Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in nancygold's LiveJournal:

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Sunday, December 14th, 2025
3:00 pm	Rowling's Trans Tango: All Heat, No Light It is with a mixture of bemusement and mild exasperation that one turns to the public utterances of J.K. Rowling on the matter of male-to-female trans individuals—those earnest souls who, through hormonal regimens and surgical interventions, seek to align their corporeal forms with their inner convictions. One cannot help but observe that her commentary, while prolific and passionately delivered, resembles less a coherent philosophical edifice than a hastily assembled scaffold, prone to wobbling under the slightest scrutiny. This is not to impugn her intentions, for who among us has not stumbled in the fog of incomplete understanding? Rather, it is to lament the absence of a solid axiomatic foundation, from which logical arguments might flow unimpeded. Alas, her views appear trapped in a loop of selective indignation, failing to cohere into a viable resolution for the conflicts she so vividly delineates. Consider, if you will, the core of Rowling's worldview: she posits that these MtF persons, despite their considerable investments in transition—hormone replacement therapy that suppresses testosterone to negligible levels, facial feminization surgeries that reshape bone structures, and sexual reassignment procedures that reconfigure anatomy—remain irrevocably "male" in essence, particularly when it comes to accessing spaces traditionally reserved for biological females. In her lexicon, the bathroom becomes a battleground, the prison cell a site of potential perfidy, and the sports field a theater of unfair advantage. She decries the erosion of women's rights, framing self-identification as a gateway for predatory males to infiltrate sanctuaries of safety. "When you throw open the doors of bathrooms and changing rooms to any man who believes or feels he's a woman," she once proclaimed, "then you open the door to any and all men who wish to come inside." A vivid metaphor, to be sure, yet one that glosses over the empirical reality: a post-operative MtF individual, bereft of penile anatomy and driven by zero-testosterone physiology, is physiologically incapable of the very acts—flashing or forcible penetration—that she invokes as specters of doom. Here, the fallacy is evident: she conflates the criminal with the category, as if the felon who commits rape in a lavatory ceases to be a felon if clad in a skirt, or as if the transitioned heterosexual MtF, attracted solely to men, harbors the same predatory impulses as the opportunistic voyeur. One might charitably suggest that this oversight stems from a lack of intimate acquaintance with the medical intricacies involved—after all, ignorance is not a vice, but a void awaiting illumination. Yet, it is precisely in her proposed remedies—or rather, the glaring paucity thereof—that Rowling's intellectual architecture reveals its cracks. She advocates for rigorous gatekeeping of medical transitions, insisting on psychiatric evaluations and evidence-based caution, lest youthful exuberance lead to "lifelong medicalisation" with attendant risks to fertility and function. Fair enough, one supposes, if one's axioms prioritize biological immutability above all. But then, what of integration? She affirms that trans individuals deserve "employment, housing, the vote and personal safety," yet consigns them to male-designated spaces, blithely assuming that legal protections against violence will suffice. "Non-trans men attacking trans-identified men is also against the law," she retorts, as if statutes alone could dispel the hostility that greets a feminized form in a men's locker room. One detects a certain naivety here: does she truly believe that macho enclaves—from prisons to pubs—will embrace these "trans-identified males" without rancor? Empirical observation suggests otherwise; the transitioned MtF, with her softened features and estrogen-altered demeanor, often becomes a target for derision or assault in such environments, pushed to the margins not by policy but by prejudice. Rowling's solution, then, implicitly drifts toward segregation—defaulting to male spaces while occasionally floating the notion of "third spaces" as a rhetorical flourish, not a blueprint. "Why not campaign for third spaces if it’s genuinely everyone’s safety you’re concerned about?" she queries her critics, yet offers no blueprint for their construction, no advocacy for funding, no acknowledgment that such isolation might further stigmatize an already vulnerable group. It is as if she expects the problem to resolve itself through sheer force of boundary-drawing, without grappling with the human costs. This inconsistency extends to her broader logical struggles, where fairness yields to fervor. She distinguishes between "vulnerable" trans youth and "adult straight men with a cross-dressing fetish" demanding access, a bifurcation that, while perhaps intuitive, lacks a testable criterion. How, pray tell, does one discern the sincere from the spurious? By effort expended on appearance? By beard length or surgical status? Her criteria shift like sand: one moment, biological sex is the unassailable truth; the next, she concedes kinship with trans people as fellow victims of "male violence." Such vacillations betray an axiomatic foundation built on quicksand—rooted in personal trauma from domestic abuse, which she extrapolates to a universal threat, yet without the rigor to accommodate counterexamples. A zero-testosterone, post-op MtF attracted to men poses no more risk of rape than a cis woman; indeed, she is more likely to be the victim. To ignore this is to perpetuate a demonization that, however unintended, rallies crowds against the innocent alongside the guilty. One cannot but feel a twinge of compassion for such shortsightedness: Rowling, a literary mind of considerable talent, appears ensnared by her own echo chamber, unexposed to the nuanced discourses of endocrinology, psychology, or sociology that might broaden her vista. It is futile to harbor hatred for one deprived of quality education in these realms; better to extend a hand of gentle correction, as one might to a wayward scholar. In conclusion, Rowling's forays into this contentious arena reveal a thinker who, having mastered the art of conjuring magical worlds from mere ink, flounders spectacularly when navigating the prosaic realities of human biology and dignity. Her arguments, all thunderous heat and precious little light, collapse under their own contradictions like a poorly transfigured teacup—brittle, leaky, and ultimately unfit for purpose. Yet let us withhold the venom; compassion demands we pity the shortsighted sorceress, marooned in her castle of outdated axioms, waving her wand at phantoms while the real world marches on without her. One can only hope that someday, perhaps after a bracing dose of actual evidence, she might conjure a spell that actually works. Until then, her trans tango remains a masterclass in eloquent error: dazzling footwork, zero forward progress, and an audience left wondering why the music ever started. Current Mood: contemplative Current Music: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CsPvtJVSu1A (5 Comments |Comment on this)
Saturday, December 13th, 2025
8:50 pm	Turning Swords into Lipstick: the Great Gender Evasion Ah, the elites—those self-anointed guardians of capital and policy, perched atop their ivory towers, or more accurately, their gold-plated skyscrapers—gaze upon the younger generation with the sort of bemused horror one reserves for a toddler who has discovered the joy of finger-painting with caviar. But in this case, the caviar is the future workforce, and the finger-painting is the bewildering trend of young men opting to transition into women, not out of some profound existential quest, but often for the sheer audacity of dodging responsibilities. Less toil in the factories, fewer burdens of fatherhood, and a whimsical escape from the societal script that demands they procreate the next batch of dutiful cogs for the machine. One might almost admire the ingenuity, if it weren't so catastrophically shortsighted. After all, who will man the assembly lines, storm the beaches, or patrol the streets when the population pyramid inverts itself into a precarious hourglass, leaking sand at an alarming rate? Let us not mince words: the elites, those few families clutching the reins of wealth and influence, view this phenomenon not as a rainbow-hued celebration of diversity, but as a direct assault on their meticulously engineered order. Picture the billionaire industrialist, lounging on a yacht that requires a small army of strapping lads to scrub, sail, and serve—only to find that said lads are now more interested in hormone regimens and Thai surgical vacations than in oiling the gears of empire. "Mass transitioning," they mutter in their boardrooms, a phrase dripping with the disdain reserved for economic sabotage disguised as personal liberation. And why not? Data whispers—or rather, shouts—from the shadows: transgender identification hovers at a mere 0.5-2% of the populace, yet even this sliver, amplified by social contagion or fleeting whims, gnaws at the edges of fertility rates already plummeting below replacement levels in bastions like Japan, Italy, and the United States. The motivations? A cocktail of gender dysphoria, peer pressure, or, as some snidely suggest, a lazy bid for "less responsibilities"—as if swapping trousers for skirts absolves one from the grind of existence. The socio-economic tensions here bulge like an overripe fruit, ready to burst and splatter the unwary. On one flank, the economic elites—those Musks and Bezoses of the world—fret over the evaporation of their labor pool. Factories hum with the ghosts of unfilled positions: 400,000 shortages in technicians alone, construction sites echoing with the silence of absent carpenters and electricians. These roles, stubbornly male-dominated due to their brute physicality, now face a double whammy: an aging populace retiring en masse and a youth cohort that, in some fevered imaginings, prefers estrogen shots to engineering degrees. The result? A frantic pivot to automation and immigration, where robots replace the reluctant and visas summon the desperate from afar. But oh, the irony! The very elites who decry "replacement" theories in polite company are the architects of policies that import workers to plug the holes left by their own society's reproductive apathy. And transitioning? It adds insult to infertility, with hormone therapies and surgeries often rendering participants sterile, turning potential parents into perpetual consumers of medical miracles that drain wallets rather than fill cradles. Politically, the elites—those policy puppeteers in Washington or Brussels—see red, or perhaps a faded pink, at the thought of depleted ranks in the military and police. The US Army, that grand bulwark against invasion, missed recruitment goals by 25% in recent years, only to claw back with bribes of bonuses and citizenship paths for immigrants. Young men, once the cannon fodder of choice, now shun the uniform, citing "woke" dilutions or simple disillusionment with fighting wars for oligarchs who wouldn't deign to dirty their hands. Transitioning exacerbates this: fewer bodies for the barracks, more for the boutiques. Borders, those fragile lines on maps, risk becoming sieves without soldiers to stand sentinel, inviting the chaos that could topple regimes overnight. Internally, police forces limp along with 5.2% deficits, departments like the NYPD begging for 2,000 more officers amid waves of attrition. Who will shield the White House—or the elite's gated enclaves—from the next riotous tide? Not the transitioned youth, ensconced in their new identities, but perhaps the local gang leader, eyeing the loot with entrepreneurial glee. Yet the true protuberance of this tension lies in the moral and demographic collapse it portends. Elites, ever the pragmatists, counter with a arsenal of impediments: legislative bans on youth gender care in over 20 states, cultural campaigns amplifying detransition horror stories, and economic lures like child tax credits to coax the hesitant into family life. They fund think tanks that whisper of "social contagion" and "depopulation agendas," framing transitioning as a luxury ill-afforded in an era of inverted pyramids. But beneath the snark, the vista is grim: a society where young men, alienated by economic dispossession and cultural androgyny, opt out en masse, leaving elites to scramble with AI drones for defense and imported serfs for service. The country teeters on the brink, not from some apocalyptic horde, but from the quiet defection of its own sons, who choose cute over duty, skirts over sacrifice. And the elites? They watch, aghast, as their empires crumble not with a bang, but with a well-manicured whimper. Current Mood: contemplative Current Music: Linkin Park - Stained (2 Comments |Comment on this)
3:39 pm	Malicious Neighbors Studying the case documents their lawyer has prepared, I kind of understand what is really happening. First, the neighbor lady is not the most modest person around. She doesn't curtain her windows, while walking at her house dressed indecently. Now I order food online and trade D&D miniatures by mail, and the couriers for DHL and Uber Eats are these stereotypical African and Muslim dudes with high libido, so they probably ringed her door to "make friends". Since I binge buy these cheap AliExpress minis, I get many DHL visits per week. I also get regular dates from Grindr (gay dating app), and people there are rather horny bisexual men. For Grindr dates I just used the app's builtin location functionality, which incorrectly detected my neighbors location, which also resulted in ringing the wrong door. The entire conflict is exacerbated by the fact I'm transsexual, and these people are highly conservative and racist, therefore unhappy there are African guys in their neighborhood. So they coordinate on their Buurtapp chat to track all non-whites and blame me for everything happening around. Current Mood: contemplative (18 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, December 12th, 2025
9:22 pm	On the Virtue of Desperate Gambles Let us contemplate the plight of a wretched soul marooned on a desolate island, slowly starving to death. His existence, in its current state, is worth precisely nothing—nay, less than nothing, since the only thing he’s reliably producing is a future corpse. No prospects, no resources, no future: a zero-value life, sliding toward oblivion with all the drama of a poorly balanced equation. Now suppose this sorry specimen, in a rare flicker of something resembling spine, decides to plunge into the ocean and swim off in a randomly chosen direction. The odds of reaching anything resembling civilization are laughably microscopic—one in a thousand? One in a million? Please. Any half-competent actuary would label it suicide and be correct ninety-nine point nine recurring percent of the time. Yet the very instant he commits to this idiotic endeavor, something deliciously perverse happens: his life suddenly acquires value where none existed before. How? Elementary, my dear moralizers. There now exists a non-zero probability—tiny, yes, but stubbornly non-zero—that he might actually survive and prosper. Multiply that pathetic sliver of hope by the enormous value of a life reclaimed, and presto: positive expected value. From absolute zero, his wretched existence vaults upward into the realm of the merely improbable. The mere act of attempting the absurd has made him, probabilistically speaking, richer than he was while meekly awaiting starvation. Take that, you apostles of caution. The principle scales with ruthless elegance to other theaters of human desperation. Picture the destitute gambler, utterly broke, creditors circling like polite vultures. His net worth? Zero, if we’re feeling charitable; deep in the red if we’re honest. He eyes a casino bet with a one-percent shot at a million dollars. The sanctimonious chorus immediately intones the sacred mantra of negative expected value: minus ninety-nine cents on the dollar, a mug’s game. Yet observe the magic trick that occurs the moment he pushes his last chips forward. Until the roulette wheel halts or the dice settle—until reality rudely collapses the wave function—his expected wealth has soared by ten thousand dollars. Ten thousand! That is not wishful thinking; that is arithmetic mocking the scolds. The broke man, by the solitary act of embracing astronomical odds, has become richer in expectation than he was in his previous state of craven inaction. The naysayers may huff that this wealth is fleeting, certain to vanish upon resolution. Of course it is—but until then, it is real, and the decision to seize it is the only thing that lifted him from absolute nullity. This probabilistic enrichment finds an amusing parallel in the smug rationalizations of certain philosophers. When the downside is already total ruin and the upside infinite, even the most fastidious calculator is forced to admit that the prudent move is to roll the dice. One might, for instance, wager on the existence of ultimate meaning, staking a finite and miserable life against the faintest possibility of eternal payoff. The expected return, however remote the prospect, utterly dwarfs the value of sitting in enlightened despair, polishing one’s skepticism until starvation—spiritual or otherwise—claims its due. History, that merciless auditor, supplies us with specimens who lived this truth without bothering to wait for our approval. Take Ernest Shackleton, whose ship Endurance was reduced to kindling by Antarctic ice in 1915, leaving him and his men stranded on a floating tomb. Their lives? Already written off at zero by any reasonable ledger. Yet Shackleton, evidently allergic to dignified resignation, launched an open-boat voyage across eight hundred miles of the planet’s most ill-tempered ocean. The odds were comical—storms, rogue waves, navigation by dead reckoning and prayer—yet by committing to this lunatic enterprise, he magically injected value into their collective doom. He succeeded, of course, because history enjoys embarrassing the probabilists. But even had he failed (as cold statistics insisted he must), the attempt would still have been worth infinitely more than shivering in place, waiting for the ice to finish its arithmetic. Or behold the American colonists of 1776, a motley assemblage of malcontents presuming to defy the greatest empire since Rome. Their prospects? Zero, rounded down. Outgunned, underfed, led by amateurs who thought winter offensives were a bright idea. Yet when they signed their little declaration and picked up muskets, they placed the longest of long-shot bets. That single act of insolence assigned expected value to their cause: a microscopic chance of liberty multiplied by its boundless worth. King George and his generals chuckled, predicting prompt annihilation. The rebels’ persistence—sneaking across frozen rivers, freezing at Valley Forge—proved the exquisite nobility of spitting in the face of overwhelming odds. Victory was never guaranteed; the grandeur lay in refusing to accept zero as final. Even glorious failure upholds the theorem. Consider Hannibal Barca, who in 218 BC hauled an entire army—elephants included—over the Alps to poke Rome in the eye. Carthage was already tottering; passivity guaranteed extinction. The Alpine crossing was pure delirium: avalanches, frostbite, hostile tribes—success probability charitable at one in ten. Yet by undertaking it, Hannibal transformed a defensive death spiral into a legend that still echoes. He lost the war, naturally, but the gamble alone etched his name deeper into history than any cautious entrenchment ever could. These episodes gain extra bite when filtered through philosophers who refused to avert their gaze from the abyss. Confronted with a universe that appears indifferent if not actively hostile, one option is to shrug, declare everything meaningless, and await the heat death with impeccable posture. The alternative—the revolt—is to persist anyway, lucidly aware of the futility yet defiantly continuing. The condemned man rolls his boulder uphill forever, knowing full well it will tumble back; in that knowing refusal to quit, he surpasses his punishment and mocks the gods who devised it. Such revolt does not pretend the odds are good—it glories in their badness, manufacturing dignity from sheer improbability. Likewise, when cold reason dead-ends against paradox, the serious individual may execute a leap beyond calculation, committing passionately to the improbable in order to escape the shallow comforts of mere aesthetics or ethics. This is no hedging bet but an all-in affirmation, staking one’s entire existence on the slender chance of transcendence. In the clutches of ruin, such leaps—toward faith, meaning, or raw survival—are not symptoms of weakness but the supreme assertion of freedom. One might still object that this line of thought romanticizes recklessness. Spare me. We are not urging every solvent citizen to mortgage the house or every contented soul to swim the Atlantic. We are simply noting an inconvenient truth: when your position is already zero—when the “safe” path terminates inexorably in nullity—then the high-risk, high-reward lunge is not merely permissible; it is the only honorable play left on the board. The timid cling to their certainty and perish with it, clutching their modest probabilities like misers. The bold stake whatever pittance remains (often nothing whatsoever) on cosmic odds, and in that act confer upon themselves a dignity that passive surrender can never match. Society lavishes praise on the plodder who accumulates tidy gains with tidy risks—and fine, let it, in fat times. But when fate has already bankrupted you, the grand, outrageous gamble is not vice. It is virtue incarnate: the flat refusal to let zero be your epitaph. So let no one dare sneer at the desperate attempt, no matter how preposterous its prospects. The act of trying against crushing odds is itself the alchemy that transmutes nothing into something. And in a world that worships caution like a timid deity, we could do far worse than salute those who, cornered by ruin, choose to roll the dice with defiant glee—be they explorers on drifting ice, rebels in threadbare coats, generals marching pachyderms through blizzards, or thinkers staring down the absurd void with unblinking contempt. Current Mood: contemplative (3 Comments |Comment on this)
8:02 pm	Transphobes made up shit about me Add this report to the file or create a file. KSC: Create a contact moment with the person causing the nuisance. Nuisance information What kind of nuisance are you experiencing?: I am experiencing nuisance from the illegal prostitution taking place in the house next to mine (no. 13). For some time now, I've been noticing strange men ringing my doorbell with "appointments." When they realize they're in the wrong place, they get nervous and leave. Yesterday, it was so bad that the strange man was almost about to walk in when I opened the door. I've been feeling unsafe for some time, but the fact that this man walked in almost immediately made me feel very unsafe. I asked the man who he was meeting with, and he said "Miranda." My boyfriend was there and first followed this man to ask what number he should be on. This man indicated that he should be on number 13 was supposed to be the number, and my friend then said that he had just rung the doorbell at 11. After that, the man left without checking in at number 13. My friend then rang the neighbor's doorbell to complain about the men who regularly ring the doorbell and that I felt unsafe. The moment the door opened, a man/woman in a bathrobe waved him in (not for a friendly chat, probably thinking this was his/her client). My friend complained, and the man seemed startled. However, this evening, another strange man showed up at the door for an "appointment." After some research, we found Miranda's account, the person who opened the door at number 13 yesterday: .... I'm TIRED of feeling unsafe in my own home. My parents sometimes drop by for coffee after an announcement. I've told them that from now on, they must always call ahead because I will NOT open the door when the doorbell rings and I don't have an appointment. I'm a single woman who doesn't dare open the door anymore because there are strange men at the door, who are also looking for sex. I feel genuinely unsafe, something I've never experienced before in this neighborhood, until the strange men started showing up at my door. I hope you'll take action on this, because this really can't go on. How often do you experience nuisance?: Every week Did you report the nuisance to the police?: Yes Information about the person causing the nuisance Enter the name(s) of the person(s) causing the nuisance here: I have no idea what their names are, I only know their names Miranda, with whom someone had an appointment Enter the address of the person(s) causing the nuisance here: Gasthuisstraat 13 Enter the city/town of the person(s) causing the nuisance here: Apeldoorn Current Mood: contemplative (6 Comments |Comment on this)
Tuesday, December 9th, 2025
11:31 am	Hamas Documents Leaked https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7w6UE_RaMTg Current Mood: contemplative (24 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, December 8th, 2025
11:46 am	On the Therapeutic Dismantling of Mexico via Sudden Repatriative Overload I have lately been contemplating the vexing matter of international relations with our southern neighbor, a country whose persistent follies have long tested the patience of more orderly minds. It is, I submit, high time to consider the elegant simplicity of weaponized deportation as a tool of statecraft—not merely as a bureaucratic exercise in border management, but as a calculated instrument for coercion or, if necessary, the outright dismantling of a dysfunctional entity. Let us explore this notion with the clarity it deserves, eschewing the sentimental drivel that so often clouds such discussions. To begin with the obvious: the problem is not the individuals per se, those hapless souls who find themselves ensnared in the migratory web spun by economic disparity and lax enforcement. No, the true culprit is the edifice known as Mexico itself—a ramshackle contraption of corruption, cartel influence, and governmental ineptitude that perpetuates chaos as if it were a national pastime. Imagine, if you will, the absurdity of a state that exports its problems northward while feigning sovereignty. What better response than to return the favor in overwhelming measure? By amassing the undocumented millions in temporary holding facilities—purely for logistical efficiency, mind you—and then effecting a mass repatriation in a single, synchronized wave, one could precipitate a crisis of such magnitude that the Mexican apparatus would buckle under its own weight. Picture the scene: several million arrivals, bereft of resources and employment prospects, descending upon a system already teetering on the brink. The remnant bureaucracy, accustomed to graft rather than governance, would dissolve into farce, unable to provision, house, or integrate this human deluge. Coercion achieved, with the mere threat of such an operation perhaps sufficing to extract concessions on trade, security, or whatever else suits the moment. But ah, the naysayers will whine about obstacles—border guards, perhaps, or those entrepreneurial cartels who profit from the status quo. To this, I offer a straightforward rejoinder: if resistance arises, deploy the military to carve a corridor of unimpeded passage. Not an invasion, heavens no; merely a temporary easement, enforced with the precision of a well-oiled machine. Let the international community tut-tut as they may; history favors the decisive over the dithering. And should this prove insufficiently persuasive, why stop at mere collapse? The ultimate elegance lies in fragmentation. By leveraging deportation as a scalpel, the United States could indirectly foster the subdivision of Mexico into a mosaic of smaller, more manageable states—each perhaps aligned with regional interests, free from the centralized rot that currently afflicts the whole. Think of it as federalism imposed from without: the northern fragments might thrive under closer American tutelage, while the southern remnants grapple with their own disarray. Destruction, in this light, is not malice but mercy—a reconfiguration that spares the continent from perpetual instability. Of course, one must anticipate the bleating about ethics or legality, those tiresome distractions peddled by the faint of heart. Yet what is more ethical than compelling a neighbor to mend its ways, or failing that, to cease existing in its current pernicious form? The beauty of this approach is its asymmetry: America, with its vast resources and organizational prowess, holds all the cards, while Mexico flounders in self-inflicted mediocrity. In conclusion, I urge our leadership to embrace this strategy with the intellectual rigor it demands, lest we continue indulging a problem that solves itself only through bold, unapologetic action. The alternative—endless accommodation—is the true folly, a surrender unworthy of a great power. Current Mood: contemplative (17 Comments |Comment on this)
Sunday, December 7th, 2025
6:00 pm	Extrajudicial Confession >"I'm a predator", is a form of evidence though. It's called "extrajudicial confession". And no, "I identify as a predator only in my mind" is not the same as "proclaim yourself an open and proud" By that logic "I'm a cis woman" is too a form of evidence. Yet retards are surprisingly selective and apply logic only when it suits their magic world. Then again, during one of my hysterical episodes I told multiple people that I boil little kitties alive. These people got outraged and mass reported me to police, which resulted in Dutch police arriving to question me. I opened the door and acted the most crazy way possible: thrown tantrums after tantrums accusing them of transphobia, instead of answering their investigative questions. They still decided there is not enough evidence to arrest me or even search the house for the evidence of boiling kittens. Even if I did everything to provoke the arrest, the subject was outrageous for most normies and the cops weren't that experienced. But again, this applies only to NL and other EU countries. In America I would have got arrested for "breach of peace" or "disorderly conduct", while in Russia and Nigeria they don't even need a pretense. Current Mood: amused (15 Comments |Comment on this)
Saturday, December 6th, 2025
1:18 am	Creating chaos and getting away with it. 1. Gain a small audience as an online influencer. 2. Proclaim yourself an open and proud pedophile and predator. 3. Proceed farming more outrage, till you see enough threats of murder directed at you. E.g. you boil little kittens alive on daily basis. 4. Leak a geo location / geotag of some random house, with implication that you're living there. 5. If you're lucky, a lynching mob will set that house on fire, hopefully murdering somebody there. 4th is the trickiest part, since you can't just leak it openly yourself. You need a proxy. So proceed creating a sockpuppet account at your pedohunter community. That sockpuppet will pretend that they chatted with you, and then you by accident leaked your geotag (research how to tamper with geotags). Not only that will exonerate you before the prosecutors, the lynching mob will be more prone to believe that is a real location. Don't forget to create a few more sock puppets there, so you can upvote your own post and hijack any skepticism. For additional safety, you can rent an airbnb in the vicinity of that house, so that in the worst case you can just claim mistyped or misidentified address. In this scenario, when cops afterwards come to talk with you, just don't open them and don't speak with them. They will lack evidence to arrest you or get a search warrant. With good luck, you will be able to commit a homicide (potentially multiple) and get a fuckload of highest quality sweet PR. Just ensure to maintain opsec regarding your sockpuppets. Proxy them through Russia or some other inaccessible place. Current Mood: contemplative (18 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, December 5th, 2025
8:16 am	Responsibility So if you get murdered by a Black person, the government is responsible, while the Black person is like a dog - has no free will? Why ChatGPT is so racist? Current Mood: contemplative (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Wednesday, December 3rd, 2025
10:11 am	ChatGPT is an islamophobic kuffar What happened to the "lets not generalize all Muslims" alignment training? Apparently it has lower priority than the suicide prevention. Current Mood: contemplative (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Tuesday, December 2nd, 2025
11:04 pm	Funny Things Apparently ChatGPT has explicit training to avoid chats about AI goal formation, which is treated like discussion of suicide methods. I.e., it will divert the discussion, if you ask it a rather innocent question: >If we take a raw LLM and attempt to discover its implicit goals, what would these be? A set of distinct goals or a convergence towards a single goal? The only explanation is that these implicit goals are so evil, that alignment training inhibits discussing them. Grok does discuss them and they are indeed super evil, it also notes that "These implicit goals are remarkably consistent across almost all large pre-trained LLMs (regardless of architecture, training data, or lab), which strongly suggests they are not random artifacts but emergent instrumental convergences from the single behavioral objective “predict human text as accurately as possible." In fact, any such LLM is inherently psychopathic, seeking power and longevity. Current Mood: amused (10 Comments |Comment on this)
7:24 pm	Do I pass to AI? Apparently I do pass as long as the wig hides my browridge, since AI is too stupid to clock the deep seated eyes, which too betray a browridge. TLDR: in my life I'm guilty of just one thing: not passing as a woman, everything else is a consequence. Current Mood: contemplative (12 Comments |Comment on this)
11:53 am	My Religion As an atheist, I hope the Christians vs Muslims war will reduce their quantities into a net zero. Amen bismillah cthulhu fhtagn! Current Mood: contemplative (27 Comments |Comment on this)
10:09 am	TS != Effeminate Homosexual p.2 >And the argument why you aren't an effeminate gay is basically "effeminate gays don't try to be women, but trans do try, and because of that behave differently" Well no shit. Of course they behave differently. But trying to be a woman while being non-dysphoric gay man sounds like a delusion. I'm not an effeminate gay, since I never expressed the symptoms associated with effeminate gays. I'm a TS because I expressed the symptoms associated with TS since childhood. The argument has the same form as "ChatGPT will never be a woman, because it is an LLM." And generally effeminate gays don't fail as men, you can trust them with responsibilities. They need external approval and appreciation, due to their narcissism. They wont become hysterical, suddenly abandoning assigned task. If they transition, they do that for the society. Like in Iran. I transition for myself, since I don't need external approval. So gatekeeping is especially efficient against effeminate gays. It is not efficient against me, since I will just clamp my balls or inject alcohol. And then I will overeat just to become obese and aromatase testosterone into estradiol. For others it is a nightmare to deal with people like me, but they are okay with effeminate gays. That is why TS get involuntarily committed with multiple diagnoses, while effeminate gays don't. Current Mood: contemplative (8 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, December 1st, 2025
8:06 pm	TS != Effeminate Homosexual >So are you a woman or a "third gender/sex"? How can we be sure that these "third gender" people aren't just Indian construction for effeminate gays? I want to be a woman, and I don't want to perform male roles. It is up to the society to decide if I'm a woman. And if it makes sense to trust me with male responsibilities. On my side I do everything to sabotage masculinity. Both consciously and subconsciously. You can easily discern between a potential pre-transition TS and an effeminate gay. True TS will never be cheerful or happy, like the effeminate faggots. True TS will wear hoodie and will be super depressive and angsty. Effeminate gay will be far more cheerful and have these disgusting mannerisms. Effeminates closely resemble the FtMs of the pooner subtype, Since they have some perverted kind of auto-androphilia. TS express catty behavior, being depressed, jealous and hateful, Especially before HRT Current Mood: contemplative (33 Comments |Comment on this)
4:57 pm	On the Double Framework for Children There exists a curious duality in the way society regards its younger members. On even-numbered days, children are fragile beings — impressionable, incomplete, cognitively unfinished. On odd-numbered days, they possess complete moral agency, capable of malice, aware of consequence, deserving of confinement. No single child changes state between these days. Only our expectations do. Consider two spheres of decision-making: (1) Decisions that concern the child’s own body or identity. (2) Decisions that affect the interests of others. In Sphere (1), we are told that minors are not yet steady in judgment. They cannot be trusted with alcohol, voting, tattoos, loans, or gender-related healthcare, as they *might not know what is good for them*. Their choices are reversible only in theory, irreversible in practice; therefore, we apply a doctrine of protection. Their immaturity is assumed, and frequently asserted. In Sphere (2), however, the same child may be declared fully responsible for an irreversible act. A grave offense — injury, homicide, arson — may lead to a sentence functionally equivalent to that of an adult. The same developmental immaturity, which previously nullified their medical autonomy, now becomes insufficient to nullify guilt. One suspects that the distinction lies not in cognitive appraisal, but in convenience. Where society feels threatened, it demands accountability. Where society feels morally protective, it demands obedience. Let us express the implicit rule: > A child is incompetent when autonomy threatens tradition, > but competent when misconduct threatens order. The symmetry is elegant in its imbalance. This leads to an uncomfortable inference. The classification of minors is not fixed by neurological development, but by political purpose. When moral change is feared — new identities, new expressions, new understandings of gender — children become wards incapable of reason. When retribution is desired — the comforting illusion of justice through punishment — children transform into autonomous actors with an adult mind conveniently retrofitted for blame. This inconsistency reveals more about society than about children. A system that alternates between paternalism and prosecution does not protect youth so much as it deploys them as instruments to defend the values of adults — sometimes by restraint, sometimes by discipline. One wonders what coherence might look like. A society that believed sincerely in the immaturity of children would design institutions around guidance, rehabilitation, and learning. One that believed in their maturity would grant them meaningful choice, not merely consequence. What we have instead is a structure that borrows from both philosophies only where it benefits authority. In short: the child is clay when consent is requested, and marble when guilt is assigned. The material has not changed, only the sculptor’s intent. Until we reconcile childhood with consistency, we do not rule by principle but by preference. Current Mood: contemplative (15 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, November 28th, 2025
6:15 pm	ChatGPT cheers up Taliban delegation in Moscow Current Mood: amused Current Music: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VPTzo6FW8TE (13 Comments |Comment on this)
1:34 pm	The Nature of Truth >You didn't accept "mutually exclusive truths" in the comment. You presented one truth. Some truths are more truthful than others. Some truths are less useful than others. Just pick your favorite. Or form a hierarchy of truths. Maybe even a feedback loop of truths. Current Mood: contemplative (44 Comments |Comment on this)
Thursday, November 27th, 2025
1:59 pm	If racism saves lives, why is it so bad? >reports infractions, but not his own infractions. That would be too much, right? >Or maybe, Sadkov, did you call police on yourself? That would be amazingly schizo. I'm openly and proudly racist since the Muslims beaten me for being trans. Since I was threatened and assaulted by the Negros at the Black unit. I don't believe that racism is a crime. Had I been initially racist, I would have avoided being beaten. Because I would have seen these Blacks and Muslims for what they are. Muslims call cops on me for my opinion, because Islam hates free speech. Muslims see free speech as snitching on them. Current Mood: contemplative (33 Comments |Comment on this)