Nilsi

Spiral Dynamics is such a disgusting piece of ideological weaponry. It’s the same rhetoric that’s been used for centuries to justify colonialism and political intervention: "They’re underdeveloped savages, and we, the morally superior enlightened ones, must bring them democracy and freedom." The U.S. has looted resources, propped up dictators, and crushed autonomy in Latin America, and now Spiral Dynamics strolls in with its color-coded charts, slapping a pseudo-psychological gloss on the same tired, colonialist narrative. Just take Bill Clinton - the original Ken Wilber and Spiral Dynamics fanboy-in-chief. All that supposed “Spiral Wizardry” didn’t stop him from bombing Iraq, Sudan, Somalia, Haiti, Bosnia, and Kosovo, leaving trails of destruction while selling it as “helping the less developed.” And, of course, any critique of this nonsense gets dismissed as “green relativism” by smug elites who think they alone can see what’s high and low on the sacred ladder of human evolution. Naturally, they’re the ones “more evolved,” while anyone who dares to question them is stuck in the “flatland” of pluralism. It’s the same colonialist sneer we’ve always known, just dressed up in rainbow colors and self-congratulation.

What exactly do you mean? There are platforms that provide access to decision-makers' contact details. However, they assume you already know who you want to reach out to, and their accuracy can be inconsistent. That said, they can be useful when you’re stuck dealing with gatekeepers or aimlessly dialing random extensions. RocketReach is one such platform, and I use it occasionally

Cold calls are a ruthlessly efficient way to seize entrepreneurial power. They slice through all the bureaucratic sludge, the smug hierarchy of status and connections, and drill straight into the raw core: two humans, here and now, deciding whether to strike a deal. You can’t even begin to imagine the kinds of deals that can materialize on a cold call, the caliber of people you can reach out of thin air. Take it from someone who’s clocked 60 hours a week for the past two years hitting the phones: the reality is wilder, the opportunities are bigger, and the hierarchies are flimsier than you’ve ever dared to believe. All you truly need is a clear target and a cunning plan to outmaneuver their gatekeepers. That means forging near-conspiratorial rapport with the very people paid to keep you out - becoming just friendly enough, just plausible enough, to slip past their defenses. No footprints, no fingerprints, no red flags. Once inside, you’re free to claim your prize: a conversation that shouldn’t have happened, with someone you shouldn’t have reached, forged by nothing but your own voice and nerve.

Of course, she is a profoundly perverse individual, and I refuse to degrade myself - or her - by pretending to feel pity. Yet what’s truly unsettling, and undeniably fascinating, is how she has weaponized her own existence to become a radically transgressive figure - a grotesque media spectacle typically reserved for terrorists and mass murderers. But unlike those for whom we craft neatly moralized narratives and build airtight prison cells, she can’t be simply locked away to contain the horrors of human depravity. There is no concrete cell holding her back, no apparatus of law or force; there’s only a pathetic $5 paywall on her OnlyFans. This cheap barrier doesn’t safeguard us from her transgression; it invites us in. Here, our moral coordinates go haywire, leaving us to confront the raw and unmediated abysses of human desire without the comforting anesthesia of justice or the moral high ground of condemnation. In doing so, she forces us to acknowledge the emptiness of our moral architecture, exposed and ineffectual in the face of a depravity that demands not walls and laws but our own willful participation.

Yeah, yeah, Monday morning will bring reality, but let them celebrate today - they’ve earned it. I’m truly happy for the people of Syria. May God bless them. https://edition.cnn.com/2024/12/08/world/video/syria-lebanon-border-celebrations-after-assad-clarrisa-ward-digvid

This is the one time I regret using TIDAL - it only showed my top 5 artists: Charli XCX, Jane Remover, JPEGMAFIA, Sonic Youth, and Cities Aviv. Pretty authentic for a dirty Gen Z postmodernist, though lately, I’ve been really into ambient music like Tim Hecker and William Basinski.

You’re better off reading Lacan than wasting your time on this low-IQ manosphere bullshit. Chances are the so-called “cute girls” you mention have indeed had their encounters with the “Chad,” yet it is precisely the elusive nature of desire - forever encircling a constitutive lack - that leads them to move on, chasing men they believe will at last fill that emptiness first confronted in their experience with him. Naturally, this endeavor spirals into a perpetual merry-go-round of dating and fleeting liaisons, draining everyone involved until, in the end, they settle with a partner almost by sheer contingency rather than any true resolution of their desire. This is also why very young women initially gravitate toward the “Chad”: they have not yet tasted the inevitable disappointment that would force them to recognize that no object can fully satisfy. Consequently, as their fantasies undergo a kind of refinement - or perversion, depending on how you frame it - they begin searching for qualities in men that stray from the simple conventional markers of desirability.

I’m not that desperate. Anyway, send me some pics - maybe I’ll come visit someday.

You know I’m a sick fuck, right? I appreciate the offer, but I have to admit I find it both intriguing and deeply unsettling. I don’t want to be rude, though, so if you really insist on sending pictures, I’ll reluctantly accept them.

It feels as though time and space have come to a halt. In the moment of my greatest triumph, there is neither champagne flowing nor jubilant cheers. Everything around me is deathly silent. My inner monologue has dissolved into thin air, as if it had never existed. Past and future vanish into the void of this moment. I don’t even notice their fleeing. In the stairwell, I pass a few grotesque faces. One congratulates me. “Thank you,” I hear myself say. Was that my voice? I don’t care. I push open the door. Wind rushes toward me. Is it cold? I wouldn’t know, nor do I care. The ember of my cigarette streams into my lungs. My mind is empty. “This must be what freedom feels like,” a romantic might say. Romanticism seems to catch up with me, I think later, as I turn my head, scanning the room for the waiter. I’d just meant to take another sip of Chianti, only to realize the glass was already empty. I think of Goethe and his Faust, of his pact with Mephistopheles, and the condition that the relentless pursuit of power and knowledge would seal his death, should he ever succumb to the perfection of a single moment. Those eyes - they will be my downfall. That youthful nonchalance of hers almost feels like a performance, if only I could believe in such grandeur in her acting. The contrast between her sharp, almost masculine cheekbones, her flawless jawline, and her full lips might have intimidated me - if it weren’t for her slightly dumb, albeit faintly erotic, half-open mouth. The façade of her beauty begins to crumble under the emptiness of her expression. A battle between good and evil rages within me. Yet I reveal none of it, as I place my hand on her shoulder, casually thank her - and already find myself attempting to seduce her. My well-practiced game of calculated distance pulls its victim into the trap. We laugh about that clown, about his petty ambitions, which he managed to spectacularly fail at despite his grotesque overabundance of diligence. Even his hobby - fishing - gives us cause to mock him, drawing us closer in our shared disgust for such a pathetic figure. I suppose I’m a fisherman too. But not one who delights in devouring his catch, nor one who bothers to grant it freedom. No, my greatest pleasure is hauling the fish out of the comfortable deceit of its watery domain into the great freedom of the air - and watching it slowly, agonizingly perish in that very freedom. It’s already well past midnight. “Great Freedom 36” glows in neon letters above the shabby nightclub where I’ve experienced so many great moments. A hint of nostalgia washes over me. Memories flicker to life: the three French exchange students and the ice cube we passed from mouth to mouth, like a family of songbirds, until our tongues forgot which bodies they belonged to. Or the two blondes who gave me a blowjob here, while I desperately tried to imagine whether a perfect ten might emerge if one’s breasts and the other’s ass could be combined into the same body. I suppose I can’t handle the intensity of togetherness. The risk is too great that something as vulgar as love might disturb the perfection of a purely aesthetic sexuality. My Muslim friends are, as always, one step ahead of me - with their well-curated harems. Perhaps I’m a Muslim too, though one who relates to Islam as Žižek does to Christianity: an “atheistic Muslim.” Yes, these well-tempered warriors have much to teach us Westerners.

A beautiful song indeed.

That’s a shame because, beyond your strange traditionalist fetish, you’re actually a very respectable person. I genuinely hope that, someday, you might find it in yourself to see some redeeming qualities in this world.

Say that to a devout Muslim face to face, and you'll never live to write another incoherent and utterly disrespectful take about how "feminine" you think he is.

pahahaha You're completely talking out of your ass right now. Let me break it down for you: these are thinkers I've spent years studying, while, by your own admission, you "read some stuff a few weeks ago." Reich is almost the absolute antithesis of Nietzsche and Deleuze. Reich claims that sexual energy - what he dubs "orgone," which for him is literally the essence of the universe - naturally seeks homeostasis (a negative feedback loop). Compare that with Nietzsche, who, by Reich's own framework, would qualify as an "authoritarian personality" precisely because he refused to discharge energy. Nietzsche even explicitly refers to sublimation in his writings, which is nothing short of a positive feedback loop, intensifying energy rather than releasing it - a process Reich associates with cancerous phenomena. So, in reality, Reich is a relatively conservative advocate for decency and balance, whereas Nietzsche and Deleuze are all about the Übermensch and the intensification of difference - a rejection of stasis and equilibrium in favor of escalating creative, transformative, and chaotic forces. You're trying to square two completely opposed philosophies, and it doesn't hold up.

As you just pointed out, Trump won the popular vote. So in what universe do "those opposing the left exist on the margins"? You're completely conflating liberalism with leftism. Trump is the epitome of a perverse liberalism - the kind you’re referring to - because he embodies a total liberation from the Oedipal order of the Other. What we’re witnessing is a full-blown hysterical outrage against the shamelessness of liberal perversion. And this outrage is coming from the so-called "moral minority" - which, ironically, you claim to align with. So, which is it? Standing by a crumbling order, or losing your mind over its unraveling?

What an absolute load of bullshit. It was precisely Nietzsche's radical refusal to have any meaning "introjected from the outside" that shattered him. I’d even agree, in that sense, that he could be called the last true altruist - fully aware and affirming of the fact that completing his work would cost him his sanity and, ultimately, his life. Also, wtf is that take on Islam? It’s the most blatantly macho religion out there, bar none.

The Psychosis of the Neo Conservatives¹ On one hand: ranting endlessly about those "degenerate progressives" with their corrosive relativism - accusing them of dismantling the sacred pillars of our civilization: hard work, strength, masculinity, and dominance. On the other hand, here they are: a legion of beta males marinating in Cheeto dust, holed up in their mothers' basements, fetishizing obscure historical footnotes, and whining on Twitter about how leftists are the reason society disrespects them and women won’t touch them. ¹ Schizophrenia would be far too generous a term for a good Deleuzean.

Fuck, you got me. I’m so terrified of being alone and unloved that I let myself be bullied into dressing like a proper adult instead of parading around like a 13-year-old Andrew Tate fanboy or some hairy, self-righteous, fruitarian Waldorf school teacher.

There’s nothing like doing some imaginary lines of coke.

That raises the question: who, really, is one’s audience? The psyche is structured around what Lacan calls the Big Other, an imaginary audience that functions as a projective surface for our desire to be recognized. Writing to an “audience,” then, is never about addressing a concrete entity - it’s about orienting oneself toward a horizon of recognition, a gaze that shapes the psyche and directs one’s intentions. This is precisely what Nietzsche invokes when he declares, “some men are born posthumously.” In doing so, he conjures an à-venir audience - a future, yet-to-come Other who will recognize him as a prophet. This act is not passive; it is an act of will, a kind of Landian hyperstition, where the mere assertion of this deferred audience creates the conditions for its eventual existence. Nietzsche’s psyche, therefore, is structured around becoming, as eternal striving toward a future beyond the limits of the present. Contrast this with Donald Trump, for whom the deferred audience has been entirely supplanted by the hyper-present gaze of the media spectacle. For Trump, recognition is no longer an unfolding or a process; it is a constant demand for immediate feedback, an endless loop of instant gratification. This collapses any sense of duration or becoming into the nihilistic flatland of postmodernity - a world without depth, where the present moment reigns supreme, and the Big Other is reduced to the flicker of a screen. In Trump, the future dies of diabetic shock, succumbing to the infantile bliss of perpetual nourishment. In Nietzsche, we find the ecstasy of becoming and the insatiable thirst for annihilation. Which world would you rather inhabit? (and please don’t tell me it’s „the golden mean,“ or some such bullshit).