• Watch Cowboy Bebop You Assholes

  • The Queen’s Gambit

  • I am Goddess Incarnate

    GUYS I forgot to mention I’m no longer going to post on this blog – I mainly will use my Youtube primarily to post my hot takes cause it’s easier. BUT, I will use this blog to heal people, commenting on blogs that speak truths and triggering healing. I wanna use this blog to read your stories and teach you truths about the world.

    Welcome to the world of healing, guyz.

    Youtube: madpandify
    Spotify: madpandi
    Instagram: majerebros

  • Quick Explanation and Apology

  • 1/3/2022: On the structure and nature of a good incest joke

    My best friend, Meghana, who I’ve mentioned before, loves to ask the following philosophical question to make new people (to our crew) feel really uncomfortable while simultaneously teaching them the structure of our humor:

    You and your sibling live on a hilltop (this is how I picture it, not what she likely says) that is isolated from society. Both of you can’t make babies. Is it unethical for you to bang?

    This question always shocks people, leads to heated debate, and more often than not, creates new best friends. Something about starting from a structure of pure discomfort that spirals into absurdity is the funniest fucking thing. Of course y’all can’t make weird incest babies, so you’re not creating future problems for the world. And, you live alone, so you’re not making other people feel uncomfortable. You’re just living your weird, twisted, dark fantasy in a perfectly harmless way. If you’re upset about that, that’s a YOU problem (that’s the punchline).

    I want to talk about incest today because I realize I’ve talked a lot about my father and my brother, one from the structure of abuse, and the other from the structure of estrangement. I want to clarify – I HAVE NEVER EXPERIENCED LITERAL INCEST. My dad just yelled at me and gaslit me. My brother literally thinks I’m batty AF and that I do too many drugs. That’s it.

    But, my dad’s best friend also molested me after my father passed. That’s technically a type of incest, because he was a father-figure. He was supposed to be someone that I could trust, but he violated that trust.

    Meg, my brother, and I (we were known as the three M, M, and M’s, to Meg’s mother, and Meg was known as “Nut-Meg” to my mother, because of Hercules) also stumbled upon her much older brother’s Playboy magazines and got caught with them, which is embarrassing, to say the least, but NOT INCEST.

    I’ve also lived on a freshman dorm floor of a 100 people, so I know what the term “floorcest” means.

    What if I argued that the primordial anxiety about incest is not about literal incest, but rather, about the anxiety of fucking people you’re not supposed to fuck, because it creates DRAMA and threatens the structural integrity of social networks?

    I know that I promised that I’d come back to Genesis, and we’ve finally hit that point of the night where we do. In Genesis, man does an interesting thing REPEATEDLY. He keeps walking into new societies and lies that his wife isn’t actually his wife so that he can pawn her off to the society’s overlord as his sister to KEEP THE PEACE. He literally turns his wife into his sister and slave-trades her so that HE doesn’t get his ass beat when he comes into town. The worst part? God sanctions it. No, he fucking encourages it, simply by the nature of being structured within a text known as “The Holy Bible.”

    Remember how I said that God is just an asshole man? Nothing has changed, as long as you keep reading Genesis.

    I understand this on a primordial level, specifically as a woman who is so uncomfortable with male closeness. Most men want to fuck me because I do make good eye contact, because I do listen, and because hot damn, I’m a hottie. But, the ones that see past that all and still just want to be my brother and/or best friend, have historically never truly gotten close enough to achieve that level. I have a history of control issues and fear so I haven’t been good at letting men get that close to me.

    I also mentioned watching Shang-Chi with Jupiter in my previous post.

    When we did that, I want to point out that Jupiter is a goober that is actually the same class year as the freshman boyfriend that I had as a graduating senior. I remember meeting Jupiter outside of Lauinger Library when they were both pledging for DPE, the Foreign Service Fraternity. They have a rule that older brothers can demand cigs from the new pledges, and so I knew that I could harass Jupiter for smokes whenever I wanted to. And I did.

    Jupiter is also a Flex MBA that simultaneously works full-time at Georgetown University.

    When we watched Shang-Chi together, he kept making penis jokes. I realized that whenever he made penis jokes in the past, I thought he was hitting on me. He literally was like lol dude I’m a boy we make penis jokes all the time – I’ve even seen Ben’s penis because of DPE, just like you minus the fraternal structure. Which, hearing about your ex’s penis from a literal child is the funniest thing.

    Something about the frankness about joking about your ex-lover’s penis with a brother who is also your ex-lover’s brother finally broke down the weird incest structure and finally gave me the security to do something I’ve only read about.

    I was able to cuddle a male friend and watch a movie.

    I’ve only ever been able to do that with gay male friends (read: my snowdrift rescuer and future president of the USA). But, Jupiter is the first straight male friend to do that with me. And, he taught me how to watch Shang-Chi to realize something very important about my REAL brother, and how I am inaccessible to him as a real, whole identity.

    This is all important because I spent all of Shang-Chi being uncomfortable with the prospect that Shang-Chi would bang his best friend, because in my head, they were ONLY best friends. I vocalized my discomfort and begged the directors not to let them fuck. Thank God they didn’t, because the manic pixie dream girl can do more than just fuck, and THE WORLD knows that, even if society doesn’t.

    She can also be a platonic friend, no matter what anybody says.

    DPE the fraternity is something I want to unpack a little, however, because there’s a “sister sorority”, whose hazing rituals are less typically-male-romantic (another best friend from freshman year, who is a math teacher, introduced himself with banana bread, taught me the best Russian bear joke, and also taught me how to teach chaos theory to children, told me that a part of these rituals involves helicopter-dicking in a crowd of naked dudes – ten bucks that my friend says it’s a ritual but he just was the only one doing it haha).

    The women have to bake and also clean the apartments of their fraternal brothers.

    Anybody who has been to college should immediately see the cruel absurdity of that. Everybody who is a member of the world can ALSO see the cruelty of that.

    This violence of siblings (Cain v Abel) is why I want to talk about incest, NOT because this is about literal sibling fucking.

    I’ve been avoiding Genesis for several posts now, when I’ve promised to come back to it. But before I do, I want to talk again about how these posts are organic creations that don’t get planned far in advance, or if I’m particularly inspired and it’s close to the early hours, not planned at all. Everyday, I pick a different part of the Georgetown bubble (or, if I’m feeling particularly dangerous, the broader NW quadrant of Washington, D.C.) for a nightcap while I start outlining the post. I’m also a chatty Cat-thy, so I start having organic conversations with fortuitously fated strangers that give me the next piece of the puzzle. So look, here is the beginning of my outline, but you’ll also note that there are notes scribbled in the left margins, a time-stamped note, as well as a page number (referencing another thing that happened YESTERDAY within the structure of my magical journal that tells the future).

    Green stars highlight what I’m talking about above. The red star shows that I know that my initial plan to primarily focus on the podcast I mentioned in yesterday’s post can and will get derailed depending on how spicy the material of the night is.

    You’ve already seen how I take notes in books that are written by others. This is how I write the “book” that really is just my blog. The left-hand page is everything that I’ve written so far in this post, and you’ll see the last line says “second part of my proposal.” Because, in that wild email chain where I said that I know who the president is going to be, I also talk about chaos in communities. This is the email that broke everyone’s brains and made them think that I’m literally crazy. And it makes sense, now, because nobody talks about chaos theory as applied to societies except ME and those that know that it already is an existing science that is hiding under the name of COMPLEXITY THEORY.

    Y’all. The reason I’m a master order-er of CHAOS is simply because my masters thesis formally falls under the academic structure of something that nobody who DIDN’T purposefully seek to understand chaos in the context of societies would understand. In the context of BUSINESS, It’s known as managing black swans.

    Idiots.

    I love my best friends, but I thought that they a) actually read my thesis and b) actually listen to me when I’m talking about CHAOS ALL THE TIME. I told them the master plan and they still were like lol no this woman is broken, traumatized, and craaaazzy. I am traumatized and have PTSD as a result of their choices, but I forgive them because I get that I’m also the smartest woman in the world and it’s sometimes hard to keep up!

    Anyway, this story is powerful if you understand that it was a linear timeline of events, but the way that the story is best told is jumping around in SEEMING chaos. I literally have to time travel back to page 26 to show you something at a later point.

    This is the magical power of chaos, time, and fate.

    I’ll do my best to avoid side-tracking (different from time-hopping), as I am prone to do. I won’t literally write everything that you’ll see in my notes, because some things are intended for later stories, but ALL of it is important.

    Now, back to THIS story.

    I mentioned the left-hand page’s marginalia and a timestamp at 7:39 p.m. The man that I randomly met tonight just happens to be classmates with my THESIS ADVISOR. It’s not really random that he’s in the area, of course, because Georgetown folks tend to Georgetown. BUT, it’s crucial that we met because these blog posts are doing NOTHING but trying to explain my thesis to the world and beg Bradley Cooper to hire me as a co-writer for his films.

    Oh, and don’t forget, make future kings and queens and change the world, etc. etc. etc.

    I also managed to piss him off, railing on about the evils of capitalism, as I love to do. He said the following things to me as a counterpoint:

    1. “Capitalism is opportunity and power to the forgotten.”
    2. “Capitalism sees the face of Christ in the poor.”
    3. “Capitalism is the world’s greatest anti-poverty program.”

    I laughed at him, because as a deconstructionist is ALSO prone to do, I find a lot of humor in irony, which is NOT a vicious humor (which I say it is in my thesis, and now realize I was wrong) – it’s only perceived as vicious by those who are insecure and don’t get the joke. I was delighting in the absurdity of what he was saying, specifically BECAUSE I’m literally also agreeing with him that capitalism is required for the future (read: money) that I’m trying to rebuild after I tear down capitalism as it exists.

    So I laughed because we’re saying the same thing, but there are so many problems with what he’s saying. But, only I get the inside joke, which is why irony CAN be vicious.

    I take it back, I was right in my thesis. As long as Nikolai and I are limited to a singular conversation, he’s kept out of the inside joke. I know he has my blog, so like I’d offered to everybody that I offend, let’s spar with our words. But respectfully and with disrespectful jokes!

    I met another man as well, and this one is my Bible twin. We both find the book fucking hilarious. He shared with me some Ricky Gervais jokes (which I’ll need to watch to make sure that he’s not stealing my material), but most importantly, he told me about how recently, there was a discovery that revealed that Sodam and Gomorrah was annihilated by a meteor strike, which explains why people think God salted the earth to punish the gays. A God may have salted the earth to punish humans, but I can tell you right now that homophobes are the ones that were being punished. Homophobes are structuralists who are mired in artificial diversity – they think that sexuality only goes one way – male to female. You’ll see that I purposefully don’t ALSO say female to male, as well, because homophobes are likely to call women whores and don’t recognize that TRUE female power is simply the flip of a dynamic, like Cersei is literally a male politician trapped in a female role.

    That was just a judgy aside, btw, not a fact. I hate homophobes, if you can’t tell.

    Another aside: Cersei experiences the dysphoria that a lot of people experience when they’re trapped in bodies they know are not right for them. Which is why she drinks so much and is also a sassy brotherfucker.

    I want to re-reference Schroding-ri’s Donut Hole (I’m the alpha and omega so I have to do this) – if we get rid of these stupid artificial blockers on human connection, we can embrace human condition as a SPECTRUM and unlock the magic of chaos.

    Now, back to my Bible Twin.

    This man had his first shrooms trip in the Halloween of 1986 on M Street, where it was utter chaos. Apparently, it was WAY busier back then. Imagine tripping balls and seeing HALLOWEEN COSTUMES on HORDES OF DRUNKARDS. He rightfully had a panic attack, similar to how I did during the Gemenid shower.

    His panic attack also introduced him to the pretty sperm pattern aliens, which he described as a “mind,” not a “race.” He said that he knows its name, but only because he knows the name from Arthur C. Clarke’s “Childhood’s End.” I haven’t read this one, but you can see how I read Men in Black and Lovecraft into MY experience, but I ALSO connected with TWO RACES of aliens.

    In the morning of January 2nd, however, I also “read” a movie that was recommended to me by my classmate, and I wrote about it, too:

    Bijan recommended me this movie right after we had the guest speakers from the crisis communications firm, right after he said that I looked like I was going to cry (refer to the podcast episode). Specifically, because this movie had also made him cry. He’s someone that at face value may SEEM neurotypical (he has some ticks that are visible in class), but when I started talking to him, he used the language of FEAR to talk about his ANXIETIES. And yet, he was confident enough to trust that I’d understand him and not judge him for being a cry baby that watches anime. Because, don’t forget guys, everyone who reads my blog knows that I tooo am a “baby bitch”!!!! (Since it was a podcast, technically listens, but I’m a writer, so everything is reading to me.)

    We have a shared humanity that meant that Bijan just knew, in his heart of hearts, that this was the piece of media that would resonate with me and be received as a gift, which I did. I didn’t finish the movie, because I then HAD to go to the gym and work off the high that the first twenty minutes of the movie he gave me.

    I want to unpack the notes that I shared on Maquia because it’s relevant to the shrooms aliens. You’ll see that I highlighted “dragons with red eye,” which is specifically about a madness that takes over the mounts of the invading race of men and overheats and kills the beasts. That’s also the name of the drug in Cowboy Bebop, which the character Asimov describes as “mainlining God.” DMT is also a drug that some people call the “God particle.” This makes me think that drugs (or really powerful creativity sans drugs) break down the superficial diversity we structure our world in to give you access to something that we currently describe as God, singular.

    I also write the word “Journey”. That’s a video game that uses dessert sands and HIBIOL to show the flow-state achieved by someone who has activated the magic of chaos theory. It’s also a religious experience. I sobbed at the end of the game (it’s only 2.5 ish hours long) and I cherish my copy. It also has dragons that are similarly represented in the Wanderer series of art by a man named Jesper Friis. The jewel tones that he uses in his art are something that I have seen while on shrooms, but I’ve also specifically seen the valleys that he’s painting when I was a freshman on salvia (I described it then as Dragon Tales), when it was briefly “legal” in Washington, D.C. Salvia was interesting because while I could see everything and describe it to my friend, he could hear the audio. I remember he said he heard drums, like in Jumanji.

    The trip required another human being to tell a story.

    Co-writers are important, because I also co-wrote two stories on shrooms with the Gabrielle to my Xena (read: the only female friend that I’ve cuddled and consumed media with) that involved putting the soundtrack of The Dark Crystal on shuffle and just telling a piece of the story out loud, in turns, until we felt that we hit the ending. We went underwater, after running from the law after an act of mischievous compliance and getting swallowed by the turbulence of the oceans after fighting krakens. There, we somehow climbed upwards, even though we had gone downwards, and we found a city that greater minds had long abandoned.

    We also told an arranged marriage story that was about happiness, at first.

    Both stories ended darkly and back to the human back-stabbing that we know all too well, but only because I don’t think either of us knew how to tell other stories at that point. Or, at least I know that I didn’t, and I may have overpowered the narrative since I’m a recovering control freak. I may have have taken us to the Lovecraftian Mountains of Madness (the tesseract), instead of to the pretty pattern and music and jewel-tone aliens.

    I talk about co-writers because WHAT IF, there are two gods, and we’ve forgotten about the other one (read: HER) because the male God is a dick that is also very, very vain? (Watch the Hellboy movies with Ron Perlman to truly understand.)

    I also underlined another quote in the picture about Maquia. You know who also saw these religious truths? A man whose biography that I was carrying around with me in the timely way that I do, but mostly because I still want to convince Bradley that I have all the primary research required to make his movies PERFECT. The next picture that I share shows the notes that I took back in 2017-8, and look at the second quote that I put a box around.

    It’s funny that Dan Simmons could simultaneously understand what an “empath” is, but also simultaneously be an angry Trump supporter. The man briefly saw Gods (plural) and then turned around and stuffed his head so far up his butthole that it’s not even funny.

    I’m well-read so I can make these connections, but I’d love to know what the other artists have read and consumed to able to make these references. Have we all been secretly telling stories about two Gods, but nobody has been listening because we’ve been distracted by the “main” world order? Do we just need to update the reading curriculum?????

    Shit, I said I won’t get side-tracked, but I think I actually did, because this blog post is about INCEST. SORRY GUYS.

    We talked a lot about Lot and his daughters. But before Lot, there was Abram and Sarai. “I know that you are a woman beautiful in appearance, and when the Egyptians see you, they will say, this is his wife. Then they will kill me, but they will let you live. Say you are my sister, that it may go well with me because of you, and that my life may be spared for your sake.”

    Dude is literally turning his wife into his sister to save his own ass, OR SO IT MIGHT SEEM. Fucking shit translators, man, ruining a story about goodness and love. I highlighted the “but” because it’s the same problem that I have with “Trust but Verify.” It should be “AND”, and specifically because what he is actually saying is that they’re more likely to rape you when I’m dead, because I won’t be around to protect you.

    Abram is also an idiot, because rapists gonna rape no matter your relationship status to the woman. Even Pharoah literally calls him out and asks, “Why did you not tell me that she was your wife? Why did you say, ‘She is my sister,’ so that I took her for my wife?” Abram is literally propagating the sin of polygamy by being a baby bitch liar, letting his wife be raped by other men when he first started off saying he DIDN’T want her to be raped at all.

    Pharaoh is so sick of his shit that he throws them all out of Egypt, and rightfully so.

    We say that man got thrown out of paradise because of the sins of Eve, when I’m starting to think that we’ve ordered a world religion around the sins of men who victimize, villainize, and scapegoat-ify women. I also have a hot take that Jesus was actually never dead – he just hung out in a cave while Mary Mags did all the magic. Jesus was just a POLITICIAN.

    Ugh. Christianity gives me agita. I left this conversation and got a ride back home with two other men that were also just trying to go to Good Guys, the strip club right near my house. So I was like, fuck it, I’m coming in, too. There, we realized that both of us are Hyperion FANATICS. We re-started the casting game, which, conveniently enough, I thought I’d finished THE DAY BEFORE:

    Note: It may also look like we cast Peter Fanone, a GU alum that also happens to be the hot cop’s real brother (supposedly, I don’t know how to verify that). That’s not true, though, because a different man is John Keats the poet, and hot cop is John Keats the cybrid. They genuinely look like twins to the point that I thought hot cop was stalking me because I’m such a cutie 3.14 and have googled him a billion times and cops probably have seen my search history. Yeah, I’m paranoid, but in a cute and playful way!!!!

    The other guy was busy mooning after a beautiful woman named Colleen – red hair, a billion feet tall, literally gave me the yoga pants off of the back of her dressing room floor after I tugged on my tampon too hard and unlocked the primordial waters – I realized, fuck, she’s Moneta. Liv can still be Rachel, but Moneta has to be our Mary Mags. And, this is specifically important because Kassad, her counterpoint, is my best friend, a devout Muslim who just wants to marry a “big titty Insta thot” and sell sneakers.

    I think he’d get a kick acting across from a literal stripper that could probably pulverize his ass lol.

  • 1/2/22: On how to achieve ego death without drugs

    I’ve mentioned a Hinge boy a couple of times. He has also recommended me a podcast that was more than just a little fortuitous, and I’ll be writing my next two posts on the magic that he unlocked with that (I’d fallen asleep listening to the first episode after not having slept at all the night before, waking up midway through the second one – the words blurred together that it almost seemed like it was the same episode, and as I like to regularly say, “I was shooketh.” I immediately texted and was like, holy shit, did you recommend it to me based on the conversation where you thought I was literally crazy? And he was like lol no I just have been enjoying their OJ Simpson episodes.

    The two that I listened to were called “The Satanic Panic” and “Going Postal.” It will not be immediately clear from these two titles why they’re relevant, but that’s for future posts, not this one.

    You might sense why I was vaguely obsessed with this man. He’s SO good at recommending exactly the pieces of media that I need to tell my story with, and he does it completely unwittingly. 

    I’ll admit that I’ve come on strong with this man. Even before any of my friends had an inkling of my master plan, I’d jokingly told him that I’d be getting the Nobel Peace Prize and he’d need to marry me when I got it. And then, after I deconstructed my ego with that song in the previous post, I told him that he would need to start ring shopping because I’d be getting that Nobel Peace Prize sooner rather than later. 

    I was joking, but I also wasn’t. 

    Well prior to meeting this man, I was researching attachment styles to understand mine. It was a little exercise that my therapist had given me given for anxiety and depression. There are three – anxious, avoidant, and secure. I knew I wasn’t secure, but I was horrified to realize, after taking the test, I was WILDLY both anxious AND avoidant. And, apparently, only less than 4% of people are both. 

    I also know the statistic of how many people are sociopaths. 

    I panicked and asked my therapist if I’m a sociopath, and she said something that caught me off guard. “If you’re saying that you’re a sociopath, then you’re also saying that I’m a sociopath.” She’s NEVER inserted herself into our therapy sessions that way before. I hadn’t even realized that she had identified with my struggles. I thought I was uniquely broken. Was I… just another broken person like EVERYBODY ELSE?

    I told my boss about this during one of our “Real Time Development” conversations and she admitted that she’s taken the test too, and she’s also one of the SUPPOSED minority. How is it possible that the statistic is so low, given that two people in the span of a week have the same results as me? 

    Had the pandemic exacerbated a condition that has become a mass psychosis? Or is this simply a matter of the fact that people think therapy is a crapshoot or have cultural reasons why they don’t go see a therapist? Has statistics crafted a narrative???????????

    I still wanted to make sure to do my due diligence on whether or not I was sociopath, because I’ll admit right now – I was a very bad Psychology major. I hated it so much that I wrote an article for the student paper about how I hated “psychos”, when what I really took issue with was the DSM and the way we put people into CATEGORIES OF BROKENNESS. I also talk about morality in this article, and looking back, young me was mixing my “metaphors” – I was simultaneously talking about the DSM and its labels AND evil people that justify evil actions and pretend to be good.

    What I was really afraid of, back then, was the sociopath.

    The question of sociopathy is an insidious one. For one, they apparently are hidden at all of the highest levels of society. Our very own lizard people. And, I’m in business school. Am I secretly a sleeper agent sociopath just waiting to be triggered into insidious evilness? 

    We currently have a very obvious example of a sociopath that is currently on trial – the Theranos lady. Her confidence and open-eyed confrontation of all of the evils she’s committed is one where she KNOWS she’s going to be acquitted. Either she’s made sure to not do anything that can be tracked back to her specifically, or she’s that confident that she can toss her ex-boyfriend, Sunny Balwani, under the bus. She’s even got herself a pretty new boyfriend to humanize her, even drags her mother around by the hand to make herself look like a good daughter for the cameras, and even has her father-in-law acting like a plant with the journalists. Any idiot can see it’s all the crafting of a narrative. 

    And I’m a storyteller, too. But, am I evil?

    I googled books by admitted sociopaths, and I realized then and there that there are no sociopaths that want to say that they’re sociopaths.

    Duh.

    There was only one book that I found, “Confessions of a Sociopath,” which you only need to read the first paragraph to truly understand the important piece. It’s an overview of how the anonymous author sees herself.

    But, this is also how I describe myself, minus all of the batshit violence and anger that comes throughout the rest of the chapter (read the whole thing, because she’s trying to argue we’re all sociopaths).

    The only reason I don’t think I’m an “angry brown lady” is because a) culturally, we’re not allowed to, and b) I told myself I’d never be angry like my father. I didn’t realize that there is a form of anger that I’ve denied myself as a result (remember in my last post I talked about righteous anger?).

    Way in which I’m similar to the sociopath on a superficial level:

    1. I also make eye contact, but I make GOOD eye contact. Important distinction.
    2. I have a newly discovered thicc body (JK I wish, I actually have an “athletic” and “tomboyish” build) thanks to the stairmaster (seriously, ten minutes at full blast is such a good baseline, AS LONG as you only lift your legs with your core and your butt and you maintain a perfect posture).
    3. I throw things (my Pixel is testament to this, though I’ve officially finally brick’d it – for those of you who actually know me, my new number is 202-436-5093; any new people that try to take advantage of this public airing of my number are EVIL and YOU KNOW IT’S EVIL TO CONTACT ME UNLESS YOU HAVE SOMETHING THAT I’D WANT – if I want something, I’ll ask for it, btw) but that’s only because I know that objects are temporary and not that important in the grand scheme of things. I’m a minimalist so if I smash something, I can also get a new cheap simple thing and it won’t break the bank account.
    4. I’m highly educated and respected by my community (if it weren’t for the ones who somehow still think I’m crazy – those people are idiots).

    Ways in which I am not similar to the sociopath:

    1. I am not comfortable being near naked, or at least, I wasn’t, until I achieved ego death and got over a long history of disordered eating, which began as an eating disorder (lol they aren’t the same thing in a STRUCTURAL SENSE). I grew up as a fat kid (read: poor kid whose parents stuffed her because we were just hoarding resources, guys), and then later when I got hot, men would notice me and touch me in the predatory way that men think is a hot/sexy way to “holler” at a girl. It’s never hot or sexy, guys. Don’t touch, and don’t rape me with your eyes. Don’t literally rape me. You can look and appreciate and venerate me as a good fucking human being, though. Basically, I hide my body, I hunch, I slink, and I have bad posture. But, I’m working on building back my ego and holding my head up high.
    2. I’m not the kind of privileged prick that would have been gifted a muscle car on my sixteenth birthday, nonetheless live in a home with a pool. People should earn their own nice things, and sixteen year olds should get nice used cars at dirt cheap rates to understand what a nice thing really is. Rich people should hide their wealth from the kids until it’s time for BAM JK WE TOTALLY CAN PAY FOR COLLEGE! Live like a poor person, goddamnit, and learn some humility. Also teach your kids about fucking magic.
    3. I’m not evil. 

    When I first wrote this post, I hadn’t reread the chapter. I’d put in some notes saying INSERT ANALYSIS HERE and had actually argued that maybe she wasn’t actually evil. I remembered from my initial read that there was something crucial missing from the first three pages when she talks about a swimming pool and killing a baby animal. In my memory, it sounded like trauma and she had something else going on that is missing from the narrative. She didn’t want to be where she was dealing with the pool, so it was easier to kill the animal instead of rescuing it. As soon as I reread the chapter, seeing how wealthy she actually was as a kid makes me rethink her lack-of-evilness at sixteen. Had her wealth dehumanized her and literally turned her evil?

    It’s dicey to analyze a woman from literally three pages of text, given that I’ve only ever read the first chapter of this book. But, as per the famous aphorism, when people tell you who they are, believe them. I don’t remember the aphorism that way, though. To me, it’s when people tell you who they are, listen.

    My way is better, because people are also liars and/or unreliable narrators, but only because they aren’t good writers.

    Anyway, back to our sociopath.

    She internalized the narrative of violence and identified something about that violence that seemed to make sense with her internal stories about herself. And then, she was pathologized by the DSM and now she’s a sociopath.

    This is the same power of naming that we saw in Genesis. It’s the same power of naming we saw with the shift in mathematics from linear mathematics (what we’re taught in schools) to quantum mechanics, which is apparently too complicated to understand, but it literally is the REAL mathematics we should be using if we want to innovate and create new technology in the world that might unlock portals and shit.

    Read my thesis chapter on Philosophies of Science if you want a VERY SIMPLE explanation on quantum mechanics. Watch Arcane if you have not because it’s about what’s been happening to me and it has portals – at least the first 5 episodes are about what’s happening, and then I panicked because it was getting too real, took shrooms, and discovered that I’m literally the Light of Zartha being abducted by BOTH Lovecraftian Cthulhu monsters off to the mountains of madness AND pretty rainbow sperm pattern and music aliens who my dead father is hanging out with and I just had to get to him to remind him of who I am and bring his science back to the present (he was researching bio fuels with chili peppers right before his death – the SPICE MUST FLOW).

    I’ve mentioned before that I speak in cultural references. This entire post is going to be a dump of references, so please click the links for a short snippet access to what the fuck I’m saying. Also, I’m not crazy describing my shrooms trip – I was just having a panic attack because yo girl managed to ALSO lock herself out at 3 a.m. on the rooftop of my apartment complex trying to watch the Geminid Shower

    While on drugs. All while knowing that I’m the literal light of networks and maybe I’m a little too pure for this world.

    Back to Confessions of a Sociopath. 

    The sociopath lady obviously grows up and joins society in a non-sociopathic way, that is, she no longer abuses animals. She’s also a lawyer and a church lady that has identified with the identity of sociopath. I don’t trust this woman to be a “good” lawyer – good as in not about her intellectual grasp on the law, but about her ability to make morally good interpretations of the law. Even if she’s “law-abiding” and “tithes”, she’s also a self-professed sociopath. She’s already been able to justify animal abuse in her personal narrative. What other “evils” has she justified?

    There’s a reason why she doesn’t put her name out there. Because she is evil and she fucking knows it.

    You all have learned enough about my black and white sense of morality and where I fall on that spectrum, so clearly not a sociopath. But, what other potential hidden psychoses have I not been diagnosed with officially? 

    I can tell you, because as shitty a psych major as I am, I still have a photographic memory and did really learn things even as I profess to not really paying attention in class.

    To explain why I think I briefly had Dissociative Identity Disorder (minus the memory loss, because photographic memory), I want to start with 500 Days of Summer. I LOVED this movie. Something about finding love in IKEA stores (playing house) and flash dances (big gestures of romance) just tickled my romantic nerves. (“Enchanted” is the modern version of this movie, by the way.) 

    I was then promptly told in my freshman year of college, right after I’d made my first boyfriend watch it with me, that this movie was trash and it was about the male character, anyway. 

    A series of words entered my cultural lexicon at that point to help society tell me that I’d watched the movie wrong. The character of Summer was a manic pixie dream girl and she was a bitch. She had left the dude who was a creative that was spinning his wheels in a dead-end job (basically, a man who hated himself enough because of his shit job that stifled his beautiful creations that Summer didn’t see a future with him – the movie “Her” is the modern version of this very same dilemma), found herself a new love, and reconnected with JGL after she’d moved on. Of course she didn’t want JGL. She’d found a man that enabled a SECURE ATTACHMENT STYLE. She’d found happiness. But somehow, she was the bad guy in this story and JGL was the one who wins in the end when he meets Autumn.

    Summer’s romance with JGL was real, but there is no such thing as soul mates, even as movies and books and all forms of media like to pretend that’s the case. I think anybody can be your soul mate if you approach the relationship from a secure attachment style. But you BOTH have to do it. It’s about TRUST.

    With Hinge boy, I was approaching him from a completely secure attachment style, because hello, ego-death! I think I actually was ego-death’d at that point, hadn’t noticed it, and then when I listened to his song, I realized what had actually happened. But, before I listened to the song and cracked that mystery, I cracked the 500 Days of Summer mystery specifically because of a different movie that I watched the day after Thanksgiving, literally the day after I had submitted the first part of the Proposal (that was only about the ethics restructuring of the MBA program). 

    I watched Shang-Chi with a friend named Jupiter (seriously, how cool is that, especially considering the power of names?!). 

    The movie opens with a tete-a-tete that is clearly a romantic dance of two equals that were sparring gently but with enough power to humble the man that had come in as a potential threat into her space. Obviously these are the parents. And then bam, it unfolds to be just so. 

    It was a beautiful scene. This is the kind of romance that I want in life – of equal partnership predicated upon a structure of play, art, and beauty, where the woman still has the power and grace to defend herself while living in a male-ordered world. 

    This movie also introduces two female characters – the best friend and the sister. Looking at how they’re depicted, I realized that I’m both those women. Shang-Chi, the hero, is my brother. This movie was fucking about my family, but did the thing that Marvel movies always do, which means that these movies are part of a cycle that traps humanity in grief. It gives fairy tale endings and sequels/spin-offs/new characters. There’s no way to escape the memetic cycle of storytelling and it doesn’t allow these two women to be one woman, simultaneously. The manic pixie dream girl who is funny and whipsmart, AND the badass warrior who knows how to work within a capitalist society but also simultaneously within the structure of play (and not REAL violence). 

    But, this is my LIVED truth. I just hadn’t noticed it because I am so traumatized by living in a capitalist society as a wage-slave, but was also told that it was NORMAL. It’s basically a case of the Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

    I trauma-erased my identity and then lived my life like the guy in this meme:

    I want to point out right now that I’m in a state of pure ego-death so I’m reading every single piece of cultural media into a direct interpretation of my life. Because, these are primordial stories. These are stories that reflect the human condition. That’s the memetic structure of art – good art tells stories that resonate with LOTS of people. Marvel is very good at that. But, it’s dangerous because it’s always a cycle of stories that build within the same universe that doesn’t have an escape hatch. How are we to build a better future unless we get out of this trap? 

    I’ll tell you how, now. Go watch Spider-Man Into the Spiderverse. I’ve drunkenly bought two versions of this movie. There was a period of time in my life where I’d come home drunk with my best friend and watch this movie EVERY WEEK. It’s that good. Also, watch Wonder Woman (only the first one). Don’t ignore the weird racist pieces – instead, treat them as intended to be CAMP, a very important type of humor that you should also educate yourself in by watching Venom (thanks to Shakespearean actor par excellance, Tom Hardy). Also, just for fun, watch that Jason Mamoa superhero movie, not because it’s particularly good, but because Jason is another phenomenal actor in the realm of camp. I also want to mention Amy Adams, because she not only is good at camp and being a princess is basically like being a superhero, but every movie or show she has acted in is one that resonates with me because she is the EVERYWOMAN. She also is in Arrival, which is about predicting the future to create world peace, when literally that’s what I’m doing – the difference is that there aren’t any aliens (maybe?), I’m just playing game theory and forcing people to the table, just like Amy did.

    But, back to camp, kids.

    Camp is the kind of humor you see in movies like Pacific Rim (Charlie Hunnam is another great camp-er, and so are Idris Elba and Ron Perlman), The Fast and Furious movies, It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, Tucker and Dale vs. Evil, and M. Night Shamalamadingdong. I give you these pieces of media because they’re all very important for these reasons: 

    1. Pacific Rim is by a man (Guillermo del Toro) who perfectly casts his films, which are all perfect pieces of art. He has never made an imperfect film and I don’t think he’s capable of it. 
    2. Hobbs and Shaw is a phenomenal spin off of the Fast-verse that is an exercise in pure camp, thanks to the talents of WWE, Idris, and Jason Statham (my original bald daddy in the sexy not fatherly way). WWE is also an exercise in camp, and as a kid, Triple H and Shawn Michaels were my BOYS.
    3. The It’s Always Sunny folks are what inspired me to name my blog. Also, Charlie Day is in Pacific Rim. Guillermo del Toro is in IASIP.
    4. Tucker and Dale vs. Evil activated my cackle (my witch laugh, when I’m particularly tickled) and shows that rednecks are actually heroes, too, and they too can get the college-educated knock-out babe that is secretly really good with her hands. And honestly, they should, so maybe we can heal the divide that exists within this stupid fucking country. I want to point out that the heroine of T and D vs. E is actually NOT a victim of Dissociative Identity Disorder. She’s a complex woman, even if she’s camp-y as fuck. She’s a balancing of presumed opposites. She’s a funny character because good humor balances the “opposites” of the human condition. Grief and Joy. Anger and love. Fear and Courage. Sadness and Happiness. Confidence and anxiety. (Insert they’re-the-same-picture meme). 
    5. Just watch Old. It’s the funniest fucking movie ever. It’s not a thriller or horror or whatever stupid genre label you want to slap on it and confuse viewers with. The knife guy is ME.

    Does anybody remember the definition of structuralism that I shared several posts ago? It talks about unpacking the layers of superficial diversity that society piles onto things. What if I argued that Disassociative Identity Disorder is simply the mind struggling to make sense of a superficial diversity that splits our identities?

    I’ve been told that I can’t be a woman like Summer. I see in Shang-Chi that I’m literally two different women to my brother, to the point that he doesn’t even know who I am and if I’m sane or insane. I have two networks of friendships, one that is couched in humor and culture, and another around the language of business and power – only the latter network knows the FULL me, but I wasn’t every ego-death’d enough at that point of engaging that network for me to be able to confidently realize that I had actually coalesced all my identities into a singular ego. I was also anxious and depressed about school and work, so I wasn’t very present.

    Ego-death only works as long as you have a full ego. Which, may sound like opposites, but I’m arguing that that is just a superficial diversity. Think about it.

    The non-business school network doesn’t know my language of power at all, because I don’t use that around artists, philosophers, and comedians

    This is the network that hospitalized me.

    I’m literally a walking case of DID, but I remember everything and I am a powerful writer, so I can explain everything rationally to show that I’m not crazy. Society has made me crazy. And just maybe, it’s made you crazy too.

    I also recognize that a truth has to be whole for it to be true. I need to talk about men. I need to talk about societies. 

    But I already have, a little, and I want to share a movie, a book-and-TV-show, an anime-and-TV show, and a book series.

    To understand male grief, I’ve already mentioned 500 Days of Summer and Her. I want to close with the movie Chef, which was recommended to me by a classmate that I asked out who had rather non-politely declined (he took two weeks to get back to me until I was like hem hem so that’s a no right). We’re still obviously friends because we’re Tolkien buddies and he’s also a light of networks. We’ve got a lot in common, even if this cutie pie isn’t his type (which means he’s not MY type either lol).

    I watched Chef with my artsy network right after they all thought I’d lost my shit and wouldn’t let me stay home alone. I realized that holy shit, this movie is about a male creative wanting credibility in a capitalist bullshit world, but he also couldn’t have the hot boss lady love and the badass sexy ScarJo love simultaneously – he had to split them into two different women. 

    This movie is a vanity project, btw, and rather problematic from a feminist angle, but the message is a male universal narrative, regardless. BUT/AND men don’t do a good job of writing female stories when the main story is primarily male. Or, if we’re trying to take a successfully complex work and distill it to the set structure of however the fuck long we say each episode of television is supposed to be when you turn it into a series.

    An example of this would be Game of Thrones – when translated for television, we cut out motherly vengeance (Lady Stoneheart), Brienne was robbed of her strength and made a bawling bitch when Jaime left her for Cersei (a woman like her should be WAY stronger after having fallen in love with a gay man and realizing that she’s stronger than most men), and Daenerys, strong as she is, settles for the mewling John Snow (GRRM was forcing an incest narrative, one that was technically intended for ARYA but GRRM’s wife was like fuck you how dare you Arya is my favorite character – his wife probably ruined the story, IMO). The only female that really retains any sort of truth towards the end of the TV version is Cersei (and Sansa, but I’ve already talked about arranged marriages and weathering the frost), because of the simple nature of being a TWIN. Cersei is just the drunken manifestation of male political strength, frustrated in her ability to be effective in her true calling.

    This is also the plot of Chef. 

    The failures of the HBO version of Game of Thrones is not GRRM’s fault – he was still untangling the Myrenese Knot and couldn’t reconcile Khaleesi’s faulty character lines. It’s a knot that is supremely simplified in the TV show, which is LOST GOLD. 

    It’s also known as the most boring set of chapters in the books by idiots who have strong, loud opinions. These chapters are boring because GRRM needed a tighter editor here, but he didn’t even have an ending yet. What editor could know what was supposed to be done here?

    This knot is the one that needs to be untangled to close the series, so the other female characters weren’t given the due diligence that they needed to be written properly. The rough outlines were likely handed to D & D and HBO, and while those two men were masterful with an existing and perfect text, they were also simultaneously given a hot unwritten mess and asked to make magic out of it. 

    You can now understand why I keep making veiled Khaleesi references in my other posts (and if you haven’t picked up on them, it’s the comments about not wanting to burn down my homeland). That’s literally what Daenerys does. She wants the throne so badly throughout all of the books only to show up and decide to fucking carpet bomb the place. That anger she feels gets out of hand, but this woman was also a woman who survived the violence of arranged marriage. She was the leader of a tribe, giving them a political voice when they were just deemed as brutes by others. She freed slaves. She was a mother that gave birth to magic in the world. And, she is a queen. How could a woman this powerful turn around and do a darkly male thing?

    This is why I also talk about the need for more female leadership in the world. The wars we fight, the NSC charters that secretly sanction violence in the world in the name of democracy, the violence that sisters enact upon sisters – all of this shit is because of a history of male violence upon others but also upon THEMSELVES. 

    I’m well-read enough and educated enough and loud enough and brave enough and funny enough and fucking WORTHY enough to tell the world how to clean up its act.

    I want to come off this cultural info dump to say watch and read everything I’ve recommended thus far to get a sense of the meaning behind my words, because otherwise, this blog post is not powerful. And I’m tryna change the fucking world, the least you could do is try to follow along before you get left behind. 

    Most importantly, I’m handing out new jobs to people, starting out with my MBA cohort. EVERYBODY has a role in the new world order, but I want to run a pilot program with my classmates, first. Georgetown might say nah, at which point I have other options. The day that I wrote the first part of the proposal, a woman who teaches at Yale’s business school overheard a conversation that I was having with a rando about the grant I was applying to, and we HIT IT OFF. She asked to read my proposal because she and I have the exact same complaints about business school. So, I sent it to her, but only the first half. I also included my best friend, Radhika, in the email chain with both halves of the proposalminus my specific business school plan. She’s a student at UPenn’s Wharton School of Business, and I have a soft spot for Philly as it is. If these two other schools don’t want the master plan (which requires a business school), Darden just joined the neighborhood in DC with their own part-time MBA program. 

    All I’m saying is that I have options.

    I want to stop bombarding you with cultural references with TWO last pieces of cultural media, because this is a long post and y’all need some practice deconstructing: 

    1. Watch Cowboy Bebop (the new one) on Netflix. 
    2. It’s a perfect treatise in camp and is perfectly cast, translating the heart of anime for live action. I don’t care that LITERALLY EVERYBODY HATES IT RIGHT NOW. Society is fucked up and wrong and doesn’t understand ego death and needs to do more shrooms. You don’t even need shrooms, though. Think about why I say this is a great show and why everybody says it’s horrible (do some research to see what people are saying).
    3. I’m Faye Valentine (think about Dissociative Identity Disorder and Amnesia, but also literally what I talk like if you know me on an intimate level), but I’m also Spike Spiegel (and Jet Black is my brother). Media is still splitting me in half, so until that stops being the case, you’ll have to deal with interpreting two characters. The dog, Ein, is the EVERYMAN. It’s also about everything that is happening to me with the Psychiatric Institute of Washington, just like Arcane is. The episode that is particularly important is the one where Spike gets trapped in a religious/psychological VR machine. It’s religious because the eye is literally the symbol of the Free Masons and the Illuminati, and it’s psychological because of the ties to Scientology. It’s a recursive self-referential perfectly structured loop, one that I’ll be addressing with the “Satanic Panic” episode of that podcast that I mentioned at the beginning of this post.
    4. We need a new type of bounty hunter for the modern world. I know who they are and how they’d get paid handsomely, and right now, they don’t get paid well. Can you guess what current professional is the future bounty hunter? And, can you guess where future bounty hunters will be taught their profession?

    I also want to really close the cultural dump with a comment about photographic memory. In my last post, I mention not knowing the name of my rapist unless I see it in front of me. My rape is still something that breaks my brain. I gave myself my first ever migraine writing that post. His name is locked behind layers of TRAUMA. I could easily rake him publically by asking GU for my records, but I’m not going to do that because I’m a big girl who knows how to process trauma. He knows who he is. He knows what he did. And he’ll have to live with the fact that he’s the one who raped the woman who is going to change the world, a woman who lives in a perpetual state of the spotless soul.

    You’ll also see that in Brandon Sanderon’s Way of Kings series.

    These books are POWERFUL. Every character is one facet of the mass cultural psychosis we live in. Since I understand that, and as someone trying to make sense of that chaos, I know for a fact (OKAY not a fact, this is just a good guess) that I can and will spoil his books by saying that Taravangian is gonna be redeemed as Honor, who is presently presumed dead. I wanted to tweet it at him privately that he did such a wonderful job with his books but he fucked up because HONOR IS A WOMAN AND SHE NEVER NEEDED TO BE REDEEMED, JUST LISTENED TO, but my Tolkien friend who shared the movie Chef sent me the clip that I just linked and told me to calm the fuck down. I hand’t seen the movie at that point so this was magic to me. I cackled on a street corner and then promptly called Hinge boy to tell him about that song he shared with me and that he needs to take me ring shopping.

    You can see the magic of the story that I’m telling you. I’m not telling it to you linearly in time. I’m telling it to you organically based on what feels natural. I don’t plan my posts further than a day in advance, depending on when inspiration strikes. Organically, it falls into a recursive loop of perfect order. I don’t rewrite posts – I just make sure that the punctuation is right and that I add WordPress spacers between each para since I don’t know how to code it (yet).

    My writing is basically like those magical poops that only require one wipe to be clean. It’s sustainable and GOOD FOR THE SOUL.

    This is the MAGIC of CHAOS that only STORYTELLERS (read: creative people) have access to, because they already know how the story ends when they start writing. And regardless of what society likes to say, we’re all creative types inherently first and foremost. We’re all-brain thinkers that have just been taking a really long and nightmarish nap.

    I’m just here to either poke or slap you awake, depending on how deep the sleep is. I’m also here to say that Bradley Cooper is looking for a director for Hyperion, the book for which I’m THE WORLD’S ONLY HYPERION SCHOLAR. I’m also a fellow Georgetown alum, so boy, hit a girl up. I’ve already fully cast the main roles, but there are some people that are not professional actors that only I know. Three of them are in business school with me, the other is a retired military machine and bartendress extraordinaire at Slate who would be the perfect Brawne Lamia, and John Keats is this guy.

    The end.

  • 1/1/22: On the nature of simultaneously being a merging of opposites, and therefore, being everything at the same time as nothing at all (aka, Schroding-ri’s Donuthole)

    Listen to this song with the following rules if you want to understand ego-death: 1) do not listen to the lyrics and do not read the lyrics and 2) figure out the meaning of the song based on sound alone, and when you know the meaning in your heart of hearts, Google the lyrics.
    (This activation technique only works if you a) do not know anything about the genre or the artist and b) you picture a potential romantic partner giving you the song and you want to understand them so badly and why this song matters so much that you listen to it on repeat until you know them in your heart of hearts. When the lyrics map to the truth, it’s pure magic).

    This post is going to be a doozy, but only because I want to start the new year with solutions for the world, not just trickling my truth at it through daily blog posts. This post is going to be an accounting of the woman I was before I was truly aware of how capitalism works. I won’t talk about my childhood up to highschool, however, because she was a different woman, too. She’s relevant, but not for the present.

    I am instead going to begin with my undergraduate identity before I had become TRULY a cog in the machine. I was still awake then, in a partial sort of way, but society put me to sleep for a couple years.

    I’m fully wide-awake now.

    In 2022, I will tell you how I was able to “activate” myself into a merging of my “identities”, but also let you figure out how to do it yourself.

    The song at the top was the moment I realized that I listened to music incorrectly, and as soon as I taught myself the “right” way, it changed the way I perceived the world. I sobbed at the height of the stairmaster and then hopped right off, made a fortuitous call to a man that was shopping for a presidential candidate, and set into motion a chain of events that I already knew would more or less happen. Before I get into that very long story, I want to give you the Table of Contents for this post:

    Volume Identity #7

    Chapter 1: On living in a place that is simultaneously stateless and the most important district in the nation

    Chapter 2: On simultaneously being smart and not smart at all

    Chapter 3: On simultaneously being a whore and a good person AND deserving of nothing good

    Chapter 4: On simultaneously being the light of networks and so incredibly alone

    Chapter 5: On the nature of sunshine and hope

    Chapter 1: On living in a place that is simultaneously stateless and the most important district in the nation

    I chose Georgetown University for my undergraduate education because I had very limited options. I got into University of Pittsburgh, Carnegie Mellon (I think?), Drexel University, and GU. Safeties and a reach, with only one guaranteeing a free ride. It had nothing to do with my merit, however. GU meets full financial need of all admitted students, and given that my mom was a poor, single parent, I got access to the echelons of power and privilege at the cheap bill of basically nothing dollars a semester.

    I didn’t understand what kind of a beast Washington, D.C., or even GU was when I applied, nor even during my campus visit.

    The visit was… okay.

    I went alone and I remember it raining, and my heart was still wandering in Duke’s campus, filled with sprawling land, greenery, and sunshine. Duke’s library had stolen my breath away and it made me think of magical wizard tomes that unlocked all of the knowledge in the world. Georgetown University’s architecture was a mixture of brutalism and religiosity at that point in time, even as they claimed that they had the real Harry Potter building.

    I never even saw the inside of the library, because Georgetown University knows it’s shit and it would scare away potential applicants. Little did they know that it was going to become the most important place for me to be, and I made the mistake of never studying there during my MBA.

    As someone who has worked in the building people call the Harry Potter building (painted above by an alumnus), the only place that looks like Hogwarts (particularly on the inside) is Riggs Library, which is reserved for special occasions.

    I’ve still not been inside Riggs in the 11+ years of my relationship with the University. In my head, it was always the place that was reserved for special occasions for the rich and powerful – why the fuck would I want to go to a place that didn’t give Harry Potter magic to everybody?

    During my campus visit, I didn’t explore the city. I was alone and poor – what would I look at and how was I to understand the content and context of what I was looking at?

    I gave myself no exposure to what else existed in Washington, D.C., denying myself a counterpoint of structure to tie together a more holistic understanding of what I was signing myself up for. But, I didn’t even have a choice, since finances and limited options dictated that I was going to Washington, D.C., whether I liked it or not.

    I could legally vote, but I’d missed my first election. It was Obama vs Hillary, and I remember watching the election with my childhood best friend, Meghana, all the while lying that yeah, totally voted. I went for the brown man in my head, because duh, brown power. Meg wanted Hillary, but she was also more informed. I think she was right, even if she is several years younger than me, not only because she actually had a rightful civic interest, but because Hillary would have been the president we needed but also would have likely bridged the racist divide within America. At that time, though, I didn’t see how politics was important because aren’t both parties the same??? (insert edgelord fedora)

    I didn’t realize that I was moving to a place where the license plates said “Taxation Without Representation,” but only because I didn’t (and still don’t) know how to drive, and why bother when you had so many friends that’d take you anywhere in a heartbeat? This meant that I didn’t get out much – I also was poor, so when my friends went places, the furthest I’d go was to local coffee shops and malls, a holdover from my high school days.

    I didn’t explore DC in undergrad, because while I was also poor, I worked CONSTANTLY. I couldn’t travel and I often had shifts. Or, I was drunk somewhere on or near campus. There is little else to do in Georgetown University, and we have a quietly sanctioned (if not even basically encouraged) drinking culture where we have literal ambulances run by students called GERMS where they’d drag you off to Medstar, not even pump your stomach, hang you out to dry, and then you’d stumble back to your dorm room in the morning with a fat bill that probably broke your mother’s back each time.

    I’ve shit that bed at least once, and been GERMS’d three times.

    I’m getting side-tracked, because this is about the simultaneous nothingness of DC as a political entity but also as a place that I understood to be probably not real. I lived in DC, but I really just lived in the Georgetown bubble. At the same time, my undergrad was present with big moments in history that I specifically remember for my role in it:

    1. May 2, 2011: The assassination of Osama bin Laden. I had been in the belly of the beast that is the brutalist structure known as Lauinger Library, a place that one could normally find me at if I wasn’t at a) the gym, b) a smoker’s bench somewhere nearby, or c) a dorm party. My high school senior prom date called me to be like what the fuck, what is happening? And I said fuck, I don’t know, I’m in the library. I ended up emerging and being convinced to go to the White House with the rest of campus that was running to celebrate at the nation’s capital. I went with my housemate, her boyfriend, and my best friend Thomas (we Ubered). There’s a picture of me somewhere floating around sitting on Tom’s shoulders, while my housemate sat on her boyfriend’s shoulders, at the White House. I remember thinking, this is really fucked up and unethical. We’re celebrating the death of a man? You couldn’t tell my distress from my face in that picture, however, because I’m laughing along with the rest of the world, because it’s hard not to mirror your friends, your loved ones, and your community.
    2. August 23, 2011: I was present for the DC earthquake, which was so random and terrifying precisely because it never happens and also because I was working in the Village C West housing office, which basically is a bridge that straddles two buildings. I knew that if I died that day, I’d come crashing down on the staircase underneath, buried under an exhorbitance of packages and dorm keys and just enough irony that our often-joked-about Department of Public Safety (also known as Dops, a malaproprism of Cops, and SO malappropriated that it rendered them so goofy and disrespected that they renamed themselves to GUPD) would also be dead, too. That dark humor is important to note, because I am a darkly humorous individual that loves to say, Ha ha, gonna kill myself, but I truly am joking because I used to be an emo kid in middle school that tried out cutting culture only to realize that it was stupid and hurt. I barely even cut flesh. I love life too much, too, which anybody who knows me knows to be inherently true. I was also gaslit into thinking I do want to kill myself by a friend who was concerned about my dark humor that I re-admitted myself into therapy in the beginning of 2021.
    3. October 20, 2011. Mu’ammar Al-Qadhdhāfī’s assassination. I was at the gym on the eliptical trying to keep my body sexy for god knows what real reason other than pure insecurity, and CNN or FOX decided to show the video of him being dragged from a drain pipe, tortured, and killed. I remember feeling ill and horrified, but mostly at the juxtaposition of privilege I felt being in America at one of the fanciest gyms I’ve still seen to this day (lol I’ve seen no gyms, really, because… I’m still in the GU bubble), all while being a basic bitch and watching a kind of violence that no news network should ever have shown or celebrated.
    4. November 6, 2011. Obama’s second election win. People once again ran to the White House, and my housemate and best friend and I sat outside of our lower level Village A apartment with cigarettes and red wine, all winter-weathered up and watching students in American regalia hoot and holler their way down to the Capital. This wasn’t a significant moment to me, because how could I manage the simultaneous reasons to run to capitals? They were contradictory, and therefore the act itself was rendered meaningless. Also, Obama was president again, yay, not a Republican, isn’t exactly a resounding sense of victory. It was just business as usual.
    5. Summer 2012: I fucked the priviliged little idiot that got arrested during the Egyptian revolution, which WaPo wrote about and is quoted as saying, “‘Derrik Sweeney had headed to Egypt in August filled with idealism, the youthful vigor of a conservative 19-year-old and a firm belief “in American freedom,” his father said.’” The man literally has a tattoo on his chest that says “I AM TRUTH.” I remember thinking he was a silly pretty boy with big blue eyes that looked like Ellen Degeneres, and also thinking that he lacked substance. This was at the peak of my fuckboy years, when I had appropriated the power of the male gaze to reclaim my strength after being raped in December 2011, so I didn’t give any credit to the person he was under the veneer. But most importantly, I remember initially being disgusted by the kind of privilege that could rescue him from his poor choices, but also being like meh he’s pretty, so whatever. I also recognize that Otto Warmbier was privileged and died at the hands of another nation making the same kinds of poor choices. But that was in 2016-2017, when I had already graduated UG, which I think is an important distinction.

    I was getting an education on power, privilege, hypocrisy, and the tragicomedy of life. Because, comedy is the simultaneous merging of opposites of the human condition and finding a way to reconcile the two with each other. But, that didn’t mean that horror didn’t occasionally seep into my life.

    IMPORTANT THING TO NOTE: BALANCING GRIEF AND JOY IS DIFFERENT FROM BALANCING GOOD AND EVIL.

    I don’t remember if anything else significant happened politically up to the point of my graduation after the events listed above. I had other things on my mind.

    I had finally blossomed fully into a sexual, social being.

    My sexuality was exacerbated by something that my best friend and I called the Summer of Ill Intentions, which is when I met Derrik. Let’s just say that I fucked around a LOT, and it was always from the angle of domination and subjugation (kind of like the primordial man in Genesis!). I only was saved at the very end of my UG by a man named Ben who got on one knee on Lauinger Floor 2 (Lau 2) and said I was the prettiest girl in the library, and would I go out with him?

    He was a poet, doe-eyed, apparently had said the same thing to another beautiful brown girl right before me, and also a freshman. Despite the age differential AND knowing he’d asked out a future housemate, I ended up dating him for 2 and a half years until I cheated on him while he was studying abroad. But now, I’ve gone into Identity #8-9. I need to go back to UG, starting over, and entering Chapter 2.

    Chapter 2: On simultaneously being smart and not smart at all

    My formal education is the following: Double Major in English and Psychology, Minor in Theology, Masters in English, and one semester left in my Masters in Business Administration. Prior to the MBA, I was a “soft skills” girl, a right-brain creative.

    I was a writer, I drew the Page 13 comics for the school’s alternative newspaper, and I was an artist who could easily capture on paper what she saw with her naked eye. I was heavily tattooed then, as I am now.

    If you’ve read any of my other posts, you can see that I’m a left-brain, too, though.

    I’m either the first person who can be both brains, or I simply have the language capable of articulating how I am all-brain, which is especially important considering that I have photographic memory and had an IQ of either 131 or 151 (I remember reading the report on the dining table in 3rd grade, but I didn’t have a frame of reference to peg the specific number – I just remember what it looked like on paper).

    I also was told by society that I’m not important, that my skills aren’t relevant, and that I’ll never be paid properly, and so I undersold my strengths until literally the stairmaster deconstruction session this November. More importantly, I was told this VERY SPECIFICALLY by Georgetown University, the very place that I was supposedly admitted on merit. But, it wasn’t like they had said anything so specific. It’s more about what they had done to me.

    Having worked in Financial Aid (which partners for an annual meeting with Undergraduate Admissions that I’ve attended at least twice as a professional post-UG), I know how admissions works. I also know how there are regional officers for recruitment, but that there are certain regions they recruit heavily from. I vaguely remember it being Texas, New Jersey, and maybe California? I now know enough as an adult that rich New Yorkers live in the burbs of the city, which NJ essentially is.

    How else is Georgetown to survive as a nonprofit?

    Rich people are a type of affirmative action student, but I think what we call it is “legacy,” in that they’re a legacy of wealth that the University can look at and see a return on investment. I’m an affirmative action student, too, but the poor kind. Us poor kids are the minority in numbers, however, considering how expensive we are.

    I’m also really smart, though, and I would happily share all of my SAT, ACT, GRE, and GPA scores if I could get into my email accounts. You have my IQ, though, so do with it what you will.

    I’ll come back and update this post with my test scores later.

    I’m also getting ahead of myself and entering Identity #8 with a discussion of my GRE scores, so switching ahead to the next chapter.

    Chapter 3: On simultaneously being a whore and a good person AND deserving of nothing good

    Before we got to undergraduate school, we used a dating-app type system to meet future roommates called Charms. That’s where I met my best friend that I jokingly call “my lawyer” and “the First Valkyrie.” I’m not joking, though, because I really do need a lawyer and I’d love for her to be it.

    We also had facebook to begin networking. On facebook, I met my twin who is also a poor kid with a single mother, and I remember her joking about having an abortion fund saved away in case she had to get rid of any oopsies, but that she was also at GU for her MRS degree to protect her financial future.

    She and I were both “full-ride” students so we understood the role that financial security plays in society. She eventually snagged her MRS from Tinder (I had hunted all the Thai restaurants to find her because she didn’t answer the reverse bat signal, only because she was having SUCH a good time with her future husband, which I eventually saw through the third window). It wasn’t Tinder that helped her, though. She’s a smart woman with a powerful mathematical mind. She has a very good life, if not for the other things that we as a society like to worry about. We’re all guilty of that, or at least, we’re all victims of the same situation.

    She also was and is still a goof.

    We used to play a game where we’d compete to see who got a boyfriend first. Different tactics had different points, but if you got a boyfriend, you immediately won.

    I remember a guy that she was dating run into the common room, shirtless, to show off a series of hickies on his chest in the shape of a heart. The girl knew how to jokingly claim her territory and also not take herself too seriously. Which, is why I say that she is my twin. But, this anecdote is not just about her, it is also about the guy she very briefly dated. I had bad sex with him too, later during my fuckboy years (the girl I’m talking about was my housemate at this point, and we had a belly laugh about her running into him in the morning, even if I had sobbed the night before with the guy present and awake), and he also was likely responsible for my third GERMS-ing where another best friend had to fish me out of a snowdrift and hospitalize my comatose body.

    What was cute and playful sexuality became a violent sexuality, depending upon the lived context. I don’t know the full story of my girlfriend’s experiences, and she doesn’t know the full of mine, but we met in the middle with jokes.

    Humor has always been my analgesic.

    This friend is special to me because she lacks pretense and ego, which means that she is not capable of jealousy (as far as I can tell). I’ve had multiple other female relationships ruined, however:

    1. The other girl thought that I wanted their man or crush when he was literally incest-level friendship vibes. This happened more than once, with increasing frustration on my end as the years have passed – I tell everybody when I like a guy, and I usually tell the guy, too. I don’t need to sit on shit like a baby bitch, even if I’m normally a baby bitch about other things. I know how to apologize when I think I’m in the wrong, but I also tell everybody only the truth, so if you don’t believe me that’s on YOUR end.
    2. I gave a handy to a guy that I thought a female friend was over and cracked a joke about how small his dick was. We survived that cut, which I am guilty of, but later when I told her and another friend that I was in love with my other best friend, the second friend sniped him literally that night. And then, there was a weird gray space where I wanted him still, but knew enough to respect the girl code and back off, even as I struggled with the emotions that threatened to spill me back into his space, even as a friend. That meant that I was not present for his mother’s death, and I am guilty of that crime, too. I’m not friends with either of those women because they destroyed my network and isolated me from my loved ones. It is important to note that these girls were my loved ones, too.
    3. I’ve had girls that claimed to be “just friends” with my SOs ice me out of their shared network, which led to me falling out of love with my partner, especially when I knew that they weren’t defending me and I couldn’t be a part of their family of misfits like my SO was a part of mine. This led to cheating, and while I’m responsible for MY sins, I didn’t fucking start it.
    4. I’ve had female friends that felt like I was stealing their thunder by simply being me. I’m a loud, approachable, and talkative person. People gravitate to me, because I know how to make eye contact, I know how to listen actively, and I know how to care. I literally wear my heart on my sleeve (though the tattoo is actually is a reference Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness). I’m the kind of person that can fall in love with anybody, and usually try to do so, but also slip into fuckboy or ghost mode as soon as I can tell if either guy or girl only sees me as a superficial entity. I know how to protect myself after being raped in 2011 and being told my then boyfriend that the only person that was my witness, my housemate, didn’t believe me. Apparently, this little virgin was asking for it, especially while fully intoxicated and about to get on a flight to Texas to spend Christmas with her boyfriend’s wealthy, South-African white, Enron-legacy family. My drinking was a way to cope with the dissonance of what was happening to poor little me, and the events of that night were fully outside of my control. But, I had walked out of that house party and only said, “Holy shit my mouth tastes like dick,” because I was shook, and because I use humor as a shield. She likely read that as irreverence, or even as pride, but whatever she read was hurtful to me because I hadn’t even sucked my own boyfriend’s dick. Why would I want a dirty random stranger?

    I lost my “case” against my rapist, by the way, because I didn’t have enough evidence to end his life. The worst part? When I was working in financial aid, after UG, I was the man’s financial aid counselor when he returned to GU for his Ph.D. I have a tendency to lose his name until it shows up in front of me, and when I saw his name pop up on my caseload, I fell down sobbing. I went for a run to clear my head and got hit by a car (thankfully, only barely).

    Georgetown knew this man had raped me, and yet, they let him back in only to pay for his goddamn degree. And by the stroke of luck by the nature of naming (caseloads are by last name, and so he was in mine), I was forced to have to look at his goddamn name and his private information and know that I can’t be that good if my pseudo-parent-cum-institution could do that to me. I had to have deserved this very specific pain of confronting a past within which I had asked to be raped.

    I joke about getting hit by three cars in my lifetime (one taxi that I exaggerate into two because it’s funnier that way, and one in DC after seeing my rapist’s name). Everyone laughs because I’m a good storyteller. But what they don’t realize how much pain I hide underneath this joke, even to this day. My mother and I had a strained relationship at that time due to me hating my step-father and her throwing me out in 2010 for coming out as bisexual, so when we spoke about my rape it was only to say whelp, this happened.

    We haven’t talked about it since, because sexuality isn’t a thing you talk about with conservative Indian mothers, regardless of your relationship status.

    My mom also reads my blog and we have a phenomenally new and interesting relationship that we’re rebuilding as a nature of the fact that she’s the only one who fully believes every inch of my story. But, back to undergrad and my rape.

    I didn’t have any other paternal structure to take care of me, and Georgetown Counseling and Psychiatric Services failed me because my good therapist left and they never matched me with another young and relatable person. The next therapist I met wanted to focus on my cultural family issues, not my rape. She wanted to brute force my therapy with an established and long career of practice in the psychiatric services, and it was not appropriate for the unique way that I communicated through literature and crude humor. I think I tried one more time, towards the end of my UG career, but CAPS failed me once again. The intake gentleman was the same old dude every single time and he treated every conversation like it was the first time with a stranger who wasn’t a vulnerable young person that needed a gentler and more thoughtful hand. It was similar to how Medstar has treated me for binge drinking twice in my undergraduate career (and once after undergrad, after I was fished out of the snowdrift). It was comfortable treating my comatose body like the status quo rather than a potential risk to ask, why the fuck is she drinking so much? Freshman year, understandable – I was learning my tolerance, just like everybody else drinking underage for the first time. The second time, however, was well after my rape. It was after I’d already gone through therapy. And, it was during the first summer I’d worked at Georgetown University, full-time, as a housing office employee that couldn’t go home and would rather work at GU for the free housing that came with it. I chose indentured servitude to an institution of power that I loved for my classmates, not noticing that the institution itself didn’t care shit about me. If anything, I was so low on the tier of worth, that I’d only become valuable if I could show a financial worth. I was too busy working to get internships, and those were unpaid anyway – why would I waste my time trying to build real-world credibility when I needed money IN THE PRESENT?

    It’s important to note that I’ve never read the limitations placed upon my career prospects as limitations – I just thought that everybody struggled the same way and that I could be nimble and make the best of the situation. And, I truly have, or else I wouldn’t be in a position to make wild claims that I can make the next president of the United States of America. But, my flexibility and adaptive nature are in the next chapter, so I want to move on.

    Chapter 4: On simultaneously being the light of networks and so incredibly alone

    I have a lot of best friends. I invest a lot of time and heart in my relationships and I know that I have a full tribe of folks that will save me (and have many times over again) at any given crisis point. I’ve also mentioned that I’ve had my networks combust in recursive violence of sisters that should have understood my heart enough to trust my words.

    I also recognize I’ve mentioned a lot of drinking.

    It’s easy for people to think that this must mean I’m an unreliable narrator. I want to point out that I remember the night of my rape – every single moment of it, even after he’d left me on the bathroom floor, getting up and washing out my mouth and trying to smile at myself in the mirror to pull it together, and then running out to go back to my dorm so that I could sleep off the drunk before my flight.

    I’ve remembered every night of drinking except two of my three GERMS nights, but only because the first one I managed to throw up the alcohol, so I remember my freshman year roommate in a sing-song voice saying, “Madhuri, if you don’t get up, I’m going to have to GERMS you!” – I laughed, vomited through the laughter, and then passed out.

    I’ve never thrown up again, because I have control issues.

    I brown out occasionally, but that’s just me glossing over details that I hadn’t thought important at that point, because I was probably talking to a billion other people and cracking jokes and running around having a blast. My drinking buddies can attest to this. And don’t forget – photographic memory, as refined by only what an Indian education system could do (I went to school there from 7th – 9th grade).

    I’ve been also gaslit by friends saying “they never said” something while drinking, that I know for a fact that they did. Some as innocuous as really good jokes that perhaps are a little too spicy for society. Some as serious as secrets that they weren’t supposed to share.

    I do want to get past the BELIEVE ME PLEASE I’M NOT A MESS plea and come back to the night of my rape, though.

    My housemate grabbed my laundry and tossed it onto my bed to make sure that I had clothes to get to Texas. I slept on those clothes and woke up with crumpled and poor people attire that I’d be shamed for as soon as my boyfriend’s mother met me and realized that I looked like shit in the country club.

    Even though my boyfriend and I later broke up because I didn’t fit into his network, and even though he said that my housemate didn’t believe me about my rape, I believed in believing women. So, I didn’t believe him and chose to live with her again.

    I’ve learned a new kind of anger since then, however, which has predicated the restart of blogging.

    I hadn’t realized that towards the end of our first tenure as roommates, she was mad about a Tumblr post that I’d made about hearing her and her boyfriend having sex. I was jokey and irreverent because I don’t take sex seriously. For her, it was intimate and I crossed a line. I wished we had just talked about it before things spiraled into passive aggression because I know how to apologize for being wrong. I later deleted my Tumblr to prevent myself from hurting another woman that way, but I never apologized to her directly.

    I am really sorry for ghosting you when you tried to communicate later, but you were only yelling. That retriggers my specific trauma with my father and I shut down in the face of that kind of violence.

    We were just moving into our new Village A apartment together, and she and her boyfriend decided to go to a fancy dinner and left me and my mother (an even smaller Indian woman with a bad arm) to move all their shit. I told her to go fuck herself in so many words, because I had offered to move a few small things we could easily move with my mom’s rental.

    She had taken advantage of me. When she had briefly come home, she told my mother and I that she wanted all of my shit cleaned up before she got back from dinner.

    I was livid.

    She spoke to me from a language of privilege and power, after trying to use my mother and I like servants, when she is a poor kid, too. I iced her out after that, and then she finally called me out for the blog post. Her mom even came to stay with us and gave me a dressing down for the silent treatment with her daughter, when I had nothing to say to this woman, either. I wasn’t going to explain myself. I knew enough about mothers to know that I would have nothing worthwhile to say.

    The girl moved out and was assigned her own whole apartment, and I was left with my own whole apartment.

    This was also the beginning of the Summer of Ill Intentions.

    You will see that with each spiral of collapse, I develop new relationships, because I was never alone during this Summer. I got really close to my network of housing buddies, to the point that it brought the strangest crew of misfits that you would think could be friends – a sassy Korean lady with the funniest mixed-in-Australian accent, a man that eventually would half-try being a Jesuit priest but still throws the fanciest dinner parties, a woman who works at the highest levels of power, and lastly, lil ol me. My snowdrift rescuer and first male best friend at Georgetown since freshman year and I also hung out all summer, cracking jokes about my ill intentions, just like my MRS degree friend and I used to. I eventually hired him to also work with my misfits in the housing office, even if I still joke that he was the shittiest hire I ever made.

    I’m a re-builder of networks, and in many ways, I’ve come to think about my time at Georgetown University as a perpetual Squid Game. We end up nuking our networks all the time due to jealousy, power-hungriness, hypocrisy, violence, passive aggression, and the ever perpetual state of inequity and easy access to underage drinking thanks to the Tombs, M Street, and Dixie Liquor. I’m the only one who keeps surviving and building my networks back up, because a) I still have to live at Georgetown until I finish my education and b) I also have brought back almost every friend that I’ve had a disagreement with because, once again, I had nothing but infinite love and like to apologize to clear my conscience and rekindle the relationship, because love lost isn’t gone forever.

    That love is now curtailed, because I realize now that I keep getting taken advantage of by loved ones who abuse my kindness. I also am USED by my loved ones, without having been fully asked what I have to offer. If anything, I was actually SILENCED before I had my say.

    I’m done apologizing for things that I know were not my fault, especially if I’ve already apologized. But, since this is a public post that airs a lot of grievances, I want to invite any and all to call me the fuck out and I’ll even publically post your grievance, if you want. And we can talk about what it was that was said and done. In most cases, shame is what makes people mean to each other, and I think I’ve apologized for what I’ve done. Consider if you have shame or if you have righteous anger, like me. If it’s righteous, then I fucking owe you the world.

    I’ll do whatever it takes to make it right.

    Sue me if you want, just note that I only have MBA debt and investments that are not going to be enough to cover that debt. Think about if any of the slights I’ve aired are worth raking a poor person who is currently being buttfucked for trying to make my snowdrift rescuer a president. He’s a good man that can literally reach across aisles, and we have the exact same idea for what future societies will look like. We’ve read the same fantasy and science fiction, so we always have had the same language, even if we have different formal politics. I only realized that on the stairmaster when I called the candidate hunter.

    The people I’ve hurt were also likely included in the email that went out, because I want to help them professionally, too. I know that they’re good people, and a new administration made only of GOOD Hoyas would be one that I’m sure Georgetown University would want. I literally know what each person wants (or could want) in the present, and know that I can pair them up with someone else in that thread to achieve that access (or at least, to make the ask), because I listen to people when they speak, because usually, the first ten minutes reveal exactly who they are and what their anxieties are. These are primordial anxieties – men that don’t feel manly enough and women who are fighting to have an inch of credibility in a male-ordered world. My listening skills mean that I have a person-to-person credibility.

    I also have dirt on everybody who has crossed ethical and legal lines, because I’ve been at Georgetown since 2010 and people talk to me because I’m an approachable piece of shit. Hell, Georgetown has all of my records and histories of complaints, so they know this for a fact.

    I’m still locked out of my Georgetown email address, and the Dean of the MBA Program basically told me to my private email that he’s busy with finals and he’ll talk to me in the new year. Our last conversation was literally about how the MBA isn’t ethical enough, and he was my boss’ boss when I worked for MBA Admissions. I have more than just credibility, I have blood/sweat/tears in the name of HIS mission.

    I can’t even pick classes for the spring to finish out my degree.

    I’ll admit that I called out the MBA Admissions and Program Team for things that are public knowledge. I understand how statistics are used to craft narratives. I also understand that our part-time MBA students are angry because they don’t get the same resources the FT students do, even as we say quite publically that it’s the same degree.

    I need to stop saying “we”, I just realized. I’m the outsider who has nailed my “Theses” quite transparently to the internet. This can create discomfort, this can create fear, this can create shame. But, I’m not here to shame people. I’m here to ask for a seat at the table with a solution that is not just robust, it’s planned out for 60 years ahead, because I don’t want to live past a 100. I move quickly so it might seem like this lady HAS to be half-baked, but why don’t you just fucking ask me instead of tossing me back into PIW to get tortured a third time? I want to give the solution to Georgetown University, which has raped my body, mind, and soul, but it has also educated me and given me a family when I was fatherless, motherless, and siblingless.

    I don’t want to give the future to anybody else.

    Chapter 5: On the nature of sunshine and hope for the new future

    At this point, I’m going to focus on the new year to flesh out Identities #8-11 (still assessing the number, and I want to point out that I don’t have Disassociate Identity Disorder – I just am describing my evolution as stages of life wherein I am structuring myself and my trauma around the shit conditions within which I live so as to optimize the returns on my investments). My psychiatrist and psychologist have been promised all of my diaries from the age of 11 so that they can map out a full accounting of my story and pair it with a medical understanding of things that I only know from literature, my Psychology Bachelors degree, and my lived experiences as someone medicated for depression and anxiety since 2018 after I quit my shit job with Financial Aid and settled for a lesser paying job that would put me in the Business School (they lowballed me on purpose and I didn’t know a) they could do that to someone who has been working for the University as long as I have and b) that I was allowed to ask for more – I’m naive, NOT an idiot, though).

    I take Sertraline, after working with my psychiatrist to realize that the Bupropion and Trazadone she prescribed me very briefly (well before THE SNAP) made me feel like a manic weirdo. I got off those drugs immediately thereafter and haven’t been on those two drugs since.

    Guys, I’m not crazy. I’m just anxious, sad, and angry because I hate my fucking job. I think everybody can understand that, especially given the pandemic.

    I’ll also be fighting legal battles, for which I have all the receipts. I took BOOKS worth of notes in the Psychiatric Institution of Washington, all time-stamped. I have every right to sue both them AND George Washington Hospital, which processed my initial intake. I’ve been painted as a crazy person, but when you talk to anybody who knows me, I’m not someone who snaps. But, the problem is that I keep rebuilding my networks, so each “snap” means that people temporarily think I’ve really hit the deep end of inoperable sadness. My snap is just being isolated from loved ones, but we’re just waiting for the rebuilding stage.

    I’ve literally had people say that the woman who sent out that email doesn’t sound like the Madhuri they know and love, but they also don’t know what Business School Madhuri sounds like, because I don’t use the language of power around them. My MBA friends seem to believe me because they’ve seen the power that I have within their network, and my mother believes me because she is my mother. My first boss in Financial Aid and the man who is going to walk me down the aisle someday if I can sucker some idiot to marry me also believes me. It is important to note that every person that doubts me has only been a part of one stage of a built network, and don’t know the full recursive loop of trauma and full processing of grief that may have preceded it. Their choice to distance themselves in my time of need has retraumatized me and that makes me DOUBLY pissed.

    Right now, a best friend has told all my networks that I’m taking a break from technology. I’ve had a few people that didn’t listen to her still reach out, and those people seem to think that she’s working with my therapists. She is NOT. She was initially given access to one session’s worth of conversations because she walked into my literal therapy session because I don’t lock my doors (don’t rape/murder/rob me please, I’m still learning to lock doors). She’s iced my networks, when I am so alone and traumatized and angry. I’m pretty positive she has my fucking cats, too, since all my friends won’t tell me where the cats are. I’m scared of the fucking dark because of HER decision to commit me to a place that raped my mind, and I can’t even have the comfort of my babies?

    I’ve also had to reconfront the grief of losing my father because I am THAT alone. I processed this grief in NINTH GRADE. I wrote my undergraduate admissions essay on how much I love and respect him, despite his faults, and how I want to learn to be as intelligent, if not more so, than him. The fact that I’m dealing with his loss again is absurd and frankly cruel and unnecessary, because he was also an abusive POS. The specific trigger that I have regarding my father is when I’m gaslit and when I’m refused to be heard out. Does any of that sound familiar to you?

    I’ve had to reconfront the grief of an absent mother who was able to escape a horrible marriage through my father’s literal death – she was able to find love with a man that could truly give her the kindness and respect she deserves, so of course she’s busy pursuing that joy. I also do not like this man for my own reasons, and I don’t like having to fight with my mother over it in the recursive structure of violence we have had since at least 2010, but it really started even before. I’ve raised myself to be a good and kind and powerful person, goddammit, and I did it on my own terms. I want to be able to have my mother as a co-conspirator to heal India, NOT to squabble over the past.

    I’ve had to be kept at arm’s length by a brother that I love and miss and frankly know nothing about, because I’ve been enslaved to Georgetown and don’t have time to do shit about a relationship with a man that is my twin, who lives all the way in the other Washington. I don’t even know my sister-in-law, and they’re having a baby in just mere days. Or maybe they had it already and I just don’t know, because we aren’t speaking right now.

    I’ve had the man who I’ve been on one date with, a man that I joked about having to be confident since he was bald, say that I sounded like I was a little too much for him, even as he said that he simultaneously isn’t often excited for the girls he dates in the way that he’s excited by me.

    Even though I was initially heartbroken, I get that we live in a world that doesn’t understand what ego-death truly is as a lived experience. I’ve done enough shrooms (yay “decriminalization,” a semantic distinction that literally means legalization with a few extra loopholes and potential court-time if you cross the wrong cop) to live in a perpetual state of ego-death. I have no ego, and I only have love. But, I also have a lot of anger, simultaneously. I have no more time in my life for passive aggression and gaslighting. I only have time to understand other people’s anxieties and share my love with those that don’t hurt me. Even though the man that I went on one date with technically hurt me, it wasn’t mean. It was human.

    I’m going on at least one more date with him, whether he likes it or not.

    That’s a joke, by the way, because he has free will lol.

    “Trust but verify,” is a famous aphorism, but one that is predicated around pure trust that is broken and so verification is added to the mix. That’s a dumb structure. It should be trust AND verify, and while that might mean relationships will shuffle out quickly in the near present, if we as a society all migrate to this way of thinking, we can take down capitalism TOGETHER.

    We also use the words “blood, sweat, and tears,” to talk about the work that we do for our jobs. That’s the language of slavery. As trite as it is, “live, laugh, love” is more powerful and effective.

    I’m getting three new tattoos in the near future. “Trust and Verify” on one hand, “Live, Laugh, Love” on the other, and “Sunshine” on my knuckles. When I’m famous, I’m getting a neck tattoo that says “Fuck You Pay Me”. Most importantly, I’m leading us into a future of ALL states being sunshine states. I’m going to teach the world the language of the motherly scold and the fatherly apology. Because, at the end of the day, we are getting rid of the Panopticon, because there is some good in this world, Mr. Frodo, and it’s worth fighting for. 

  • 12/30/21: On why everyone thinks I’m crazy

    I’m working on being more effective at communicating with my voice, so here’s a “podcast” explanation!

  • 12/30/21: On ordering my life around Dungeons and Dragons

    We’re coming back to Genesis, I promise – I’m taking a mini art-break from reading the Bible, and am using the following elements to construct a mural in my apartment:

    1. Atlantis Blue
    2. Cactus Flower
    3. Purple Heart
    4. Black
    5. White
    6. Genesis: Chapter 18, Verse 25

    If anybody can figure out what I’m making based off just the colors and the verse, I’ll venmo you $3.50. Please note that the first three colors’ names are important clues, as well!

    Now, onto my love for randos.

    I’ll tell anybody and everybody who asks that I’m writing a book. A lot of random people at bars like to ask me about it, but only because I’m usually feverishly reading a book, taking notes, and writing up the notes in a journal. In the past couple of weeks, I’ve been caught with the following texts/primary research:

    1. Not a Game by Kent Babb, described by Amazon as “a resourceful, respectful knothole of insight into the cultural paradigm influence known as “A.I.”. First of all, this book is a violent reduction of Allen into a careerless non-entity. I hate Babb. As a Philly girl growing up watching the Sixers with my dad and basically Allen Iverson’s twin (we both are tiny spitfires with tattoos who refuse to “practice” because we’re that good; we also were both poor scholarship students at Georgetown University, and his financial aid counselor was my first boss’ boss in the Financial Aid Office) – I revere this man. I’m going to get his career back and have a thing or two to say about Georgetown University, while I’m at it.
    2. Between Thought and Expression Lies a Lifetime: Why Ideas matter by James Kelman and Noam Chomsky, which, interestingly, flips the order of the writers on the cover because Chomsky is more famous. This book is written by Kelman and compiles letters and essays between/by the two men. I have a bone to pick with Kelman, too, but his faults are more forgiveable.

    I don’t want to get into the first book just yet, because the significance of the conversation that I had around that book, as well as the content of why that book is relevant is one that has a lot to do with the legal and constitutional beast I’ll need to vanquish. I’m already afraid of the dark thanks to being tortured at the Psychiatric Institution of Washington. I’m not ready to pull a Hercules and rescue some schizophrenics and alcoholics only to have to fight a literal fucking HYDRA. That’ll come later. Right now, it’s play-time.

    The second book I was noodling over while sitting at our local Wingos, because my regular haunt, Bread Soda, was randomly closed for the holidays, those bastards. I was reading this book and had a conversation with a DIFFERENT astronomer and insurance salesman about my frenetic note-taking. I told him all about it, but most importantly that I knew Chomsky was relevant, that this was supposedly the most recent book out about Chomsky, and that I’m going to raze evil in the world.

    The thing is, I know nothing about Chomsky. I’ve read his Wikipedia article back in 2016(17?) to create a Dungeons and Dragons character I’d named… Gnome Chomksy. And yes, I only wanted to build a backstory based on the name because Gnome is a gnome and god I am SO stupid.

    Now, a little bit about Gnome. He’s whipsmart, he’s angry, and he’s got daddy issues. He’s a perpetual student finishing up his education, but he’s finally so fed up that he isn’t learning shit that makes much sense that he takes a sabbatical to do a live study of “societies.” This means wandering through my ex-fiance’s one-shot interacting with various races and dramas and saying vaguely offensive shit in the name of neutrality.

    He’s a CHAOTIC neutral prick, of course, and he’s really just trying to build a time machine to chase down his dickhead father who presumably sacrificed his mother to activate the machine a second time to ditch his entire family in Gnomeville. So, it’s a one part revenge, other part hopeful-vindication sabbatical.

    What was Gnome’s daddy doing the first time he activated the machine, you might ask. Obviously, hanging out with Noam Chomsky.

    Basically, Gnome’s dad didn’t just time travel, he timeline hopped. He ended up in our world and was besotted with Noam’s teachings, especially considering the horrible class system within Gnomeville, one that was insidiously enslaved to Dwarven commerce with the pretty pretense of industry and innovation. He returned to Gnomeville after learning everything, carrying copies of pamphlets and journals filled with Chomsky’s teachings, fell in love, had a baby and gave him two first names, and finally, tried to start a revolution.

    Poor guy gets laughed out of significance. Hence, he was like screw you guys, I’m going back to Daddy Chomsky. Leaving poor Gnome Chomsky festering with a lot of education and nothing but his brain cells and resentment.

    This backstory is one that originated in 2016-7, and concretized in a later game that I ran (that our crew has fondly called Evil Disneyland) where I fleshed out Gnomeville and the murder mystery. It referenced back to Gnome, who was not actually an active character in our storyline. So, this had to have been in 2018-2019.

    We’re now in 2021. And I’m starting to realize just how much in common I have with Gnome, quite literally. Obviously, when writers write, they put a bit of themselves into the story. I mapped my then thesis-writing self onto Gnome, and then later, in Evil Disneyland, I mapped Noam and my own daddy issues onto the rest of his backstory. What I couldn’t have planned for is needing Chomsky to do the following things in the PRESENT:

    1. Clearing my name.
    2. Taking down capitalism and unrepresentative governments that claim the moral highground.
    3. Stake my claim as the first deconstructionist, taking the traditions of structuralism and updating it for the final revolution, where I take down power structures and rebuild anew (the rebuilding is the most important piece).
    4. Restart Evil Disneyland, and this time, we’re bringing Gnome Chomsky back with a vengeance. We’re going to hit the final act like Raistlin Majere does in Test of the Twins, a Dragonlance novel par excellance.

    I’m going to close this post out with a note not to read the wiki article I linked to Test of the Twins, unless you need to jog your memory from a prior read. Dragonlance is a series of novels written by various authors that creates tales out of Dungeon and Dragons loredom. I didn’t know that when I first read this book. When we were kids, my mom and dad would take us to Barnes and Nobles to pick out books. I was always the reader, but my brother would pick out books that (I realize now) he never read.

    Dragonlance was my brother’s pick.

    I remember feeling so sneaky reading a boy book behind my brother’s back, when I thought he’d finished it (I’d given him less than a week). He’d bought multiple books in the series, but not all connected. The only ones that were properly connected were the Twins series. And, as an Irish twin, I was like, fuck, this is about us! The gentle giant warrior brother is Mani, and the kind of sickly forever student of magic who tries out every single order of magic to finally settle with BLACK MAGIC while simultaneously being a sassy motherfucker is… me.

    I named my cats after these two brothers because their personalities are perfectly aligned, even if their coats are not. Caramon is the black cat, and Raistlin is the tabby. But, Raistlin was my first born (that is, I got him first), and I knew from the beginning he was a Raistlin. Caramon came later, and that sweet baby is nothing but Caramon Majere, through and through.

    I think that all stories have primordial origins, and the story of the twins is one that has been mixed into Cains and Abels and whatever else you want to call it. That’s the past, though. What if we’ve finally hit the stage in the art of storytelling where we can begin to weave the future, ending the recursive violence of siblings that are basically twins, and absent yet violent-when-present fathers? And, can we maybe make room for a mother that doesn’t want kids but wants to teach the world, with zero intentions of burning down her homeland?

  • 12/29/21: On the structure and nature of scientific game theory

    I want to diverge from religious inquiries really briefly, but only because I made this comment with regard to Genesis:

    Why we being so specific? We aren’t sciencing up in this bitch… or are we?

    12/27/21: On investigating religious origin stories

    I wrote my MA Thesis on an unpacking of the rational units of mathematics and how it shifted as “chaos” was mathematized through quantum mechanics. Specifically, I called this chapter “Philosophies of Science.”

    I looked at how Dan Simmons (Hyperion) and Isaac Asimov (Foundation Prequels) interpreted the mathematics of science differently while writing these books concurrently, because they were on the cusp of this shift. Asimov is married to the old world order, and Simmons engages Richard Feynman to dance into the future.

    Isaac Asimov

    Science-fiction Writer Who Created the 3 Laws of Robotics and Wrote the Very Problematic Foundation-verse But Only I Think it’s Problematically Sexist

    Richard Feynman

    Hilarious and Sexy Science Daddy That Updated Isaac Newtown’s 3 Laws of Motion to Create the Path Integral Formulation of Quantum Mechanics to Discuss the Infinite Possible Trajectories of Moving Bodies

    Dan Simmons

    Science-fiction Writer and Raging Trump Supporter Who Occasionally Creates True Beauty with Words (Books 1 and 2 of the “Hyperion Cantos”), When He Isn’t Writing Horribly Violent and Sexist Horror (“Carrion Comfort”)

    My thesis isn’t specifically about sexism at all, I want to note, but I am one of the few people that end up raking Asimov for his Foundation prequels, which were written at the end of his career, after the Foundation-verse was well established. I, idiot as I am, didn’t realize that when I first started reading his books to write my thesis. I loved Hyperion and was looking for books written at the same time as Hyperion so as to do the kind of inquiry that chaotically and beautifully could spiral into perfect order.

    The main thing that I took issue with was Asimov’s “psychohistory.” It was a fictional science that postulated that if you codified all of the world’s psychology + historical data and plugged it into an algorithm (the original neural network), you could predict the man’s next action, and subsequently, the future. You could then create ordered societies that would not crumble into chaos. But, this psychohistory was only reserved for the elite academics who could be trusted to run the mathematics without using the power for evil. Can’t trust us evil fucking humans, can we?

    To outline how this science works, I compared it to linear mathematics. This is pre-quantum theory and basic premise is that the mathematics of the world could be measured in discrete, rational units, so that you can predict the fixed trajectory of bodies through space. Think astronomy and how the Naval Observatory, where Kamala Harris lives, also simultaneously employs astronomers to keep almanacs updated to help the Navy navigate (holy shit is that why they’re called the Navy?).

    To demonstrate how this science works, I used the game of Chess, but only because Asimov uses it as the foundational game theory for his Foundation-verse:

    Asimov states that a Chess game starts with:

    “1) a fixed number of pieces in a fixed position, and

    2) the pieces change their positions according to a fixed set of rules” (“Social Science Fiction” 178). The analogy Asimov draws from this conventional game is that “the rules by which the pieces move, may be equated with the motions and impulses of humanity… Presumably, these will not change while mankind remains Homo sapiens… The only modifications from our own society is that certain technological innovations are allowed…” (“Social Science Fiction” 178-179).

    By this, the impulses of humankind are fixed and knowable by the rational observer, and so humans are predictable like tokens that are moved in a game.

    my sexy ass blogger self from le thesis

    Look at that last sentence that I wrote. I’m saying that humans are predictable, but this is just me being snide AS FUCK because of course humans aren’t predictable, because we have, HELLO, FREE WILL?! But, Asimov constrains the possible chess moves to the known “motions and impulses” of humankind, listing “hate, love, fear, suspicion, passion, hunger, lust and so on” (“Social Science Fiction” 178). He thinks that we truly are that predictable.

    The only reason that his chess metaphor makes sense, in that event, is that if we can similarly constrain all of the possible moves within a “bounded rationality” (Herbert Simon, “Theories of Bounded Rationality”) that works with concrete, actionable variables, and constrains the possibilities within a range that humanity
    can use in a linear, deterministic manner. The complexity of the situation is thus reduced to knowable factors in order to rationally proceed forward.

    This is where it gets interesting, but only because I spent most of this evening hanging out with a stranger and astronomer from the Naval Observatory arguing that algorithmically, Chess is more complex than the game of Go, and the only reason that there was an AI that was able to successfully learn Go is because the game is stupidly simple.

    I don’t think he realized that I won that argument, but to prove it to myself, I went home, napped off the wine and ping pong soreness, woke up, and wrote this post.

    When I wrote my thesis, I talked about how the Shannon Number (10^120) reduces the number of Chess moves to only the rational moves required to get a checkmate. This is further reduced to 10^6 if we’re talking about the best possible moves. If anybody’s seen Queen’s Gambit, they know that whatsherface studied her butt off to become a better Chess player, but she actually had an innate talent that underlined it all. No wonder she was a drunk – she already knew how to play Chess and instead let society tell her that there is a rational way to play the game that is predicated around a male-ordered SCIENCE OF CHESS.

    I play Chess very differently. I described my Chess history to my astronomer friend as one taught by a brutal man and so I had to learn how to be brutal. Some might even call it “brute force” or “brutalism”, but I want to point out that the words don’t mean the same thing. And yet, both words will become important soon. First, I want to talk about the man that taught me Chess.

    He wasn’t always brutal. He was also the light of our network of diaspora’d Indian scientists in Philadelphia. He had a laugh that could be heard from miles away. That man was me, but he was also my father. I knew how to read his moods to determine what kind of Chess game we were playing and would adapt accordingly. I also knew what pieces he favored, because at the end of the day, people learn to identify with certain pieces. I won’t reveal my piece, because I still want to play a mean Chess game, but you can usually tell based off of people’s personalities.

    My dad was a Queen.

    Now, back to the argument about Chess vs. Go. Astronomer dude was adamant that Go is more complex because the board can be any size, but by the law of bounded rationality, they use a 19×19 board for formal Go games, because that’s the most complexity that the human mind can manage at any given point.

    I don’t know how to play Go, so post-nap, I did some Googling. The article that I just linked shows the difference between Chess and Go. The relevant bit that caught my eye was the following:

    Chess is a hierarchical game where the object is to catch the king. Go is an imperial game where each player seeks to enclose more territory on the board than their opponent.

    I was shook. Not only because I’m leery after a post-drunk nap. Chess is an imperial game, too, if we’re talking about colonialism.

    Excuse my shit meme template maker

    Sassiness aside, both games are about conquering societies. Only one has a “human” element to it where people can play based on their personalities and the game can change in an unpredictable way, but only as long as you aren’t playing based on the Shannon number of rational moves. The untrained Chess player is something that is quite powerful – untrained being the player that is outside of the structure of formal chess tournaments. That’s why whatsherface was so dangerous. She could play both types of chess games.

    What if I made the argument that I’m dangerous, too? I’ll be coming back to this in a different post.

    I want to close out this post by formally diverging away from any more naval-gazing talk about my thesis and focusing instead upon the conversation with the astronomer about games. Specifically, we were talking about the AI required to map these games. His argument was that the neural networks required to play Go are more impressive than Chess AI because the game is so much more exponentially complex, even as the game is simpler. I disagreed on the basic premise that Chess is more complex and more exponential, if you diverge from the formalized strategy of the game. The game has been simplified to a matter of speed and ruthless efficiency, when it should be about the longer tete-a-tete where you toy with your prey before you take them out, if you really respect them as an opponent.

    Or, if they have enough hubris, you toy with them just because you can and you need to humble them.