36 Day Fast from All-Things Goony

You too can have BPD, all you need is to believe in these dumb assed things too hard. 

You know, because everyone with a beard and muscle is a paragon of genius. And if you wear glasses, you're that crying angry guy. Glasses make you a total spaz...right?

Stupid. So. So. Stupid.

Okay, let's begin. 

That title makes it sound like I was out to tear my pecker off. Twice a week is hardly that. For a single man, that’s actually pretty disciplined. Most people think all single men at my age do is stink up their rooms with porn musk. Gooning—and I’m not a Rotter—this is the one word from that ridiculous nonsense that actually hits home—it means more to spin your wheels than it means to masturbate. Couch Potatoes are Gooners, in this theory. Choosing to be based (fuck you, I’m not doing shit or changing my thinking, I don’t care if it’s good for me or not) is a form of Gooning. Over-posting (and adopting as personal philosophy) stupid memes is Gooning. Doomscroling is Gooning. Joining a fanatical cult is also Gooning. You get the idea. Also—this thesis is not my work, a lot of my comes from another blogger known as Cuckfucius, and you should check him out,  although I'm fairly certain his endgame is to create more Chads. Still, the words are good—I know nothing about the person writing them.

This is to strengthen my Aura, not to satisfy some snarky jerk who makes memes and doesn’t like the poor in spirit. No one wants to help those types. They’d rather those folks just inherited the Earth, and I don’t mean by coming into their power upon it. If I can help myself, I’d like to help the poor in spirit, for I am that, and no one else seems to want to.

They’d rather just kill us. I truly believe that. I think the Normals would be more than happy if the MAGA crew rounded up all the unemployed people in front of a mass grave and began firing. If you’re a Normal and you read this and get offended, have you ever looked at your own reflection? I don’t mean in the mirror. What do you smell when you comment about what you call “Losers”? Blood, I bet. I know when I get trapped in a narcissistic loop, I smell copper. Do you? Also, how must I feel about you're doing this? See, that matters too. Everyone who is alive matters, not just who you THINK matters. 

After editing twelve anthologies and curating two more, writing songs, putting some out, and drawing, I’ve learned that what is needed, regardless of the Normals bullshit rhetoric, isn’t to work every single second of every single day, and it for damn sure isn't to walk The Path of Meme.

This is not the first time I’ve toyed with this process, but it’s the first time I’ve done it with focus. I didn’t touch myself in jail—most of the guys did, I have a really funny story about it that I might tell one day, but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t bring myself to do that while surrounded by some 60 cutthroats. For the years I was homeless, I barely did it (sorry, memers, but not all homeless folks are public gooners). You can tell I’m a bit pissed at the meme brigade. I’d say the average IQ among them is hovering at around 17. Clever is not intelligent. People forget that.

And in jail, you don’t get a phone to play with. That happens in prison, where I have not been. For the 6 months I was inside, I had no social media—but did I really notice?

Also, I don’t hate memes. I enjoy them quite a bit as entertainment. When they’re about birds, dogs, cats, crazy weather, unavoidable crappy days and the like, I enjoy them quite a bit. The silly occult humor ones are funny, too, when they talk about silly crap that happens on one’s journey.. But many people use the malicious ones to build their persona. If you want to know if you’re doing that, ask yourself how often you repeat what you see and learn from insulting memes. Do you adopt the slang in them? Do you think everyone with glasses is Soyjack? Do you think Chad is the Paragon of Modern Man? Do you think men under 6 feet are cockroaches? Is testosterone poison? Are men the only creatures on the planet who can do evil? Do you think all women are promiscuous? Do you think anyone who has a keen understanding of the uglier things in the world is a wallflower? Would you dance with your head in the sand until the nukes drop? Are you enjoying the promotion of the hyperinflation of the masculine war energy in the human, most markedly women? Do you think testosterone is poison? Do you think everyone who is in touch with their emotions is a snowflake waste of space?

If so, you just might be getting your internal philosophy from malicious memes. You may find yourself just waiting to strike throughout your day. Just waiting for a person to say something stupid so you can hit them with a one-liner from a meme. Or to make a silly mistake so you can compare them to one. This is a lazy intellect. I don’t care how many hours a week you labor, I don’t care how highly trained you are (and really, if you’re training a martial art, unless you have a narcissistic jock dickswinger douchebag of a McSensei, you’re not doing this), this mode of persona building reflects a lazy intellect. Period. Maybe a break from the pukeworthy pop culture (and it is—it promotes nothing but division and greed) is needed. Now, let me close by saying I am guilty of this.

Speaking of snowflakes—there’s going to be a blog about the internal water and what snowflakes, so to speak, mean to it, and why those snowflakes are hell of a lot stronger than anyone cares to believe.

This process is about building Aura. What is in it, what emanates from it, and how you and others react to these magnetics. Aura doesn’t build through ease.

Quickly: Houston. 3 years. Little York and Eastex. East Aldine. Airline and 45. Kashmir Gardens. In Reno, I did the shelter thing. And yes, it’s a HUGE difference. And yes, Houston is just as fucked as the reels say.

On the street, you’re doing so many drugs that you can’t build Aura. What aura you may build will likely be burned out in a fight, because those happen to you every day if you’re truly homeless—we’re not talking the shelter or the car, we’re talking using shopping carts and rebar and duct tape to build a Mad Max fortress under a bridge—you’re fighting damn near every single day. Speed can make you feel like you have a big, strong aura, but it’s the old story of the bright-burning candle. Then there’s the opioids, which cause your aura to suck into itself if overused. This can be advantageous because it makes you like a ghost—mostly invisible, lurking along the streets of the ghetto at night, a scrawny white boy that only the Man could see. It does work.

Therefore, I must do it now, in an organized manner. I began on 6-20-25.

I also organized my alchemical process anew that day. Now, it’s more organized. I was, before,  just kind of doing shit as it came. Curating anthologies. Editing them. Getting a bit of musical equipment, and some art supplies, then trying to make all of that work, head-down, work on full o-holic. Working out hard—trying to rebuild the muscle all the street drugs took from me. From 6 feet and 140 to 177 (obese) and then back down to 154 (leaning up), I had surgery on my left hip, after—time to pull out the atrophy. I’ll explain my hip another time, let’s just say never get hit by a car and then sleep on concrete for 2 years. I had a split ball joint and a chink in my hip. How did I do it? Opioids. They heal bone, according to my surgeon. Because I didn’t know either! This is not an argument for dope, it’s merely a thing that is true.

(What I wasn't doing was flooding social media with my face in the hopes of making a buck. I think I ought to have, and may try after this is al over.)

I made a joke the other day in which I pretended to bag a fellow occultist about his process. I was really bagging myself. I had the dusty altar, the illegible journal, all of that. Not anymore. I took care of all of that before the 20^th.

I have meditated and done yoga for a few years now, but again, it was disorganized. I was not getting up and doing it quickly—I would get up and sit with coffee, trying to drink away the cortisol and depression, and try to write or read. After a couple of hours of that, I’d stretch and work out. I thought I was doing very well except for the way I woke up in the morning.

Well, eventually the exercise will catch up and—

Sadly, no. It won’t. Not without building a strong aura. For that you need Shakti, and you can only get that through denial of impulse. Any time you don’t do a thing you want to do or are compelled by internal process to do, you get Shakti. Life force. People will tell you, and I’ve also heard (and believed) that regular masturbation keeps a man sane when he’s single. I’ve also heard that some men grow from that and…how can that be?

What I noticed is that it does the exact opposite, at least to me. I won’t go into great detail, but I began noticing I feel like the world’s biggest loser if I do that shit. Don’t take this the wrong way, this is a thing in me, if you are doing that—no judgment. 

If you're feeling froggy, take a walk. You can't fight me. It's the fucking internet. Get over yourself.

If you're poor in spirit, don't know what to do, feel like everyone hates you, that everyone just insults you and fights you all the time and there's just no hope or will to try, you have a friend in me. I don't care if I become a billionaire. I will never hate the poor in spirit. Fucking three times shame on those who do.

Follow along for a while, and maybe you’ll decide to try this process yourself. For some, perhaps a good goon session does help them stay on target, live longer, whatever, but that’s not what’s going to happen to me. Anything that makes you feel like shit afterward, you shouldn’t do.

I’ve found so far that I don’t really care about sex that much anymore. I certainly used to. I used to think that a single man was worthy of the utmost in ridicule, and those who engaged in relationships that involved more than sex were out of their minds. I don’t need it like that. You have doctors (mostly children—the last person I saw say this was maybe 26, regardless of his PhD—when you’re 47, 26 is a child) saying that SEX IS NEEDED—bullshit.

It's kind of a predatory belief, like there's some crawling need. There isn't. 

Too much sex need will give you a Mo-Glo, but we’ll talk about that in another blog.

That’s a lot of explanation, I’ll try to wrap this up. With a clean, organized heirloom altar, with an organized ritual in place, I have begun this sun-based process of self-denial. No social media. No hand relief. No interaction with anyone who isn’t family. I am cut completely off, it’ll be just me and my Substack for 32 more days at the very least. It may be more. We will just have to see.

I expect to lose acquaintances. It’s a chance you take.

36 days to strengthen aura—to solidify merkaba—all things I’ll talk about as we go.

After only 4 days, I do feel different. This is strange, because I expected to have to go at least nine before I felt any different. Meditation as close to right away in the morning as I can get it, in silence. Five minutes, then yoga to stretch out my knees and psoas, which are eaten up with arthritis. I do it anyway. Oh yeah, it hurts like hell. So what?  In the afternoon, there is another meditation, this one with chanting and frequency. In between, circuit training—dips, prone pull-ups (I have a cockeye elbow, a story for another time), pushups, lunges, squats, ab-twists, leg lifts, clams, and some tai chi. Study of psychology, this time from a different approach—I’ve studied Robert Moore an some of the other Jungians, also Jung, a wee bit of Freud and Adler so I know how the squares think (Freud and Adler are for the normal person—a but cut and dried, hint of BPD, that black and white Archie Bunker thinking—it’s in Freud and Adler much more than Jung—before Jung realized what a coked-up douche Freud was, you’ll see an overlap in their work—these are the things I’m going to talk about here as I journey.

4 days. Better energy. More pineal activation—I see the light, the symbols. The kundalini serpent uncoils faster…more to be talked about later, this, and so much more. If you want to know more, follow along—I’ll be writing.