Thursday, June 6, 2019

Pierwalker Log: June 6, 2019

Writing start: 9:37 A.M.
Finish: 2:41 P.M.
Total new words (est.): 0
Edited (est.): 13800
Tasks

1. Failure: Read-through of chapter twenty-six

2. Book Three Melody: Read-through of chapter sixteen

3. Angel: Book Three: Fifth primary edit of chapter two

4. Random Chance Book Two: Off till 6/10

5. Port Story: Read-through of chapter two

6. Hidden Bookmarks: Fourth primary edit of chapter one

7. Rumpel: Read-through of chapter four

8. Zelena (Secondary Edit One): Off till 6/15

Special Projects: None today

Extra notes: There is a difference between a book blog and an author blog. This is an author blog, and it's the best one on the Web.

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I had many errands to run yesterday, including getting a haircut, so I basically took a day off. I needed it.

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We're watching the final season of Person of Interest. The series has gotten better and better over time, which doesn't happen often with television series, or stories in general, or albums, and probably a hundred other artforms. If you haven't watched it, start today. It's awesome.

Another series we just started is Good Omens. It's based on the excellent novel by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, which we've read. We're two episodes in. So far it's been really good.

We're on the third re-watch of Cobra Kai, and probably the fifteenth of Pushing Daisies. Pushing Daisies is my go-to series when I'm feeling down. I'm not feeling down today; but it still sounds good for later tonight.

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Forty percent (at least) of the Internet is now fake, and the number is swiftly rising. I am not surprised in the least. The reason why is forty percent (at the very least) of humanity is fake, and that number is rising even more swiftly.

The Internet is people. Bots and the like are created by people. They don't come out of nowhere. This is the fakest, the most plastic, the most inauthentic age in human history--despite all those car commercials and deodorant commercials and prescription drug commercials and the white-lighty self-help industry screaming, shouting, foaming, frothing, texting the advice to Be authentic! around. Or because of them.

How many of my daily pageviews are fake? It follows that at least forty percent of them are. But to me the bigger question is: How many of my actual human visitors are fake? That number seems much higher. Truly authentic souls are difficult to find in the best of circumstances. Most of you aren't even aware that you're unaware. Or worse: you are aware, but you just don't care.

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I've been jumping on folks' tits for a few weeks now. I've accused you; I've insulted you; I've called you names. (I sound like Johnny Lawrence!) I don't apologize for any of it. I wonder how many of you are mere consumers of this blog; how many of you couldn't give a rat's ass about it but visit it anyway to gank fractal art or to waste some time; how many of you are so inured by your circumstances that you couldn't tell your asshole from your elbow; how many of you sit placidly and vacantly in the great landfill that was once this world and medicate yourself a dozen ways to Sunday that you're being slowly smothered and baked by it.

You're what I call the Vacuum, and I couldn't give a shit if you visit this blog or read my books or not. You're as fake as the bots who hit them. That should make you blink once or twice or a dozen times and maybe come a little to yourself, but it won't. It's quite doubtful in fact that you've even read this far, or if you even read my Pierwalker Logs.

I grew up with fake people. Every single girl I dated until 2008 was fake. Until 2000, I did everything I could to be fake too, to fit in, to shut off my conscience, get a mortgage and a car and a little wifey and a place out in the 'burbs, and play along like all the other kids.

The past nineteen years have been a mortal battle extricating myself from that lifestyle and its toxic philosophies, religions, and, most importantly, people. It has put me on a lonely path.

But it's an authentic one; and I'd rather die than leave it.

You go back to your fake existence, where you can pretend those in your life are genuine, where you can pretend that they give any kind of authentic shit about you. You go on.

I've got work to do. Real work.

This blog is as real as a heart attack, motherfucker.


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