Is Sleeping Gay?

The Semiotics of Slumber

There’s something deeply feminine about sleep.

Not even in just the super obvious sense of it being insanely hot / smexy to do various uncouth things to chickadees off in dreamland a la that Newgrounds game, either—though obviously that’s some part of it; put in a year or three as a boyfriend-shaped alarm clock and before long I’d hazard you’ll also start to feel a little skeeved-out and violated whenever another man presumes to fall asleep in front of you, as on a purely somatic level that act now lands chiefly as an invitation to be taken. Even discounting that aspect of it though I couldn’t really fathom ever falling asleep in front of a feller I wouldn’t want e.g. seeing me cry or knowing my SSN for instance, as sleeping in front of someone is objectively far more vulnerable than either of those things.

Anywho point is it’s not merely feminine by dint of eroticism—and nor is it reducible to meme-tier popular semiotics in the vein of macho grindset culture or girlypoops aestheticizing their little naps / getting the ick after watching their beau relax the first time, which is very obviously a proximate cause of why sleeping feels gay, but also more second order crust when what I’m interested in is first-order batter.

Girls don’t like it when you eat the batter, of course.

Something something salmonella—as if dudes a billion times healthier than either of us don’t crack multiple of those fuckers into their mouth every morning.

Yet normalfag men persist in thinking it’s ackshully about the eggs, never quite connecting the dots that babygirl gets the ick when she sees you eating batter for precisely the reason she’s disgusted by the thought of you resting.

---

One of my spicier takes is that sleeping is a mild form of death.

Nearly everyone rolls their eyes when initially exposed to the idea, but in principle the logic is identical to the Teletransportation Paradox, which a guy named Derek came up with in the eighties and has been a mainstay of hard science fiction ever since.

Essentially the idea is that (assuming a mechanistic view of cognition holds up) it should be possible for a sufficiently advanced civilization to pull off teleportation by beaming a massive text file to Mars or w/e specifying the exact physical composition of your body down to the atomic level and then using that script to rematerialize you exactly as you were, including cognitively. It seems obvious that if this process were to obliterate your body at the time of encoding it would likewise annihilate your present consciousness and therefore also contiguous phenomenological self—even if to your copy and the external world it’s indistinguishable from safe and frictionless teleportation given no signs remain of the perpetual silent Holocaust going on behind the dresser.

With me so far?

Then ask yourself—how is that any different from sleeping?

It’s not like your conscious self instantly pops into a dream the moment you drift off; before you enter REM sleep and your mind reemerges in a half-conscious state to do coo Jungian things / go lucid and wake itself up trying to fug Emma Watson your body has to migrate through a NREM phase that is literally just a turned off consciousness.

Now rebooting your computer is clearly quite different from giving it the Office Space treatment—hence *mild* form of death. But it’s still death, because the reboot and the rebar do precisely the same thing to the current operative phase-state.

It’s a genuine philosophical quandary.

…one I recently learned from a helpful Walthead in the DMs is shared by at least a few other people, judging by its thematic prominence in a recent Wolfenstein game:

This chick honestly explains the whole thing about as well as I could.

That said it does feel a little Queen’s Gambit-coded given that IRL there are enormous architectural differences between male and female cognition that make it incredibly rare for even relatively spergy girlypops to think this way, one of which ofc being the impulse to have a normal one / not act weird and another being a drive to foreclose plainly maladaptive ideas on consequentialist grounds in a manner they’ll sincerely experience as disinterested propositional correspondence.

More vitally, girl cognition is synchronic instead of diachronic like a man’s—which is to say they inhabit their emotive weather in a far more viscerally compulsive way that impedes metacognitive abstraction and makes it difficult to bind themselves through time under a transactional honor framework (which when young and unwed especially chicks typically experience as Gross) or as a context-independent actor governed by a propositionally consistent and relationally unmoored self-concept.

And so the upshot is birds aren’t really experiencing their life as a line on a graph to begin with so much as a scatterplot of discrete state-selves they then connect post-hoc in whichever configuration makes for the prettiest picture—usually by way of crayons one isn’t like to find anywhere in Popper or Wittgenstein.

Men, meanwhile—and autismos especially—tend to experience most moments more as constituents of some greater experiential vector, whether that’s a story, heuristic, or rulebook they understand as context-independent, and this hunger for continuity will often cannibalize a man’s ability to cleanly inhabit the present moment, which a lot of us register as an advantage because it enables greater metacognitive diachronicity in the direction of concrete life goals where success is orders of magnitude more crucial to our safety and happiness than for any pusshaver. But the cost of this is experiencing discrete moments in embodied life with a lot less color/vivacity unless a chickiewickie is around to do the Zooey Deschanel thing (a gay bro will also do in a pinch), such that for a lot of us diachronic continuity is kind of just experienced as the basic fundament of conscious life, without which existence would seem absurd and horrifying.

And so in practice the Wolfenstein thing was almost certainly just the insight of some autistic male neckbeard in drag—hardly the first case of moids sanewashing ideas not palatable to normies by arranging for a chick to say it instead.

---

One of the most important things to understand about women is that they have a significantly more active death-drive than us.

Or at least they do in modern times—historically the male death-drive was a lot more legible because the world was just a lot more dangerous and thus created infinitely more venues for it to manifest; even discounting war consider that just a few decades ago you still had rascally young bucks smoking themselves in impromptu drag races and such in what was essentially always a bid for heroic masculine status. These days though it’s kind of just illegal to not be gay and young guys are if anything more timid and risk-averse than their female peers, preferring to sublimate their death-drive to porn and vidya game while young women are given increasing latitude to indulge theirs in an unprecedentedly acute (and unprecedently legible) manner.

Only the feminine death-drive is less Russian Roulette than Strip Poker—because observe that girlish self-harm is virtually never some all-or-nothing bid for status, but instead is all about catharsis through various kinds of pain / desecration it purchases in immediately survivable quantities of flesh or purity or reputation, which ofc is how we get FTM transgenderism, cutting, sexual masochism, wanting to have smex with Pete Davidson, uglifying body modifications, and all the various genres of eating disorder.

And then another one is what we might call brattishness—which is to say the occasional urge to be resoundingly put in her place as a dumb little woman by a credibly dominant male authority figure, be it verbally or physically or both. On a purely mechanistic level it’s easy to narrate this as a straightforward eugenic vehicle, but functionally speaking it’s lowkey also the index to making sense of literally all female behavior, as a brat more than anything is a woman raging against her own chaos and the uncertainty / confusion / exposure to moral blackmail and reputational coercion this creates in everyday life absent capable and steady direction by a firm male hand (or at least that of some narratively thick institution). Ultimately it’s a request she’s only like 20% aware of propositionally to be bound up into something diachronically coherent by a fellow she experiences somatically as worthy of guiding her and Taking her pink and winsome cooterpatooter.

In practice she wants you to kill part of her.

Or rather, to penetrate her ontology with hard phallic context-independent rigidity—note gals who never have this done to them remain eternal children on some level, until eventually curdling into that eerie castrato sterility one oft observes in old maids—which amounts in practice to becoming bae’s crayon and imposing your own most preferred shape upon her scatterplot in a way any man would register as obliterative of his Essence but to her feels stabilizing and smexy because what she experiences as her Essence consists a lot more in the felt texture of individual life-scenes.

And so when you factor in their cycle especially it’s just obvious that whether or not there’s a man in their life most womyn are constantly going through all these little microdeaths of self—physical, psychic, and most importantly relational—that at least to them also feel immensely restorative / Healing.

The closest thing a man will ever experience to that is probably sleeping.

---

I’ve always hated sleep.

And if I’m honest this was never really high-minded Derekshit—or at least not at first, except I guess on some half-conscious and intuitive level assuming the reader shan’t play the niggard with poetic license.

What I mean to say is that the ackshual reasons consciously available to me were typically a lot more pedestrian—for instance, wanting to procrastinate advancing to the next day and all its attendant schoolcuck / wagie shit, or being transfixed by an especially engaging vidya game / 4chan thread or uniquely bracing goonsesh.

But there was also just something really Faustian about that moment I decided to make it an all-nighter entirely aware that I’d be miserable the next day.

Felt a bit like being a vampire, above and apart from all those normgroid sleepfags.

Still, it always really did suck ass the next day—at least until I got my mitts on an Adderall script. But I’ve already told you fags that story.

What matters is basically any feller who’s taken prescription amphetamines will back me up on it when I say the dopaminergic glow they imbue registers unmistakably (and especially starting out) as a palpable amplification of one’s masculinity—and not in some indiscriminately aggro negrified / scotch-irish way either like you’d get from crack / straight meth but an adult way that feels civilized; longtermist; vaguely Roman.

Most of that, obviously, is simply downstream of them embiggening one’s capacity to deliver the goods across a veritable bevy of dimensions.

Another part is due to them making you feel a lot more energetic and confident, as well as (at least sometimes, and particularly at first) more capable of enjoying standard boring nondescript humdrum NPC vanilla pudding moments in day-to-day life, which in turn materially expands one’s surface area for jumping decisively on opportunities or luxuriating serendipitously in his own manly vigor.

Observe that in both cases this is a function of masculinity boiling down to more than anything else one’s capacity for imposing form on an absurd and entropic fagworld; whether we choose to narrate that in terms of action, agency, or diachronicity is largely just a matter of aesthetic preference / moidlike self-flattery.

What we can say for certain is that masculinity most definitely is not about passivity, which the world at times will force on you through friction or bodily collapse or a fuckity information ecology, and at other times one succumbs to voluntarily by dint of poor character, but either way is virtually never a modality in which a man can feel genuinely satisfied with his life in a deep and durable way. Without some species of diachronic trajectory every man groks on a primordial, precognitive level that he kind of just deserves to be tortured to death—and if he doesn’t, you can bet your benis the fairer sex will make it a point to rectify that sooner rather than later.

Now it goes without saying that a man who barely sleeps won’t be optimally effective at following through on his diachronic trajectory, stimulants or no. Everyone needs to tango with the Little Reaper at some point, and feeling guilt / inadequacy for doing so (though for me it’s not quite guilt per se so much as Puss In Boots-esque oppositional sisyphus-contempt for this one particular facet of organic life) is plainly maladaptive, as even instrumentally speaking one tends to find most bihs will gladly tolerate a man catching a few cheeky winks here and there to whatever extent it facilitates his ability to impose durable form on the world, in much the same way they’ll tolerate you e.g. having a boss or not being an eight foot tall billionaire werewolf.

They also won’t complain if you’re a vampire

…at least if you’ve humility enough to never quite go full bat.

---

And so to answer the eponymous query—yes; sleeping quite clearly is monstrous gay.

Likewise for eating cake batter, listening to showtunes, writing poetry, merrymaking with feline friends, and more than anything else loving women deeply—I’m sure as shit not a Fuentes guy and hope I never will be, but my dude was channeling some deep and primordial wisdom when he dropped that line.

And yet I’d sooner die the moidway than ackshully repudiate any of those things (all of which, it should be noted, are a lot more voluntary than sleeping), because at the end of the day if you’re literally never willing to eat a bit of proverbial splooge to inhabit the truest and most authentic version of urself ur kind of the biggest fag possible, frankly.

Because no matter how you slice it we all spread our cheeks for the Little Reaper eventually; even Hulk Hogan is forced by the cosmos into moments of indignity where any halfway-ambulatory preteen boy would find it trivial to open his throat, whereas in that negative space behind the dresser in your psyche even Trump / Xi / Putin have got to register as at least kind of rapeable whenever you chance upon them halfway through an opportunistic boomernap and blissfully unaware if only for a moment of how wretchedly asymmetric the perceptive ledger is.

So long as they’re asleep they just don’t get a say; their rivals can scheme and slander them and subordinates shit the bed at every turn and they won’t even know about it until at last their consciousness reboots and proverbial mind-Martians assemble a new phenomenological self to inhabit the latest mind-state.

Until then, all the Secret Service in the world can’t abolish that ancient pleistocene chill in your spine whenever there’s a whisper in the tall grass.

---

I don’t often cry IRL—I want to say the last time it happened was in Jan of 2022, when I took my Zoomette Leah to see the latest Spiderman film with all three Spidermen and found myself surprisingly undone by that scene where Garfield catches Zendaya.

Since then though my peepers have stayed quite dry all things considered.

…the one exception to that being dreams, which I tend not to remember all that well while actively taking amphetamines but when I do remember them (for some reason this happens perhaps 10x as often when I’m napping during the day) will sometimes include moments of intense and theatrical melodrama wherein I experience uncut affect in a manner comparable to a woman / twinkier type of shitstabber wholly unmediated by metacognition or recursive intellectualization.

For instance, in the most recent one I was Jewish for some reason and was standing in line at the movie theater, where I got in an altercation with a group of antisemites that ended ultimately in Wally B somewhat mawkishly declaring “Never Again!” and then immediately waking up with wet eyes and heart aflutter.

Now, this one’s enough of an away game that I don’t feel especially qualified to opine on how much of a Thing it is, and if I’m honest couldn’t tell you if my experience is even the least bit representative.

What I will say is this is probs the single solitary aspect of sleep I uncomplicatedly enjoy, as being thrust into a half-conscious funhouse universe (note I never achieve full lucidity without the dream instantly collapsing) seems to temporarily “disable” my autism and thereby facilitate a highly novel species of affective intensity I experience as qualitatively distinct on a kind level from very nearly everything I encounter in waking life with the exception of that Zendaya scene.

Now, I certainly wouldn’t want to inhabit that state full-time… but just as a vacation spot? It’s a remarkably vivid demonstration of how rattling life as a woman must be.

---

Anywho lads, I think it’s just about time for Wally B to wrap this nonsense up.

Don’t feel too bad about yourself if you still enjoy your fagnaps—in candor, there have been a fair few years of my life where I was right there with you.

Not any good ones, of course. But they mattered all the same.

As for my stunning chickie readers: I’d encourage y’all to nap a bit more if anything, as at least where I’m standing scarcely anything reads so enticingly on a dame as a bit of tasteful languor; like heads of state, girls are meant to be watched in their sleep—that and serve as midnight snack at times for vampirically diachronic newgrounds alarm clocks.

Having said that, when it comes to your dude you unironically shouldn’t let him sleep too much, both for your sake and for his; six or seven hours should more than suffice.

Just know also that there’s nothing more grating than some yappy cumcunt who won’t stop squawking at you to wake up and then takes moral umbrage at things said while ur still half asleep and inhabiting a blisteringly foreign affective cosmos (e.g. one time I tbh pretty hatefully called my gf a stupid bitch in a momo like this and by the time I came to she was horrifyingly close to walking out the door right there and breaking up with me over it) wherein you’re barely more rational than she is.

So if I might be so bold as to suggest a compromise solution—unironically just do the newgrounds thing yourself and start hoovering my dude’s wise wang until he’s up and at em, as this won’t just prevent him from seeing you as a hectoring shrew virago but also will ensure the nigga’s mind-Martians reconstitute his phenomenological self in an appropriate configuration for advancing with all proper vigor and bloodlust along whichever diachronic trajectory happens to matter most to you both.

And meanwhile, in that same old shadowy space behind the dresser, some small part of him will register in the gentlest manner possible that a few clicks more energy in imposing his will to power on the world might not be the worst idea.

Because if there’s one truth about the world you girlypops will eternally understand far better than any of us, it’s that all safety is provisional.

And there are times he, too, is quite rapeable.