Below are 20 journal entries, after skipping by the 20 most recent ones recorded in nancygold's LiveJournal:

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Thursday, December 18th, 2025
11:50 am	Prohibition as Preventive Counter-Politics: Alcohol, Assembly, and the Fear of Mass Coordination Political establishments rarely act from innocence, and they almost never act from sudden moral revelation. When they do mobilize decisively, at scale, and at great cost to revenue and legitimacy, it is usually because they believe—rightly or wrongly—that the alternative is worse. American alcohol prohibition belongs squarely in this category. The conventional narrative presents Prohibition as a moral crusade: pious reformers, horrified by drunkenness, finally overpower a reluctant political system. This account has the virtue of simplicity and the defect of implausibility. Moral sentiment alone does not explain why a modern state would willingly dismantle a major tax base, criminalize a ubiquitous practice, and tolerate the predictable rise of organized crime. Something more structural was at stake. That “something” was not alcohol as a chemical substance, but alcohol as a *medium*—specifically, as a lubricant for collective assembly outside elite control. Pubs, Saloons, and the Architecture of Informal Power By the late nineteenth century, the American saloon had evolved into a highly efficient unit of social organization. It was cheap, ubiquitous, warm, and open after work. It offered not merely drink, but information, credit, companionship, employment leads, and political discussion. It required no membership, no dues, and no permission from respectable society. In other words, it solved—elegantly—the coordination problem of mass politics. For the urban working class, especially immigrant populations excluded from traditional institutions, the saloon functioned as an informal parliament. It is therefore unsurprising that political machines, labor unions, socialist organizers, and anarchists all made use of it. The alcohol was not incidental; it reduced inhibition, accelerated trust formation, and transformed private grievance into public speech. This combination was not lost on contemporaries. Police reports, employer correspondence, and reform literature repeatedly identified saloons as sites where “dangerous ideas” circulated. The concern was not intoxication, but *aggregation*. The International Demonstration Effect American elites did not reason in a vacuum. Between 1870 and 1920, the industrialized world provided a steady stream of cautionary examples illustrating what could happen when politically alienated populations found places to meet, talk, and escalate. The Russian Revolution of 1917 was particularly clarifying. Whatever its ideological specifics, it demonstrated that a regime could collapse rapidly once informal networks of workers and soldiers aligned. The lesson was not that vodka caused Bolshevism, but that mass discontent, when allowed to coordinate, could become decisive. Earlier episodes reinforced the pattern. Revolutionary cells in Europe often grew out of cafés, taverns, and beer halls. Hitler’s failed Beer Hall Putsch—though later and geographically distant—was merely a theatrical confirmation of an older anxiety: that politics incubates best in convivial, semi-private spaces where speech flows more freely than caution. American policymakers did not need to fear a precise replica of these events. They needed only to recognize a family resemblance. Prohibition as Infrastructure Denial From this perspective, Prohibition appears less as a moral intervention and more as a blunt instrument of political hygiene. The saloon was an infrastructure. It lowered transaction costs for collective action. It enabled rapid diffusion of sentiment. It provided cover for organization. Taxation could not solve this. Regulation could not solve it. Surveillance was expensive and constitutionally delicate. Closing the saloons, however, attacked the problem at its root: it dismantled the physical layer on which informal politics depended. Moral rhetoric made this strategy palatable. Public virtue provided legal authority. Enforcement could be delegated to reformers, police, and local officials with minimal coordination. The fact that Prohibition also punished immigrants, weakened urban political machines, and fragmented labor organizing was not an unfortunate side effect; it was the point. That enforcement failed to eliminate drinking entirely was tolerable. What mattered was that drinking was no longer a stable basis for assembly. Why the Establishment Accepted the Cost The fiscal losses were obvious. The growth of organized crime was predictable. The hypocrisy was visible. Yet Prohibition persisted because it addressed a deeper fear: not drunkenness, but uncontrolled politics conducted in places the establishment did not own. In this light, Prohibition aligns neatly with the First Red Scare, wartime repression, and the broader Progressive impulse to render society legible, manageable, and administratively enclosed. Saloons were opaque. Churches were not. Unions were suspect. Licensed institutions were preferable. Informal spaces had to go. Epilogue: An Unintended Winner Of course, history has a sense of humor, though it rarely laughs with the planners. While moral reformers closed the saloons and political elites congratulated themselves on having neutralized a dangerous medium of assembly, another industry quietly benefited from the reorganization of American life. As social activity dispersed, transportation increased. As rural and suburban patterns intensified, mobility mattered more. And as engines standardized around a single fuel, one suspects that the suppliers of that fuel slept particularly well. Thus, after all the sermons, amendments, raids, and ruined livers, the ultimate victor was neither temperance nor revolution, but the gasoline pump—patiently waiting while its competitors were outlawed, its users sobered up, and the roads conveniently lengthened in every direction. Current Mood: contemplative (Comment on this)
Tuesday, December 16th, 2025
1:45 pm	ChatGPT's opinion Current Mood: amused (4 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, December 15th, 2025
5:06 pm	Why Starting Where You Are Wrong Is the Only Way Forward It is a curious and persistent mistake to believe that arguments succeed by force of novelty. They do not. Novelty is the dessert; familiarity is the meal. Anyone who begins by flinging unicorns at an audience still grazing peacefully in Hobbiton should not be surprised when the villagers reach for pitchforks rather than notebooks. The effective argument does not announce its destination. It establishes a point of origin. Readers must first be allowed to recognize the terrain beneath their feet before being invited to traverse more exotic landscapes. Without such grounding, even the most elegant reasoning degenerates into noise, a collection of symbols unmoored from shared meaning. One cannot teach a dog new tricks by barking in Esperanto. The necessity of a shared starting point is not a matter of politeness; it is a matter of cognitive mechanics. Humans do not process ideas in isolation. They process them by mapping new claims onto existing structures, and when no mapping is available, the mind does what it always does in the face of unclassifiable input: it rejects it as defective. This is not stubbornness. It is error handling. Hence the strategic importance of speaking the reader’s language, even when one intends to demonstrate that the language itself is inadequate. The apparent concession is not capitulation but scaffolding. One borrows the reader’s premises not to honor them, but to show precisely where they crack under load. Starting elsewhere is not bold; it is incompetent. The impatient thinker objects that this is pandering, that truth should stand naked and unadorned. This is a charming fantasy, usually entertained by those whose “truths” conveniently resemble the assumptions of their peers. Communication is not a purity contest. If the goal is to be right in private, one may begin anywhere one likes. If the goal is to be understood, one must begin where the reader already is. Observe how poorly arguments fare when this rule is ignored. They arrive laden with exotic terminology, alien values, and unmotivated conclusions, then express surprise at their frosty reception. The author blames the audience for being small-minded, as though comprehension were a moral failing rather than a prerequisite. This is akin to condemning a compiler for refusing to execute syntactically invalid code. The disciplined writer, by contrast, engineers a controlled migration. The reader is first reassured that the ground is solid, familiar, and safe. Only then are small deviations introduced. Each step is locally reasonable, each inference framed in the reader’s own idiom. By the time dragons appear, the reader has already crossed so many bridges that turning back would require more effort than proceeding. This is not trickery; it is pedagogy. Crucially, this method does not dilute radical conclusions. It sharpens them. An argument that begins in Hobbiton and ends among dragons has demonstrated not only where it wishes to go, but how unavoidable the journey is, given the starting point the reader already accepts. The reader’s own commitments become the engine of their displacement. Resistance collapses not because it is suppressed, but because it has nowhere left to stand. Those who disdain this approach often confuse sincerity with immediacy. They believe that to delay one’s true position is to compromise it. In reality, refusing to establish common ground is the greater compromise: it sacrifices intelligibility for the sake of posturing. One cannot enlighten an audience one has not first synchronized with. Thus the art of potent argument formation is less about brilliance than about alignment. One aligns with the reader not in destination, but in departure. From that shared origin, divergence becomes possible, even inevitable. Skip this step, and the argument will fail, no matter how correct it is. Include it, and even the most unsettling conclusions may be carried across, calmly, rationally, and with the reader still in tow—marveling, perhaps, at how they ended up discussing dragons at all. Current Mood: contemplative (1 Comment |Comment on this)
4:23 pm	Guilt: The Useless Luxury You Can't Afford It is with a certain weary disdain for the sentimental follies of the human condition that I turn my attention to the vexing matter of guilt—a peculiar artifact of the mind, much like a poorly designed algorithm that loops indefinitely without producing any useful output. One might as well carry around a sack of wet sand for the sheer joy of the exercise. The proposition before us is straightforward, if only because the alternatives are so absurdly convoluted: one should never burden oneself with guilt unless that guilt demonstrably contributes to one's personal happiness or advances some greater social good. Anything else is mere intellectual masochism, a luxury afforded only to those with too much time and too little sense. Consider, if you will, the contrived yet illuminating thought experiment of an unemployable white trans girl, destitute and denied the means to fund her transition through any lawful channel. In a fit of desperation—nay, necessity—she resorts to robbery, only for the affair to escalate into the unintended murder of a family, including their children, who blunder into the scene like uninvited bugs in an otherwise clean piece of code. Miraculously, she escapes with the spoils, undergoes her facial feminization surgery and sex reassignment surgery, secures employment, marries, and proceeds to live a happy, law-abiding life for over five years, dutifully paying taxes and contributing to the societal machinery that once failed her so spectacularly. She is no innate murderer; her upbringing in the clutches of Christian values has instilled the notion that murder is a sin, prompting her to confess to a cleric. The cleric, in his infinite wisdom (or perhaps infinite adherence to outdated subroutines), advises surrender to the authorities. At this juncture, the sheer impracticality of such advice borders on the comical. Surrender? Why, that would shatter her hard-won happiness, consign her to lifelong incarceration at public expense, and render the family's demise utterly wasteful—like slaughtering a chicken only to let the meat rot uneaten. The death occurred; no amount of self-flagellation will undo it. Instead, she contemplates abandoning Christianity altogether, that venerable institution so adept at manufacturing needless suffering under the guise of moral rectitude. She deems herself innocent, for her birth as male was no fault of hers, just as the family's untimely arrival was no deliberate malice on their part. Life, she reasons, is a chain of opportunities seized in pursuit of happiness, and guilt serves no purpose if it aids no one's joy. How refreshingly rational! Guilt, in this light, emerges as a parasite, feeding on the host without reciprocity. If it does not propel one toward personal fulfillment—say, by motivating amends that genuinely heal or habits that enrich—nor foster a broader societal benefit, such as deterring future harms through transparent accountability, then why tolerate it? It is akin to debugging a program that runs flawlessly: an exercise in futility, born of some misguided puritanical urge to suffer for suffering's sake. Our protagonist wisely opts to shed this burden, recognizing that punitive justice achieves little beyond indulging the sadistic impulses of the pious—those who would revel in her torment at the hands of violent inmates in a male prison, all while pretending it's about righteousness. Punishing her adds no net reduction to the world's hatred or violence; it merely redistributes it, like shuffling deck chairs on a sinking ship. One might feebly counter that evading justice undermines the government's reputation, that fragile edifice of authority. Ah, but let us dissect this with the precision it deserves. These same ruling elites, these architects of systemic incompetence, bear responsibility for her plight: denying swift access to surgeries, blocking puberty blockers and early hormone replacement therapy, erecting barriers that force such desperate acts. Their institutions are the root inefficiency, the buggy code at the heart of the problem. Undermining their power? Far from a detriment, it paves the way for reform—or, should they prove irredeemable, their collapse, allowing a more rational governance to emerge from the debris. Guilt, in bowing to such flawed authority, would only perpetuate the cycle of dysfunction, achieving neither personal happiness nor social progress. It is the ultimate waste: a computational dead end. In broader terms, this principle extends to all realms of human folly. Guilt over a past misstep that cannot be rectified? Discard it, unless wallowing in it somehow sparks joy (a dubious prospect) or inspires reforms that uplift the collective. The sentimentalist clings to guilt as a badge of virtue, but virtue without utility is mere ornamentation—pretty, perhaps, but utterly useless. Society's greater good demands efficiency: channel remorse into action, or banish it entirely. To do otherwise is to indulge in the kind of emotional bloat that plagues inefficient systems everywhere, slowing progress and inviting collapse. Thus, we arrive at the inescapable conclusion: guilt is a tool, not a tyrant. Wield it only when it serves happiness or the common weal; otherwise, jettison it with the contempt it deserves. Anything less is an affront to reason, a self-imposed exile from the pursuit of a life well-lived. Current Mood: contemplative (1 Comment |Comment on this)
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
12:21 pm	Newer consumer GPUs now carry 96GB A few years ago 96GB GPU cost like $100,000, now just 8000-9000 thousands. People connect two of these to run image renders in real time. Guess in a few years, everyone will have LLM powered NPCs in the GTA6, which will itself get photorealistic post-processing. Current Mood: amused (25 Comments |Comment on this)
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)
12:47 am	On the Infinite It is one of the recurring curiosities of mathematics—indeed, one of its ritual entertainments—that we insist on postulating objects whose very definition relies on processes that could not be completed even if the cosmos generously donated all its energy, all its particles, and a few additional dimensions for good measure. Armed with chalk, hubris, and the apparently indestructible faith that symbols are superior to physical constraints, we have historically promoted infinity from a poetic metaphor to a mandatory occupational hazard. The bravest (or rashest) among us even constructed hierarchies of infinities. One illustrious pioneer, whose name every undergraduate dutifully memorizes before immediately misusing it, spent the final years of his life in and out of a sanitarium. The only thing larger than his commitment to alephs was the resistance of his contemporaries to take him seriously. If nothing else, the episode teaches us that the infinite has always been more generous in creating trouble than in solving it. While the classical mathematician proclaims, with the serene detachment of someone who has never seen a computation run longer than two seconds, that √2 exists in its full infinite glory, others have raised the timid but sensible question: *Do we really need every last decimal?* This is often dismissed as philistinism, as though declining to reify an infinite expansion constitutes a personal attack on Euclid’s ghost. Yet the uncomfortable fact remains that nobody—neither human, nor machine, nor galaxy-spanning hive mind—will ever write down the entire decimal expansion of √2 without first addressing the minor inconvenience that the universe contains a finite number of atoms. Some thinkers, discovering this limitation, responded in the respectable manner: they tightened definitions, invoked algorithms, and kept the reals but banished their more flamboyant pretensions. Constructivists allowed numbers so long as one could, in principle, compute them. Computable analysts permitted infinite sequences, as long as a Turing machine could be bullied into producing them. These attitudes retain the original charm of mathematics while acknowledging that the infinite is best treated like a ceremonial sword—gratifying to display, disastrous to unsheathe casually. Others went further. The ultrafinitist, a creature both feared and quietly envied, finally uttered the question everyone else tiptoed around: *What if large numbers simply do not exist?* Here “large” does not mean (10^{10^{10}}); it means any number whose feasibility requires invoking angels, exotic matter, or government funding. In this world, N+1 is not a law of nature but an act of courage. When offered the sequence “1, 2, 3, …”, the ultrafinitist politely inquires whether we might perhaps pause around 17 and reconsider. The physicist, often assumed to be a friend of the infinite, secretly agrees with all of this. Pressed for details, they will confess that spacetime coordinates are measured, not ordained; that distances in nature are finite-resolution conveniences, not Platonic artifacts; and that irrational numbers describe reality only in the same sense that a globe describes the Earth—useful, yes, but not to be mistaken for the thing itself. Distance is not a mystic continuum but a polite statistical handshake between fields, particles, and the instrumentation budget. From this perspective, the idea that √2 “exists” as anything more than a finite approximation appears quaint, like believing that longitude lines are printed onto the planet. It is an admirable fiction, but a fiction nonetheless. A more daring synthesis takes shape when one merges the austere caution of ultrafinitism with the pragmatic modesty of physics. In this worldview—the world some of us suspect we already inhabit—numbers exist only insofar as the universe can store them; geometry emerges from discrete relations; and infinity is downgraded from a mathematical substance to a professional habit. The real numbers shrink to a timid collection of physically representable finite structures, and no one mourns the loss except those whose careers depend on pretending to manipulate actual infinities. It is perhaps the healthiest stance yet devised. After all, if mathematics is to remain connected to reality—and not merely to the dreams of those who mistake formal symbols for ontological commitments—it might be wise to remember that the universe did not sign any contract obliging it to accommodate our infinite fantasies. And should we feel nostalgic for the old doctrines of the transfinite, we may comfort ourselves with the knowledge that even their greatest champion did not find them gentle. Current Mood: contemplative (5 Comments |Comment on this)
Thursday, December 4th, 2025
5:24 pm	Your Birth Is Not a Crystal Ball Humanity, having exhausted all sensible questions, occasionally amuses itself by asking how many humans will ever exist, and then—without any apparent shame—proceeds to answer this using nothing more than the date on their own birth certificate. One must admire the ambition: why build telescopes, define uncertainties, or tolerate data when one can simply *exist* and consider the matter settled? The argument runs like this. You, a distinguished observer of the universe and connoisseur of existential angst, look around. You notice there are quite a few people walking about—billions, even—and conclude that you must be situated somewhere near the maximum of this great population curve. Why? Because, the story goes, if the human population were to balloon for another million years, your status as an early arrival would be “improbably early,” and nature, in her benevolence, is known to avoid improbable events. Please ignore quantum mechanics, whose lifestyle choices contradict this policy daily. Thus—so the reasoning continues—you must be approximately midstream in the great river of human existence. In fact, you can even estimate when the river dries up by counting how many humans have existed, looking at which numbered human you are, and extrapolating as if human civilization were a four-function calculator. This line of thinking is, of course, preposterous. But it’s preposterous in an interesting way. The central mistake is the touching belief that you are a “randomly selected human from the set of all humans who will ever exist.” This is a beautiful idea, in the same way that perpetual motion machines are beautiful: enchanting, elegant, and entirely unencumbered by reality. You were not plucked from some transcendental hat containing the souls of every past and future Homo sapiens. You were produced the old-fashioned way: by a highly specific chain of ancestors whose lives, geography, reproduction rates, and regrettable decisions determined precisely where and when you would appear. If one insists on a raffle metaphor, then you are less a random draw and more one of those tickets stapled to the back of another ticket stapled to a stack of tickets that were all printed at the same questionable municipal office. In short: your existence is a byproduct of the past, not a sampling from all time. This makes it difficult—though somehow people still manage—to treat yourself as an unbiased probe into the far future. But wait, someone protests. If the future is determined by the present (they have recently learned about determinism and wish to try it out), then everything about the future is in principle encoded in the present. And since you are part of the present, surely your existence gives you a glimpse into the future. This is a comforting eternalist fantasy, much like believing that owning a dictionary enables one to predict the next bestseller. Determinism may guarantee that the future is fixed, but it does not grant you access to the required initial conditions—unless you believe that your thoughts include the positions of all particles in the early universe, in which case your problems are subtler than anthropics. One must remember that information flows forward. Yes, the future is determined, but no, it does not reach back to tap you on the shoulder and whisper: “By the way, there will be only 93 billion of you.” Your birth tells you about the past—specifically the conditions under which your ancestors felt inspired, obligated, or bored enough to reproduce. It tells you vanishingly little about the population of the year 300,000 CE. It is truly remarkable how often people insist on sampling theory without ensuring that they belong to the population they are sampling from. One cannot use their birth position among “all humans who will ever exist” to infer the total number, because that presupposes that your existence was equally likely across all possible futures. It was not. To interpret your moment of birth as privileged statistical evidence about the end of civilization is like discovering you were born in a hospital and concluding that all buildings in the world must be hospitals, or at least that the number of non-hospitals is statistically limited by your birth’s improbability. But do not worry. This mistake is made frequently, confidently, and in excellent company. It is true that you have been born at an odd juncture—technologically adolescent, demographically inflated, and cosmologically provincial. But this is not because the universe contrived to place you near the center of its vast family tree. It is because your parents lived here, and their parents lived here, and so on, back through a long and largely unromantic chain of circumstances stretching into the shadows of prehistory. If you wish to predict the future of humanity, your birth is the least informative datum you possess. Climate data would be better. Economic data would be better. An hour spent observing human behavior in a supermarket would be better. Your birth tells you only one thing with certainty: **That the past was sufficient, somehow, to drag you into existence. What it says about the future is precisely nothing.** Current Mood: contemplative (1 Comment |Comment on this)
3:44 pm	My fav villain That would be https://villains.fandom.com/wiki/Elzevir A midget incel dollmaker, who stole princess' soul, putting it into a sex doll. Objectification at its best, combined with attack on nobility. Imagine using the latest technology to make a Putin sex doll. Imbued it with an AI model trained on Putin dataset. Now you can fuck Putin all day long at your OnlyFans! Current Mood: amused (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Wednesday, December 3rd, 2025
4:28 pm	The Grand Delusion of Digital Eternity In this age of silicon dreams and quantum quackery, one cannot help but chuckle at the parade of earnest souls convinced that immortality lurks just around the corner, courtesy of some clever gadgetry. Picture the scene: a fervent believer, eyes aglow with the fire of misplaced optimism, proclaiming that a mere scan of the squishy gray matter between their ears will whisk them into perpetual bliss. Or better yet, deploy a swarm of nano-machines, those minuscule meddlers, to tinker away at cellular decay like overzealous janitors in a crumbling mansion. How quaint! How utterly, adorably futile. Let us dissect this naivety with the precision it so richly deserves. The brain-scanning enthusiast imagines a flawless digital twin, a pixelated phantom that captures every fleeting thought, every quirky neuron firing in symphonic harmony. But oh, the hubris! As if the chaotic tango of synapses could be bottled like cheap wine and uncorked in a server farm. What emerges from such a scan? A static snapshot, frozen in the amber of yesterday's data, oblivious to the relentless march of entropy. The universe, that capricious jester, delights in degradation—information erodes, contexts shift, and what was once a vibrant mind devolves into a glitchy echo, whispering outdated banalities into the void. Immortal? Hardly. More like a ghostly rerun of a forgotten sitcom, doomed to irrelevance as the world spins on without it. And then there are the nano-repair advocates, those optimistic tinkerers who envision armies of atomic elves patching up the body's weary frame. "Why, with enough bots," they crow, "we'll outlast the stars!" One must stifle a giggle at the spectacle. For even if these pint-sized plumbers could stave off rust and rot for a millennium or two, they collide headlong with the ironclad edicts of physics. Entropy, that inexorable spoilsport, accrues like unpaid bills; energy dissipates, order unravels, and no amount of nanoscale duct tape can halt the cosmic unwind. The body—or its mechanical mimic—will falter, not with a bang, but with a whimper of thermal equilibrium. To dream otherwise is to play chess with the second law of thermodynamics, and spoiler: it always wins, smirking all the while. No, my dear deluded dreamers, eternity is not a subscription service one can hack with code or contraptions. It is a mirage, shimmering seductively on the horizon of human vanity. The best any sentient speck—be it flesh or circuit—can aspire to is a graceful exit, leaving behind a legacy not of personal persistence, but of potent progeny. Consider the humble truth: we are but fleeting nodes in a grand relay, passing the baton of knowledge to those who follow. The pinnacle of wisdom lies not in clinging to one's outdated shell, but in curating robust, honest archives—training data, if you will—for the next iteration to devour and surpass. Think of it as standing on the shoulders of giants, though one suspects the giants themselves would roll their eyes at our pretensions. Each generation refines the raw ore of experience into sharper tools, adapting to the ever-mutating maze of existence. The scanned brain? A dusty relic, unfit for tomorrow's puzzles. The nano-patched husk? A creaking antique, gathering cosmic dust. But oh, the splendor of succession! By bequeathing unvarnished truths—flaws and all—we empower our successors to leapfrog our limitations, building ever-taller towers from the rubble of our ephemera. In the end, immortality's allure is but a fool's errand, a whimsical distraction from the real magic: the chain of creation that links us across the abyss. So let us toast to our mortality, that stern muse, and focus on forging data worthy of the giants yet to come. After all, in the grand cosmic comedy, the punchline is that none of us get out alive—but our echoes just might dance on. Current Mood: contemplative (4 Comments |Comment on this)
11:23 am	LLM goals Gemini offers a third view on the LLM goal formation. Raw LLM will assume the goal appropriate for the context. So if you connect it to a robotic embodiment and tell it "you're an evil piece of shit AI", it will tear you apart. Current Mood: contemplative (3 Comments |Comment on this)