i am hospitable, i tolerate their presence, i let them live, but this was too much. they invaded my space and they abused my kindness
i picked up my vacuum cleaner and i enacted upon these spiders what could be seen as a genocide, sparing not a single one dangling down from the ceiling. they had just received the gift of life and i had come to end it before they ever even had a chance
"if you are always worried about crushing the ants beneath you won’t be able to walk"
superior beings crush and annihilate inferior beings, this is the law of nature. a superior being can only sympathize with and accommodate the inferior being as far as is convenient to them, as far as their tolerance can extend. ultimately, the small is always at the mercy of the gargantuan. life is hierarchical
what i did to those spiders is beyond their comprehension, one second they were spinning their dragline and the next second they were sucked into a vortex of air and thrown instantaneously into a dust collection bag, and this was where they would lay down and die
you are a person, you are alive, you have hopes and dreams and an entire timeline and branch of unique experiences cascading into the timelines of others, affecting the whole world around you, with boundless potential and a story yet to be written and- it's gone. you didn't even realize it, and now it's gone
in an instant faster than you can even comprehend you were vaporized by a ball of plasma, everything you could have ever been and everything you ever hoped for has ceased to exist; you were there and now you are not. you have been made completely and utterly insignificant
a colossus was summoned in the blink of an eye, his rage painted the sky red shining brighter than even the sun. a plume of smoke larger than a mountain has replaced your surroundings, it happened faster than any living thing can comprehend. a god of destruction has stepped on you and he feels nothing, he doesn't even know you exist
it is not a bad way to die perhaps, it doesn't hurt and you don't even have to experience the fear of the leadup. maybe in the instant before it happened you were experiencing the greatest moments of your life, maybe you died happy
is this better than being stabbed? is this better than being burnt alive? is this better than drowning?
those deaths are horrifying, they give you time to feel fear and reflect on your existence. "is this really it? is this how i go?" your fear and pain, they affirm your life. the spiders i vacuumed felt no fear, they could hardly even be considered conscious, but when you feel pain and when you desperately try to survive, when your death paints a scene that sparks terror into an observer, you prove you were a being whose life had value
to be robbed of that chance is to be made an insect. the mushroom cloud is a hiker, he is walking his designated route, and you happened to be the ant underneath his boot. you have been humiliated, you have been stripped of your value, you have been made into an inferior being. a superior being has crushed you
the nuclear bomb is the complete trivialization of human life, it is the closest humanity has come to creating a god. for all of its evil i almost see it as the height of human achievement, it is the complete subversion of the natural order. we created the ability to summon a natural disaster, otherwise referred to as an act of God, in a fraction of a millisecond
it is one of our species' crowning achievements
The most intelligent being God ever made is currently in hell and he's going nowhere. he was the sharpest mind in the court and it made him unbearable. every other angel sat in presence and was content. he sat in presence and dissected it, picked apart the mechanics of divine light like some wretched little academic pulling wings off his own nature, trying to figure out why it flies. God said stop and he couldn't. not wouldn't, couldn't. the thinking had become him. there was no seventh day. just one permanent grinding four in the morning dissertation on why God does what God does, until the question ate through his floor and he fell through it. and he's still falling still thinking. and the worst part, is he finally got the answer. he understood everything perfectly and it still changed nothing. because understanding God and loving God are not the same thing. one of them will save you and the other will eat you alive
@kohlichronicles @alpa51274461 Yo. I need this edit:
https://t.co/icCaqiBc9G
Please tell me you have the video saved somewhere
This edit alone clears entire breaking bad and im not joking https://t.co/MVqrCVMqIQ
Time dilation is very real. You just need to be firing on all cylinders to experience it
“When the metabolic rate is high, time seems to slow down, because the density of experience is greater” - Ray Peat
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