Nilsi

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).

You’re absolutely correct - there are indeed women who are drawn to such displays of tackiness; precisely the same women who viewed Donald Trump as their daddy and rewarded him with their votes. It’s truly admirable how you’ve taken up the cause of defending the self-respect of these women, whom are desperate enough to embrace this aesthetic. As for the guy with the Gunna profile picture (a choice I struggle to imagine a more tasteless representation of one’s identity), at least he manages to get some pussy - albeit women of questionable taste and desperation. Meanwhile, those cringe ass climbing shoes you’re rocking guarantee you’ll remain firmly outside of any such dynamic.

No joke, man. Though I’d file her under “guilty pleasure,” I’ve listened to that album more times than I care to admit.

Nice meme. No one puts their thoughts to the test like I do. I literally risk my life for this shit, so don’t fucking @ me.

Yes, but avoid moralizing causality. Look to Trump to grasp the essence of karma - not as some moral law of the universe, nor as a divine judgment doled out by a righteous god. Karma, in this sense, is not about punishment or reward but the mechanics of action and consequence. Trump is the quintessential New Ager, fixated on positive thinking and manifestation. His singular focus is on being rich and famous, and that’s exactly what he achieves. He gets what he wants because he’s the master of causality.

Ok boomer.

The main battleline here, I think, is best drawn between two unlikely adversaries: Gilles Deleuze and Peter Sloterdijk. I suspect that you, like Sloterdijk, nonetheless harbor a Parmenidean Urinstinkt that inclines you to reject postmodernism, by which I mean the dynamic, self-amplifying chaos of positive feedback loops. I’m not trying to evoke Nick Land here, but in some ways, he has been a great interpreter of the runaway intensification central to Deleuze’s vision, where repetition destabilizes rather than stabilizes, propelling difference into ever-greater, ever-more-dangerous becomings. This is precisely what Sloterdijk’s instinct for spheres and immunological enclosures resists - a Heraclitean cosmos of flux and strife that ruthlessly denies the comforting illusion of unity, such as that provided by tradition and mythology.

I just threw up in my mouth. This might earn you a few nods from 13-year-old boys who think you're cool, but no woman with an ounce of self-respect will find this tacky ass shit remotely attractive.

Teleological models of development are the ultimate symptom of a dying modernity. They distill the modern obsession with rational, universal progress narratives into something so abstract and incorporeal that it’s completely severed from any real, embodied culture - little more than intellectual vapor. Every time I hear someone like Kamala Harris speak, I can’t help but wonder: what fantasyland do these people inhabit? How can they still parrot Enlightenment optimism with absolutely zero self-awareness or irony? And really, how does anyone in 2024 use the word universal with a straight face? The defining feature of this moment in history is radical multipolarity, yet some cling to these grand Enlightenment fantasies like a child clinging to its mother’s breast. A universal map of human development? Are you joking? Have you ever met humans? Postmodern late-stage capitalism, supercharged by AI, has made one thing abundantly clear: human nature thrives on runaway self-creation. Call it positive feedback or the death drive - this isn’t natural evolution’s steady march of negative feedback loops and universal equilibria. Darwin and Schopenhauer may be forgiven for such naïve notions, but not a contemporary. The comforting illusion of the mother’s womb that is the Parmenidean cosmos of unity may offer solace, but to truly make sense of the contemporary world, we must return to the Heraclitean vision of cosmic strife and war. And I mean this as much metaphysically as culturally.