Touch Me, I'm Spam (but not contagious)
The title is a play on that lovely song, “Touch Me, I am Dick” by Citizen Dick rendered famous by that movie about Seattle Grunge pretenders called Singles.
Sometimes being silenced it better than speaking. The entire weekend I was inexplicably blocked from Substack, newly signed up, great first impressions, and for what reason? “Accidentally” identified as spam. It’s the first time I’ve ever been confused with spam. Should I cry?
The thing is, all the new contacts I took the trouble to establish were no doubt devasted to find out that I am not human, rather some sort of evil spam machine.
Back to the fucking drawing board. A Sisyphian task.
Psy-Ops cyclops. Circadian Twist.
I want to talk about the Art of Whining.
This doesn’t mean that this particular post is a whine. As far as I can tell, it reveal no deeply rooted whine about psychological or emotional traumas from childhood that I would like to dredge up continuously in my adult life because apparently, that’s how people roll these days.
Not just whine about being abused psychologically, emotionally, physically, mentally, anthropologically, but to do so in a fashion that I can find myself popular and yes, monetize myself because that is what counts these days.
Nobody gets real jobs any more. They sell their image or likeness. They start Only Fans accounts (if they happen to be even remotely attractive young(ish) females). They publicise and monetize their suffering because it is a Cult of Suffering, this movement. Feel my pain. Let my pain be me.
It’s an official complaint I’m making in fact. Nobody cares, so shut up already. Yes, people pretend to care. People join you and follow you and commiserate with your ongoing suffering, decades after the original wound, but that doesn’t mean they care. Do you know how I know that they don’t care? Because they are too consumed with their own suffering to care about anyone else’s.
Sure, they will make the noises of compassion but deep down, they are so self-consumed with their own suffering that they don’t have the mental space or emotional capacity to deal with your suffering.
You are wasting your time. But, the good news is, if you are not really even listening to your own suffering any more, a short of white noise, all-encompassing excuse you make to cover all the things you never accomplished, you don’t notice that nobody cares because their little affirmation via a thumbs up or sorry for your loss of self or OMG I had that same problem for years, I identify, yadda ying, yadda yang, is sufficient to rub balm in your little caracature of a whine.
Je souffre donc je suis.
And me, well, you know, I didn’t have any childhood traumas so I’m probably a little jealous of all these people who can wear theirs on their sleeves, an armband of a continued lack of spiritual growth subdued by the myth that by not moving forward i am moving forward.
Let me grind on for decades, not even years, but decades, aboout how mistreated I was, how terrible my parerts were, how absused and corrupted and exploited I was because it is a fucking shield to deflect from the fact that I’m too busy making excuses, not just excuses for the present in which I do nothing, but the future as well, that I do nothing with my life all the while because I prefer to wallow in the past and treat my real or imaginary wounds because by examining and reexaming them ad infinitum, I can join the cult of suffering. I too, hurt. Hear me whine.
So yes, I would like to turn my first weekend on Substack which I was banned from participating in for being falsely identified as being spam, into a Festival of Whining and Suffering. I have been mistreated and this original mistreatment can be turned into years of profitable suffer networking. My life is set now, thanks to Substack!