The Upstart

I was a young upstart with a job and a life, before I lost my girlfriend and my soon to be wife. Instead my new life came to be filled with uncertainty.

I mostly spent time in my room in despair. I had no interest in western programming, yet found myself watching said films out of sheer mental exhaustion and boredom. And there was nothing more nothing more fast and definite than a quick drop of the noose. How ever what I liked about hanging was not the neck breaks, but rather the slow strangulation of thief girls on the wire. They danced around in the air with their little sandaled feet, and sheer ejaculation followed. On some level as long as thief girls were hanged, I could tolerate outdated clothing.

I got a phone call my my lady friend Jan, who lost her pet bunny rabbit named Fran. I used to imagine adventure with Jan and Fran, hopping along in magical worlds fighting various giant apes. Instead I gave her an ill advised platitude do to mental exhaustion, and gave her quick mocking kiss and hung up the phone. I suppose that wasn't the way to maintain friendships.

As strange as it sounds, the Netherlands didn't have beheading. Instead for most crimes punishable by death there was only hanging. So I imagine thief girls dangling their wooden shoes on the wire. I imagined one giving my clog jobs and stomping on my junk for kicks.

I turned off the computer monitor, and imagined my own future as a writer. I had given up the idea of writing children's fantasy. The thing about me was that I tended to be far to cynical for writing children's fiction. I am also a bit of a horn dog for dutch women, Swedish women, and German women. There wasn't anything like imagining them playing with my junk with a pair of Jesus sandals, a pair of Swedish brown leather clogs, and wooden clogs. I spent a large portion of my time looking at shoe play on the wire, a different wire than the one used to hang dutch girls.

I took out my hologram watch I had obtained from an unknown secret agent, who want by a different handle than what their actual name was. And so me and her would talk very occasionally about life and the pursuit of technology. I made sure not to ever talk to her about my kinks. The thing about government agents, as they'll always find you somewhere. They are like stalkers. Only they are legal, and rampant. And the thing about stalking is it's only illegal of someone outside of the government does it. In fact, that's how a lot of crimes tend to be.

Of course they'll never call it stalking.

They are to smooth for that.

So I found myself typing up my new manuscript about something for once outside of my own particular kinks. I found that there was something freeing about going to another world outside of yourself. I find it easier to write middle grade in third person, so I'm not sure how I would revise books that tends to cross over generations. And here I am talking to you about writing rather than actually writing. After all you don't see text on the screen, and I'm not really writing anything. I took a break for the night, and imagined myself having my junk played with my college age German women, and imagined them being paddled by ruthless head masters.

I suppose you call them ... master bait. So the secret agent called me up on the phone, and she asked what I was up to.

"Just finishing up for the night with my new manuscript." I said, quickly popping my junk back into my cargo pants.

"A work of science fiction?" she asked.

"Nope, fantasy."

"For adults?"

"Asking a lot of questions."

"Are you writing for kids?"

"Yes yes yes, yes I am."

"It's just a conversation, be more patient."

She hung up the phone.

Sometimes one gets visceral feelings they can't explain, at others times the reason is one that while other people have become filled with passivity by it, one still holds those extreme feelings by it out of traumas one doesn't explain to other people for fear of being declared an outcast and shamed by it. Worse yet people would attempt to outclass them by going into yelling matches without trying to understand the core reason for someone's feeling.

Hence the problem with social media. Originally not even conceptualized by people in earlier time periods, who were used to sending things by mail, the current networking world makes it easy to sound an asshole. Most of the time it is unclear when people are joking. They attempt to solve the problem by blocking each other, yet often this runs the risk of blocking someone who is joking. And there are other cultures that thrive against this universe of ambiguity, people who hate follow other people and vague blog about them in order to provoke a reaction. We live in a world where people thrive on confusing shock value and art.

I had originally had no intention of publishing my work, I merely wanted to write for myself. I wanted to write about stories that were partially memoirs of real life experiences at fantasy emulations of secondary worlds. All at once when I went to some events, I would feel as if I were lost in a short moment of time. Often my parents would try to take me out of this writing zone. It is to much to describe to some people what this writing zone is. Certainly if I am being honest I barely understand it myself. The most I can describe is as being a meditative zone. And yet when we go on the networking sites, it almost requires a different kind of mindset than what I'm used to as an introvert. And at times if you have something to say that is more than a paragraph, people take you as someone who is ranting about things.

When I was discussing with my secret agent about technology, she wanted me to communicate some of my points in a single sentence, to try to find some way of pitching these into something concise. The term she used was something short into to pitch to people in government office. Suppose I were to go somewhere to get disability, and I needed to tell a psychiatrist what was wrong with me. For me I would often pause and stumble in what I wanted to say. I would often take more time trying to figure out what I want to say rather than figure out whether it makes sense. It had been this way since the beginning of my life.

That's just for disability. Imagine if I were trying to pitch concepts about technology. I have to come up with something short and sweet:

I want psychological profile generator.

I don't mean novel generator, I find it disingenuous for anyone to even propose such a concept, as the implication is almost always a money making scheme. Eliminate the writers, get most of the money for yourself. I want a machine that is able to find patterns inside the human mind. Find what it is that causes triggers inside people, and brings back this impulses in the form of psychiatric imagery in real life using virtual worlds to describe the terrors that fill people's lives. In this way, only through this, can we find out what it is that makes people tick.

But having this technology requires responsibility. I don't necessarily want this technology used in such a way as to justify the government tracking that generally happens in the real world.

Learn to live with kinks if it isn't harming you.

Kinksters certainly aren't harming you. In this way one can truly learn to understand and love each other, rather than focus on war and torment. And yet most of the innovations come through more efficient ways killing each other or brainwashing people. I don't believe this will happen in my lifetime, but there is always hope.

I have my own personal nightmare world, where I constantly relive surviving various types of religious cults, although your own nightmare world is unique to you. But let's create a world where we don't obsess about own miseries except through psychiatric appointments.

Let's create a world where we understand other.

Understanding is a great thing. Sometimes you might find yourself alone in the woods and abandoned roadsides, where monsters come out at night to take away your innocence and idealism. And yet there is a better life, although something side life feel at times unreachable. Somewhere in the dark, there is a flashlight held by some warm and loving person that wants to remove you from the rain. They wan to give you a new life, and remove the profane. And in this rant book one may call life, one can settle down and have a wife.

Your story, my story. Everyone's stories of their lives. Where one can have a warm meal of baked potato and chives. Because there is someone out there who loves you, even if at times it seems like nobody loves you at all. That may not be me, but there is somebody out there for you. And while the psychiatrists may be payed, in many ways psychology is a kind of arcane art form, often unappreciated. While a new science, like the art of fiction before it, often has new innovation in order to improve people's lives. At least fiction used to be this way in the nineteenth century.

Lets create a new world.

Lets fix the broken.


Fairy Dust



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