kimberlysteele | Entries tagged with fear

Top left to right: Tyra Banks, Ariana Grande, Famke Jannsen;
Middle row: Jessica Simpson, Miley Cyrus, Zac Efron;
Bottom row: Nicole Kidman, Blac Chyna, Bradley Cooper

Celebrities are aging badly, but it takes a discerning and subtle eye to see it that most in our era lack or refuse to engage. To the untrained and naive, the parade of ever-younger pretty people is the inevitable boon of the onward march of Progress. They love the Brave New World where the poorest of slaves is able to choose a new face and body like gamers choose an avatar and its armor. If they cannot afford it, they still love the concept. All that is needed is a little brutality and blood, and perhaps a disability when it comes to feeling your own cheeks or nipples ever again. It is a small price to pay, they think, for an incarnation of physical “perfection”. If there are two choices in life, one being to humbly accept that which they currently find ugly about themselves and two being a cure that involves becoming a LARP of their own cartoon image of eternal adolescence, it’s No. 2 all the way, baby.

Cult of the Virgin

Youth and inexperience are vastly overvalued in our era. One of the larger reasons for this overvaluation is the condition of etheric starvation, which affects most of us in this time to a greater or lesser degree. The etheric is the energy layer that sits between the world of thought and images and the physical realm. It takes the form of electricity, which of course cannot be seen outside of a lightning storm or a wool carpet in a dry winter but can certainly be felt if it gets too close. The current religion of Scientism denies the etheric layer despite it being as plain as a wave/particle of light. Because the etheric is sometimes referred to as vibes, Scientism rushes to dismiss the etheric as woo because studying it would require the spirit of inquiry left behind with Isaac Newton.

Anyway, any given child or adolescent contains a great mass of etheric power. This power can be thought of as the potential energy of reproduction. Entire industries and religions aim to exploit and harness this power for themselves. The Hollywood, pedophilic System I mention in my articles has the exploitation of this power source as its main unspoken mission and goal. Jeffrey Epstein was addicted to the loosh he harvested from young, virgin girls. He allegedly admitted that he had to have at least three different girls a day in order to satisfy his small, allegedly deformed penis, according to the testimonies of Virginia Guiffre, who is now conveniently dead despite never having been suicidal. The System and Hollywood is one big loosh farm, and loosh is a slang term for etheric-level energy.

Youth and fertility outwardly display etheric radiance that most of us have lacked our entire lives, even when we were also young people. Like any form of wealth, people want it and will do anything to get it. It goes without saying they don’t feel they should have to earn it.

God bless the old people who look old

I’d like to take a moment to acknowledge those who grow old gracefully and without intervention. Most people my age (52) and older in the Midwest have not undergone plastic surgery in order to look younger. Either we cannot afford it, or it just never occurred to us. The result is old people who look old and do not pretend to be interested in looking young. Many are not even on social media, save a barely-used Facebook profile that exists only to locate missing community pets or to sell or give away an extra microwave. In other words, we have in the Midwest a bastion of sanity where a query about a facelift in late middle age would be answered with “Are you nuts?”

When we look into what goes into looking “good”, it is easy to gloss over the seriousness and the potential health risks of these procedures. Emma stone recently morphed her gracefully aging face into the facsimile of a ginger space alien. Lindsay Lohan’s transformation was so dramatic, it is suspected she body swapped with a lab grown clone of herself. Selena Gomez went from a chonky, voluptuous Torrid model to Ozempic, grim reaper gaunt in the span of one season of Only Murders in the Building.

Ouch

A facelift entails cutting your face off, pulling it tight like cling wrap on a bowl of yesterday’s three bean chili, and trimming off the excess skin along with its blood vessels, hair follicles, and some nerve endings. The “excess” that has been circumcised from your assorted facial mounds and phalli is thrown away as medical waste. If we were to view a video of this procedure, it would easily fit into the triple X horror genre for its gratuitous blood and brutality.

If you remember the puffy, life preserver faces of Courtney Cox and Chrissy Teigen in the Covid era, you saw the result of injectable hyarulonic fillers. Filler use, along with Botox and other nerve agents, is so ubiquitous, one can go to any random parlor known as a med spa in order to obtain injections. In these med spas, one’s face and body will be injected with fake fertility juice by uncredentialed amateurs. Local health departments have no problem shutting down your favorite greasy spoon for its literal grease, but its crickets when the local salons dole out cosmetic procedures that involve the uptake of known toxins directly into the lips, forehead, cheeks, neck, chest, and butt.

Fillers and facelifts are only the beginning of the medical suffering that happens for beauty. Our modern “beauty” procedures make foot binding look harmless and tame. Those women may have been crippled for life, but at least they didn’t have heavy metal, plastic, and black mold poisoning from silicone cutlets embedded under their skin. They were not slicing off their noses piece by piece. They were not injecting drugs that caused instant blindness and perpetual nausea. They were not required to footbind over and over again; a boob job requires replacement every ten years, and as I mentioned, the silicone cutlets are often full of black mold. Compared to the ancient footbinders, our modern “clean” surgeons are the real torturers.

Nicole Kidman looks ghastly. I have always felt she was a good actress. At least in the beginning, she seemed to have the ability to express a wide range of cinematic characters. Boy, it would have been nice to see her age naturally. She had excellent bone structure. Instead, Kidman looks pinched and snatched, her once-pretty face and body distant knockoffs of the features that once made her fetching. She is an unintentional parody of her former loveliness.

She used to be slim; now she is emaciated and ropy. She used to have small, perky breasts; now she has a bolted-on cuirass. She used to have an adorable nose; now it has been whittled down into a fishbone. I am not sure why we have to explain to anyone why weeks of seeping bandages, insomnia, and searing pain are not worth the results as displayed by Nicole Kidman. Nicole Kidman is what diminishing returns look like. All the money in the world can not make her whole.

For a brief time, the Brazilian Butt Lift or BBL was all the rage before GLP-1 drugs like Ozempic took center stage and emaciation became hot. The BBL involves liposuction and redistribution of waste fat in the derriere. BBLs almost always result in a permanent, shelflike, poopy diaper behind. It also results in permanent nerve damage and death in many cases.

Trends are fleeing but amputation is forever

People who chase the plastic procedure dragon demonstrate a fundamental misunderstanding of the rules of physical incarnation. They think the rules do not apply to them or can somehow be avoided. Much like the well-educated idiots who dream of colonizing Mars, they fail to take harsh reality into account. Filler does not dissolve. It attracts water to itself and grows. Fat taken out of the butt and put in the face still thinks it is in the butt. Eat too much and it grows exactly at the rate of butt fat. Male-to-female trans bottom surgery victims who have gruesome colon vaginoplasty—a surgery far more barbaric than medieval trepanning that involves turning a part of the lower intestine into a fake vaginal canal— must spend the rest of their lives dilating a second stinky butthole that sits next to their amputated urethra.

Buccal fat removal, an especially nasty procedure popularized in the 2020s, involves the sucking out of tissue in the mid-cheeks to achieve a sculpted, chiseled, Handsome Squidward appearance. What it fails to take into account is the ravages of time. Nobody knows how having no buccal fat will age and nobody bothered to find out before having it done. Lea Michele, Anya Taylor-Joy, Bella Hadid, and Margot Robbie have allegedly volunteered their own faces as test subjects, and it is already becoming apparent that the After photos are not an improvement.

Modern allopathic medicine only has two strategies when a patient comes in with a complaint: cut it or drug it. Got headaches? Drug it. Obese? Cut it with a lap band and drug it with GLP-1. Heart problems? Drug it. Diabetes? Drug it. Heart attack? Cut it. Take a leg vein and patch that sucker into the aorta. Hips or knees becoming unusable because of genetics, overeating, and a lifelong avoidance of moderate exercise and basic stretching exercises? Cut it and embed a titanium prosthesis. Cancer? Cut it and drug it. Depressed? Drug it. Showing the normal signs of human aging? Cut it and drug it, forever and ever until you die.

What if the wages of unearned youth are unearned age?

I believe in reincarnation. As anyone who reads my essays knows, I avoid unearned wealth because I believe taking it on in this lifetime is merely an agreement to pay for it in a future lifetime. The richer I become, the more I will give away, because I do not want stocks and bonds that support a market that is owned by private equity firms like Blackrock and Blackstone. If I ever manage to have savings over the couple of hundred dollars I have now, I will choose to keep it in a modest, interest-bearing savings account, but that is as far as I will take involvement with the stock market.

My instinct tells me that Martha Stewart, a woman who I used to like and admire (and whose recipes and tips are still pretty good) will be paying dearly for her unearned looks in a future lifetime as well as any unearned wealth she has amassed outside of her brief prison sentence. For those not in the know, Martha Stewart is 80 something years old, but she has transformed herself into what looks like a 38 year old vixen. She can live it up now, but to my mind there will be no avoiding multiple future lifetimes of looking old and haggard before her time.

Come at me, bro

To the keyboard warriors who are triggered by this free article and who want to scream at their screens “Let people look how they want to look!” I say a resounding NO. They can butcher their faces and bodies however they like because it is a free country, but I am also free to disturb their tranquility with hurty words. My words would be meaningless and easily discarded if they did not stir something deep in your fractured conscience, so chew on that. I will give you no peace.

When we glance admiringly upon oldsters who have injected, flayed, and drugged themselves into looking f**kable without saying anything, we perpetuate a System that preys upon youth, skins off its face, and wears it as a costume. There is no way I am wasting my life emulating that model of existence. When we look upon the chopped ones without saying anything, we sign off on increasingly younger people butchering their faces and bodies in the modern equivalent of trepanning. This hideous System turns out its fair share of lobotomized boss babes who have gained the whole world while losing everything that was worth living for, like Britney Spears. I can and will die on this hill, and you don’t have any power over me because I cannot be bought.

I will not go gentle into that good night and neither should you.

I used to be a brat.

I am working on not being a brat, and that takes a great deal of discomfort, humility, and severity. Most modern people have a raging, inner brat whom they placate and appease at every turn. Think of how many you know who believe the world owes them a living because their mothers and fathers brought them into it. Think of how many cannot withstand a scant half hour of mild hunger pangs without becoming utterly nasty . . . now think of how many of those are grown, adult men.

Even our elders are not immune to brattiness -- the whiny Boomer stereotype exists because it is true.
Brattiness is contagious, and that is how we get posh, exclusive, gated communities where each household tries to outdo its neighbor in ostentatious, unnecessarily luxurious remodeling jobs. Litter in any space attracts more of the same. It amasses via the magnetic attraction of brat anonymity: bad behavior multiplies when nobody is sure who is doing it; just ask the internet.

The rationale of brat anonymity is "everybody is doing it, so why should I do any better?" In a sea of brattiness, personal brattiness becomes diluted and invisible. The niggling, rapidly diminishing voice of the shred of consciousness within the brat begging her to BE BETTER is easily squelched. The heiress party girl never strays outside her elite group of adrenochrome addicts because she could be confronted by someone with an intact, unsold soul. The alcoholic tries to get you to drink because being the only drunk in the room is a stone's throw away from self-assessment in an unforgiving mirror.

Deep down in their cores, brats are driven by fear, specifically the fear of missing out. I know of one brat who is openly miserable during any recreational outing because when she goes on an outing, she spends most of the time living provisionally for future outings that may or may not happen. What this means is she vociferously complains that outings are too short and too rare, and that's why they kind of suck because she does not get to go on enough of them. In other words, she is perfectly modern.

Lost in pursuit

The primary condition of modernity is to spend a lifetime chasing happiness and to never form any kind of gratitude for it when and if it actually occurs. Modern people pursue happiness, and that is fine and good, but when they find it, they are never the least bit satisfied and already on the lookout for their next happiness fix. They cannot perceive past happiness without painting it in bitter regret that it is vanished or now belongs in some other form to someone else. Any brief focus upon the good is accompanied by severe longing and hideous damnation that nothing can ever be as good again.

But I'm poor!

Etheric starvation -- that feeling of being constantly tired, raw, rode hard, and put away wet -- is far worse when you are poor. It is exacerbated by low quality food, and the more processed the food, the more depleted and unnourishing it is on the etheric or energy plane. Poor people must often literally work themselves to death to survive, never gaining enough rest or sleep to regain their etheric mana. Food and rest, however, are just the beginning. Beauty is nourishment, and the poorer you are, the more ugly life tends to be, at least in modern times. The medieval peasant at least had the rhythm of the seasons, the symmetry of church buildings, exquisite craftsmanship in everyday objects, and the closeness of his fellow people. He may have starved to death on the physical plane more often than we did, but slow death of etheric starvation and the autoimmune diseases it carries in its wake were not an issue.

Billionaires are some of the only individuals who can mostly insulate themselves from etheric starvation these days. They do this by consuming the most exquisite of foods, living in luxurious, beautiful spaces, and having ample time for rest. Lower and middle class brats want to become billionaires because they covet etheric bounty in our age of endemic etheric starvation, and who could blame them?

Nature or nurture?

There are some people who were born to be bratty. I know this because I was one of them. I have a big personality, an ego that likes to run rampant, and a propensity towards Type A perfectionism. All of the above create the perfect recipe for brattiness.

In the 4-Hour Workweek, author Tim Ferris "teaches you how to escape the 9-5, live anywhere, and join the new rich". He has an alleged net worth of $100 million and an annual income of $10 million. Like many self-help gurus in his milieu, Tim Ferriss purports to believe we all can and should be millionaires. Most of his strategy, conceived before the AI era, involves setting up "systems" where one's fellow humans, referred to as virtual assistants, do most of your annoying tasks and actual work from places in the global South, such as India. In other words, he suggests becoming the computer age equivalent of a Victorian era English lord, delegating your mundane tasks to an army of underpaid, brown serfs as you enjoy the fruits of your plantation.

Tim Ferriss is clearly a Class A Brat who enjoys a vast amount of unearned wealth. I'll also hazard a guess that much of his Bathroom Class lifestyle comes from investments. Perhaps he believes his entitlement to unearned wealth is justified because:

He wants others to live the same way, which he frames as "sharing" but is more akin the drunk who is afraid to drink alone who I described earlier in this essay
He fails to understand all unearned wealth was actually earned by others and stolen away from them
He will be earning every penny of his ill-gotten gains back in future lifetimes, regardless of whether he believes this or not, because it is basically the reincarnation law of physics

If Mr. Ferriss siphons enough wealth away from those who earned it while encouraging others to do the same, he could be earning multiple life sentences as the poorest of subsistence farmers, starving to death many times under the cruel yoke of the same forces he propped up in his misspent lifetime as Tim Ferriss. There are entire timelines ready and waiting to swallow his soul.

Go for it, Bratty!

Big personalities easily become brats because we are go-getters. Luckily for me, I was not raised in a permissive era by excessively soft parents. I earned plenty of spankings along with my brother, who is another big personality. We both ended up as functional, non-trauma-focused adults.

Some kids never become brats at all because they were born sweet and retiring. Not me. Some kids need stricter limits than others or they become brats. I was bratty, but I was also given a defined set of behavioral parameters of what was and what was not OK. My love of my parents, order, discipline, and routine was more than enough to keep me in line most of the time. My parents were of a better crop of parents who understood that limits are love: they taught me to clean up my own messes, contribute my share, work hard, and to keep my mouth shut a great deal of the time.

How not to be a brat

The remedy for brattiness is the routine acceptance of limits and working within those limits, whether we are children or adults. When we encounter Tim Ferriss's philosophy or the plethora of advice like it, our first line of questioning should be "Why do I feel I deserve wealth that others must earn for me?" instead of "How do I get as many goodies as Tim Ferriss?"

Let's say you have a rich friend who orders Door Dash seven days a week. Instead of getting pissy that you cannot afford restaurant meals delivered to your door by a Door Dasher with 2 other jobs, be grateful your circumstances have not conditioned you to be as lazy as your friend. The karmic or consequential reward of great food that is available all the time is food obsession: food becomes an easily-accessible drug that you must imbibe to survive. The Door Dash recipient who does not become enormously fat can easily swing into equal and opposite imbalance, falling into anorexia/bulimia because not having to do any work at all for food makes it far easier to develop a complex about eating too much food.

Brats get what they deserve, if not in this lifetime, the ones that follow. The gods are very, very patient. So stop being a brat unless you relish the idea of paying for it.

Ways to stop being a brat

The first step to recovery is recognition, so if you're seeing your own brattiness, congratulations, you've already done some heavy lifting. To stop being a brat, I believe you must take six steps. These are:

1) Stop screaming

Brats love to pound sand, yelling at the sky, Mommy, God, or whomever else is half-listening to their literal and metaphorical tantrums. Behind every tantrum is the idea that someone owes the brat something. In my own case, as a bratty young woman, I felt I was owed the posh, upper middle class existence I grew up in as a child. It made me very angry, both at myself and at the greater world, that I had not experienced what was necessary to achieve that goal: Number 1 which would have been marrying the "right" man. Once I had immersed myself in daily discursive meditation as an older woman, however, I realized that I despise the concept of marrying for money with all my heart, and that I chose to marry on the poorer side in this incarnation because my soul wanted the experience. When you look at your own anger, can you identify the fear hiding beneath it? My fear was that I would disappoint my parents, whom I believe wanted me to marry "up". I also feared the stigma of being poor.

2) Stick to a single, intentional commitment for several years, no matter how absurd

Brats are all over the place, trying to put their hands into every pot and candy jar because they are afraid someone else will get it first. They want the whole world on a plate yet they won't do any genuine work to get it. In my own case, I have always been sore that I cannot speak Spanish, and now that I live in a mostly Spanish speaking neighborhood, my broken, deer-in-headlights Spanish makes me feel even more insecure. The only remedy is to study a little Spanish every day and slowly become more conversant in the language. I may never speak it, but at least I am trying!

3) Be your own parent

Raising humans is tricky. If you never had a decent, good parent, it is much harder as you have no behavior on which to model your own self-parenting. The very best parents still make mistakes. I had good parents, so I will describe some of the characteristics of good parents. Good parents are punctual -- they are not late to pick you up from school or wherever. They are stable. They put their all into providing a home for their kids, regular meals, and they don't punish their children without good cause.

As for punctuality, if you are late for everything, be stricter with yourself. Leave earlier and make sure you have enough time not to endanger yourself or anyone else. Pack snacks and emergency supplies like a good mom would do for her kid. When you make a commitment to yourself, keep it as a good parent keeps their commitment to their child. When you behave badly, and if you are a brat like me, you are going to behave badly, don't overreact. Give yourself a time out, force yourself to sit and think about what you did in discursive meditation, and then work out a strategy that entails not doing that anymore.

Be kind to service people, neighbors, and semi-strangers. No good Mom or Dad would allow their children to mouth off to a cashier, waitress, barista, manager, or mailman. One of the reasons Europe and the British Isles are about to fall to the insane Muslim clown posse is the propensity of Europeans to be rude to "the man on the street" and to treat any casual interaction among semi-strangers as a potential hostile confrontation. Most Americans will start up a conversation over a shopping bag with a random cashier (been there, done that recently) and we often discover we have so much in common, it is uncanny. Europeans don't have those kinds of conversations, and naturally they also lack that kind of social cohesion. I plan on writing an essay about this phenomenon in the future.

4) Clean up your own act

Make your bed every morning and thank it for keeping you safe while you slept. Shortly after you wake, sweep the floor and put away the dishes. Clean the mirror, toilet, and sink every single night, thanking them for their hard work. Brats do not clean up after themselves and the last thing they are is grateful for simple luxuries such as soft beds, clean floors, and indoor flush toilets. To clean up after yourself is the opposite of entitlement. Humility is brat kryptonite, and you are not just humble toward other humans, you are truly humble toward the gods.

Brats are not known for their personal hygiene. Take a bath or shower every day, always keeping in mind that your personal stank is not as glorious to others as it is to you. Don't go outside of your domicile looking like a slob. Brush your teeth. Keep your clothes clean and orderly, hung and folded. Brats wear whatever presents itself on the floor. Mature adults present themselves in clean clothes that fit, not baggy, stained, ripped, or overly revealing attire from the stinking laundry pile in the corner.

Stop swearing. Nothing says "early 21st century vulgarian loser" louder than compulsive F bombs, the S word, and every other sentence featuring words that could not be said on TV until the 1990s. You do not sound smarter when you use language that requires little to no thought and has become the common vernacular of our age. Your term that rhymes with "duck" and "suck" is about as edgy and creative as a gibberish Chinese character tattoo.

5) Stop whining

Chances are you have it pretty good. Stop the heavy sighs 30-40 times a day. Stop seeing life as one big, painful series of disappointments. Whining is addictive like drugs. People who whine often pride themselves on their honesty, as if traipsing through life in your rawest, simplest, most explosive form was some sort of gift to others. Consideration often takes the form of a metaphorical mask, and the mask adapts to protect and spare various people and situations from your unadulterated, ugly, uncultivated truth.

Whining gets old fast. There is a stereotype of old people wishing for death that is so prevalent, it was written as one of Grandpa Simpson's tics in The Simpsons. In one episode called Million Dollar Abie, Grandpa Simpson finally gets to try to commit assisted suicide, but of course this goes wrong. Whining in old age is a choice. When I die, if it is of natural causes, nobody will know I was sick, because I am never going to whine. Not to the doctor, not to the nurse, not to random people or friends, and certainly not to my loved ones.

Gossip and complaining are forms of whining. In both cases, there is a displacement of one's own problems and a lack of control when it comes to blathering on and on about the negative parts of life. Just shut up already, and consider that you might be the cause of most of your own worst problems. Nobody knows the trouble you've seen . . . and nobody wants to know!

Blame is another addictive drug. Blame enough as a brat and you will eventually blame God himself. We have all been wronged in some fundamental way: that's Meatworld, and Meatworld sucks. The only point to being wronged here is that you might learn something from it.

6) Stop cursing and start blessing

You won't ever get anywhere cursing what you hate because the energy you project only makes your enemy (be it a force or a person) stronger. Use your energy for better things. Ignore what you hate and pour your blessings, gratitude, and good will into what you love. Trust me on this one; it works.

True confessions: I still have Netflix. To be specific, my husband still subscribes to Netflix and I occasionally watch a movie or a television show on my computer from it as I do not own an actual TV. At any given moment, Netflix has at least fifty zombie-themed shows on it. If I subscribed to other streaming services, I’d have my choice of several hundred zombie movies and television series with which to waste a chunk of my time, and this is to say nothing about the plethora of zombie novels I could be reading or the zombie video games I could be playing. Zombies are such a dominating theme in our culture that it begs the question: Why is our culture so obsessed with the undead? What are we trying to work out of our collective system?

Fear of Death

I state the obvious (plus I sound like a broken record) when I say our culture suffers from an excessive fear of death. The reason most people cannot calmly and rationally process natural death and become complete emotional basket cases when presented with random or unnatural death is twofold: there is a general disbelief in reincarnation and because of it, most people have many dramatic misconceptions about the afterlife.

I didn’t believe in reincarnation myself until five years ago. It’s only due to my study of occultism that I’ve arrived at my current set of beliefs. When I was raised as a casual Christian, I held the equally casual belief that a life of good works would mean my immortal soul would spend an eternity in heaven and a life of debasement would mean an eternity in hell; a binary. I didn’t honestly believe in either one despite having an extremely vivid imagination. By the time I reached my late teens, it was obvious that hell was immediate and all around me in the form of severe depression, night terrors, and suicidal ideations. Christians and Christianity had zero remedies for my depression or nocturnal attacks from the creatures of my “imagination”, which of course I was told to dismiss as my own brain playing tricks on me. Imagine if I had been shown how to pray by an actual devotee of the Lord Jesus instead of being feared and hated for dabbling in witchcraft in a desperate bid for magical defense. Alas, it was not to be, and there were no competent witches leading the way either. By age twenty, I threw the baby out with the bathwater and became an atheist out of disgust and frustration. As an atheist, I faced the idea of death as an eternal void. From nothing I came and to nothing I would return. I was not bothered by such an idea, in fact, I welcomed it. No pain, no joy, just nonexistence on all levels.

The zombie’s dead-but-not-really-dead state reveals confusion about what happens after death. Instead of letting go of a deceased person’s mortal shell so their higher bodies can rest before reincarnating into new material selves, there is a fear that their spirits will become wraiths clinging to the mortal form shortly before being returned to the endless atheist’s void that lurks behind the Christian’s binary belief in eternal heaven or hell. The real death of Christianity happened when Christians began questioning eternal heaven and hell: to do so was a tacit acknowledgment of the potential superiority of Buddhism and Hinduism, at least in regards to beliefs about the afterlife.

Profit and Loss

Somewhere along the way, western culture lost the plot and let stigma about death run wild. The Irish wake and sitting Shiva were antiquated customs before the salary class lost its damn mind over Covid 19, nowadays, the suggestion of such practices as good ways of processing grief would get you laughed out of the socially-distanced Zoom room. Speaking of manufactured isolation, it’s no surprise that doctors and nurses who should have known better than to fiddle while Rome burned expressed their pathological need for peer approval by using their copious free time to choreograph complex dance routines in empty hospital wards, especially when said hospital wards were allegedly overburdened with Corona patients. At this very day and hour, medical professionals continue to make money hand over fist for each new patient admitted with the label Covid 19 victim stamped on his paperwork. The unaddressed stigma surrounding death has become so acute, much of the world has allowed the travesty of forcing those who are close to death to face it alone, or worse, surrounded by forcibly-vaccinated strangers who may or may not look after their needs between TikTok twerking parades.

Pod People

Scratch the surface of Resident Evil or The Walking Dead and the truth bubbles to the surface: hell is other people. The zombie trope comes from the fear that other people cannot be reasoned or empathized with and that the only remedy for their kind of stupid is an axe between the eyes. Atheism was satisfying to me because it engaged my inner serial-killer misanthropy. I wasn’t worried about being judged for what I felt, said, and did because there were no judges. It’s incredibly easy to feel like one of the smartest people on Earth as an atheist. The atheist is the ultimate Libertarian. Zombie movies are scary because they are reliably about mass infestations. The whole world of doofus poop-for-brains goes against the hero and her band of plucky survivors.

The above is why I say leftists are playing with fire as they try to usher in communism. They have given the average casual Christian and atheist every reason to believe himself a plucky survivor on an onrushing zombification of his part of the world. Leftists, in their Piscean fashion, are struggling to instill a hive mind, hegemonic, unified way of life. They are doing this utilizing most of the key features of National Socialism, Stalinism, and Maoism. In the eyes of the right, they are communist zombies: unthinking, dangerous, and diseased. I personally maintain that Bill Gates, Anthony Fauci, the Clinton family, and various other rich leftist figureheads will go to the modern equivalent of the guillotine in my lifetime. I don’t wish for this to happen because I don’t do that anymore. It’s just what I see as the logical progression of events when you inflame a bunch of average people to imagine themselves as heroic defenders against the zombie horde.

The Boy Who Cried Apocalypse

Another trope getting an ample workout these days is the Apocalypse narrative. In both the film and the movie adaptation of Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, the world has become a hellish battle for survival for a seemingly-chosen few who have kept their souls and morality intact. Everyone else in the nearly lifeless hellscape of (possible) nuclear winter does things like rape little boys and eat newly delivered babies. The Road is not a story for those with weak stomachs!

It’s much easier to see one’s enemies as slavering, cannibalistic villains instead of considering them as flawed human beings capable of a spectrum of goods and evils. The Apocalypse narrative frames existence as Us Vs. Them, the Saved Vs. the Zombie Horde that’s headed to hell quite soon.

Enter a little boy born in 1983 named Vyacheslav Krasheninnikov, who died at age 11 from leukemia and prophesied the zombie apocalypse. The child, who was nearly canonized for his powers of prophecy and healing, said there would be:

global passports for the population, which will look like little grey plastic cards; in order to obtain this card, people will have to subject their right hand and forehead under machines which will mark them with the number (666). This was a warning that under no circumstances should anyone accept this number or mark, because this act will never be forgiven by God.

I have mentioned before that Christianity in its death throes is using Pedogate and the globalist conspiracy concept to use as a much needed adversary with which to strengthen itself. The leftist powers that be are not doing themselves any favors by calling their newest injectable enzymes “Luciferase”, despite their bioluminescent properties.

Only time will tell how the zombie trope will continue to act itself out in real life. Surely it’s a case of art imitating life at this point and not the other way around.

I'm putting off my usual post this week, which was the Seven Deadly Sins series, for a more pressing topic. I suppose most of you have read the debacle that is JMG's astrological forecast for the Presidential Inauguration on January 20, 2021. If you haven't, to be terse, he describes it as "The most relentlessly malefic mundane chart I have ever studied". In a word, yikes.

As I stated in a recent Dreamwidth post and accompanying video, I believe that a Biden Presidency will usher in a Great Depression. Unfortunately, if Trump gets in, my Ogham (which are now pointing to the unlikelihood of a Trump 2020 - 2024 presidency, by the way) are predicting civil war, most likely in the form of insurgency and unorganized, bitter, guerrilla, small-scale flash points. I fear civil war, but the thing I fear far more is a second Great Depression. Frankly, I'm not ready. I'm quite scrappy, and yes, I have realized that our civilization is on the downward slope of Hubbert's curve for a while now, but until eight months ago, I did not have the free time to learn to do the laundry list of homesteady things that will be the bridge into the deindustrial future.

I'm still trying to process my anger at the people who have bought into the lockdowns and therefore helped to extend and worsen them. This is especially bitter as the holidays arrive. In my opinion, COVID hysteria was yet another botched attempt to get the Orange Man out of the Whitehouse after the failure of #metoo, impeachment, and BLM riots to do the job. The oddest part of it is that the people who will cause the next Great Depression in the US, the Biden-supporting globalists, the so-called Progressives, and all those who bought into fear porn, will soon find their own unacknowledged privileges crumbling if mass financial disaster arrives. The Professional Managerial Class needs to be on suicide watch. Those who were the most fervent partakers in the circus of rackets that puffed up the economy over the last 50 or so years -- the sickcare industry, colleges/universities, infotainment, and insurance -- will suffer the most intensely as their way of life goes the way of the Ford Edsel. I don't get it.

I'm finding it hard to focus on the positive, and of course there is plenty of it. I no longer care about money. This was a lifelong challenge of mine that has been bested. I have almost zero money anxiety issues at this point; I can't be bothered to care. Not even if I go hungry or homeless. I'll do my best to stop hunger or homelessness from happening of course (I've got an indoor cat and at least 2 outdoor ones plus a husband that depends on me) but I certainly won't blame myself if I lose everything as I might have done before. The PMC I mentioned earlier, however, probably won't be so calm. They also have a great deal more to lose.

Let's look at my skills, shall we? I will show you mine if you will show me yours.

I can cook from scratch from almost nothing.

I don't have any emotional reactions to my bank account when it says I have $8 to my name or that I'm overdrawn.

I live in a tiny house that costs as little as humanly possible in a modest neighborhood. We don't do associations or their fees here.

I am a somewhat capable gardener and I saved seeds this year.

I don't bore easily and if the internet were shut down and I couldn't drive or go to work forever, I'd still have far too much to do in this lifetime.

I'm robustly healthy. I walked 8 miles for fun on my 47th birthday this year and barely felt it.

I am a writer and musician.

I am not in debt except for my mortgage.

Now let's look at my shortcomings:

I don't like sewing machines and I cannot knit or crochet to save my life.

I don't own a gun and I wouldn't trust my marksmanship if I did.

I live in an area that was first to lock down and will be on the front lines when the economy tanks. Said area is overrun with psychotic Professional Managerial Class types.

I don't have any savings; what little I was able to save was eaten by the first lockdown.

If everything goes to hell, I'm going to have to figure out how to move two pianos.

I have not grown beans, potatoes, hard shell squash, or cucumbers successfully at this time.

I know how to can but I have never canned by myself.

I may be healthy, but most of my loved ones are battling one or more chronic diseases.

I have studied herbalism intensely but I have not done much in the realm of herbalism.

So that's where I'm at. I am stockpiling supplies despite being in a bad financial position. My goal is to put away enough rice, beans, pasta, sugar, vegetable oil, and canned fruit to last my husband and I six months. I have already ordered seeds from Baker Creek Heirloom Seeds because seeds and plant starts were nearly impossible to get in spring 2020 in Illinois. I'm going to embark on soapmaking after Thanksgiving -- that's one I have put off for a small eternity despite possessing the necessary supplies. I'm planning for a lean, homespun Christmas. My loved ones will receive a motley assortment of handmade gifts of homemade soups, salad dressing, sweets, bath bombs, macrame, and perhaps some Dollar Tree toys, I hope that's good enough because it is already turning out to be an exceptionally lean year. And of course I'll be praying for all who ask me to pray on their behalf to the gods as well as performing Orphic Hymns every day as per usual on my Youtube channel.

The terrifying part for me is trying to keep my Studio up and running if poop is hitting the fan because of either Depression or civil insurgency. Fingers crossed that neither of those happen. I'm already thinking of setting up my subscription library in the much underused commercial space as I have enough books to begin, I think. Mainly, my goal of late is to do constructive things instead of wallowing in anger at the PMC for crushing my business and other businesses like it. Today I arranged over 30 pages of music for my sheet music store.

Please let me know your thoughts and what you guys are doing to prepare, if anything. Of course as always I could be wrong about what is coming -- I sincerely hope to be wrong! I thank you in advance for refraining from profanity in the comments.

I am a braver person than I used to be. At age 16, I stood idly by when my best friend at the time was being denigrated within our own vicious clique of backstabbing frenemies. Frightened of “everyone” not liking me, I failed to defend her. We weren’t friends after that. I did all sorts of other awful things as a tween and teen that were a result of moral turpitude and general spinelessness. Like the Rush song proclaims, by choosing not to decide I still had made a choice. My young existence was a constant battle of sinking to the lowest level of my Midwestern Nice, Just Do As You’re Told, Don’t Rock The Boat programming while battling the cognitive dissonance that whispered true tales of my sniveling cowardice into the opposite ear.

Bravery, like Joan of Arc, dies hard. Once the path of bravery is forged, there is no turning back. Perhaps knowing this deep down is what scared me away from brave acts as a young person. Bravery also has its rewards. For me, it has meant having my own wholly independent business, marrying the person I wanted instead of the ones who had money and connections, and various odd rescues and rehabilitations I could not have managed if I had a smaller set of cojones. My bravery has only become extremely difficult to live down in the post-COVID era where cowards have run amok. The universal sign of the coward, the mask, is mandatory in my state of Illinois via the executive order of the current governor, the tax-evading billionaire scion of a hotel empire named J.B. Pritzker. This order was ruled unconstitutional by a court in Clay County, Illinois, but that was but one civil court. On Tuesday, October 20, he crippled the Illinois economy by closing restaurants just as they and the rest of the small business economy were showing faint signs of life. The cowards are currently still winning in my corner of the world.

Cowardice is The Blob

The problem with cowardice is its amorphousness. Cowardice does not stay in its lane and neither do the consequences of cowardice. Mandatory shut down orders were not supposed to take a wrecking ball to small businesses (or were they?), but this is exactly what they did. If large corporations were looking for the perfect way to crush their local, small business competitors in a wholesale orgy of state, city, and county government-backed destruction, they could not have found a better way of doing it than COVID lockdowns. Walmart and Amazon are doing fine. Small businesses like mine are not. I am a music teacher. I have run a successful, one person teaching studio for the last 24 years of my life. I haven’t had this few students since I began fresh out of college. If things stay the same way they are right now through 2021, I will have to close my business. For this reason, I have began to push back against COVID mentality. I slip off the mask when I am in stores. I don’t require the mask inside my business. My protests against mask-wearing have resulted in the alienation of decades-long friends. One former fan of my books took it upon himself to wish disease and death upon me and my family.

Cowardice is amorphous. Every person who wears a mask in public, including me, is a living symbol of submission to an insidious groupthink that is barreling us towards the edge of a new Great Depression. I have begun to push back because it is finally time for normal people to draw the line in the sand. If more people do not act like me, I will lose my livelihood like millions of other Americans. I will join the bread line. I don’t want it to come to that, so I push.

I mentioned that I believe the consequences of cowardice are amorphous. I am also pushing back because I don’t want the karma of those who perpetuated COVID panic. This karma is no small thing. To understand how bad is the looming karma of COVID panic pushers, we first have to look at the ways they have benefited under the current reign of fear.

Curse of the American Salaryman

There’s a certain type of house one encounters frequently out here in the suburbs. The style is boxy and superficially old-fashioned. Typically there are four to five bedrooms on the top story, a two to four car garage, and an association-controlled, postage stamp lot. A facade of fake brick on the front and grey-beige siding on the other sides is common. Inside the house, you’ll find an average American family. There are one to four children (any more is considered a bit weird, but it has been known to happen) and both parents work. Only in the very largest versions of the house can one parent, usually the wife, afford to stay home. The nucleus of these neighborhoods is the local school, which is nearly the sole reason for the insanely high property taxes and home prices all around it. The same cookie cutter houses way out in the country would cost half as much or less, but then there wouldn’t be a population willing to move into them because the school wouldn’t exist out in the sticks. In order to afford one of these suburban boxes of ticky-tacky, you need a combined household income of 100K at the entry level. Not only is this required to get a mortgage, you also need a bunch of extra stuff like insurance, cars, and a family wireless plan.

There is an odd acknowledgement that suburban life is a living hell. In the film Vivarium, a young married couple visit a new construction housing complex with thoughts of a potential purchase. They find themselves stranded in a bland, sunny subdivision called Yonder where all of the IKEA-ish houses are one of two or three models, one of which sports a plaque: Number 9. Quickly learning they are imprisoned in the subdivision, they journey down its eerily empty streets that stretch into infinity. They set fire to Number 9 and do everything possible to escape, all of which is in vain. A package arrives with a baby in it, which the couple reluctantly adopts. Months drag by and the child grows freakishly fast. The young couple, deprived of other people outside of their alien, energy-draining child, quickly grow apart. The husband becomes obsessed with digging a hole in the astroturfed backyard as the wife’s life becomes hopeless, child-centered, automatic drudgery. I won’t give away any spoilers save that the film does not end well.

Vivarium is literally a film about the loathsomeness of the suburbs. The salaryman is the young husband, who digs a hole everyday — obviously symbolic of salary class work — and kills himself before his time to do it. Meanwhile, the young wife is saddled with a completely disloyal, non-human child who throws violent tantrums when his routine isn’t followed to the letter, which to my mind was a subtle way of mentioning the unmentionable: the tyranny of raising a severely autistic child. Isolation and sameness turn what looks pretty enough from the outside into a living hell.

Though it’s not all terrible, salary class life is mostly awful. Like Vivarium, going outside is pointless. There is no connection with nature, only endless suburban sprawl and a job mining astroturf. There is no connecting with other people — salary class work is largely a dog eat dog endeavor. It is empty, hollow serfdom in the service of moronic, capitalist Montezumas who brag to other CEOs about their latest private jet vacation. The salaryman rarely sees his loved ones. His work is a constant game of musical chairs. When another chair bites the dust, he is forced to take on all of the duties of his former co-worker with no additional pay or benefits. His commute? Brutal. Or at least it was before COVID came along.

Escape Via Throwing The Lower Classes Under The Bus

COVID gave the salary class the escape valve they were looking for. For the salaryman, it brought the first opportunity his lot has had in nearly a hundred years to get a regular good night’s sleep. In the case of people my age, Generation X, it has provided relief in the form of suspended college loan payments. Many salary class kids have never spent quality family time with their parents, having previously been preoccupied with a 60 hour week schedule of school, sports, clubs, and lessons. Salary class wives have been granted time with their husbands and children, and for many, a much-deserved moment of appreciation for all they handle while their husband is out busting heavies at the office. The army of working salary class women, like their male counterparts, find it much easier to telecommute and order takeout than to try to do it all. Being a working mom stinks. You’re saddled with the responsibilities of Atlas — you not only win the bread, you have the thankless job of having to make it into healthy sandwiches. To add insult to injury, you’re the one who cleans up the dishes afterward!

For these reasons and more, the salary class is still clinging to endless lockdowns and mandatory masks with everything it has got. Never mind that small business entrepreneurs quickly going the way of the dodo — we need endless funny money so the salaried suburban Costco shoppers can afford their La Croix Pamplemousse Sparkling Water (the snooty LaCroix brand was founded by a Wisconsinite, by the way) and their bulk frozen cauliflower rice. Everyone must wear a mask, including solo bike riders, because there must be the appearance of compliance with fear porn culture at all costs. If you have the remotest aspirations to the salary class — like the former fan of my books who is dirt poor — you had better toe the line.

The salary class and its aspirants do not like to be told “no”, and when someone like me says the N-O word, the reaction is hysteria and death threats. No one is more used to this than Donald Trump. Donald Trump swooped in like Krampus to squash their dreams of Progress in the form of fully automated luxury welfare communism in 2016. They have thrown the most epic of tantrums ever since.

The salary class, as vacuous and detached as the in-dwellers of Versaille in the latter half of the 18th century, has failed to understand the fragility of its bubble. They have already popped much of the frothy economy that dropped a yoga studio on every corner and towns with 13 car dealerships within the same five mile radius. Just as Louis XVI didn’t connect the dots between his own attitudes towards the peasantry with the ill will that separated his head from his body at the guillotine, the salary class cannot comprehend that what’s good for them is not benefiting the lower working classes. The salary classite believes that since she can stay home watching Netflix, so can every else. Let 'em eat cake! The idea that she herself could end up disenfranchised or homeless due to her own disastrous cluelessness doesn’t occur to her, because up until now, there was no limit to the amount she could screw up and have someone (family, friends, government) come in and fix it for her. Now that the salary class and its COVID lockdowns have messed up the economy royally, she does not understand that she is next. She has thrown entrepreneurs like me under the bus and does not see how close the wheels are skidding towards her own well-heeled feet.

What's Next For Fearmongers

I walked away from the social justice left because I think they've got a tsunami of bad karma about to crash upon their shores. I ran a vegan meetup group for ten years. I ended it somewhere around July 2020. Vegans are some of the most toxic Trump Derangement sufferers. Like it or not, my preference to avoid the consumption of all animal products gives the social justice left the idea that I am on their side. I am not. I am a patriot and I'm willing to die for the cause of free speech; they feel differently. They think it is perfectly fine to wish harm (lately in the form of COVID) on Trump and his supporters. I do not wish harm on Nancy Pelosi or the Democrats despite their blatant hypocrisy and obstructionism. I don't wish harm on Hunter Biden, who is blatantly guilty of treason. I don't wish harm on Ghislaine Maxwell, proven child groomer and trafficker. I don't do that anymore because it helps no one, including me. What I do instead is try to act in a way they currently don't seem to be capable of acting: where they freak out, I am calm. When they start flinging bad intentions around, I wish for them to be blessed, as they truly need it.

I think the social justice left and everyone who empowered it via their fear mongering is about to get served. For some, Trump Derangement will be the reason they open their wrists into warm bathwater, regardless of whether Trump wins or loses. It's a classic double-bind: if he wins, the Great Satan has conquered. If he loses, their anti-populist cheating apparatus will have succeeded, leaving them with no boogeyman to resist. The reserves of spite they depend upon for sustenance will have to bubble up from elsewhere. Either way, I believe the consequences rolling out over the next couple of years will be severe for them. I believe TDS sufferers everywhere will find their support networks disintegrated, and their streams of taken-for-granted comfort and wealth interrupted, perhaps permanently. This is only natural law at work: they who spent the last five years asking the Universe to visit misfortune, disease, and death to visit Trump and his supporters will find misfortune, disease, and death barging into their domiciles. They made a grave mistake to wish misfortune on regular people simply for the crime of disagreeing with them.

So many of these people haven't the faintest clue how to be poor. They are not ready for the death of a breadwinner or for a sudden cutoff from family and inheritance money. Making a living has been mouse find cheese to them. They have lived beyond their means all this time, and the last thing they are is Stoic about what they cannot control.

I will be saying nothing to them. I have cut them off; I do not donate to them the privilege of my company. They are welcome to read this blog if they want to know what I think. Nevertheless, if I did say something to my former social justice pals, it would be this: "After spending five years lobbing your own turds at the opposition, don't expect for your yard to be clean and your hands to smell like roses."

Of course I could be wrong. The privileged clingers-on to masks and convenient anti-white race baiting could slide once again, slaloming around the hard limits and sucking off the grift from the same rackets as usual: Big Education, Big Pharma, Big Tech. Only time will tell what new egregores lurk in the shadows, waiting to ride the next wave of mass consciousness. The one thing I do pretty much know is that we should all hang on to our seats, because the next couple of weeks are going to be a rough ride.

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Hi Everyone, thank you in advance for your comments. Please refrain from commenting with profanity: four letter words that start with f, s, or c will result in an unpublished comment. Damn and rhymes with witch are OK.