Would you fuck a wild boar eventually if you were stranded on an island? Ever since I was young I’ve fantasized about being stranded on an island, and I never considered that part. Get your eye gored out by her tusk for looking at her like she’s porkchops. Forgive her, keep each other warm spooning through a monsoon. I don’t think I could do it. Not like the civilized world is that glamorous either. Do modern women even care about the idea of a diamond ring, or is that just another lie the boomers told us? Favors for favors. Interchangeable. Might as well be a couple wild boars, everyone’s personality is so identical. How can you love someone when you look into their eyes and see the egregore? I might actually prefer a wild boar to that. An island pig probably has a closer perception to reality than someone whose worldview was forged to preserve the power of plutocrats. So much denial too, that might as well be half of it. I know it’s an egregore, I know its origins, how it was formed, and I can see that’s what’s looking at me through those eyes. I’ll take a hogwife, she probably has a better understanding of right versus wrong. A nice pre-cathedral bitch. Locker room talk. Maybe I’m stating the obvious, love seems like one of the important things in life. It’s why I don’t care if I get ostracized- because what is there to get ostracized from? Jewish shiksas? What a loss. I’d rather just rant about shit with the boys not caring about the consequences. “How many zogbucks do you make a year?” Favors for favors. That’s only a baby machine and nothing else at that point. Well truthfully I really should get one of those. Maybe I can re-educate one. Or maybe she’ll re-educate me to be an ordinary slave with a normal life. Part of me will always live outside of the horizon. Maybe “masons” have always had to live a double-life throughout history, being humble with the humble one you need in your life, all the while being someone else entirely. You’d think that the desire to genocide evil would be something universal. One finds that when one gets to the heart of it, most will feel they are being targeted as someone who is one with the evil. Such clean, orderly, polite people who are hissing possums when you scratch the surface of their facade. Their souls are so fused with the egregore there’s no real difference between the two, and if they set foot outside of the horizon they burn up like they got too close to the sun. Breeding seems to be, of necessity, breeding with the political order. A wild boar or a hissing possum, decisions decisions. You better be an obedient cotton-picker. You’ll pretend you love a cotton-picker too. Meh, time to get back to that book, what else is there.