Yeah, it’s a hell of a title. I guess you could say I’m unraveling a bit. Just read the thing to find out more. The Catastrophic Meltdown of a Terrorboric Mass-Production Facility’s Got Nothing on DID.
Xzyruz wrote this one, and it actually has remarkably little to do with DID, and more with hollowness and emotional disorganization. I’m not really sure where the title came from. Really, the idea of a Terrorboric manufacturing facility melting down is weirdly comforting . . . Nuclear disarmament and all that. Just kidding, he’d give anything to watch the entire sky turn to fire.
A meltdown of that scale would light up the entire atmosphere of certain worlds, assuming the composition was correct. But if we remembered how to make Terrorborics, we wouldn’t be here typing this post . . . So of course, we don’t know what ratio that would be, nor what elements react with which ingredients.
My surgery is only a little over a week away, and I’ve done a horrible job at quitting smoking. I can’t really even fathom how I’m going to go through with any of this.
I feel like a prisoner in my own skin, with the world at my fingertips and the starwinds at my back. But then again, somehow it feels like I’m throwing it all away and I’m locked in a prison cell I’ll never get out of. It feels like this song.
I post way too much Iron Maiden. I feel like I’m torturing everyone I know with it. So here, have this instead:
Actually, that wasn’t a terrible choice … There’s more agony there. The Iron Maiden version sounds more like a mournful, empty guy looking back on a life he’ll miss. This version sounds more like an angry maniac wanting to stab everyone around him for fucking with him. It’s got that “blood-drenched wolves in the snow” screaming mania that conveys the mood I’m feeling. Anyways . . .
I don’t even know why I’m getting this surgery. I thought I always wanted it because of the dysphoria and disgust about my human body, but it really is making me feel terrible to think about being vivisected. I’m pretty much convinced I’m going to die or have some horrible catastrophic event happen, so going to the city feels like accepting certain death.
I hardly ever sleep, because I want to experience as much as possible. And I’m emotionally numbed by many things that once would have shocked me. I fucking hate the idea of being made vulnerable like that, and having people I don’t even know cut into me while I’m not even awake. It feels like a cosmic molestation of the soul.
It will be nice to have them gone, because I won’t have to worry about getting cancer, and I won’t have to hear my brain screaming “THIS IS UGLY. THIS IS WRONG” every time I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a window or a mirror.
Original source: https://www.etsy.com/listing/631170850/vintage-60s-vietnam-tour-jacket-when-i || Oddly enough, I traced this classic quote back to a Vietnam-era jacket. Kind of funny to use it out of context . . Those people saw true hell. As a soul veteran of several space wars, I wonder if I could get a pass. I can see the redesign now . . . Instead of Vietnam, just giant gothic letters reading “THE DREAD REACHES OF IGVARMORD” with a galactic map. Then erase “66 77 and just put “6 6 6”.
“When I die I’ll go to heaven, because I’ve spent my time in Hell . . .”
That quote stuck with me since the first day I saw it on tumblr, probably 10 years ago by now. Oh, if only I knew.
It took me so long to get to a point where I stopped being a little bitch and told people to fuck off. I can talk on equal ground with a lot of people I never expected, now. I’m weird, I’m insane, but for whatever reason I can channel some sort of authority and make people shut up and respect me for once. But this whole surgery thing is a great way to fuck that up.
But ironically, I feel like people respect me less for having breasts. I’m honestly confused about what will happen after the surgery with all that. Some people are probably just going to assume I’m a man because of my demeanor. I wonder how that will feel. I don’t mind it, but I wish I didn’t have to go through all this fucked up body horror to get there.
Being born female sucks, especially if you’re a messed up loser like me. For as long as I can remember I’ve pretty much wanted to . . . Well, I won’t get into that. We finally have a post without a trigger warning, so let’s keep it that way! Hoenstly, this should probably have like 10.
But when you’re born female, everything is body horror. Blood and pain are normalized. People behave in a disgusting and degrading manner about it. Men treat you like shit, and if you bite back, they call you a cunt or a bitch. Well, I finally embraced all the black fucking insanity and told everybody like that to fuck off. I am not a human being, and I certainly don’t want to be treated like a “woman”. Fucking stupid, all of it, the way they delineate between it.
My answer for men who don’t get it is always “how the fuck would you like it?” Imagine people thinking you’re weird for not wanting to carry around 15 pounds of extra meat that people just fucking stare at; or acting like you’re childish for thinking it’s disgusting that the only way you can pass on your genes is by serving as a living incubator.
“Natural selection, fucker should be shot.” They should have tattooed that on my forehead from the day I was born.
Hahahahahaha. “If you don’t laugh, you cry. And they won’t cry with you, but they’ll laugh with you.” I stole the first quote from Mr. Eric Harris, and the second from one of the smartest people I ever met: The keeper of the manor at my old workplace.
I’m really depressed and frustrated around 65% of the time because I can’t do any of these things that normal people can do. Finally, since my mom got cancer, some doctors in New York City offered to cut my tits off. But that doesn’t exactly piece you back together again when you’ve spent your whole life feeling like garbage: Like the evolutionary dead end of a dead end at the end of a long, lonely road.
It makes me an apex predator, I guess: Evolved to process things at insane speeds, and to have strange abilities that others lack. I’m free . . . I can do anything I want, but most of what I want is fucking boring.
I hate the idea of never passing on my fucked up genes for some reason. I don’t even know why I care. It’s really strange and has bothered me immensely for a long time, but . . . I don’t even know anymore. I guess if I can live through this surgery I can do anything, but it still makes me sad I would have to go through hell again just to do something that’s so simple for 50% of mankind. I feel like such a loser, having no legacy whatsoever except an unpublished book about some intergalactic war that no one cares about or remembers. And the Wormheart albums, I guess, but same there.
I think I’ve changed quite a few people’s lives through Chaos, or at the very least made them think and question reality. But that still isn’t enough. I want blood, but I don’t want it pouring out from my own body. By far, times a thousand, the most tormenting aspect of this dysphoria I’ve always experienced has been this.
I would trade almost anything to be able to fix that, and to have it easy where you can just fuck someone and walk away. I remember it from other lives. The existential dread I’ve felt from this “role switching” has been immense and horrific.
To all the cis men who don’t understand it, whatever. Imagine it’s you. Think of what it truly entails and tell me again that it’s only natural. If you spent five minutes hung up on it, let alone two decades, you’d be thinking a lot about natural selection too . . . But to all the men, and transwomen, and non-binary people, and even non-humans who DO have empathy, I appreciate that. I honestly find I can identify way more with this crowd than with “normal” women who are just like “: ) Well that’s the way it is, sweetie!”
Doesn’t mean it’s right. It simply “is”. But there is no wrong or right, in the grand scheme. There are only those who end up on the right side, and those with a boot in their face and the odds stacked against them.
Maybe I just need to do what it takes to get anything I want, even if it literally tears me apart. I’m so embarrassed and pissed off that I have to go through this surgery. But maybe in the end I can find something fulfilling that will somehow make it all worth it?
Dethrin’s fucking alarm keeps going off in the other room (I’ve stayed up all night again) and I just turned up Hallowed Be Thy Name instead of getting up to make it stop.
“Is it really the end, or some crazy dream?”
Anyways, go read The Catastrophic Meltdown of a Terrorboric Mass-Production Facility’s Got Nothing on DID.
