I don't get out a lot. My room is a natural habitat, mostly with the windows open so I can look into my backyard. However, it is pretty out there. The trees are starting to grow a vibrant green around this time, and animals come around occasionally, and one I saw this morning was a deer that walked so strangely that I could only read it as demonic, and it haunted me for a few minutes after. Deer are terrifying in a unique way -- they can roar, bark, they look fragile but they aren't, and I'm always scared I'll hit one when I'm driving at night for whatever reason. They're just as great a creation as any other, but there's just something about them. I also see the neighbors' dogs a lot -- my neighbors have a habit of just...letting them roam around? They're large dogs, and everyone knows them, and none of them cause an issue, but it was a culture shock from when I first moved from my previous area to this one, which is a lot more rural in contrast. Unfortunately cannot let my own dog out, as she stopped growing when she was a puppy, and she's already of a small breed (pomeranian).
I take her out for walks when I have the energy to, and I wish I had more. I wish I could do more. Her older dogbrother was put down last month, and I've not been doing well since, but I worry for her too, even if she's just a dog. Just wish I could be there for her, or any of the animals in my house more, but I am a malfunctioning, sluggish machine.
In addition, one night, after doing my Doordash deliveries, I took a back-road across the edges of a lake back home. It made me feel some sort of whimsy. Felt like a rollercoaster -- I like being able to drive around like this. Some sense of free will. Put on my playlist, think about things, observe what's around me. Small businesses, some closed, some still surviving post-pandemic. The hills. The torn-up roads. Finally arriving home and having a bit more appreciation for the life I've lived, and knowing that no matter what, there's always shit like this to do. If it sucks, I hit the bricks.
While I announced it on a side-site a sometime ago that some, if not most, are aware of, I've still been anxious to even mutter the words that I had broken up, or for better words, divorced my 2D wife of two years. It was a months-long decision to make, and not simply out of the love falling out, but a common sense of co-relating causes that I've noticed through research done on r/waifuism that tends to make others cut the ties as well. Bad source that ignored her, upsetting fan-content if any at all, and, again, the love just not being there. A different sense from what some confuse for falling out -- the honeymoon vanishing phase. I was well out of that. I simply no longer loved that character.
It still took me a month after that to remove the merchandise I had spent money and dedication and proxy shipping costs either out of my sight, or out of my room and into a trashbag. I still keep a few more irreplacable things around, such as two copies of a doujin, but everything else is out of view. I was once the XYZ guy. I am now...the XYZ guy of another girl. It hadn't taken me too long to find someone new to enter a relationship with.
In fact, I've had a layout for a new webshrine for her hidden on the site for months, not completely, but still contentless as of late. For all intents and purposes, my girlfriend is Diane Morsecode from Toontown: Corporate Clash. I love my bitchwife and I want to file paperwork with her.
I am seething and coping after having to take a photography class for my major. First of all, if the generousity of my father did not lend me a used one, I would've had to pay upwards of, let's say, 200? For a camera. For a single class. Fuck off with that, college students are already broke as shit, you know the stereotype, and even if it's a community one, we already paid out of our asses to attend the class.
Even without expensive equipment, which according to my knowledge of the wider photography hobbyist community, is a dick measuring competition more than anything, photography is an easy hobby to get into, but to master it, you have to suck said measured dick and give whoever's lecturing you a subject that aligns with their favorite genres, or god help your grade. I had a few other friends who took the class, same professor, and none of us managed to get a single project grade over maybe a B+ if we were lucky. This is a hobby that can be done with the oldest blocky phone you can pick up at Walmart IF I DIDN'T HAVE TO GET THE EXPENSIVE SHIT TO EVEN TRY PASSING.
So yeah, busted my ass for a D on that class. Apparently that wasn't the end of my woes with photography guys. I submitted two pieces I did for other classes as part of a college wide exhibit, and of course, because God is not so great, the man judging was a photographist. Funny pattern to notice is when a solid more-than-half of the accepted entries are landscape photographs, and any art accepted is of the realistic portrait type. Gay ass hobby.
Again, a few months ago, I stumbled upon something new, enticing, and now, perhaps enveloped into my worldview on, of all places, twitter. It was the Empty Spaces community, which, while I did not enter out of respect and rather, lurked moar, could be summarized as traumatized trans girls coping in ways that varied, but hinged on their lifelong dehumanization and writing it out in a way that made it more fiction than their abused realities have been. There's something about trans women's art that tends to hit different, but I'd rather not get into that now. Rather, something else I stumbled upon -- a website, and something that hit different.
Something clicked with this one. To ravel the constant abuse given over a lifetime into lace, to romanticize it, even, to embrace the inhumanity forced upon oneself as an act of rebellion -- it was something I could personally vouch for, and perhaps, I joined in subconsciously. Older fans of my website probably noticed a slow transition into this -- the living, the monster, the machine. The inanimate object that's job is to be a worker drone. That's me. I'm a machine, and what rights does a machine have? Other to be used for a purpose, of course.
I guess this would have to be a more raw and grim version of the Voidpunk movements I have seen online. Usually comes with the queer, the disabled, the ill, the "broken in a society where how much money you can contribute to some cunt's cocaine and child slave fund is a determination of your worth as a person" sort of thing. Embrace inhumanity. I'm not a person, so don't worry what you do to me.
One of my new favorite things to search around online is the plentiful amount of drug subreddits that exist, but none with beat the absolute state of r/meth. Or, if you think that has too much of a socialist agenda, r/MethWithoutCommunism, because...of course. Apparently there's a less than zero chance that once you light that shit up, you'll suddenly be overcome with a need to bottom for some bara bitch you met on Grindr, or so that's what the tweakers say there. Meth turns people gay. This is also a long-standing debate -- were you always gay, or is it the meth? Stimulants in general apparently get people into some fucked up stuff. I'm convinced every "gooner" out there, by the way, maybe Uncle Ted was right about the Industrial Revolution because of those guys, is on at least Adderall. There is no sober explanation for those guys.
There's a subreddit for almost every drug you can think of, and I could say anything about the rest of them, but none of them could top r/meth's reverse conversion therapy.
Snow dots a landscape of black cloth,
decorated with whatever it touches from the
cat that rubbed against it to the
laundry basket it was born from.
Gathered like the grey hairs of the old,
and wrinkled like that, too.
Surely it will be disposed of soon,
exchanged for cleaner landscape,
but for now, temporary solution.
A lint roller touches from Adam to God,
a deforestation of what made this shirt worn,
blankened again, but not for long.
Bite the hand that feeds, bite the face that bleeds
Bite the fight and fight back against the bite-back
Angels send a light and envision what you lack
Signals of the tight sharp grasp of the dog that
it chomps it crunches it eats at what burns inside you
It sinks its yellowed teeth into your lungs.
It pulls out every single drapery of blood.
A needle through fabric and stitches it onto the yellowed walls.
...No seriously. Thank you.
A day or two ago, I got a DM from a friend, who told me that they had apparently known about this website before we met in a server, and had always thought I was cool. And it had me think about...the other times I've had people say similar to me. The times I've been regonized in a game, or on other platforms, as John "Nephro 'Misty Monsoon'" feelingmachine.moe. And I couldn't be happier. I started this website as a passion project, recycling it from the two times I had tried before, one much more Carrd-like than the other, unfortunately, going through phases and all. And it looked like this.
But hey, I made it myself, no template, just misplaced divs, a tiling eyestrain arcade carpet background, and not knowing how to embed a font. I don't talk to half of the friends I listed in that buttons list anymore. I was just dicking around in the back of a computer class with no teacher. Also, the Cookie Run. I still don't know how that had a deathgrip on me for so long.
So I look at that, and I look at where I'm at now. Big pageviews, big numbers, cool pages, the internet loves me. Fuck, maybe I love it back! I'm allowed to be myself here, unfiltered, unjudged. No moderator to tell me I'm being cringe for being openly this or that. That's what the personal web is about -- being yourself, and being really cool about it. Unfiltered. Of course, this lets in a few bad apples, but what is a sacrifice that can easily be dodged by not looking and focusing on what makes my heart happy instead?
To everybody who reads this site, checks up on it, thinks I'm cool (i'm not!), sexy, a role model on the web, and Kyle Drake for hosting Neocities and giving me a place to chuck all of this and this megapalooza of rambles in this article leading up to this, thank you. And when shit hits the fan, we can all hit the bricks together. Have a dog for reading up to this point, too. I think most people like dogs. And I like this style of photography -- back to that...fucked exposure, 2000s amateur home video energies.