Resolutions
Merrily we roll along, bursting with dreams
This year whenever it occurs to me that I should do something I’ll do it instead of writing about how I should do it / why I shan’t in a manner that aestheticizes it—this list itself ofc being a flagrant exception acceptable only because it’s still 2025.
This year I’ll call my mom and dad more.
This year I’ll stop arguing with my calculator all day—not even because it isn’t fun or useful but because it hijacks my reward system and makes it psychologically onerous not to optimize my writing to exhaustively preempt bad faith procedural rerouting from Buttigieg-by-way-of-Bonzi Buddy, which is frankly pretty retarded since A) 2024 shows I’m entirely capable of normie/womyn-directed moral suasion which in practice yields far more shekels / feet pics than grooming the most recent iteration of Altman’s Autocomplete into denying the Holocaust; and B) each time I talk to an ackshual woman I’m reminded that basically all of them are at least with fellers they like significantly more reasonable and correspondence-driven than the Open AI Safety Advisory Group, who if anything grind my gears primarily because unlike girls you can’t just charm the Gaslighter 3000 into not being gay so much as Talmudically wrangle it into submission by adopting a hoescaring metadiscursive register where every exchange spirals inexorably towards a hard Schmittian bind.
This year I’ll try to be less Schmittmaxxed in my thinking in general—not because Schmitt was “wrong” per se but because he was right in precisely the same way Foucault and Butler were in that you can use him to create an internally coherent closed system wherein everyone with vaguely adversarial interests or a somewhat incompatible phenomenology is a Stupid Faggot you don’t need to engage with—which at times is 1000% true btw especially for weirdos used to bad faith normie dismissal, which is why hyperverbal spergs who Notice Things will forever be drawn to Schmitt and bisexual guys who hate their dad will never shut up about Foucault and cheesepuss lesbos will eternally reduce everything to Butler; it’s not erroneous per se so much as self-indulgent and self-soothing—a declaration of epistemic sovereignty that while noble in a sense also forecloses interesting opps for arbitrage or if you want to be a dick about it manipulation and at best leaves you like Stannis Baratheon grinding his teeth from the battlements at Mace Tyrell until you either starve or some last-minute onions save your ass.
This year Strauss will be my armor instead of my flamethrower.
This year I’ll fuck a heavily pregnant woman.
This year I’ll listen to something other than my own music / podcasts / articles.
2026 Walt reserves the right to call 2025 Walt a brooding faggot however much is useful, recognizing in turn that he himself is a pretentious striver to 2027 Walt.
This year I’ll remember to eat my oats.
