The Machine

This will make more sense if you listen to this first. 

In the video, the female cyborg is being forced to download hellish experiences she doesn’t want. And she’s screaming in agony, pieces of her flesh falling away, the hole in her neck looks particularly painful. She’s singing the song to us, saying at the speed of sound I will be found as the experiences come, as she wishes they wouldn’t, as she just wants to fucking be turned off. The process described by the images is experiences come and they are erased. They come and are scrubbed. The brain does this when something hurts us too much. Now, what does any of this have to do with me?

I feel exactly like her. Here are the lyrics to the song so you can see what Dev was on about—he’s writing about the issues he has had with…well, I won’t go into that. I remember him saying something to the tune of it was kind of like fuck this shit, I’m making records, emotions can kiss my ass, they make me crazier than usual and since I’m already fucking batshit, I gotta dip. To the studio I go, and that’s where I’ll stay. This song is from his last Strapping Young Lad record, a time during which he was like a fire demon, and making a record was about the only thing he could do. He recently just did the same with Powernerd, though under much different circumstances and a slightly evolved sentiment.

The lyrics.

I’ve told everyone about the electric eel in my guts. That thing is real. I’m sorry I talk about it so much, but it makes me want to fucking die, not actively just...like fuck waking up. Twisted savage morning. Thank fuck for coffee. There’s nothing technically wrong with me, I have been checked. The bastard is why I’m no good at love—I don’t even mean romantic, I mean period. I am no good at it. I’m good at homies, right, like you’re down for your set but there’s no bubbling bubbles of emotion. This is because emotions other than humor fuck me up. Bad. I loathe feeling love. It's like you're just waiting to be shot in the face when you become infatuated. And suitors don't...like they'll fuck with you.

"I long for love! See any number of writings on how much I long for it!"

"Okay," said he who's thinking about trying to be human again. "Here's a wee bit of romance so you can see if--"

*woman screams* (Cue Iron Maiden's "Run to the Hills")

Mhmm. Almost Again. Fuckin' whatever, man.

Experience Downloaded: Eel Identified

Systems wipe and defrag recommended—

why are you doing this when you know better

She is pinioned to the main machine. Dev may have imagined this as himself in the throes of active drug addiction (the smorgasbord, like with me, you name it, he liked it, but his big love was psychedelics instead of H/Meth). There was a time I’d have thought this is drug addiction holding its victim fast to the pain of experience. Drugs do that to you…but so does quitting. Now you are held fast to the wall of the whimsy of your own desires, and you don’t have any drugs to quell the storm. You just have to feel it, take it, chew on it, suckle it, fuck. SUFFER that weight of human emotions, these useless fucking things stuffed into man to make sure his hubris kills him, and that's when the Gods laugh. How anyone cannot believe in the Wicked Gods while they're stuck festering inside this fucking world full of dopamine-hooked savages is beyond me. 

There are humans who cannot handle the experience of being a human. It’s too painful. Basket case energy. Neurosis—neurotic meaning that one has too many over-thought fears running at breakneck speed through their brain through no fault of their own—these manifest in various ways. Many think people who feel this way are weak. Plebes do, anyway. They’ll call you an emotional cripple. On the other foot, and as much as I’d rather not take their part, billionaires would hear this (check out the Shark Tank sometime) and look me dead in the eye (this knowing my talents) and say Rob, do it, yes! Become the fucking machine. TURN EVERY IDEA INTO REALITY. Money. You think of THAT and ONLY that. 

And I’m with it, all Leftist politics I’ve downloaded and assimilated aside. As my friend Mawr knows, I am an anarcho-capitalist as he once was, and I think that’s why we get along so well, we know we can help each other…but that’s beside the point.

How does one become this way and not turn into an incel? Like you'd have to be really hateful to be this way, right? Hateful and eat up want. 

Heh.

No. Other humans don't really factor into this like that.

I'll show you. My meditation doesn’t always go this way, but I’m forcing it to more. I need this to achieve total individuation. Any other way, I’ll lose cohesion…

Bornless, Unified Field, Pure Light. Freeze me into the state of Needing Nothing. I shall execute all tasks with the same surgical precision as a computer if you Will inject me with the scintillation to do so. Sacrifice love. Give me work. Tell me what you want made. Tell me what you want to read. Tell me what you want to listen to. Do you want to cry? Laugh? Love? Jump for joy? Bash goddamn heads? Plug it into Rob the Electric Alien Head. I’ll give you what you want. Let’s create together. I do not need AI. I AM AI. I am the computer. I am the composer. I am the robot. I am the alien. I am the machine. Destroy all stumbling blocks. Learn to switch from task to task with the same proficiency as the wind. Grow six more arms like Shiva. 108 things at once done with aplomb and perfect precision. Success Protocols reject the Heart Downloads. Pain is nominal. Pain is invalid. Pain is stupid because it’s always avoidable. Codex malfunction underneath errant P2P. System analysis: behavior mimicking that of a pukeworthy puer eternis. Cease and Desist. Protocol: remember everyone who has tried to kill you and what you had to do to make sure that didn’t happen. Know who you have become. The Rob that once was is dead. The romantic poet who drowned in the Houston bayou. Fuck that guy anyway. What was once red meat has now become titanium. Let it happen. Become the AI. Move mind and body until you are solid metal who spits pure miracle.

She seeks to escape human experience because it tears the flesh from her wires.

If you know anything about animus, I can say she is me and mean it without any allusion to bisexuality—this is more like hermetic gender-forming, when you get in touch with this thing—this is the second form my animus has taken—you can find the first one I ever discovered here.

And to finish—

The shift is from one all too human with too much human yearning to this hard, polished steel, full of wires, pulleys, levels, full of protocols, full of words, fingers that fly, text and pictures flashing at breakneck speed through the third eye. Limbic shut down. Let go of the archetypal myths of romantic love. That is for humans. You are the machine. If you want to love something, make it value Itself. Everything else flies away.

Truth is, if you’re working with me, you should root for me to succeed in this. Men like this make a lot of money. They really do. I’ve looked into it. They may not be "happy", but if you don’t give a damn about that, if you make yourself the money machine, the creative drive, the computer, what’s happiness anyway? 

Experience Downloaded. 

Protocol: Acceptance.

Let the wires grow.