Leaving The City Beautiful
My Six Years in Orlando, Thoughts Thereof, and Thots Therein
The lake is named after a dead girl—Eola.
Succumbed to typhoid fever in the summer of her maidenhood; now made immortal by every postcard to come out of a city she only ever knew as subtropical backwater, and almost certainly never fathomed would turn into such a hemispheric machine for separating broiled clans of prediabetics from their money.
In life she’d been the sweetheart of Orlando mayor and Florida Cracker cattle prince Robert Summerlin—or at least that’s how Summerlin himself narrated it following his family’s 1883 donation of a sinkhole intended to honor her memory as a public park. The local histories have Robert’s brother alleging decades later that Eola was merely a girl they both knew, which if true makes it even more remarkable how adamantly the mayor appears to have stipulated at the time that his city transform the depression into something Beautiful.
We’ll never know for certain which account had it right, and at this point it doesn’t much matter. What does matter is that the city of Orlando, whatever else one might say about it, has for over a century now manfully honored that promise once sworn to its lovelorn Cracker Prince, and indeed turned Eola very beautiful.
First came trees, swans, statues, and a clean circumference. Then a fountain and an amphitheater; playgrounds and cocktail bars; restaurants with lake views and picnic lawns and a charming if somewhat random Chinese pagoda; weekly farmers markets, and each December a multistory Christmas tree; high-rises full of corporate gays and Boomer divorcées and C-list Venezuelan Insta-thots and listless ruminative yuppies. The whole downtown arranged like a scab around a Gilded Age wound now circled every day in droves by tourists and locals alike.
One imagines that Summerlin himself must have grown up circling it when it was still called Sandy Beach—perhaps, at times, beside his Lost Lenore, her hem damp with Florida mud and little shoes unequal to the soft mosquitoed earth. It wouldn’t have been beautiful then; precious little would be, absent men with money and memories.
In any case, the fact that Summerlin specifically requested that paved circumference does imply he wanted people circling it, and it’s a splendid length for that: 0.9 miles.
Ten minutes to jog, twenty minutes to walk, thirty minutes when she texts you back, and a little over six years if your name is Walt.
In March of 2020 the world shut down and I moved to Orlando.
The drive down from Omaha was serene—barely any cars on the road. Just trucks.
Out of some misplaced sense of adventure, I spent the better part of my first day’s drive on muddy little backroads through Missouri getting mean-mugged by fat people in door frames like Gandalf in the opening scene of Lord of the Rings.
Then I remembered it was exactly this tendency of Midwesterners to play the niggard with adventure that had sent me snarling out of the prairie in the first place—or at least that was the second biggest reason—and so hopped back on the interstate until I at last found a hotel that didn't seem like to have cum on the sheets, where even then I found it impossible to catch a wink at first on account of the black dude beating up a hooker in the room adjacent mine, which has to have lasted at least half an hour before the cops showed up.
The next morning I passed through the strategically-located ghost town of Cairo IL, and then made a beeline for the central Jawja hometown of the first biggest reason I was moving to Orlando—my First Love Natalie, who a few weeks prior had been slotted for an encore stint in the Disney College Program, which though a little odd since we were 26 at the time I’d reacted to with great elation as the maid had also suggested the two of us start dating again once reunited in the city.
She kept telling me to stop somewhere else that night because I'd never get there in time.
I floored it on the interstate and arrived before dusk.
That said it took a decent while after that to establish which particular mcmansion was hers within that labyrinthine Cavalier suburb presumably designed to discombobulate intruding Afro-Americans, and at one point I recall backing onto one of her neighbor's finely manicured lawns for I couldn’t even tell you the reason.
But eventually I did get to her, and while I didn't get to meet her family as I’d hoped she did at least LARP for me a bit and played the Belle sneaking out for a ride in her dashing Beau's resplendent crimson Subaru—and in the end even let me kiss her sexy cheek, which in light of early-pandemic hygiene norms was by that point practically a Georgia peach.
The Paula Deen cunt at check-in looked at me like I was retarded when I said I’d come to see an ex-girlfriend.
Then later that night there was a pretty massive storm, which I appreciated both because my car was still dirty from Missouri and because it helped me sleep better than I had in months. Seemed like a really dece omen for the next leg of my life all considered.
The third and final day of my trip was a mercifully short drive from her hometown straight to Orlando—at least ostensibly; in practice rain clogged the roads almost as badly as during me and Nat's first drive down from Atlanta in 2016 and look I never ackshully got over her, okay? So yeah I'm gonna keep bringing her up, and if you don't like that you can Eat My Cum.
Anyway, point is the rain delayed me slightly.
But it wasn’t too bad. Like I said, not many cars on the road.
A bit more harrowing was having my phone die halfway through the drive—but at this point I was so thrilled to reestablish myself as Florida Man and secure all those citrusy purgatorial adventures long-denied me living amongst the Corncucks I elected ultimately just to Boomer it with road signs and such all the way down the spine of Florida until at last the approach grew short and straight enough to distinctly make out my tower in the far horizon.
The Aspire—twenty-fifth story.
It had been between that and a similar joint called 55 West, whose baroque Spanish colonial aesthetic might ackshully in retrospect have suited me better than Aspire’s. But at the time I just couldn’t get enough of the latter’s imperiously modernist yuppie vibes—probably in some sense an overcorrective oppositional contempt for Midwestern flatness, but for the most part due to having recently watched a Let’s Play of the indie hit Unpacking, wherein one level has the protagonist’s affluent narc boyfriend force her to store her college diploma under his bed to ensure he retains sufficient wall space for his movie posters, which not only lowkey seeded a whole new fetish in me but also made me want to be a yuppie again after years of actuarial burnout thanks mostly to that stage’s level theme, which I deeply adored:
Natalie, being Natalie, always told me it was cringe that I feel the need to narrate my life in song this way—which like yeah sure bitch, but whatever makes me do that is clearly also what got me internet famous and subsequently in Nat herself via that magical racist casting couch… and therefore also, by many parallel alleyways several years later, into downtown Orlando.
I remember calling my mom that night as I sprawled across the hardwood like a vagrant and took stock of my situation, musing to her how uncanny it felt to begin this new chapter of life without the ambient camaraderie of my mischling bruder-cum-frenemy of almost four years who I at that point was back to no longer speaking with—to say nothing of the chickadee I’d ackshully moved there for, whose DCP prospects now seemed increasingly precarious each day thanks to ever-more pervasive lockdown protocols and escalating cultural panic.
And sure enough, the hammer came down from The Rat just a few days later—that vulgar cunt Reality taking what remained of Plan A for the city by the ankles and whipping it hatefully into cave-wall with a short, sharp SPLAT: social distancing, suspended indefinitely, a flattened curve, a New Normal. All so very easy to sneer at then
But I suppose hindsight was always going to be the first thing 2020 ruined.
Assessed objectively the breezy conglomeration around Eola is not a real downtown in any northern sense—though not for lack of towers or bus lanes or one-way streets or any other such province of almanacs, as the amenities are on the whole quite robust for a midsize sunbelt metro; the Doc Phillips performing arts center in particular is a gem, which I suppose is hardly surprising in a city this packed with theater kids.
It’s more it lacks the older kind of civic gravity by which real cities instruct the young and discipline the unserious; precisely no one arrives in Downtown Orlando to be formed by commerce or art or history so much as because their lease is five minutes from the office and movies and grocery store—that and it’s just a lot easier to score cunt near a Plausible Deniability Garage surrounded by places you can get her drunk or in the mood to get drunk or permit you to touch her hips and thighs and back and neck with precisely enough public audience that she’s not viscerally concerned about you raping her but increasingly would like you to.
Consultants and bartenders, lawyers and bottle girls, theme park managers and UCF grads who never got around to leaving, gays holding dogs with boogers in their eyes, girls who maintain the deportment of a barely legal on rush well into their thirties, men with laptop jobs who never unpacked the monitors they were sent, divorced dads with opinions and nipples that also have opinions; Disney Adults who make fun of Disney Adults so no one calls them a Disney Adult; and that peculiar caste of Orlando yuppie for whom downtown serves as a sort of extended undergrad common room, a little like how Europeans go to college until they’re 40.
The nights get pretty raucous on the weekend once the color arrives from west of I-4—but during the week? Softer; sort of numbing; a little purgatory of citrus and cigars; a drink under edisons at Aku Aku or Mathers, dinner you can cover with a benji even if she orders the expensive thing, and then maybe a loop or three around Eola if the evening has not yet admitted defeat.
The air stays warm enough all year here to keep consequences from setting properly. There’s no need to price in buffer room to make one’s windshield less of a popsicle; no staggering home across black ice; no cleansing cold that drives the mind to optimize and plan and self-castigate; none of that beautifully dehumanizing architecture with which Yankee-Puritan metros precognitively drive home the weight of bad decisions. Just palm fronds, rideshare headlights, and that distinctly Orlando perfume of fryer oil, weed, and civic mildew. The worst case scenario most of the time is swamp ass.
During the day it’s an uncanny kind of wholesome: a young mother circles a stroller around the lake and smiles politely at the cadre of Black Hebrew Israelites hooting out provocations at passersby; a swan squares up imperiously at a giggling toddler; squads of bugmen eat their goybowls beneath the high-rise shade whilst hypomanic brown Jehovah’s Witnesses from some cocaine country solicit the doomed. It’s like a city made of stock footage populated entirely by characters from a David Lynch film.
But after a few years you start to understand the deeper mechanism.
My first few months in Orlando honestly went quite swell all considered.
I didn’t love that Natalie kept dragging those smexy feets of hers to execute the tentative plans we’d drawn up in her starting village to if her DCP got canceled secure a waitressing gig and low rise near me, but it’s also not like I myself didn’t have a million of my own distractions—
I must have hit up Target at least twenty times trying to pimp out my Unpacking Pad for instance (still haven’t driven at anywhere near that frequency since) and would likewise stroll through Eola to Publix each day to get my mitts on fresh ground turkey and lean beef chuck for the PSMF I was running.
Overall I was just a lot less of a poltergeist then in basically every respect—and God help me, even a bit of a flâneur? I quite enjoyed my outdoor excursions before the summer doldrums hit and it was still only me and the homeless about, which lowkey felt a little Dead Rising-coded (fr those niggas were EVERYWHERE during the early Plandemic for some reason and tbh it felt a little sus), as that meant you didn’t have to interact with normalfags constantly which apart from the sun’s yellowish tint being peasanty is the main reason I tend to equilibriate toward housestaying usually unless I have some chick nagging me to take her places.
But looking back I actually really ended up liking that most the barbershops were closed half that year for instance, as it enabled yet another characteristic mode of 2020 Walt Adventure in my monthly expeditions west across I-4 to patronize J Henry’s—the one sartorial parlor in walking distance to remain open during lockdowns, which while woolier-of-floor than I was accustomed to at the time made for much more intriguing conversation than I’d ever procured from Great Clips fatwomen during the Regular Boy’s Haircuts of my youth, and also reminded me of that iconic cartoon from my childhood about the black who fought a train.
It didn’t take long at all for me to stop feeling vaguely like Tila Tequila at NPI, and the only real culture clash I ever experienced at J Henry’s was due to its operators getting vaguely annoyed that my 100 Openness still wasn’t enough to countenance a “fade” or much of anything really besides Regular Boy’s Haircut.
Still, it’s probably for the best that all the wypipo barbershops reopened by June, as it might have been less fun having to relitigate that question during the height of the Summer of Floyd.
Anywho apart from an ill-fated quest in 2023 to procure a chicken sandwich with my longtime sugar infant Amanda those 2020 haircuts were the only time I ever really checked out where most of Orlando’s blackpeepo live on the other side of the tracks—which I mean very literally btw because just look at how hilariously segregated this place is:
At the end of the day though it didn’t much matter at the time how “fresh” I looked as they say since I didn’t see much of a reason to chase Puss versus just waiting for Natalie as agreed— she and I still spoke a lot around this time, understand, and I was getting very dece nudie pics plus a lovely cuteness performance whenever I grubhubbed her Sushi, such that while Plan A had ended up a Santorum Baby there wasn’t much of a reason to think Plan B no longer in the cards even if it was starting to grow a little Schiavo-scented, which while no doubt sucking ass on diaper duty presumably carried some species of esoteric free use provision, right? Anyway.
I had a new job then too, of course, which I suppose was a Thing.
I just experienced it mostly as coworkershit as opposed to “work” per se given my duties mostly amounted to monthend reporting cycles where I could finish everything in an hour since it never involved more than e.g. running an Excel macro and checking if the link updated… which having just gotten my letters from the Society of Whacktuaries remained a six figure deal, so stay mad zoomzooms 😏
The tough part was more that I was obliged to chat with my vapid normalfag coworkers for unironically a full hour nonstop every single day in this mandatory recurring meeting my woman boss used to air her grievances about Trump’s covid mismanagement (which was pretty bad tbf but paled in comparison to how badly she herself had fucked up my onboarding) and then later about antivaxxers at her shitty Gen X PTA meetings. Thankfully though my team also included a Zoomer boy intern I got on well with who would Jestermaxx with me to make the meeting less gay, as well as this giantess 6’2 chick with a revolutionary war painting face who was secretly a Republican.
This girl was interesting actually because while ostensibly a demure goody-goody Christian she met up with me for a walk around Eola like a week into my stay there and didn’t freak out at all when I told her I was a white nationalist, and over the next two years was my go-to gal whenever I ackshully had to do something but hadn’t been paying attention. Years later I’d learn after scoring a date with her when she was in town for a wedding or w/e that she’d always thought the meetings every bit as retarded as I did—which no I didn't smash if you’re wondering, but I *did* manage to sample quite a few parts of her amazonian volleyball player anatomy no other man on earth is likely e’er to taste I’d wager and that shit felt pretty prime.
But circling back to 2020—
By midyear I was sleeping in until noon or later each day, and life had begun to feel both way too pleasant in the manner of a cat’s / woman’s and utterly devoid of any real trajectory or meaning. Thus as much as I longed to hold fast to Plan B, something clearly had to change.
In most cities the value proposition of downtown life tends to consist either in disappearing or belonging, neither of which you’ll find in Orlando.
What you will find instead is recurrence: the same lake, the same patios, the same girls aging from “fun” to “still fun,” the same men adding meat or money or ressentiment to the concocted selves once assembled in lieu of whatever part of them the world once forced them to murder and call it Good.
Everyone here seems to travel along a handful of locally legible tracks.
New girl → downtown girl → post-downtown girl
Hungry consultant → senior consultant → job stack unc
Bartender bf → real estate / fake bitcoin bf → dude who moved to Tampa
Single mom with overdraft fees and sore asshole → Walgreens run hetaera → bitch who moved to Miami
There are other tracks, of course, and all of them elastic enough to accommodate intermittent bursts of agency and Will to Power—which, of course, is the entire point; one is always free to jump diagonally from one track to another, and whether it sells is compared to other cities much less a function of institutional buy-in / peer ratification than self-belief, narrative verisimilitude, and raw animal charisma; less a culture of ontological “development” than rotation through progressive stages of costuming.
Hence why the city never developed a true yuppie culture in the Yankee sense; there is far less passive reverence here for credentialed trajectories, and vastly less moral elevation of labor as ontology. The Orlando yuppie gets backslapped by men and eroticized by women, but not sanctified for his work qua work in the old Puritan mode.
The Orlando physician clearly enjoys his status, but in this sort of heat the white coat has a way of sweating like everything else; according to a resident I sugared several years ago half these guys are on coke most the day, and are for sure a lot more likely to maintain a horrid bedside manner than their northerly counterparts if my ex-Jewess’s psychotic surgeon dad is any adequate sample. And speaking of: when I tried to find Rebecca an attorney to fight said psycho’s Marchman case at least half the websites I landed on had spelling errors… which I suppose was somewhat reassuring in light of her own recent experience as a paralegal being stalked into a suicide attempt by the lawyer fucking her after the last one she’d dated had driven her back to the bottle.
But all that said, you know what these guys don’t do?
They don’t sneer quite so hard at the black grindset guy Ubering them around in a Tesla while handing out charmingly overglossed business cards.
They don’t talk down as much to the weirdo nephew who won’t shut the fuck up about crypto and dropshipping.
They’re less quick to roll their eyes at their concubine’s real estate license as though upward improvisation itself were chintzy.
Now obviously they think the dropshipping guy is kind of retarded; they’re not saints. But there’s a lot less cold hatred in the appraisal.
In other cities, elites often exhibit a quiet passing preference that alternate paths and backstreet methods fail, but Orlando is far too transactional and openly performative for that kind of icy satisfaction to dominate. Too many people here—including elites—are selling something, staging something, auditioning for something, refinancing something, pretending a little, angling a little, and overall trying to get ahead by way of paths that read as gauche in air more thick with trust funds than hibiscus rot.
The upshot is that Orlando’s young people often socialize across class barriers a lot more freely than in more credentialed cities—at least in part because provisional containers are not experienced as automatically trashy or dehumanizing.
Everyone in Orlando understands that a date can be a date AS WELL AS a transaction, audition, vibe check, escape route, or soft launch for a new self—and also that it needn’t be litigated into one stable category before anyone’s allowed to enjoy it.
In overcivilized northern climes this sort of thing is invariably scorned as degraded, inauthentic, or lower-order—here that attitude gets you an eye roll, because this state wouldn’t last a week if transactionality and performance were not understood as livable and dignified facets of private life.
Because note that Florida has always been a place for exiles: marooned slaves and secesh vets, buccaneers and cattle crackers, Cubans fleeing Castro, Boomers escaping taxes or winter or their Fauci Ouchie, champion running backs who stab their blonde wife’s head off, elderly orange game-show hosts with coup trouble, autistic bipolar song-parodists-cum-essayists of cum… Florida is where weird and talented people go to hide, renarrate, distract themselves, stage comebacks, kill time, choke hookers, or become a more profitable version of the thing they were already accused of being.
Hurricanes help, as no place threatened annually by sky-water can take permanence with full Yankee seriousness. Possessions become modular; plans become provisional always on the weather; the gap between Good Samaritanism and price-gouging looks increasingly semantic. Everyone realizes, at least a little, that the set can come down.
And this is why Florida feels trashy to other states, and especially those states most in hock to life-denying cis-Hajnal snowvalues, where the highest-status move is always to pretend that you do not want, do not angle, do not perform, do not transact, do not hunger in any register visible to the help.
Florida offends because it lets people seem high-status under rival standards. It allows heat to count; allows theater to count. Florida allows money, body, charm, and nerve to do the work that snowier, grayer, and gayer moral orders would have us believe only taste and restraint can perform, which means people who are a little crazy or maladaptive by Bostonian standards are at times permitted to feel good about themselves here.
Orlando intensifies this dynamic because its dominant export is literally performance, the region’s affective culture sitting downstream of cast members who inhabit worlds that are definitionally pretend and yet not therefore “fake” in any obvious sense—because consider for instance that while a young girl playing Ariel (“friends with” Ariel in cast member pidgin) is clearly not ackshully Ariel, she absolutely *is* after the auditions, training, repetition, private identification, and thousands of tiny ways the role feeds back into the self, far more Ariel in practice than 99% of women who grew up with the film.
That middle register matters—and Play, observe, is neither fraud nor truth.
Rather it is the liminal space between them where essentially all of life’s magic happens—art, humor, seduction, creative destruction—and the sort of people who can’t tolerate it seldom end up achieving anything in life that wouldn’t have been predicted by a sufficiently precise actuarial model.
And for all its faults, Orlando understands Play at a civic level.
Even beyond the parks, the city is teaming with actors: formal theater, performance art, live-act escape rooms, dinner theater, drag, cosplay, and every other technology by which a man may temporarily become more legible by becoming less literally himself.
And because it’s full of actors, Orlando is also an aggressively gay city—and not just demographically(though you certainly can’t miss them), but also temperamentally. When you date young and artsy here chicks almost invariably have a gay bestie, and as a consequence her own speech will be noticeably more laced with irony, flamboyance, and little flourishes of aestheticized bitchiness, which means we guys who fuck them will in turn learn to coon a little, do voices, bit-maxx, and start to move more obliquely through gradients of social pressure instead of always straight on into them in the Nebraskan manner. The city makes theater contagious.
Which brings us to perhaps the deepest courtesy Orlando extends its residents: baseline credulity toward professed autonarrative.
People come here to lose themselves, restage themselves, or simply make some livable costume of whatever stayed intact when the last life failed—and the polite thing, by local custom, is to let them; to let your neighbors act, transact, play, love, fuck, fight, flirt, hustle, and self-reinvent without trying to erect Puritan-Teutonic ontological border walls between all the most interesting and inextricably liminal facets of life.
Which is why, I think, it’s been so easy to stay.
The City Beautiful imposes no hard disjunct between youth and maturity; just lets you don whichever costume fits the moment. With this one you’ll be Pan; with that other one Hook; and every now and then, if sufficiently touched or drunk or tired, you might even lower your guard a bit and start to act like Smee. But also—who cares?
There will always be more money to make, more women to bed, and more stories to keep that loop feeling vital—and seldom enough consequence to motivate escape.
And so in light of that, what has Downtown Orlando been specifically to Walt Bismarck?
It’s obviously been a home; a place to raise a fortress where I could air my balls out and at last impose my Right To Be A Weird Fuck on the world at cock- and cash-point—especially amidst those Edenic months beside my Rebecca and my Morticia.
More than that, it’s been a stage and a laboratory: a place where I could iterate without consequence, accumulate some great stories, learn what different versions of me look like in radically different jobs and women, experience the best and worst of humanity (often in the same person), and assemble for myself a splendiferous set of heuristics.
Most of all, though, it’s been a baroquely choreographed holding pattern—which for a long time really did register as something approximating mercy.
These days it has the character more of being preserved in the wrong liquid.
Ultimately I managed to escape my 2020 Doldrums without falling into any kind of serious or lengthy depression thanks to the intervention of three people.
First was the venerable Colleen McCullough, whose gargantuan sperg-girl classical-age beanflickers broke me out of that fugue just by giving me some shit to do and facilitating a mode of escapism broadly consonant with my aesthetics and life goals at the time.
Second was that Mischling frenemy-cum-bestie—I called the dude Leon in my book so I guess I will here too—who reached out ostensibly to patch things up between us but realistically to have someone he could be autistic about steroids with since that was his new thing. Before long he’d sold me on the merits of at least the basic shit, and more importantly deployed that Ashkie verbal acumen to make me once more the fool in love with quirksome scapulapoasting on Rippetoe’s youtube, which alloyed to those vials of enanthate Leon fedexed the next month had by the end of the annum coronum transformed your at this point rather-less-humble protagonist into what some of you boys might call a “Soft Chad.”
Last and most there was Natalie herself, who elected in June to hit up her ex in Scotland.
…this being the fag my magical racist casting couch had won her from in 2016 only for a 22yo Waltcel to instantly nuke his points advantage by reacting suboptimally to the Plot Twist that his qt3.14 first girlfren had also been a major eceleb of Golden Age 4chan and one of history’s famousest child pornstars, resulting in a very gay and very millennial two-year love triangle textured a bit like spy vs. spy between RDJ’s Sherlock and Benedict’s over who gets to fuck Boxxy that no one ever wins but at least ended with the small mercy of my own defloration.
Or perhaps it wasn’t a mercy, as I still very much FELT like an incel for most of the two years thereafter in spite of coupling in the interim with a handful of radiant AI sidequest girlies in Nebrasky, one of whom was honestly decent wife material but I happily let fade away in 2019 for a chance to take Nat to Disney again on what was easily the shittiest vacation of my life.
Alas, male virginity works the way we men like to convince ourselves it does for women, and so Wally B kept reliably stepping up to that batter’s box—just while also, thank God, working quietly on his income and triceps under the supposition that our sex’s most reliable of friends Father Time is bound to ensure the lines cross back to 2016 levels at SOME point… which in fairness ackshully did seem to be happening pretty palpably in 2020 until one day Nat says on Faceberg that btw she’s in Scotland again LOL and so I kind of just go on a rampage.
All of them were Zoomettes on SeekingArrangement.
All of them were isolated, lonely, and almost as neurotic as me—and just like everyone else that year, having a pretty weird time of it.
It didn’t take long to get a sense for all the semiotic levers and pulleys: Hypersexual opener. Dadvoice on the phone. Custom shots I coach her through. Mani-pedi in a color I choose. Plausible deniability garage; kiss first, explain later… and then after that “game” as such starts to feel a little pedestrian and you can honestly kind of just bee urself.
I recorded everything.
Usually I was kinkier than they’d expected. Most enjoyed it; others fawned.
Either way like half of them were too autistic and full of spaghetti to bring up an allowance even after spending the better part of a night tied to a headboard getting they asshole blown out, and at times I’d get a text weeks later saying they felt taken advantage of, which obviously made part of my simpy Millennial faggot’s heart feel pretty shitty about myself.
Another part quite liked it.
Overall I was very much in what the lads call an Anger Phase at the time, and would hazard that in retrospect maybe a third or so of those kills were if not unclean per se given I was always super autistic about establishing a hard paper trail of affirmative consent definitely the sort of shit I'd break a fellow’s nose for ever doing to my own daughter.
That said as far as Anger Phases go this was frankly pretty weaksauce, and if anything I got over Nat’s latest and gayest Ianshit far faster than I had in years prior—specifically mid-2017 during those months I moved to Tampa trying to win milady back between my deplatforming nuking the wiggle room I’d enjoyed to be limerent / firstgirlfriendy with her and Leon stepping in to play Ersatz Big Breau by e.g. calling me a faggot for using exclamation points in texts or flirting with Denny’s waitresses in front of me until I too could make chicks bringing me hashbrowns giggle. It was more that this was my life’s first era of significant optionality, where I had enough market leverage to hurt the feelings of girls worth having sex with—which in practice is of course exactly what I ended up optimizing for, I like to think unconsciously.
But then in August I met Marie.
Spergy little 20yo in North Currolina—two of us clicked almost instantly after I let her know she looked like my high school geometry teacher. Is that a good or a bad thing? Neither just an observation. Retarded line works like MadLibs on basically every bitch for some reason.
She turned out to be a reddit-kinky Classics major—had a ton of Ancient Rome tats all over her arms / neck that were genuinely neat and played a huge role in getting me to stop seeing tattooed girls as unterfrauen ipso facto—kind of just floundering in life after having her graduate program in Italy fucked up by Covid, so once I got her on the phone and effortlessly Waltsplained her own subject to her with the help of ultimate wingman Colleen McCullough the filly was my property in less than an hour.
And so I flew her out and took her to a couple theme parks, which apart from triggering my ‘tistic sensory issues as even in Florida they were making us wear our fagmasks then was actually really legit in lots of ways since I got to be the Cool Older Guy for the first time and our chemistry in general was some of the best I’ve ever had with a chick. Little Marie was also the first girl I fucked I think to really make me feel Chadlike in a way that seemed like Me as opposed to a porn character or in some other sense bound to produce ennui after ejaculation, and for much of that month it really did seem like she was on track to become my girlfriend.
A year earlier she would have—or at least I like to think so. Perhaps though it’s self-flattery to imagine that without those triceps and six figure sal she still would have narrated my weirdo qualities as smexy / Bundy-adjacent instead of just cheugy 4chan unc. Either way the maid for sure would have seemed like salvation coming out of that nightmarish Disney trip, whereas in 2020 she just seemed very comfortably mine.
…or at least she did until the brotein shakes / lunchmeat in my fridge gave way to tupperware draped in bright purple macronutrient post-its bearing the dainty hebraic scrawl of Rebecca: the original Waltine Jewess and my first ackshual Disney Princess, having once been friends with both Jasmine and Vidia—a distinction not even Nat enjoyed, her 5’10 being disqualifyingly statuesque for any face role more the ingenue than Maleficent.
September’s conquest of that effervescent little bulimic proved exactly the retribution I needed against not just the cosmos in general but more specifically The Jews as well as Disney itself (who I still resented for having taken down some of my parodies despite literally not being monetized at all and so indubitably Fair Use), and besides that proved thoroughly splendid for my ego given Rebecca’s extreme codependent tendencies caused her to fall in love with me more or less immediately and the very first week of our arrangement start acting I’d say the second closest to a wife of all the various women I’ve been with.
Compared to working class single dad Marie she seemed a lot less likely to invite cunty gossip from AWFLs at the office Christmas party, being a demure untattooed surgeon’s daughter just a year my junior now covertly sugaring her way through paralegal school, and was also even kinkier than the Zoomette, allowing Wally B to on our first night of lovemaking draw swasties all over her tits and smack her around with Mein Kampf and bite her feetsies and buttcheeks and shit hard enough to make existing the next day even more painful than usual, so when you throw in that she started cooking for me immediately too and was located just down the street instead of in North Currolina poor Little Marie just didn’t stand a chance.
Thus I yeeted the Zoomette from my life and went on to spend the rest of 2020 becoming the cockiest 27yo faggot on the planet at the side of and inside of and increasingly very much in love with my little Belle Juive.
And Rebecca made loving her easy is the thing. Unlike pretty much every blonde bitch I’ve pursued she never got those ironcunt valkyrie-icks over the gayest shit—or if she did was at least a sufficiently talented actress never to let me notice (note that before Jasmine she’d played Anne Frank in high school, which was hot).
And so I probably came to love her as much as I did—not to mention so insanely quickly—at least in part because she never really reproached me for childish retardation e.g. letting the shitter flood repeatedly cause I was too lazy to call maintenance, instead giving the impression that she found it incredibly gallant whenever I princess-carried her over a score of damp and mildewy towels over to the bed for smexytimes, and likewise never thought it a problem that I’d disengaged entirely from further actuarial credentialing, having by then perhaps via reverse microchimeric interchange with Zoomer cunt developed far too goldfishy an attention span for FSA exams. Instead she gave me a perfectly unchallenging and pliant courtesan femininity.
Part of me can’t help but wonder if that very frictionlessness was why I didn’t take Rebecca seriously enough to e.g. accompany the maid for Thanksgiving dindin with her Jewfam when she invited me; perhaps on some deep somatic level I’d just been conditioned by Natalie and ambient crypto-Willendorfianism to think a wife needs to always be a little cunty so as to as a blonde bih would narrate it “bring out the best in you?”
What I can say for sure is that the one and only time Rebecca got drunk that year—to celebrate the anniversary of her sobriety / let me Rape her unconscious body—it was pretty damn apparent a bitchy yenta lived in there somewhere. She’d simply discovered it was easier to lube the friction out of life with cuntslime and then deal with male weakness through covert and mostly passive optionality on the backend, which as she taught me four years later feels pretty fantastic until it suddenly feels horrible
Or perhaps that’s all just spin to make some sense of what elsewise seems a monstrously stupid decision to throw our dyad in an oven for yet another swing at Nat when the latter reached out wanting to try dating again on account of the fag in Scotland cheating for the billionth time—which ofc lasted all of three days before Nat drove off sighing back to Jawja with a 500 Days face just as Rebecca found some bulldyke lawyer to take care of her every bit as narcy yet a lot less Sophoclean it would seem than your retarded protagonist, and so sent Wally B tumbling ignominiously into 2021 heartbroken, single, and keen to commingle.
…though also jacked and rich and with a decent bit of clamstink on me now, which as it turns out is exactly the right combination for seeding a very particular sort of perpetual motion.
Because why bother getting over shit when instead you can get in Princess Ariel?
The parks aren’t in Orlando.
That’s the line locals learn to say here with that one retarded look on their face—you know the one; every place on earth has a line for that face.
Now if you actually work at Disney—or are a local who dates Disney Women, which is functionally the dude version of a chick who dates military men—the phrase you’ll identify with instead is “Have a magical day!”, which to my mind stands as one of the semiotically richest sentences one can hear in Central Florida, serving at once as blessing, dismissal, corporate incantation, and in the mouth of an exhausted cast member with wet socks and murder in her heart, among the most graceful ways the English language has yet devised to say Fuck. You.
Of course, most tourists never learn the esoteric meaning unless they’re specifically Disney people, which in practice creates a lot of winsome stealth insult opportunities for park workers. The phrase we downtowners get isn’t nearly as fun, which probably explains my own tendency whenever I’m involved with a Disney Woman to culturally appropriate HAMD! and all their other jargon rather aggressively at times, not unlike a guy dating a black chick who gets a bit too comfy rapping along to every word.
That said, the parks are not in Orlando.
They certainly feed Orlando, pay her rent, will penetrate her on occasion, and are functionally her master, but neither party thinks it an especially good idea for her to show up at the Christmas party.
The ruler of the roost is clearly Walt Disney World, located southwest of the city a fair bit down I-4—also the deadliest highway in America and Orlando’s functional racial demarcation line—in Lake Buena Vista and Bay Lake and whatever other corporate palatinate The Rat has persuaded Tallahassee to recognize for tax/drainage/kabalistic purposes. Universal is closer but still very much apart; a more urbanized concussion of soundstages and roller coasters and Butterbeer and $78 Luna Lovegood wands the Zoomette you flew out makes you get her in exchange for having done That Stuff.
And then SeaWorld exists somewhere out there too, vaguely penitent and wet.
To understand Orlando one must understand that the parks aren’t merely destinations to locals so much as weather systems: a source of traffic, money, seasonal flavor (even salty cool girl goth bitches have a soft spot for Halloween Horror Nights), costumes, debt, roommates, alcoholism, situationships, friendship-fucking fights with Leon in the parking lot, tidders you suck on in cast housing while babygirl’s roomie Kayla you lowkey wanna fuck too watches Big Little Lies in the living room not even knowing Natalie brought a boy back let alone whether he’s pocketed a pair of her panties, and a constantly circulating population of pretty young girls and gaybois (so I hear).
Working at Disney is a lot less fun than people imagine though is the thing, as it in practice operates almost like a paramilitary order dedicated to politely venerating Midwestern fatness. They have rules for everything: hair, nails, socks, earrings, tats, sideburns, tone, posture, entering and exiting, water bottles, and any other rough edges that might annoy a dad with sore ankles and a $14k hole in his bank account.
This creates a very peculiar kind of worker—the Cast Member—who is functionally a very different beast from your archetypal Disney Adult.
The Cast Member is a priestess of administered wonder: eternally broke, compulsorily social, libidinally supercharged but not in a way she understands, still brainwashed by the magic but growing cynical about it, as overtrained in friendliness as a Brazilian child prostitute, a bit less mature than her peer group but oftentimes logistically far more competent—the role selects for a certain lack of ontological brittleness and ability to metabolize contradiction with grace, hence the great number of Disney princesses who end up moonlighting as a stripper or to varying degrees get Kept.
Thus while the Disney aesthetic is thoroughly Anglo-Protestant its deeper affective grammar runs thoroughly Catholic, which probably explains why so many gay men are drawn to its managerial caste; like with Catholic clergy / management consultants the role strongly advantages those with a cognition situated somewhere in between that of a man and a woman’s, hence autistic girls also being one of the more canonical cast member constituencies.
Universal produces a somewhat different type: more tattooed, less housebroken, more prone to ironic bisexuality (Cast Members scissor each other far more earnestly); it’s not at all uncommon for girls to end up switching to Universal in their mid-20s either after Disney starts to read as just a little too gay for them or after getting date raped by one park manager too many. While the Cast Member needs to think herself innocent on some level, the Universal chick has internalized that she works in a merchandised fever dream and has made her peace with the grease—think the proverbial stripper who doesn’t get weird about you poking puss.
Both archetypes are in their way a lot more honest than the guest-facing versions of themselves—but Cast Members retain by far the greater metaphysical power, since Disney unlike Universal still persuades people that regression is a form of virtue.
Then there is the annual passholder—an intriguing specimen I myself inhabited briefly for both parks back in 2017.
The AP is the park ecology’s most instructive organism because he has transformed vacation into routine without even realizing he’s done so. He is not visiting wonder so much as subscribing to it; has made a pay per month arrangement with childhood and will either try to optimize for maximum fun like a Wall Street quant or use the pass as an avenue for chill short-duration staycations. Either way, he soon experiences the parks as nothing more than a slightly more dopaminergic variant of mallwalking—hence why I myself haven’t visited the parks in years, and even then did so exclusively when I had a little Zoomette to watch run around excited and live vicariously through.
Because the magic does still exist for people is the thing.
The castle, the fireworks… and bitches really do adore those rose gold mouse ears. Whereas for me? It’s the smell of the Pirates ride—ya I love mildew, eat my cum.
None of these things are “fake.”
Only manufactured.
Which is why it honestly makes perfect sense why Cast Members would put up with all that bullshit—they really are modern priestesses of Play.
In February of 2021 I learned I’d cucked a man.
And not just any man either, but a normalfag native Soft Chad who stood at 6’3 and was almost certainly a closet sociopath—if only because who other than a sociopath would as a heterosexual male choose to build a career at Disney World?
Kidding aside, the situation was actually pretty mythic all considered, because the chickie doing the cucking—a sturdily-built Texian blonde I thought of as a redhead because she played Princess Ariel and had a “zesty chungus” temperament akin to a more goyish / midwit Cartoons Hate Her, who we’ll here call Mara—had been known to darling Natalie in 2017 when the two were sisters in the same DCP cohort, and at one point that year when Nat and I were on the outs due to me having Down Syndrome and taunting her about recently turning 24 came recommended by Nat in that passive-aggressive Belle way as “the perfect girl for me.”
Because there’s no denying Mara was cringe—and also that it was in the same way I’m cringe, i.e. conjoined to enough status or ability to survive socially provided you’re very willing to eat normalfag sneers or in her case are too much of a dumdum girl to even notice them. But yeah I guess at one of the princess auditions they went to together Mara was boasting like a nigger about what a fantastic actress and singer she was, which apparently almost drowned Nat in secondhand embarrassment given all the visible contempt it churned up from SEC stacies.
Only, like… Mara was the one who walked out of that audition a princess.
…because it turns out that even for a theater kid the bitch ackshully was just an uncommonly gifted actress and singer.
…and so can you really in all fairness call her “cringe?” Or are you just foidpoasting in a way you normally find obnoxious in other women because you’re a little salty that despite being an equally good actress and singer you had to be Friends With Goofy cause you’re 5’10?
Because if so you’re right to be salty—it’s a dumb rule. I love tall women. Loveliest feet by far.
That said also you’re a retarded little cumcunt for letting stacies bully you into constantly acting more normie than you feel under the surface, and there was something profoundly appealing in Mara’s willingness to be such a weird and annoying bitch while eating the negative social externalities knowing she was hot and talented enough to survive it.
Anywho the other reason Mara felt mythic was that the normalfag I cucked—this guy with a pedophile mustache we’ll call Timmy—used to regularly hit on Nat at her hostess job during the college program, and she was ackshully supposed to be his date to some park manager Christmas party that year only for her to flake on him last minute and thereby ensure that Mara ended up his silver medal, which I suppose was the start of their love story.
It doesn’t seem to have been a great one—although it did last a minute: three years and change before me, and about as long thereafter.
Then they broke up right around the time she turned 30, which is honestly pretty frustrating given her worrying about exactly that happening was literally the whole entire reason chickie had that affair with me in the first place and in a roundabout vaguely Kafkaesque way seems to have functioned as just enough proof of her own optionality that it forced the fag to get her a ring and perform as dece fiancé for three years only to when it really mattered leave her high and dry and in a far worse negotiating position because being a retarded woman she thinks “engagement” means literally anything as an operatively binding category.
Anyway what was Mara to me?
Mostly she was fun dates: a pirate show with stupid chuck-e-cheese jokes written for babies she still belly-laughed at; a science center trip she approached with the earnest gravity of a third grader with Asperger’s Syndrome; the first of many times running the nearby dead grandma escape room, with Mara’s reaction to my puzzle-solving acumen during the same being perhaps more earned ontologically than that of any of her successors if you want to be gay about it; and a charming little picnic at Lake Eola with wine and cheese picked up at the nearby Publix that felt vaguely Parisian and went on to serve as template for many a date in subsequent years girls younger than her would experience as among their life’s most romantic given it would probs never even occur to a Zoomer lad to take a bitch on a literal picnic.
Whereas Rebecca never really pressed me to take her anywhere and seemed basically fine being fucked next to an Uber Eats bag between Sopranos episodes Mara had a significantly more vivacious nature that demanded constant stimulation, which in practice I suspect was really good both for getting me to take her cereal and for getting me out of my wizard’s tower into normalfag meatspace, which tbf Mara made it easy to metabolize being not just a hot girl who screamed her sentences and therefore drew everyone’s attention to me being with a hot girl but also cringe enough to ensure I was always the one kind of implicitly apologizing for her, which in light of our strong polarity otherwise was kind of a fun genderbent dynamic.
The sex was also quite good.
Mara had been with about as many people as I had, but they'd essentially all been normalfags, so she reacted like a giggling teenager to all the weird shit I did to her which I rather liked.
A lot of times it was also very physical; she liked to start it wrassling and have me force my way inside her like she was Red Sonja or something, and especially by the end of shit it wasn’t uncommon for me to walk out of coitus with nicks and bruises.
Not even because Mara herself was super kinky though—temperamentally she might have been among my least so girls in ackshuality, though she ofc fancied herself quite the rope bunny and also made me watch that gay and faggoty 365 Days movie every other bih was flicking the bean to at the time—but rather because she was derealizing hard on account of her relationshit stagnating and Disney job getting fucked due to Covid severely limiting her princess interactions and forcing her to do way less fun and lower status jobs normally reserved for old fatpeepo e.g. directing traffic into the park.
So like every high openness ESFP bih this state of affairs left her prone to wild daydreaming, which of course turned quickly into a smut addiction that itself turned quickly into attention seeking on Seeking which turned happily for WB into finding said attention from a guy who for all his faults is pretty fucking wonderful at doing the cowboy werewolf billionaire thing.
Because Mara was a performer by nature, and loved being performed for—understood how it being performance doesn't mean it's not real, or at least not for people like us—and yet was embodied enough not to let that knowledge curdle into an infinitely recursive not-so-funhouse of metamodern opacity as Natalie had, or simply drown in it to the point of nabbing a DID diagnosis like Rebecca had done.
She also had a big enough personality to mythologize—to the point of making me want to meld genes with her, at least—while also being far too much of a silly girl to ever really simp for or get bamboozled by into taking her too seriously. And this, I’m starting to realize, may well be the most workable combo for a spergy dude: the high-openness mid-110s IQ Sensor chick who’s herself weird and zany enough to not act foidbraind constantly but is all the same far enough away from you in neurotype to see your brilliance in a heroic and essentially alien light as opposed to needing to aestheticize how Unimpressed she is or act like Dasha 24/7.
Speaking of—one amusing facet of our dyad was that I offhandedly mentioned to her wanting to write a book at some point (in reference iirc to a series of fantasy novels I’d planned since early adolescence but never managed to escape the hyper-autistic worldbuilding stage) and she almost immediately globbed onto that as her vector of womanly idealization and would constantly blather on about how my writing would Change The World and whatnot when she’d literally never even read anything by me and I hadn’t seriously attempted longform in years, presumably because doing the same thing about my career which I at the time was legibly exceling in would have felt gauche or whatever to a girl who fancied herself artsy.
Then again, it was my actuarial side that fizzled out in subsequent years and writerly one that out of nowhere exploded me back into something resembling public prominence, to the point of probably having changed the world already if we’re honest, and at a minimum this nigga’s:
Women are never right about these things for the right reasons is the thing—but they basically always are right, which is half of what’s so persistently infuriating about them.
Anyway, how’d it end?
Well Timmy’s friends saw us together in the city holding hands—and I think it was that one picnic date that did it, wretchedly enough. By that point they’d been living apart for a few weeks while she cheated, and were “on a break” per her telling when first we met.
I didn’t get the Friends reference when I told my mom about the situation.
But of course hearing about his cringey little Silver Medal with another man—a “financebro” giving her the “downtown lifestyle,” no less—apparently came as a total shock to Timmy; thus he promises to reboot their relationship and requests three dates to pwoove himself, which after she accepts I make her give me the same knowing she will out of theater kid logic and because I want to lock in puss knowing it’s likely all ogre now in light of her starting to do that stupid faggoty Millennial girl Cady Heron thing where she self-narrates as Not Herself Lately.
and still, idk
Those last three dates were genuinely some of our best.
The very final one involved her going to Target with me and helping me get an adult set of kitchenware, and I also bought her this adorable Thanksgiving apron somehow still available in March that if I’m honest was a lot more fun to fuck her in that night than any of the frilly pink bullshit I’d gotten her at Victoria’s Secret.
Then the next morning she drove off back to Timmy in Kissimmee, and that was that.
What one must understand about the Disney Woman is that she’s been trained by one of the world’s most sophisticated dramaturgical machines to inhabit a narrow seam between sincerity and performance that over time makes any difference between the two feel both a lot less important and a lot more insulting to mention.
It’s not just that she becomes professionally pleasant; that’s merely the outer layer, and half these birds aren’t even like that once you get em out of The Rat’s jurisdiction.
The deeper transformation is that the Disney Woman learns to treat identity itself as a thing both real and staged—something one enters, holds, exits, returns to, complains about, monetizes, mourns, and nonetheless will feel in some embarrassing chamber of the heart to have revealed important truths about her.
After all, she was not cast at random.
No matter how egalitarian the brochures grow, Princessing remains one of the last socially permissible sites of open feminine hierarchy in America. Height, face, voice, body type, smile, youth, waist, coloring, feminine presence: all the things aspartame pantsuit morality and Girl Culture insist shouldn’t matter are in Lake Buena Vista measured with all the cruelty and accuracy of a Florentine marriage broker.
This gives the successful Disney Woman a strange relationship to beauty. She knows, probably better and certainly before most other women do, that prettiness is a sorting technology—and also that being sorted upward does not make one free so much as legible to management, which means she’s usually both a lot more vain and a lot less deluded than her civilian peers, having stood in rooms with dozens of other pretty girls and learned under fluorescent lighting which of them will be friends with Ariel, which one friends of Tinkerbelle and which a friend of Goofy.
It also means that when she says the magic is real, she isn’t necessarily being stupid.
She knows the seams and tunnels; knows which bathrooms are the cleanest and which princesses bulimic; which princes suck each other’s cocks and which managers will rape you; which Mary Poppins is trending a bit too lumpy in the tidders to keep her role another year. She thinks like a whore with a civilian woman’s moral self-concept.
Romantically this makes her dangerous in ways neither normie girls nor ordinary actresses quite manage.
See, the Disney Girl wants life to become a scene that can be believed in while it lasts, with everyone understanding enough not to break character too early, which means on the one hand she is unusually susceptible to grand containers—trips, hotel rooms, fireworks, costume changes, playlists, inside jokes, rituals of food and touch and repeated place—but is likewise just as unusually capable of exiting those same containers by declaring in full sincerity that they were only ever play.
Men look at her and imagine they’ve seen the Real Girl behind the costume—not so! The costume was just one mechanism by which the real girl was produced, and securing backstage access not at all the same as securing access ontologically.
Backstage is still onstage, after all; just with worse lighting and more gossip.
The man who first learns love primarily through Disney Girls will therefore be shaped in a very peculiar way. He will intuit that romance requires atmosphere, and come to see beauty and logistics as inseparable. He’ll learn that repetition is sacrament if the setting sufficiently overdetermined, and that a woman being theatrical doesn’t always mean she’s lying. He’ll come to see the operative unit of courtship less as conversation or date than sequence of scenes: hotel, park, monorail, bar, car, room, morning, return. The kingdom trains him to think in loops before he has any words for recurrence.
He may also—fatally—come to believe that feminine performance is a kind of promise.
Because sometimes it really is, is the thing—you just never know for certain when it’s ackshully going to last. And that, of course, is the problem: the Disney Girl makes life enchanted not because she’s playing you, but because she herself becomes enchanted and then will say your name cumming in a way that wipes out 27 years of bitterness.
Only later and after more aborted loops than is really dignified will a man realize her gift for entering a scene carries with it no binding duty to remain inside it—and that, I think, is the Disney Girl’s deepest erotic lesson; she teaches men performance can be sincere, and then ruins them by proving sincerity has an expiration date..
The words meant what they meant when she said them. The touch was real while she offered it; the softness wasn’t fake, and nor were the giggles or the orgasm or that light in her eyes. But precisely none of that prevents tomorrow from bearing some entirely different story about what she was Going Through then.
A more Nebraskan sort of man might respond to that by simply shrugging and trying to fuck a bartender, while a softer sort of man might grow resentful and call her a liar.
Another sort of man will opt instead to build a philosophy around it.
The rest of 2021 following Mara’s departure from my life that April felt like a dissociated blur at the time, but looking back I remember it all quite distinctly.
Like for a while I became something of a Civil War buff, which was neat.
Then I spent a few months trying to get all the various achievements in EU4, and then got bored of that and instead obsessed over programming a Rape Mod for Crusader Kings 3.
I also continued training fairly religiously and would ultimately around midyear max out around four plates on my deadlift, which was technically higher than even my trainer would go on account of some old MMA plate in his leg or w/e which technically made me second strongest nigga in the Aspire apartment gym next to some seven foot black dude who was apparently a serious basketball player (I’m not certain if like LeBron-level or just more local). Shortly after reaching that point though I kind of just got lazy and for the most part stopped exercising entirely outside of having sex with lots of young girls.
None of them were especially important—by that point I was a seasoned degenerate and had my algorithm locked down to a level of familiarity where I barely even read as spergy anymore.
That said I did start taking certain risks I probably wouldn’t have earlier: having girls over during the workday, meeting up with chickies whose puss-pie was by any soberminded account quite clearly not worth the risk profile, telling girls with a boyfriend it will only be X and then reciting the alphabet multiple times forwards and backwards—as one does.
This was probably me at my most #rakish in the dictionary sense i.e. uninterested in romantic diachronicity or heavy commitment—probably a function of the intense dyadic phone bestie dynamic I’d established with Diana: the chick I’d lowkey moved to Omaha for in 2018 and immediately made me realize moving to Omaha had been kind of a stupid idea. She and I had reconnected the year before, so after things ended with Mara I both sought consolation in Diana’s bosom and helped her end a dead-end nothing relationship with some scrub poisoned by black mold or w/e, after which she and I entered into this flirtatio-friendship register that enabled us each to give the other loads of genuinely useful advice and hot takes about their romantic prospects; to this day she remains one of only two women I’ve known to ever be anything but actively sabotaging in this capacity.
Point is thanks to Diana I didn’t need to fall in love with every bitch I fucked no more because I could rely on her to absorb a lot of that energy. Thus most of my dates in this period were pretty simple: garage→ cross Eola to World of Beer → back to Aspire and into pussypie. It was a very boyish era all considered… but also looking back feels almost arcadian in a sense?
Ultimately though a few events later that year served to hone me in a bit.
First I met Amanda—my only Seeking chick in Orlando who could really be called my “Sugar Baby” in the conventional sense of the word e.g. FWB or mistress outside one’s prime romantic dyad, as basically all my other girls here kind of just immediately folded either into girlfriend or functional-hooker. And believe it or not I ackshully don’t have a fantastic personality for sugaring qua sugaring, as it’s basically impossible for me to fall into any sexual modality other than vaguely contemptuous objectification and limerent possessiveness, but with Amanda carving out that middle register was for some reason surprisingly easy; it helped I think that she quickly acquired a boyfriend she met the same night as me (I fucked her first) as well as that the two of us always enjoyed a genuinely deep friendship bond that both never got boring due to her bitchiness yet never proved too annoying because I could always just fuck her face if I got mad at her. Anyway Amanda remained my dedicated rebound puss throughout the next few years until her boyfriend finally put the kibosh on things in late 2024.
I also finally got to meet Natalie’s sisters—and apparently did a good enough job with them that they told her to marry me, at least per her testimony at Dragon Con that year which she’d drafted me to take her to last minute which is its own whole story… point is coming out of that I realized there was no dignified way to recover the old Natalie dyad under terms I wanted, and while we’d hook up a few more times in subsequent years that deeper sort of teleological hold she’d held began to dissipate.
Shortly after Dragon Con I started posting on the Red Scare Subreddit and met the beautiful though hugely troubled artfrau Gretel, who while initially quite impressed by my effortpoasts and as a consequence very generous with teat shots pulled back sexually a lot after I discovered in her post history that she was 30 and used to be a hooker after telling me she was 28 and had a bodycount of 6—which I genuinely didn’t gaf about at all btw mostly finding it very funny she was that terrible at lying—but ya after that it kind of just was a friendzone thing for a while—which was honestly fine because I was getting plenty of puss as is and tremendously valued having a new 125+ IQ bih to talk to given Diana had recently found herself a new goytoy and Natalie was off doing Natalie things as ever.
In November I finally got my paws on this adorable little Jewess named Leah I’d been lusting after for months and loved to blue ball me through her night shifts at some hospice thing hemming and hawing about whether she’d come over to get stuffed after work. Her personality was never all that legible to me because she was always super duper quiet, and most of what stood out was that she REALLY loved cats as well as Downtown Abbey and gay guys—actually iirc both her roommates were gay, but one was fat and like Mexican or w/e and had an unrequited crush on the skinny twinky one and would write poems about eating him and shit, and probably like 85% of the stories she told me had to do with that whole situation.
Anyway an interesting thing about Leah is that while the opposite of Mara in volume and vivacity she nonetheless inspired in me a very similar impulse to take her places hoping to at some point draw out of her the personality I sensed was underneath: multiple local escape rooms, Eola for the canonical picnic, a Titanic museum/dinner theater where I kind of spilled spaghetti asking an Irish character his thoughts on the IRA, and most importantly the local cat cafe The Kitty Beautiful, where I after years of prioritizing the integrity of my easy chair decided at last to adopt a feline friend—namely this great sinewy tuxedoed lad they were calling “Jesse” at the time but I immediately rechristened Beauregard per my recent Civil War enthusiasm and to Leah’s immediate side-eye (not even because das rayciss tho but because she was a dumdum Zoomer who thinks changing a cat’s name is abusive).
The tranny proprietor of the cafe also cajoled me into adopting a runt-of-the-litter tabby named Cricket since he was apparently pair bonded to Beau as a brother / sadomasochistic gay lover, and while I honestly couldn’t even remember him at first Leah ultimately convinced me to go for it saying he’d been the cuddliest one in the joint.
She wasn’t wrong; while a bit more introverted than his big bro, Cricket instantly proved almost cloyingly affectionate—he snuggles and headbutts literally everyone super duper aggressively right away with no warmup period or demonstration of trustworthiness required first like Beau expects, and is meanwhile so novelty-seeking / slutty with his cuddles that each new girl I sleep with is convinced he “loves her more than me” and talks about “stealing him” which tbh fuck you bitch.
Cricket also has Feline Herpes, which means his nose is constantly full of these huge boogers and snot he loves to wipe on people (the tranny called it “allergies” ofc, lying then as always). Anyway whenever I get a new girlfriend they always make me take him to the vet again and get antibodies that always do Precisely Nothing because it’s a fucking chronic condition that can’t be “cured” and girls are dumb but that’s also why we love em I guess idk.
Anyway Leah seemed on the verge of becoming my girlfriend but then in Jan of 22 suddenly ghosted me one day with nary an explanation.
…at least until last year, when we reconnected and it turns out to have been a combo of her having gotten offended that I wasn’t giving her an allowance despite mentioning at some point having paid a younger pair of lesbis for a threesome—a threesome I barely even partook in btw as I only wanted the skinny one and literally didn’t enjoy AT ALL, not that girlypops care about that sort of thing I get it—and also at one point backhanded her during smexytimes in a way that produced an unsavory somatic reaction in her, which in fairness she usually loved being slapped during sex so I think that was more just an autistic deficit of hand-eye coordination on my part amplified radically in semiotic import by having occurred amidst a fuckbreak halfway through her favorite girlhood movie Pride and Prejudice.
On the bright side she also has really lovely memories of that Eola picnic in particular and at least as of last year associates me primarily with having gotten her into wine.
Orlando may well be America’s most perfect sugar baby terrarium
Not because The City Beautiful is particularly glamorous—it isn’t, at least not next to Miami or New York or even Los Angeles to the extent its despair groks camera angles. Orlando is weirder: a warm, transactional, youth-saturated hospitality economy built on the simulation of enchantment, attached to one of the largest colleges in the country, and embedded in a state shaped by hurricane logic and exile culture
The parks import gorgeous girls by the thousands and teach them to perform charm under surveillance for wages that make performing charm as a side hustle register to many as obvious—because make no mistake, a girl who spends eight hours a day smiling at Britons sloshed on Simpsons beer and scooter-bound diabetics does not necessarily become cynical per se, but she sure as shit gets an education in the cash value of sweetness and a Yes.
And then there’s UCF, that vast blonde credentialing lagoon east of the city forever hatching the dental hygienists and marketing coordinators of tomorrow, most of whom moved here from somewhere cold, shitty, and gray and discovered almost instantly how easily and long Orlando lets you stay a little girl provided you’re willing to invoice adulthood in installments.
Now of course precious few of these flowers are ever really “poor” in any Dickensian sense—they have parents, loans, scholarships, roommates, and cars that smell like vape and Bath & Body Works and pussy. But they might as well be paupers in the local aspirational sense: broke in proximity to luxury, young in proximity to older men with expense accounts, and Beautiful in a city where that counts both as credential and an ambient bargaining position. And if she can’t get the cash required to maintain her back-home lifestyle from her parents but absolutely can from a decent-looking 29yo software engineer who just wants sloppy and for her to look interested while he explains Bojack Horseman to her, is she really going to tighten the belt?
Then lastly there’s Florida herself, who supplies the final reagent: a state culture with virtually no native sense of embarrassment; a place of boat guys, tax exiles, cryptobros, Mar-o-Lago, bottle-service dentists, divorced dads with power nipples, billboards bearing personal injury ads, George Zimmerman, haunted song parodists, and the illustrious Florida Whore. Transaction isn’t a sin when everyone knows something is being bought; the only sin is making the transaction look poor.
The confluence of all three is what makes Orlando special, with Downtown herself occupying the midpoint between innocence and invoice—here a girl can be twenty, work at Disney, take classes at UCF, post from a resort pool, live with roommates in a luxury complex called something like The Addison at Millenia, and still experience herself essentially as a normal sweet girl simply having a weird year every time she gets that venmo from a dude she probably wouldn’t have swiped right on ordinarily but at this point has given her two new fetishes and lowkey aced that calc final she never got around to studying for so
What makes it different from hooking is precisely what makes It’s a Small World different from your local Lazy River—which is to say effort, scale, and frame. And so she is not selling cunt; she is Being Appreciated. He is not buying sex; he is providing a Unique Experience. Everyone knows; everyone denies. Everyone has a magical day.
But if we’re honest that’s more just how it works when the dude is Old Old; if you’re more 30ish then unless chickie becomes your girlfriend right away she’ll a lot of times think ur kind of a faggot if you don’t joke about her being your whore—because note as a young guy that’s the container that reads more as you paying for expedited access and enlarged dominion as opposed to just being incel-coded, since whereas if it’s a Dad-type dude they’re fuckin being a Whore tends to feel groace and the Treasure a lot more palatable plenty of women actively fetishize being Whore of a high-powered yuppie type for whom the whole semiotic regime gets inverted.
Which is why for the weirdo yuppie it’s almost too efficient: Orlando gives you the venues, the scripts, the class differentials, the anonymity, the cheap luxury signifiers, the moral permission of Florida The Whore, and the endless reservoir of young girls whose lives have already been structured around performance not entirely performed, prettiness stratified and monetized, and enchantment that runs deep and lasts exactly as long as it needs to. You don’t need to be a Chad; just reasonably tall, funny, solvent, and sufficiently unashamed of turning the implicit offer into hard logistics.
The whole city is practically whispering the arrangement before you arrive.
I kicked off my 2022 with a bracing shot of ipecac.
There was to be no more lazing around all day chasing tail and coding Rape Mods—no sir!
Such dissolution was unbecoming of a self-respecting yuppie—if I was even still entitled to that moniker given how cabaretically unprofessional I’d grown since first moving to the city two years prior. Even after all that time and so much of it free, I STILL hadn’t bothered to learn wtf is ackshully going on in any of those gay homosexual spreadsheets they paid me to click every month, and at this point was barely even saying shit during our team meetings.
And unironically?
It felt really shameful.
I needed to feel useful and productive again—that and reclaim a certain sense of masculine pride I’d pretty clearly lost after having spent most of 2021 in an undignified cunt-drunk stupor getting quite a lot of puss-puss sure but likewise getting e.g. roasted by darling Natty’s barely legal sorority girl little sis about my shitty arrested development Target furniture and transparently slotted mentally into Evil Cock / fuckboy territory by most of the nurses and nannies closer to my age I fugged and kind of was hoping to make into my girlfren tbh.
Thus it was time for Uncle Walt to grow up!
So long story short I put my head down and 154 verbal IQ’d my way into a consulting gig at Deloitte that paid quite a lot more than my present role and was sure to be many times more demanding—especially because they planned to onboard me smack in the middle of audit season, which everyone at my current job of course insisted sadistically would just brutally rape my asshole, but also: that’s literally the point nigga.
Note though I didn’t underestimate the challenges ahead of me in the slightest, and resolved to prepare for my new role with the utmost gravity and conscientiousness.
First on the agenda: some sweet new corporate headshots!
Second on the agenda: Ask my mom to pls fly out and help me redecorate my Aspire unit so that the home office / study area behind my rather sizeable head looks coo for my coworkers during Zoom calls and biases them precognitively into thinking me entitled to a speedy promotion to manager on account of being so Sharp / Locked In.
Third on the agenda: Go to an ackshual barber for the very first time since J Henry to procure a somewhat fashionable ‘do—only this time I patronized this chubby Italian broad from NYC I rather enjoyed because she liked Sweeney Todd and reminded me of Lisa Lampanelli.
Ultimately I even let her give me a “fade” after she mentioned that both her husband and son were police officers, as that codes right wing and while I myself am hardly a fan of cops if someone’s going to give me a blackpeepo haircut I do need to sort of “balance the books” semiotically so it made a lot of sense to have her do it.
Anyway she did a pretty dece job IMO and so has been my barber for the past 4 years.
Fourth on the agenda: Get my bloodwork done to make sure my T-levels seem ok since I never bothered doing that while ackshully on steroids. Also while I’m out of the house get around to registering my car finally so I can drive it legally again. Also pick up a Barnes and Noble membership—I should read more. Also get a Covid shot now since I no longer derive any dopaminergic return from arbitrarily oppositional-defiant behavior and right now would rather amorally statusmaxx even if the Fauci Ouchy does shred young male hearts.
Fifth on the agenda: Formally procure an Adderall prescription instead of just paying the nurse I’m fuckin to give me half of hers. Which… boy, howdy. But that’s kind of its own story.
Last and most importantly: Procure that ritual totem I’ll require to most efficaciously channel my Masculine Aura each morning and attack the day with blood and fury in my lungs.
My onboarding at Deloitte felt a lot more like Harry Potter than any other company I’ve worked for—almost like how Natalie described her DCP orientation back in the day. Being affiliated with a huge prestigious institution really does just have a certain way of cutting through cynicism; at the time it registered to that eager little lad in me as the experience I should have gotten from my very first manjob back in 2016.
That one had been a shithole Caribbean life and annuity carrier, and naturally had begun as an internship—very conveniently on the day immediately after Natalie and I broke up for the first time and I’d been up all night spiraling. Meanwhile I was getting paid like half as much as my frens because I’d been too busy making Alt Right Disney parodies to apply to any non-Third World internships when they were still open, and it was kind of only by the grace of God that the enterprise didn’t turn out a completely shitty disaster thanks to my first boss being insanely coo—kind of a Wasian Kryptogal who had basically the same dynamic with me and is now a longtime Walthead (<3 K).
Other than her the team was kind of just a dirty diaper—Chief Blacktuary got fired two weeks into my internship and after a long interregnum replaced by easily the wickedest evilest most meanspirited Dolores Umbridge cunt I’ve ever had the displeasure of working with, who would unironically e.g. call my socks ugly… and then there was this 70yo lady who’d make all this shit up in her spreadsheets… and a fat dissociating mormon who was about as checked out there as I’d be in my first Orlando job… and a nebbishy little Jew guy who was like 50 with a PhD in an entry level position reporting to the fat mormon younger than him… and then a sperg girl I quickly befriended but also kind of figured might snap one day and mb shoot up the office who ended up getting fired because I retardedly asked her advice on starting salary negotiation which when she heard I wasn’t just taking whatever made her curse me out and storm off.
Not exactly Elite Human Capital.
Whereas Deloitte? Good God! Each one of my coworkers at a minimum could perform competence, and invariably had more interesting backgrounds and hobbies than 90% of the bugmen at either of the Sclerosis Incorporateds I’d worked for. Even the Asians at Deloitte seemed high verbal IQ—and keep in mind, these were actuaries. The whole thing felt like being extracted out of the normgroid morlock horde into Gifted Class all over again.
Meanwhile, the institution itself was eminently respectable—had almost unlimited resources internally that could be activated quickly and reliably, with a culture of forging confidently through red tape and making sure shit stays documented in logical places so processes can scale and transit efficiently.
For the first several months I unironically experienced it as fun.
It felt a little like a resource management sim—multiple engagements, several directors to impress, always having to monitor a few fires at once. Kept shit really funky-fresh.
And the chickies in my life smelled the good vibes on me—
and it’s amazing how they always do, isn’t it? Never even need to say shit.
Natalie showed up out of nowhere for dinner and a hookup. Amanda started overtly cheating on her bad breath slav boyfriend and eating cock without a rubber. And ever the Midwestern bih, Diana of course couldn’t get enough of my Goods Delivery bullshit and started flirting back a hell of a lot more enthusiastically, earnestly musing about she could see us together if I built her Monticello and gave up ~Pornography before attempting any real courtship with her which I ofc said was gay and that if I build her Monticello she should be the one falling into MY frame and anywho I forget the deets but at some point she definitely said we’re probably soulmates and porn ruined me for her and we started to drift apart after that.
Thankfully though I still had Gretel, who after my altercation with Diana especially began to assume basically the exact same intellectually dyadic flirt-friend register Diana had.
Gretel too was judgy—but not at all in the Pentecostal mode so much as the Lutheran one—she couldn’t stand thoughtlessness or indolence in men, and every few weeks would explode at me over something really gay. Like one of the big ones for instance was that she really wanted me to ship her a bag of Peanut Butter Eminems which I guess they don’t have in Deutschland or something and I fucked it up and instead sent her Peanut Eminems, which it seems are trivial to get there. And boy was that bitch livid about my incompetence… had some real words for me about how shitty the DHL packaging was—after all my procrastination, too!
So I called her a cunt and sent her several hundred dollars worth of Peanut Butter Eminems.
Forget how now, but I arranged a direct shipment and ate like a benjamin in fees, which was the whole reason she made me go through DHL in the first place, broke bitch insisting *I* avoid fees easily affordable with my huge enormous massive American salarycock.
And looking back I ackshully do kind of get it now: like all tall blondes from dark frosty climes Gretel simply registered an unusually intense disgust response to physical laziness enabled by monetary affluence, and was meanwhile insulted by the notion of a fellow just paying to win her puss like in a mobile game. The tendency is almost universal in German / Dutch / Scandi women (esp ones with ancestors gay enough to stay in Europe), who as a rule can’t get enough of making you do all these asinine little chores to prove you ackshully care about her since her dumb barbarian Teuton brain can’t grasp the elementary principles of comparative advantage and arbitrage hence Germany having a GDP per capita 65% of America’s… suffice it to say the main reason I’m fond of Jewesses is they’re the least like this you can get with pink nipples.
Gretel was always bitching that American guys thought they could buy her—and to be fair, I actually came quite close to it at several points! But even then I understood that mediation would always be necessary, whereas simply flashing cash would virtually never work on some dour kraut bitch. Thus while Gretel thought my maneuver with the Peanut Butter Eminems was funny she also wasn’t the least bit impressed by it as girlies this side the Atlantic—even the tall blonde ones—had been in the past when I’d tried something similar, and if anything was mostly just kind of annoyed to have so many calories around her now.
That said one part of it was definitely also the hooker past, because one interesting thing I’ve learned is that genuine escorts almost always really hate sugaring, which in fairness makes perfect sense given their own rates are driven down by the phenomenon on account of sugar girls being cheaper—and more vitally, accessible outside a standardized and modular frame, which allows the man to pull chickie into his own bespoke diachronic frame that will virtually always reduce her functional transactive autonomy as a market agent.
This is why lots of feminists for instance are basically coo with escorting but despise sugaring; they abhor viscerally the idea of any sort of transactional dynamic where the structural power to define said transaction asymmetrically is in male hands.
With hooks themselves meanwhile it’s often just a normal fake and gay unionshit thing—hookers try to ambiently make sugaring seem more pathetic, less real, whatever because it’s offensive to them that their counterparties might have a dignified bargaining position.
To them a girl who charges a nigga less than the market PPM because she’s into him or caught feels is the absolute worst kind of scab—the hooker abhors the SB’s softness / surrender and despises her willingness to blur the lines of transactionality (bc they’re optimizing for totally different things, tho the hooker structurally is obscured to that pluralism), and so attempts to mitigate the SB’s depressive impact on her own rates through all the canonical womanly shaming modes both intra- and intersexually.
You might be wondering how I learned all this?
Leon married a hooker
In 2020 to be specific; just before he decided he couldn’t talk anymore because of my sugaring.
He also became her househusband in a way that aesthetically valorizes womanly provisioning and male objectification / diachronic subordination under a hypermasculine himbo container.
The dude was first drawn into Hookerworld largely on account of a certain aesthetic contempt for my own nascent sugaring adventures, which itself had clearly originated—at least in part—by the lad feeling emasculated over having spent almost a year in Omaha with me paying all the rent and him drifting about rather listlessly in life. Himbomaxxing is essentially a mode of semiotic alchemy that transmutes a situation like that from humiliation into superiority, in which the provider and producer ackshully capable of moving things in the world becomes the pathetic paypig, whereas the one who takes and is taken care of becomes Ackshual Master— because he’s most desired. It’s quite literally the object-sexuality of a woman.
And at first I thought this was mostly just a Leon thing, but over the past few years it seems to have exploded, with Zoomer boys who can’t break into the jobs market adopting precisely the same strategy with looksmaxxing etc., while calling literally all traditional modes of masculine sexual capture via provisioning or status climb “cope.”
But speaking of Leon—I actually saw the dude for the first and last time in years in 2022 after his wife briefly left him for a client (or “trick” as they say) and I invited him to come hang with me a few days instead of killing himself. During this trip it was revealed to me Leon himself had been a virgin in 2017, and despite having had less sexual experience than me at the time had essentially fabricated out of whole cloth an extensive sexual resume to serve as a basis for his own masculine gravitas within our dynamic.
And yet I can’t straightforwardly resent him for that—for one thing because if he hadn’t done so the power dynamic in our dyad would have been so lopsided from me having both a money and girls advantage it likely would have sent him drifting towards a LeFou-type role given how Millennial male friendships tend to work usually (Zoomers are better about this). Moreover, if it hadn’t been for him playing the Dude Don’t Text That It’s Gay role or showing me how to flirt with hashbrown bitches I may well have fucked it up with Nat a lot harder back in 2017, whereas if it weren’t for him getting me into lifting and steroids three years after that who even knows if my Chadpotheosis would have gone anywhere near as smoothly?
On the other hand—the dude scratched at shit; said things—things a man is wholly entitled to say provided that they ackshully happened… but assuming they didn’t? Then they objectively do kind of just make him a callow and venomous little faggot, frankly.
Though admittedly I can’t help but admire the Sophoclean element to the story—that is to say, that the main reason I started sugaring in the first place was to operationalize my wealth advantage in a faster and far more linear manner than especially the Omaha dating market permits in response to a masculine rivalry dynamic wherein Leon increasingly foregrounded his own putative past erotic success to undermine the import of the growing money gap and was increasingly contemptuous of any mode of male self-presentation that leaned into material excess and provisioning. And so I did what Leon himself once taught me to do.
I agreed and fucking amplified.
As did Leon, I suppose.
But you want to know the beauty of it? When we reconnected in 2020 and I started telling him about all those girls the motherfucker refused to even HEAR my stories—and not even about the casual hookups but fucking Marie! The solitary reason, of course, being that I met the chick on Seeking. Then some point after, he accuses me of “writing fanfiction about myself”—as if his own multiple years of fanfiction weren’t the entire fucking basis of our friendship.
Even still—when Leon showed up at Aspire to cry about his whore, I was there for him.
So were my Google Albums.
Big Four consulting stands as one of the few respectable professions in American life wherein theater kids regularly make partner.
This is not, as outsiders like to think, because the work is “fake”—nothing fake could ever require that level of version control. On the contrary, the modal engagement produces an immense number of high-complexity, effort-intense deliverables: interviews, trackers, workplans, current-state assessments, future-state designs, steering committee decks, meeting notes, decision logs, RAID logs, operating models, implementation roadmaps, hypercare playbooks, and many other totems by which billion-dollar organizations metabolize the terrors of motion alloyed to scale.
Nor is the labor especially straightforward; good consultants will process information quickly, learn institutional dialects at pace, identify the three load-bearing variables hidden within forty minutes of stakeholder throat-clearing, an can translate disorder into artifacts legible to whoever’s paying them to feel less insane. The work demands memory, stamina, social inference, PowerPoint taste, spreadsheet hygiene, and the ability to remain pleasant with multiple people lying to you in contradictory ways while instinctively pinning anything that goes wrong first and foremost on you.
And yet the profession is not quite analytical in the way its recruiting materials imply.
Analysis is necessary, to be sure—but by itself entirely insufficient.
The analyst who merely knows the answer is a lot less useful than the manager who understands when it can be introduced without embarrassing the room—and a great deal of the work, it turns out, consists in choreographing the arrival of the obvious.
And that is why the slide deck matters—it allows a conclusion to enter in sequence rather than accusation: first the context, then our observations, then the risks at hand, then your options, and finally our recommendation. Each advanced in clean corporate procession until the whole room finds itself standing before a decision it feels it’s participated in making.
The client, observe, is never buying truth in naked form; that’s just an HR event. What the consultant offers him is truth with lighting; truth with tact; truth properly paced and branded and softened at the edges, then escalated through approved channels, and made available to the right people in the right order so no one important feels surprised in public—an environment where information can be endured.
Note also that consulting has an exceedingly high attrition rate because each level demands a radically different talent pool from the last. At its lower levels, the main demand is cheerful stamina and document production. Then, at the middle levels, synthesis and emotional continence. And at the highest levels? Taste in ambiguity: knowing which messes demand cleanup, which require renaming, and which are best left in the corner under a tablecloth until the contract renews. The senior manager’s art is not merely to know what is going on, but to know which version of what is going on the system can safely metabolize this week without cracking.
And each engagement, of course, has its frontstage and its backstage.
Frontstage there are standup calls and steering committees, polished artifacts and client-ready language, and the general fiction of coordinated progress.
Backstage there are frantic Teams messages, midnight deck surgery, juniors having panic attacks, principals workshopping euphemisms for “your data is unusable,” and partners deciding how little of the actual situation can be safely disclosed before nondisclosure itself becomes the larger risk.
No serious consultant confuses the two—the danger lies rather in losing respect for either; a frontstage without backstage is children’s theater, and a backstage sans frontstage slipshod chaos little better than the client! The value lives, of course, in the controlled passage between those two worlds: the disciplined transmutation of beige administrative gobbledygook into something handsome enough to act upon.
Consulting, then, is best understood as a hospitality discipline for institutional anxiety.
The client arrives burdened, irritable, overexposed, and privately aware that the promised transformation may have been sold internally long before anyone actually understood what it meant—and so the engagement team receives this guest into a managed sequence of rooms: Discovery → Assessment → Design → Roadmap → Implementation → Stabilization. Each room with its own level-setting vocabulary, its own regime of stabilizing color codes, and its own sanctioned forms of hope.
If the sequence is handled correctly, the organization exits with something it did not previously possess: not competence necessarily (though miracles do occur) but rather permission, whether that’s to proceed, delay, blame constraints, or say that the decision was data-driven and stakeholder-informed and risk-adjusted and strategically aligned.
There are worse services to sell—and indeed, much of civilization consists in creating tolerable fictions through which necessary things can occur without everyone involved feeling too crudely exposed. Marriage does this—as does law, and finance, and amusement parks, and sugaring.
Hence why top shelf consultants are seldom sculpted from the purest minds in the room, who trend brittle usually and will suffer so much cognitive load when forced to inhabit excessive contradiction that past a certain bill rate it often proves deleterious to the engagement. The natural consultant will instead be nimble but not especially doctrinaire, socially sensitive without himself being needy, preternaturally fluent in euphemism without ever quite believing it, and can appreciate that certain truths are actionable only once costumed as consensus—the operative ideal is probably a mildly sociopathic high-verbal bisexual man or manlier sort of gay, hence Pete Buttigieg being who first comes to mind when you hear “consultant.”
The consultant understands that in large systems form is not the enemy of substance so much as how substance survives contact with status, fear, litigation, budget cycles, and the delicate egos of men with bonuses on the line.
The polished deck you get at the end may or may not change the company. But at least for one hour—under very expensive lighting—everyone knows where to stand.
I kicked ass at Deloitte—made manager at light speed.
Note, however, that this was not because of my “work”, which if I’m honest was never anything but acceptable and a lot of times pretty damn sloppy all considered.
I kicked ass because I handled the politics of it all spectacularly.
On my first major consulting engagement I came in with a battle-axe looking for some shit to do, and that little display of agency alone was enough to impress this Director who’d come out of poverty in Pakistan and had since garnered for himself a reputation for making lesser Senior Analysts have nervous breakdowns—except for this boy, it seems… at least not today.
I nail the engagement, and the Director tells me that henceforth he wants to book all my hours for his engagements and take me on as his right-hand man—which on the one hand I figure almost certainly means something closer to “Buttboy,” but if you think you’re too good to wipe the king’s ass, what right have you to be near power?
That was my legible path upward—the less legible one came instead from the wily foreign Jew I referred to as Shylock in The Goy Who Lived, but that’s a whole nother story we’re definitely not going into here. Suffice it to say he was a contractor who was subcontracting other contractors on various engagements and I helped get them through assorted red tape approaching HR without the [Contractor] sticker on my outlook profile.
The dude made a small fortune from it; I got my ass licked in front of every partner by an increasingly trusted SME with a burgeoning internal network. Thus, manager.
So just career-wise the rest of 2022 was pretty gravy.
Now ostensibly big thing that happened that year was that I finally left Aspire and moved into an entirely new tower at the very heart of Downtown—The Solaire; 22nd floor. Note that’s a condo, too, because as of Summer 2022 your hoary Uncle Walt at last became a homeowner.
Frankly though it all felt like a nothingburger—the new building was only a few blocks away from the last, and its layout essentially identical.
And by this point I wasn’t really trying to become the Unpacking Yuppie anymore, having instead gotten on something of a Hamilton kick which looking back was also quite gravy.
What’s a bit less gravy is what happened with Gretel.
In early summer, see, she’d just gotten rejected or w/e by this instagram deleuze meme page admin faggotron she was thirsting over for some reason whereas I myself was getting ghosted by a hitherto promising blondie on account of her pestiferous half-black bestie, and so I kind of just said Fuck It and was like yo Gret: let me fly you out for a week and smash.
Now the two of us hadn’t been super duper flirty or anything— I had her tits ofc but you know art hoes—and in general being German she would often get really autistic whenever I got especially swaggering in my advances and be like “I don’t even know what to say to that…”
That said we’d been a lot more bantery lately and giving each other lots of sexual / romantic advice so there was natural lubrication in that direction it seemed, so long story short chickie seemed super excited to come shoot guns in Flahrida and see aligators and also specifically go to like a basketball game in Miami (???) idk.
Some of you may be asking: why her?
idk. Like obviously I enjoy tall blonde cunts, and obviously conquering the most exacting and highest standards pain in the asshole evil bitch makes you best. Clearly also there’s an element of wanting to reclaim Natalie, and Gretel’s story is like Natalie in Dark Cabaret—raped at 18, hooked through early 20s, and most of you already know how this ends.
Anyway I got way too giddy about her coming and let my guard down before I fucked her.
On a voice call I was blathering about a chart I saw that showed the correlation between income and height, and mused to Gretel it might be worth it to get shin lengthening surgery to go from 6’0 → 6’3 when you compare the surgery cost to opportunity cost given that chart.
Dummkopf…
Even in another hemisphere I could hear her cunt dehydrate.
And whenever I relay this story to one of you foids I ALWAYS see that retarded little precognitive jiggle in your peepers telling you I’m Insecure(™) and so therefore ought to register as a threat / disgust signal to womyn everywhere which means any and all defection modes against me are totalistically and universally valid—and now I bet I’m Exhausting, huh?
Well, look, cumcunt—I’m entirely aware that 6’0 is a fine height, and don’t ackshully obsess over not being 7’0. What I DO OBSESS OVER is the fact that I as a sperg can’t even vocalize an optimization problem as thought experiment without your fuckbunny cuntlogic taking over everything and predicating major relationship decisions monofactorially on “Icks” like an 11yo girl when your age purportedly begins with a “3”—because that shit is hugely childish.
But yeah yeah yeah, I know: a man complaining about ANYTHING EVER makes him an incel bitter grievance loser worthless poopoo straight away and there’s nothing else to it and therapy grass normal… I get it, babygirl. Sure wouldn’t want to seem “entitled.”
therefore she was totalistically in the right to cancel for whatever reason she wants because muh choice muh maximalist optionalitymaximizing and if I’m annoyed even just about having to eat the cost of an intercontinental flight then I’m a disgusting low status unlovable incel.
Fine.
Except not two weeks later deleuze guy she ended up seeing stead of me dumps her to propose to some fat kike whereas now I’m intermittently inside and illegally serving alcohol to this:
So can we just as rightly call Gretel “bitter” or “aggrieved,” then, when she starts acting like Grimhilde and trying to convince me that some teenage girl has Poor People Hair out of what she herself later called jealousy and ressentiment over obviously having made the wrong choice due to an overly sensitive weather vane?
Most girls don’t ever narrate themselves as having made a bad decision romantically is the thing, and will essentially always just backsolve for a way to make everything that happens properly fated—but those women who are genuinely sentient? They have a much harder time with that, and Gretel actually was one of those birds I’m sorry to say.
Lyssa, happily for her, was not.
And the girl wasn’t dumb, mind—far from it. But you could tell she had a deeper shadow than most, and wouldn’t have had even the slightest idea how to delve down into it.
Her most distinctive quality was owning this enormous German Shepherd that was functionally the epicenter of her universe and made logistical shit far more onerous with her than it ever would be the next year dating a single mom. His fur would get everywhere and Beauregard would freak the fuck out—though typically Cricket would just try to cuddle him.
The pupper was terrified of both.
He’d been traumatized as a puppy.
When I asked Lyssa if she got him becau “Yup! u got it, lol…”
I learned her mom was a hooker—used to bring over Johns to rape and molest Lyssa when she was a little girl until she learned to defend herself from them. She also was in the running for the U.S. Olympic swim team, and as a preteen would support herself through drag racing.
Her last boyfriend had been some kind of bitcoin criminal she claimed never to have fucked and I guess ended up abandoning because he was trying to hurt her dog? Before that she’d been kept by a tech CEO with his own mini Hefner harem—and before that I guess she was dating some black trucker. Honestly a lot of her story didn’t make much sense.
I didn’t need it to.
I mean—does MY fucking story make sense?
Thing is Lyssa and I kind of just jumped into shit super fucking fast—as in I asked her to be my girlfren and we said I love you etc. I want to say first time the two of us were intimate.
Obviously this was all to make Gretel jealous. That’s not how it ended up—and it wasn’t a super deliberate thing—but I would have at least kept Lyssa as a concubine or something much longer first if I hadn’t still been smarting from the frau’s summer perfidy.
Obviously it had worked, and Lyssa herself somehow sensed that—while I slept she went through my phone and saw all the poison Gretel had spun about her. The next morning it read to me as paranoid at first, but it turns out Zoomettes have good instincts, and Gretel had been clever—planted class insecurities in me about whether Serious People would ever respect me with a girl like Lyssa that had started to sour things in registers I couldn’t even taste at first.
And so I confronted the frau on it, and long story short ended up having to yeet Gretel from my life for the next few months.
Thereafter Lyssa and I dated a few months, and it was genuinely really nice at first—she was far and away the most babyish girl I’ve dated overall, and it was edifying in a sense being able to feel like an actual Daddy for once in a manner more substantive than porn script. She was very set on marriage and wanted to have kids in 4-5 years but liked the idea of getting a surrogate for her babies so she could stay rail thin—sounded fine to me.
I took her on a lot of dates: escape rooms, the Eola picnic, and to the movies especially—we’d hit up the one right across the street from my new condo. I’d go there with Amanda sometimes too, who Lyssa didn’t mind me fucking though Amanda’s retarded boyfriend certainly did.
I started fucking Lyssa’s feet and mouth during my client standup calls—probably not the best idea, but none of them were important at the time.
She had me get a better dresser. Better sex toys to fuck her with. Took my kitties to the vet even though they didn’t need it because she insisted we could cure Cricket’s boogers.
Work started getting stressful—99% because they made me fly into Boston for a handful of client onsites when over the past few years basically all my extended interactions with people had involved Zoomettes I was penetrating. The whole idea seemed lowkey sort of likely to ruin everything, but I went along with it anyway because I wanted that promotion.
Lyssa helped me get some new business clothes for the trip at Men’s Warehouse—she was so cute in there hitting me with ties and shit telling me to stop being grumpie.
I started being mean to my baby—acting like the Unpacking Yuppie; always losing my temper.
Got annoyed at her in a sushi restaurant when she didn’t know what Ceteris Paribus meant and then barely cuddled her that night after sex; just went right back to work.
She asked to go get her phone charger from her car.
I sighed and rolled my eyes at her. Yeah—sure.
I walked down with her to the garage.
Lyssa got inside her car—and then she locked the door.
And then she started crying… and then backing up… and then after one short pained look at me drove out of the parking garage and my life never to text me again.
Alas, she completely forgot to block me on Snapchat where the next day I got to see the Boomer tech CEO’s collar around my babygirl’s throat .
Former prostitutes have a strange relationship to sequence.
Not all. Some remember it plainly enough: money, men, rooms, the old arithmetic, that familiar tedium of being wanted by men too visibly grateful for the privilege.
But memory is seldom permitted to remain so low—because “sold,” of course, feels so vulgar! And “chose” feels too exposed. “Needed” meanwhile, is undignified… and yet “enjoyed” is certainly impossible, at least in public.
“Survived” works a bit better; “was pressured” better still.
And “trafficked?”— Best of all.
Of course, at times the boyfriend really WAS a pimp, and sometimes the pimp really WAS a trafficker—there probably are a lot of bitches out there whose choices aren’t anything BUT arranged in advance by male violence that remains in negative space.
But there other times the boyfriend was just a boyfriend.
A worthless one, perhaps—ugly in the soul; happy to let her do what she was already doing if it bought coke or rent or the fantasy that neither of them had quite fallen. He becomes a pimp later, once the story needs a cleaner division of labor: he wanted, she was used; he arranged, she endured; he sinned, she survived.
And who can blame her, really?
The older story leaves her standing there with money in her hand and memory in her mouth, forced to account for every moment she smiled, each man she called Daddy, every night that didn’t feel quite like coercion but not quite like freedom either.
No one wants that version. Certainly not the family—and sure as shit not the next boyfriend! Definitely not the nonprofit. Often not even the girl herself once enough life has passed to make the old self feel less like an ancestor than hostile witness.
And so the girl who sold herself becomes the girl who was sold; the man who failed her becomes the one who trafficked her. What had once been a degrading economy of small choices becomes, in recollection, one single dark machine.
Still, something is lost.
The night Lyssa left I had Amanda come over and puke on my dick crying.
The next night it was actually a German girl, weirdly enough—I asked if she knew Gretel, and she laughed and said some shit about Bavarians I very definitely do not remember. Main thing with this bih tho is she wouldn’t let me take pictures, so it was almost like what’s the point? But slim pickings that night, so fine.
Next night after that it was some Zoomette femme lesbian who fucks guys for money and whose bulldyke beaner girlfriend kept texting every five seconds needing to know she was okay which totally ruined it so I said Fuck Off.
Next night after that: Dulcinea, who ended up becoming a mini-Diana/Helen type friendgirl in my early late 2022 / early 2023 before being institutionalized and telling me I’m on the verge of psychosis as well. But Dulcinea actually was besties with the girl who ran the local Jordan Peterson meetup group who I’d been lowkey wanting to smash since I moved here and even managed to score me a date with said girl, but in practice she wouldn’t get a white pedicure like I told her and just said LOL so I never followed up.
Anyway you get the picture—
I eventually just cash out my entire 401k and start flying bitches in from all over the country. And obviously sometimes I still fuck local girls too, but by and large it’s easier to just get what I want a la carte at this point and I have the dosh to burn at least on paper.
One of them is Bri’ish and hasn’t showered when she comes in to get fucked and smells absolutely wretched so I kind of just send her away. Another is a hippie dippie acupuncture bih from PA who I fuck with an extremely dull bread knife to her throat and she acts like it’s the most erotic thing ever because girls are silly billies and then by noon the next day has agreed to be my gf and move in with me only to while we’re asleep that evening sneak out and text me later comparing me to Dahmer over something that objectively was totally retarded.
Point is that essentially these are my Walt Diddy months; I’m constantly finding new chickies to fly out—even when one is sitting right in front of me bored.
Meanwhile I don’t really leave the house all that much at all now, except to have Amanda drive me to Walgreens for Adderall + get hippie food + fuck her—and even the cutest girls I fly out have to constantly nag me to take them around Eola or for Thai food or w/e because generally I just want to like fuck em → work → fuck em all day.
That said I do fly to Boston for a few more business trips, and several of those bleed back into time in NYC, which feels a bit like being on Addy 24/7.
This shit I think just kind of nukes most of my real verve and passion for the job.
It’s less the breakup frankly than having to pay attention to whether my pants have wrinkles constantly knowing that shit precognitively overdetermines the result of every single discussion I have with that one persnickety Vietnamese bih… and that imposes for me about 10000x much background cognitive load as anything done from my Lair at Solaire.
Obviously I’m promoted, but at this point no longer especially care to be.
I start talking to Gretel again—she calls high on coke when I’m blasting addy and apologizes for being a cunt about Lyssa and canceling our trip. I still have my feelings hurt and so say I would only be friends with her again if I can stretch her little kraut asshole and punish her or something to that effect. She giggles and says something like give her tiiiiime but after this does act a lot more flirty generally and soon I have plans to fly her out in February.
I’m really excited to show her Eola—haven’t walked it in ages.
In January I get her suicide message.
No performer ruled the last half-decade quite like the remote job stacker.
See, before the plague years, the office had been useful chiefly as a device for making underutilization visible in ways everyone agreed not to mention; a man might spend nine hours straight in a cum-colored cubicle forced into pants that make his balls itch and produce maybe a third of that in genuinely useful labor. The rest disappeared into sanctioned motions: walking to refill water, waiting for a spreadsheet to open, staring at a PDF and pretending to read it while thinking about the reddit post you’re going to make that night, sneaking glances into Tiffany’s cube whenever she kicks off her flats, laughing at the director’s retarded joke, and nodding through meetings that could have been phone calls that could have been emails that could have been pings.
All that was experienced as work mostly because the room said it was.
Remote employment weakened that spell—though not all at once. The old corporate dialect persisted, and calendars still pulsed with color. But the desk was now a private desk, and the kitchen now a private kitchen, and the dead hour after a status call no longer had to be spent pretending to review documentation while a woman in HR clicked past with yogurt. A great deal of work, it turned out, had been posture.
Job stackers were often framed as insurgents against this sclerotic order, and most of us very deliberately aestheticized ourselves as such—including, obviously, moi—but at the end of the day we were ultimately just its most agentic and energetic players, with the job stacker simply taking seriously what corporate life had eternally implied: that a role is not a soul, a title not a covenant, and employment in the knowledge sector less a matter operatively speaking of continuous and timely production than maintaining a sufficiently convincing relation to expected availability. All we did is optimize around de facto market conditions rather than fake gay poopoo Vaish-accepted ones.
To pull this off required a skillset that looked a lot like deception to the uninitiated, but in practice was far closer to repertory—because the job stacker, at his core, is a bard, succeeding mostly in proportion to how adroitly he maneuvers within the corporate dialects of multiple employers in parallel with careful consideration to each one’s unique and esoteric theology of import dictating who can and cannot be ignored.
Thus Job A might require crisp updates before lunch while Job B responds better to leisurely confidence in the late afternoon. One manager might want all obstacles surfaced early; another experience all obstacles as accusation. One team might want cameras on, smiles bright, and anti-vaxxers side-eyed; another to masturbate on mute together trusting the deliverable to appear by Thursday under the correct filename.
The competent stacker learned these differences as well as any unstacked worker, but instead of internalizing them as ontology would fit them together like Tetris parts.
And so at one firm he’d be steady hand; at another, the overqualified specialist pursuing “focus;” at a third, the presumably autistic IC whose ostensible lack of ambition read mostly as maturity. And note that none of these identities would be 100% false—at least if you did it right, because unadulterated falsehood is brittle as shit; useful personas have enough truth in them to move without creaking and sufficient interpretive slack to grow into them to whatever extent might prove necessary.
More than anything else, though, the success of the enterprise depended on the proper calibration of visibility to management via response cadence.
Answer too quickly everywhere and one became visible and overexposed; too slowly and he became a problem. Volunteer once and they remembered; do it twice and they might start to believe too much in your potential, which is among the more expensive compliments an employer can pay. Better to be clean, responsive, moderately helpful, and above all highly forgettable—to let the ball return to another court perfumed in professionalism; sound occupied without sounding strained.
A job stacker with shitty timing didn’t last, and neither did one who mistook laziness for strategy, because the game most definitely wasn’t about doing nothing—that just produces texture you don’t need: missed details, stale language, managerial bitchiness, not good! The game was doing exactly enough, in precisely the right register for the firm’s attention to glide past without ever snagging—and there was a real elegance to that when executed properly. Boxes checked, questions answered, meetings attended when necessary, conflicts smoothed to smiles, cameras managed, and all requested artifacts delivered on time with the humdrum gray solidity of adult male competence.
A clumsy stacker degraded the room like a drunk and poxy hooker—fucked up names, missed obvious dependencies, arrived breathless to calls, mismatched acronym and fiefdom; he’d let one role bleed into another and in doing so would reveal that sacred mechanism all the rest of us depended on for lucre!
But a good stacker?
He preserved the magic by mastering the canon of each corporate cinematic universe and genuinely respecting its internal theology—never forgot which costume belonged in which room; which director used “north star” earnestly (or God help him, “heuristics”) instead of defaulting to “guiding principle”; or which calendar block could be moved vs. lied around vs. treated as sacrament because some local deity once attached itself.
There was an ironic humility in all this, of course, because the stacker could never demand fully to be seen, as if ever seen too clearly he would also fail. He therefore had to become a sort of corporate negative space: present enough to draw salary, absent enough to avoid significance. All the traits ambitious young men are normally told to cultivate—initiative, ownership, leadership presence, hunger—needed to be rationed delicately or suppressed altogether. One could keep some cherished pet role, perhaps, where a little more excellence was allowed to show, but elsewise excellence was only a heat source, and heat attracted eyes.
The office, oldheads recall, rewarded theatrical overwork—late lights, emails sent at 9:47 PM, visible stress; an infinitely deep dive. The job stacker had to instead wade through several shallow realities at once without becoming too real in any of them.
That, of course, was intolerable to all the fags who unironically still believed in work as identity—who imagined loyalty cut both ways because their badge still scanned, and saw community in a dusty fridge of LaCroix. But the stacker’s sin was never that he “betrayed the corporation;” only that he treated the corporation’s own governing principles as reciprocal instead of frenching the boot like an Indian.
If employment was transactional, the stacker transacted. If labor was modular, the stacker modularized himself—agentically. If the system paid out functionally for appearance, risk absorption, responsiveness, and exactly enough output to sustain managerial belief, the stacker provided all that—but no more than the contract had any power to compel, and if you think him obliged to provide even the slightest jot more than that, you should frankly fuck off back to England, the Rhineland, or whichever malodorous subcontinental poo-port from whence you came.
The job stacker was merely a performer who had learned the audience’s threshold for disbelief and optimized around it to get rich; a Penn Jillette of VBA.
In a healthier and somewhat less homosexual order such a fellow would probably have built something visible with his hands or commanded other men openly or inherited some small but dignified station in a legible hierarchy.
In the Covid order, such a man instead maintained four Slack icons, three dental plans, multitudinous incompatible mission statements, and an unreadable expression listening for his name on two concurrent standup calls he couldn’t afford to miss.
Corporate America had spent decades turning men into roles, and the job stacker aced the casting call.
Gretel would have loved the early Walt Right—so much; it would have given her everything she loved about r/RedScarePod without any of the gay shit.
Not infrequently I wonder if starting it just a year earlier might have saved her life.
But in another sense it couldn’t have happened without her—because the entire Walt Right is on some level just a chalkline drawn around one specific version of Gretel’s memory; around especially that conversation I had the day she died with her instagram friend Selene trying my best to get at least SOME pussy out of this situation.
And I wouldn’t get Selene’s soft pink ladylike princess art girl pussy for a whole 18 months—but I would get inside eventually, which of course is when negative space exploded in on itself.
But she’d keep me at arms length until then… and entirely for the best I’d wager, because for much of 2023 I was kind of just unraveling in lots of ways and becoming somewhat disordered.
Not financially, happily—I ended up milking Deloitte like a cow on short term disability and then started job stacking bullshit actuarial jobs in the vein of my first Orlando position pretty aggressively just to have enough dosh to keep flying chickies out. And don’t get me wrong, I still burned through my income like a madman, but I was generally quite good in this period about dead reckoning overall.
What I mean more is unraveling in terms of losing the ability to diachronically surf some coherent wavelength of reality and maintain executive functioning and especially a contiguity of self and one’s surroundings that enables long-term aspiration and coherent strategy.
First to notice this was Adelaide—single mom I fucked only a few weeks after the departure—who ackshully saw me have sort of a psychotic break during our first weekend together as a week-long bf/gf thing as at this point I was starting to spend so much time in StableDiffusion making AI porn I was starting to see basically all digital media with an “AI texture”—probs in part thanks to sleep deprivation but even on that note I think AI has a lot more of a tie to the collective unconscious than people realize. Now of course for her part Adelaide thought it was all demonic or something because of the six fingers and toes thing but idk women… like her own big toes were kind of too big which lowkey registered as demonic to me so
That said Dulcinea noticed it during her own mental break as well.
She kind of disappeared after that though so I never had the chance to follow up.
Rose noticed it slightly less than the others by dint of both A) being an autistic 18 year old girl with less experienced judgment and B) having slightly woken me up from the fugue for a while because chickie was just that kawaii—for her I was honestly a fairly decent daddy for like three or four weeks, and it wasn’t I think until I realized she wouldn’t marry me that summer instead of going to gay college that I returned to jerking off to AI porn on the shitter instead of fucking the hot barely legal sitting next to me because my mind was just that starved for more infinitely iterative causeways of dopamine.
By midyear the AI addiction shifted probably favorably towards a new addiction of scamming hundreds of girls on SeekingArrangement for feet pics. This became hugely compulsive over time because of how easily I could get great custom shots using nothing but a silver tongue, and had a certain Promethean vibe to it I experienced as deeply heroic.
Then I came back into the physical world a bit as my interest shifted toward this really specific fixation on sodomizing single moms—and it just so happens that the fourth or fifth of those single moms was Morticia, who after sodomizing her on the day after Thanksgiving I want to say almost immediately became one of the greatest and deepest loves of my life.
See, Morticia was a solvent for my rage; an—I won’t say feast because that makes her sound fat and she was practically anorexic, but maybe we’ll say splendid dessert plate— for me to devour; an affective ecosystem that could handle nearly anything I threw at her and I myself was wholly suited to metabolize; a high openness / high neuroticism 115 IQ ISFJ neurotype that was functionally exactly how Marge Simpson would act as a Gen Z goth girl.
Morticia gave me a routine—nagged me to get out of the house at a point I barely ever did.
But I did then.
I took her to a lot of fucking places: tons of escape rooms, Disney, Eola picnic, put-putt, we even did Christmas in Savannah together and it didn’t feel like rerunning all the various times I went there with Nat at all but seemed more like she was inscribing it with her own aesthetic signature nothing like Natalie’s sickly-sweet; Morticia was blood and smoke (but also in a really cute and girly housewifey way just with also an edgy krampus knee tattoo).
She encouraged my writing a lot—first on r/RedScarePod, and more importantly on that same Christmas Day of 2023 when I resolutely carried my laptop into the hotel bathroom to start my maiden essay here on Substack: How The Alt Right Won.
Covid changed the world in a lot of ways, but perhaps the most impactful was making it hugely easy for high verbal neurotypes to live purely in the world of signals and frames—or at least always drift back there when wanted, which in practice tends to lower the melting point of basically all human cognition quite a lot.
See, the more you rely on frame games—and better you get at employing them—the more you’ll just naturally find yourself in situations where you NEED to deploy them, either against those of others or because only one framed modality feels especially dignified to be in, until you’re drifting asymptotically toward the life of Dick Morris.
There’s also a real danger in getting overly habituated to living in pure signal—incentives, enforcement, probabilistic inference—when it’s ackshually for the most part just plain niggerish noise that’s the true spice of life, and leaning into that what lets neurotypicals normiemaxx and deploy diagonal arbitrage strategies wholly unconsciously in smaller-scale more personalized markets without getting ambiently punished. And of course it will all still FEEL very gay and arbitrary—but that need itself is also just kind of neurotype tautology, right?
We NEED things to be a little gay and arbitrary to keep the battery charged on our hedonic treadmill, or else the factory gets flooded with honey in the manner of a cereal commercial on 2006 Nickelodeon and before you know it everyone you know is a species of Ottoman Sultan whose executive functioning has crumbled into nothing via overhabituated stay in frictionless cognitive grooves wherein he can’t fathom why anyone given the choice wouldn’t spend the totality of life in his harem eating baklava from the anus of 11 year-old Circassian Sheperd’s daughters, such that the instant he makes any good faith attempt to reform the emptire that has his hands hit paperwork he immediately poops his pants and starts crying and so ends up with his eyes cut out and wiener excised by the gay eunuch byzantine deep state and it turns out his mom was in on it too cause sometimes even a bitch has had enough.
Now clearly the world’s retreated A LOT from post-scarcity derealized funny munny and cunny and started to impose a certain discipline on things to gradually roll back the New Normal and ensure we can’t quite scrape Sultanate of Women failure modes.
That said there still remain loads of more local and contained dopaminergic plumbing failures inhibiting specific skill flow vectors most direly that will for sure take a few more years yet to unravel—especially in Zoomers and perhaps even more so certain flavors of asymmetrically agentic Late Millennial Puer Aeternus.
Substack became my life in January of 2024.
Ssince then I’ve come to experience Meatspace as increasingly sort of a gay and faggoty distraction, and Orando mostly as the space between Solaire and Walgreens and occasionally also World of Beer whenever one of my internet frens decides to come visit me.
The relationship with Morticia should have lasted. She easily could have metabolized my narcissism—would have been comfortable being the little woman of a Bad Man so long as i kept taking her for froyo and never let her catch me cheating; such carelessness!
It wouldn’t have been possible not to cheat when Rebecca came back, of course—our original dyad had always seemed idyllic to me.
And likewise I needed to fuck Alyssa at some point—and obviously Selene.
Probably I was weak to concede monogamy to Morticia in the first place given how many ripening fruits were like to fall into my lap 2024?
It’s a game we could play forever I suppose. What really matters isn’t ever the girl so much as the solvent: Substack in 2024 gave me something similar to Deloitte in 2022 and building enormous triceps in 2020 that got me out of a cumfugue through adventure and novelty.
All those things are fonts of vitality—puss comes to them—but when you look at puss directly too long she always just calls you an incel at some point, and then you’re back to preparing a slide deck in wrinkly pants while some Vietnamese bitch frowns at you.
If you were born with a neurotype to chop up Neanderthals you ought not circle lakes, anon.
When I first exploded onto Substack in early 2024 a small cadre of peepo—the most prominent names among them being Rajeev Ram, Sai Ψ, Theon Ultima, Lirpa Strike, Ancient Problemz, Kryptogal (Kate, if you like), Meghan Bell, sunshine moonlight, ringleader, and the rest of you fags know who you are—were able to grok what I was doing more or less immediately on account of not being idgits.
Most of you did not—which is perfectly fine! To be fair, it takes a very high Openness to appreciate Walt Bismarck. And usually you didn’t even need to Get It for It to work.
Some of you though are frankly kind of Spiritually Nebraskan, and so urgently require a bit of a dressing-down. Let’s review:
The metadiscursive strictures of your Freshman comp class are not ontologically binding, and a lot of you Boomer and Gen X geezers in particular really need to internalize that the Anglo-Saxon writerly convention of refusing any cross-contamination between essayistic and literary (and especially diaristic) registers like an autistic kid who shits his pants whenever his beans and carrots touch does not really exist in other languages and has vanishingly little purchase even with most English-language writers born after ~1985. But you oldsters (and also low openness types more generally) will act as though this barrier equates to clean epistemics when in reality it’s just a pigheaded petit bourgeois naive realist grandma-bumpkinism basically any educated Frenchman would roll his eyes at.
Essentially no one changes his mind as a result of syllogistic argument in the manner of a five paragraph essay, because beliefs, ideas, opinions, and intuitions are without exception non-rational and mostly precognitive assessments of threat, physical / psychic / social contamination risk e.g. disgust + mate viability e.g. genetic fitness + ingroup / outgroup status commingled with self-deceptively earnest and self-serving rationalizations in favor of the objective desirability of one’s own material interests and positional status advancement.
Thus “arguments” are a hugely fake and gay waste of time and to whatever extent anyone is moved on anything ever it’s always obliquely through art / rhetoric that fingerfucks their amygdala into an entirely new response (often through semiotic sleight of hand—the characteristic Waltine stratagem) or on a more cognitive level recalibrates perceived incentive gradients.
Thus essays that just say HURR DURR HERE ARE MY OPINIONS :D THEY ARE RIGHT without attacking the issue from any clever or interesting angle to molest / unsettle your reader (like one frequently achieves by way of e.g. a semi-diaristic aside that leaves a conclusion in negative space for a reader to complete himself and so internalize more palpably) are for the most part just worthless and masturbatory dreck. And if you’re gooning I won’t judge, but if you’re writing publicly it seems kind of gay to just be knowingly ineffective.
Demanding that someone have a “platform” or “ideology” or acting like they’re “not a serious thinker” because they aren’t hawking some perfectly coherent and exhaustive Aquinas manifesto / Buttigieg brochure is unless the dude specifically is a royal pretender in an absolute monarchy kind of a fag move.
Unless you have a direct line to a major pol’s desk and clout with party-level bigwigs your “platform” doesn’t matter one iota because IRL negotiations are always ad hoc and slipshod and no one man’s platform ever implemented… which means of course the value of a political theorist consists less in how well his proposals fit together as a grand syllogistic cathedral serving some monotonic totalizing vision (also notice it’s always and exclusively cradle Prots who went Catholic as adults who demand that from you) but in how individually useful his frames + (if instrumentally actionable) object-level proposals are.
People who think I’m “status-obsessed” unironically have Down Syndrome, and are almost certainly po-faced Teutons with a 37 Openness who violently expel diarrhea everywhere whenever forced to bear witness to some utterance in the subjunctive mood.
Because look, Heinz: the trvth doesn’t matter and “arguments” sure as shit don’t matter, because women and normalfags especially but even us spergy dudes parse EVERYTHING you say in accordance with animalistic precognitive status/threat/health metrics, which means that should you ever give low status incel dorkus something-wanter-not-haver empty belly faggot LOSER literally everything you say gets dismissed ipso facto and the normalfaggot will parse everything that comes out of your mouth / pen as cranky or disgruntled—especially any statement like this one here that taxonomizes how the whole thing works, which insults the burgher king’s sensibilities that Trvth is something hard and legible and Nebraskan that just so happens to line up splendid conveniently with whichever aesthetic regime his own amygdala-bitch finds smexy / coo.
If Wally B is “Status-Obsessed” it’s because a lot more fundamentally he is EPISTEMICS-OBSESSED and refuses to let obscurantist semiotic anthrax get deployed against his epistemic standing by WASP-AWFL snowvalue orders without pointing out precisely what they’re doing and exactly how it works, even when “It” is only partially conscious and that very shit-eating earnestness is precisely what gives the tactic its power.
I would sooner die a eunuch caked in blood and shit being totalistically scourged like the Omelas Child than ever submit to the AWFL-WASP aesthetic order of flattened photonegative obligate-autogaslighting snowvalues.
But my preference, clearly, will eternally be to secure the dignity of an orthogonal aesthetic order in Waltine Lakevalues—except unlike the rest of you chodes I won’t try to fight the AWFLs with FEMINISM BAD essays that don’t add anything to what your eighth grandpa would have said on the matter.
Because before I was in polemics I was in job stacking—
and before job stacking I was in consulting—
and before that I was in Disney Women.
And whichever costume I might be wearing at the time, I’ll always be a performer.
And performance, recall, is neither Trvth nor Fraud;
though there are times when that third thing can’t exactly be called Play, either.
I’m leaving Orlando.
I certainly will miss the place—clearly I’m far too much the sentimentalist not to.
I’ll miss the women, the rumination, the melodramatic high and lows, the hypomanic rejuvenative frames, the sitting around in a desiccated frame trying to aestheticize dysfunction, that glorious feeling of rubbing my balls on someone’s face, that self-pitying moralistic fury of getting someone else’s balls rubbed on my face, the warmth of single mom sphincter and vanilla-skin taste of Disney princess soles, the zero state income tax, The Aspire, that movie theater across from Solaire I used to take my girls that I had secks with, my four plate deadlift, my $45 oxtail uber eats, blowjobs during Zoom calls, the gay guys who tell you your shoe’s untied with a dehumanizing evil fag smirk, the pirate dinner theater I took Mara in 2021, the black police woman who said I had a nice ass in 2021, my Italian New York Boomer lady barber of 4 years (don’t know her name), the reader’s amygdala, and above all Lake Eola.
It’s been a wild couple loops, frens; I hope at least you’ve liked the ride along the way.
And if you haven’t? Then I guess there isn’t much that’s left to say to you, but
Have a magical day!
—
Damn this was long but very interesting. Keep writing, you’re talented
Aw, you livin' in Orlando would be one of the nicest things I had to say about it. I hope the next stop is fun.