Volume 1: Christian Science A. Malignant Animal Magnetism B. Malignant Animal Masturbation C.a Malignant Avoidance Magnetism C.b Malignant Artifice Magnetism C.c Malignant Admission Magnetism Volume 2: Fanfiction A. Enheart B. Circulatory Network Volume 3: Construction of a Phylactery A. Pedophile Lich Phylactery 1 & 2 B.a Bestialist Lich Phylactery 1 B.b Bestialist Lich Phylactery 2 C. Drink the Potion
Volume 1: Christian Science
1.A: Malignant Animal Magnetism
Yesterday I had this conversation:
The “really bad thing” described here is me being a bestialist and having acted on it.
I don:t actually remember when it happened, I was really young. I remember how it started: there was this older Russian Lady I met when I was ~12 or 13, off of Ragnarok Online. I think 4chan launched that year (I found out about 4chan launching via a Fireball20xl news-post advertising it).1
We entered into a slave/master relationship, and she:d send me porn over AOL Instant Messenger and tell me to masturbate to it; one day she sent me 4chan links that contained ‘ultra pornography’ of someone way-too-young having sex with a dog.
It made me actually nauseous — I:d never really vomited from seeing a picture before. Master told me to masturbate to it, so once I calmed down and was clean, I did, and told her; I kept looking @ the picture, throughout the night, until it eventually 404:d. This picture claimed my first experience with intense disgust intermixed with sex.
Through that 4channer Russian Lady, I ended up in Zoo communities, where people discussed romantic relationships with animals, and “how to do it,” + lots of stories. There was also this private seedy tracker I ended up having an account for, thanks to the warm & welcoming community young me ended up in.
Eventually I ended up doing the act. That part is hard to talk about.
It:s not a memory I like; it:s painful to think about. What may-be hurts me the most, about that memory, is: it really felt like I was making an intentional decision to destroy my soul; the Russian Lady revealed to me this (previously hidden) fire I would need to protect my soul from — & then instead, I just dropped it straight in.
The whole thing was depressing, sad, pathetic, nauseating, & somehow I barely remember it.
I don:t remember the act at all, actually; I remember the coldness of the floor, the morning sunlight coming through the window, and the mirror in the room. There:s no living things in my memory, just this perfect-still necropolis scene where my soul became housed in.
It:s not like there was a cabal of Zoophiles urging me on-to the floor. It:s not like this was the intended conclusion of one Russian woman’s years-long scheme. It was me.
One day, when I still had a CuriousCat, I was asked this:
It really did feel bad; there was no physical sensation or pleasure (or: the memory of any sensation is completely applecored out of me), just a very Christian sensation of having fallen.
What prompted that question was probably me getting upset over a previous CuriousCat question that accused me of being a pedophile, over me relating to a bunch of schoolgirls from Boogiepop, and my alluding to bad-sex memories.
I wanted to at least be insulted over what I actually am.
So: I started tip-toeing around what happened with animals, clinging on-to this trauma narrative that prevented me from fully embracing the enturbulation in my heart2.
The narrative: I was groomed in-to it. A Russian Pedophile Zoophile basically ordered me to masturbate to some ultra porn and it escalated in-to being inducted into a circle of Zoophiliacs, where I found the encouragement I needed to be deluded in-to performing the act. It was super convenient, and it actually sort-of mapped on-to what happened. Maybe I even believed it.
I:d start to remember it, and “you were abused — just whatever you do, do not think about how it actually happened” would push the painful memory down inside. It was super convenient.
I told the same convenient narrative to a Caring Friend, using the framing of my sin as abuse, groomed into performing it by the 4chan zoophile pedophiles; they were sympathetic, but it:s sympathy over a lie.
Sometime earlier this year I started going back to my SDA church, and the sermon was about Mary Magdalene being stoned for adultery, and how Christ defended her against the mob: “let he who has not sin throw the first stone.”
I thought Mary was super cool in that story: she completely owned up to her sin, and her punishment was not something she slinked away from — even that: punishment for the sin seemed like part of the natural life-cycle of dealing with the weight of your sin. Acknowledgment was necessary, both by the sinner, and by the world, in order for the sin to not fester inside the chest, becoming warped, becoming rooted. Ignore the sin, and it would burrow deep inside the chest of a person and become lost in some obtuse upset feeling.
It was the beauty of the mob acknowledging Mary as an adulterous whore, Christ acknowledging Mary as a sinner with potential for good, Mary acknowledging herself as both whore and sinner; however, Mara is being told by a Caring Friend: “you were abused, it was not your fault,” and something invisible slinked away deep in-to my chest.
It sounded nice, but hearing that made me upset.
1.B: Malignant Animal Masturbation
There:s that old online story Blowfly Girl, about this horny girl who carries out a plan to sneak into a dumpster, so she can stuff maggots into herself and masturbate. The way she describes it [roughly] makes it seem like the act is this ultimate realization of a fantasy that she has been desperate to feel: warm-murky ecstasy of self-indulgence: to be a carrier of death, rot, maggots; to be infested by necrosis and larvae — & at some point I started to sort-of look up to her.
I found out she had a personal blog that she wrote-to for several years. She reflects a lot over her experience with the maggots in that first story: how, afterwards, it made her infertile for some-time, how it almost killed her, how she sank into this huge suicidal depression, how she grew old and shlubby, and how she ultimately wanted to relive her Blowfly Girl experience.
She was still kind of horny about it; she writes in a way that reminds me of the people I know on Second Life who are just super in-to their fetishes. The Second Life BDSM people talk about how hot being locked up is, & the middle-aged Blowfly Girl talks about how hot being stuffed full of dead cockroaches is.
She wrote a second follow-up story to her original experience with maggots, two years after the first story, where she was driving down the highway & saw this perfect rotting deer carcass off the side of the road, & stopped out of curiosity; walking up to the corpse, she smelled death, lost control of her better senses & began rubbing herself with hand-scoops of necrotic tissue + maggots.
Even though I was pretending to be in control of myself, I kind of knew, from the moment I’d found the deer, that I was going to do something stupid.
She knew it was stupid, but she really wanted to feel infested again; the rot-scent was a trigger that destroyed any self-restraint she had. She ended up fine; no infection or damage, no painful regret, it was just sort-of a hot relapse for her. She did, however, regret deleting the photos she took, of the act.
I really liked her second story, because it was more relatable to me, from a “I have no impulse control” perspective. There was no pre-meditated plan, or initial curiosity that led her to do it — it was just this desperate overpowering desire to feel it again brought on by smelling it again.
What happened with the late Blowfly Girl being overpowered by the sight & smell of roadkill is exactly what happened to my current relationship with arousal.
Being turned-on leads to this escalation of pleasure-seeking that goes:
[normal cute vanilla doujins] → {…I want to see something I like} → [insect-breeding doujins] → {…I want to feel it} → [better judgment dies] → {can I make it happen?}
It mostly always goes like that. Arousal runs me through this simple flow-chart until that 4channer Russian Lady is re-lighting the same hidden flame and I:m desperately trying to hold on-to the ashes of a soul to prevent them from falling in-to the fire, again.
Unlike Blowfly Girl, though, there is no murky-warm-glowing self-fulfilled depravity from falling through the arousal flow-chart.
Mostly what I get out of it is the soul-destroying feeling.
It started to happen a second time: I let myself fall way deeper through the flowchart, & suddenly I was there again. Russian Lady, match, fire, dead relatives watching me, this intense feeling that demons were in the floor + walls as a supernatural germ that had seeped in-to me. I had to stop because it made me physically sick. Porn, and arousal, became this scary thing; no pleasure, just disgust.
Blowfly Girl:s words defined arousal for me,
“I was pretending to be in control of myself, I kind of knew, […] that I was going to do something stupid.”
So: I try my best to not have a sexuality whatsoever; I don:t feel arousal; I don:t look at nudity; I don:t look at reminders; I don:t think about it; I don:t touch myself. Completely normal + human experience.
The strange seed the Russian Lady trusted me to grow would guarantee I had no opportunity to feel human. Her plant bore an equally strange fruit: every time I remembered the ‘act’ I would suddenly be back on the cold floor, feeling the warmth through the window, and seeing myself in the mirror — in reality I:d be crying on the floor and having a panic attack; I got to the point where touching myself would lead me to contemplating killing myself for ~about a week. Luckily I became mostly-wholly sexually cold in my late 20:s, and lost the ability to orgasm.
In my last relationship, my (ex) girlfriend would touch me & physically I:d shut down; she basically said trying to have sex with me was impossible, because I always acted like I was being raped, and went catatonic; I talked about the ‘animal-stuff’ with her, & she said something to me like “you know, there are other people who did what you did, and they felt good about it,” which made me feel bad.
Why don:t I feel good about it? Why am I not like Blowfly Girl? She seemed so happy giving her uterus over to rot. Or: why am I not like all of the zoophiles who just seem so thrilled to have their taboo love? It made me sort-of wonder if I hypnotized myself in-to both inventing the memory (to traumatize myself), and if I:m actually a bestialist.
It was (& is) too complicated for me to figure out. I don:t find animals attractive, at all (which is why I never call myself a zoophile). Seeing pets makes me want to kill them.
Too complicated; my best guess is: my mom treating me like I was another pet she:d hoard, & over years of being treated that way, while also being berated to her other dogs, while also never really directly being spoken to, compounded with the Russian Lady to give me a weird complex of seeing myself as a non-human pet.
Too complicated; it:s simpler for me to just go: I am disgusting, I hate sex.
Eventually I found out that I had another attraction.
I started this practice of cutting myself whenever I felt romantic/aroused, and it felt way cleaner compared to whatever was happening with me sexually. My CRKT Ceo was my favorite ‘lover,’ and I ritualized our intimacy:
Press the flat of the blade to the bridge of my nose, close my eyes, hold it there until I feel ‘seen’ by the knife.
Do the same to each cheek.
Hold it against my lips (eyes closed because it:s sensual).
Rub alcohol over where we would be connecting together.
Wet the blade with alcohol.
Intercourse in the designated area; I didn:t want to make a mess, so the same area would be retraced over several times in the same session instead of allowing the marks to “spread.”
Clean both of us with alcohol, and dress the wound.
I didn:t feel like killing myself after, and it made me glow (unless I thought too hard about: how I have a self-harm addiction, how I was hurting my GF by doing this, how I probably made my GF feel like a rapist during physical intimacy & then made her feel inadequate by replacing her with an object). It was super great, and it helped keep sexual arousal away.
Plus: I genuinely was attracted to my knives, in a way that felt clean/pure (the increased escalation of me replacing physical intimacy with self-harm eventually led to them being taken away as my surrogate masturbation eventually became indistinguishable from making suicide attempts; she would grab my wrist at night and feel the bandages and ask “…what is this?” and hold my wrist and sob loudly and I would say “It:s ok! I didn:t do this because of you.. It:s ok! I:m fine!”). Finally I could masturbate, in my own clean non-sexual way.
Still, I:m super envious of how Blowfly Girl just loves ‘it,’ and has a clear sexuality, because mostly what I got out of ‘it’ was the soul-destroying feeling.
1.C.a: Malignant Avoidance Magnetism
One night I was searching for Boogiepop manga pictures, and saw the panels posted above — the inky-black ones about girls masturbating. It wasn:t Boogiepop. It was a comic called Arigatou by Naoki Yamamoto.
Arigatou is about the Suzuki family, & focuses on one of the daughters (Takako) and how she has been affected by her sister (Akiko) being raped.
While the rape was happening (in her own home), she sat in the room adjacent and masturbated to the noises. This was a nightly occurrence. Takako comes home, her father is still missing, the home-invading gang of teenagers (“the boys”) still have not left, her sister still is in the kitchen being railed while numb on some drug, and Takako quietly goes up to her bedroom feigning ignorance to all of it. She sits at her desk, and touches herself.
One night, one of the boys opens her door and takes pictures of her masturbating; she is invited to give him oral, and she accepts.
The first volume is about this rape, the father coming home (he assaults the home invaders and then tortures them, but the cops get involved @ some point), and Akiko attempting suicide over her inability to pull herself out of a depression; the second volume is about one of Takako:s classmates finding her masturbation photos printed in a dirty porno magazine, and confronting Takako.
The confrontation goes exactly how every ‘accusation’ against me on Tumblr/Twitter/CuriousCat/Retrospring has started:
A polite little foot-in-door question, & then probably some combination of the following:
And then the dirty accusation rubbed right in-to your nose.
I:ve gotten several different versions of these, the most recent being on Twitter in reference to this article I wrote where I explicitly mention bestiality:
“Why do u mention having sex with animals did [you] have sex with a dog?”
Before that question, it was in a different shape on Tumblr as:
“Do you by chance have psychosis/psychotic features?”
While I had CuriousCat, it was sometimes “is Scientology anti-semitic?” or “do you have a reason to go to a homophobic church instead of a progressive one?” or “you are MTF right?” or “are you a pedophile?”
There:s big internal pressure to present a defense against questions like these, because there:s an obvious assumed evil loaded in-to all of these questions, & most people don:t actually want to be labeled as evil. Most people probably don:t see themselves as evil. It:s super scary to be labeled as evil.
Takako slinks away from herself. She knows she is not some loose whore who submits her masturbation photos to porno-mags for cash — the circumstances were rare, she was lost in a scary situation, she couldn:t really have said ‘no,’ maybe she was abused in-to it. Her sister was drugged in-to having sex with the boys, after-all. Every nuanced/reasonable excuse Takako had to distance herself from the possibility of being some amateur-porno-star were what I used to distance myself from the possibility of being a bestialist.
A safe & sound narrative; the narrative I told my one Caring Friend, who then repeated the same narrative back-to-me when I tried to get catharsis over how hurt I was.
It doesn:t really matter what narrative you defend yourself with, though, because the whole question was pointless from the start; every single word was empty, & the conclusion was already laid out:
1.C.b: Malignant Artifice Magnetism
It:s double-meanings; people dress up excuses to berate you with a bunch of empty questions & words. There:s this mass of people enacting this behavior almost-always for the sake of some social environment they:ve found themselves subsumed in-to; they speak in empties, to make defenses, to justify their relation to the environment they:ve found themselves subsumed in-to.
The emptiness extends in-to private, too.
December last year, I was @ this Christmas (or New Years?) party in Second Life, with a True Friend, and a Distant Friend. The Distant Friend had some lame harassment aimed at them for making fan-art of a visual novel with problematic content in it. My True Friend told both of us “if either of you ever gets cancelled, I:ll defend you.”
It:s a dumb statement to make. It:s harder to defend a ‘cancelled’ person than most people realize — you are potentially tying your reputation to a person who will now cost you opportunities, health, and privacy. Defending a cancelled person might cost you true friends, or invite a stalker-harasser into your life, or cause your real life to bleed in-to online through a doxxing. Your boss might get called — if you don:t have a boss, maybe you will be reported off wherever you make your money. It just becomes sensible to slink away from a person who has become poisonous.
At the time of that Second Life party, I was going through an internal resolution that was prompted by Arigatou. The resolution was just to admit to myself and others that I was a bestialist, and the ‘situation’ that happened was not forced on-to me. My hope with the Arigatou Resolution was that finally admitting my culpability would start a healing process that I:ve neglected, and would allow me to regain a normal sexuality.
I expected to be abandoned by these two Second Life party-goers as consequence of my resolution, because admitting you are one of the bad ones is usually too socially toxic for most people. So: my True Friend saying “I:ll defend you” to a hypothetical pre-emptive cancellation just made me think (defiantly) “liar, I:ll show you how hard I can make it to be friends with me.”
My expectation became true, but for a different reason: I defended my gratitude to Charlotte Fang, who had just been cancelled, to this True Friend. I wrote about this in Charlotte Fang Has Been Killed and I Have Been Radicalized — it still hurts, but part of that conversation involved my anti-cancellation “i:ll defend you” True Friend saying (roughly) “you should have distanced yourself from Fang because they just look evil.”
Suddenly I looked evil, & they took their own advice.
Liar.
After that initial confrontation with Takako, in Arigatou, the wormy classmate has a huge internal dilemma about the moral responsibility of knowing that Takako is sick & lost; the classmate realizes the only morally responsible course available is by going straight to Takako:s father, and having him confront Takako for her own good.
She comes home, her dad holds up the masturbation magazine photos, and asks the same fake question: “is this you?”
1.C.c: Malignant Admission Magnetism
That page where Takako says “this is me” with no nuance or context or cowardice was the most amazing thing in the world to me — it still is.
She cut through everything I hated about myself, & really: herself; it was the vein network opening up and delivering a ‘true’ message to me about how I should conduct myself.
I hated hearing the conveniences & nuances I told myself (desperate to not be hated, or have stones thrown at me) repeated back to me through the people I “confided” in.
It wasn:t me.
Did you have sex with a dog?
That:s right.
Are you involved in NFTs?
That:s right.
Are you friendly with transphobes?
That:s right.
Are you defending a groomer?
That:s right.
Do you know that you:re following a pedophile?
That:s right.
Did you know you:re playing VNs with l/s content?
That:s right.
Did you go to a homophobic church?
That:s right, this is me.
At some point nuance became a process to lose myself in appeasement to an amorphous environmental insect that can do my thinking for me.
Appeasing a bunch of deadbeats I don:t like, to begin with; deadbeats who don:t like me, to begin with. Needing to be ‘good,’ when my heart tells me that I:m the exact opposite — & denying my heart the ability to feel that. Constructing callous up-on callous upon my heart to prevent the mob from recognizing the whore I:ve been, to present Christ with a perfect image of myself (like he can:t see right through me), to prevent myself from feeling a pain.
Too: the truth of my sin, & my feelings of it do not merit adhering to an opposing insect that just holds the opposite values. I don:t want to be defined by comforts, and I don:t want to allow myself to stagnate in the body of some “anti-appeasement” group that sees all ‘other’ as enemy.
There was a reply I got on my @nabarlSBL account (about the Charlotte Fang controversy) that made me think about this:
I think sometimes you can’t trust people who are just nice to you because just because someone is “nice” to you doesn’t mean they’re a good person. these type of situations are so confusing but its better to not think about it and just remain neutral and not get dragged into it
I don:t base my feelings for people based on if they are a good person. I don:t dislike people because they aren:t good. It:s a freezer-temperature IQ statement on my part, but: what is a good person? ← This stuff is always defined by an amorphous insect that constantly wants me to let it decide my thoughts for me, to me. I like Charlie, but several overlapping insects around me give me a lot of different lenses to identify Charlie as both evil and good — but I like Charlotte.
There was another reply, on the @marlbaraLTD account, that made made me think about the “rejecting appeasing one insect, by gravitating to an antagonistic insect” perspective. The post is gone, but it was roughly this exchange:
“I am tired of people feeling betrayed by finding out I am not a good person, when I openly advertise myself as not being a good person,” (made in response to a person asking me if I have sex with dogs).
“I am tired of it, too; in my experience: all of these people have guilt-complexes that make them lash-out against anything that reminds them of their guilt.”
Truthfully: I don:t like my memory; I don:t have a secret burning desire to relapse and ‘indulge in sin,’ — I:d like to be permitted to have a sexuality I can feel good about: but I don:t, and I don:t like sex or masturbation. I am guilty. I have a guilt complex, & I felt insulted by this idea that the only people angry at me (or others) for being ‘societally disgusting’ is that they secretly all harbor the same guilt & can:t just admit their depravity. It just read to me as another effort to bring me in-to this moral insect, identifying this other group as evil repressors, & that I could be better by abandoning my charade of guilt. It made me really angry, & think childish stuff like: “go abuse a kid and tell me if you feel guilty” (on the assumption this person never acted on their paraphilia, and just likes doujins/porn — unfair because I don:t know their experience, but they don:t know mine or anyone elses, either).
Just as truthfully: none of this nuance I:m trying to provide about my truthful feelings really belong to any-body else, or needs to be understood by any-one else outside of my-self. I was watching this youtuber “Mr. Girl,” who ended up being accused of pedophilia after making a review of Cuties (from Netflix), and he explained that his manager gave him a hard-rule that:
you are not allowed to respond to people asking if you are a pedophile, or accusing you of being a pedophile; these people do not care, saying ‘no’ will only make people think you are lying, and saying ‘yes’ will only affirm a lie about you — all you do by answering is degrade yourself to appease a person who already hates you.
^ Good rule, but that managers rule gets twisted in my head, because whereas Mr. Girl is probably not an actual pedophile, I am a bestialist.
Equally as truthfully: I want to let myself feel what my enheart wants to feel. I don:t want to hold it hostage to both the amorphous social insects, and to my own fears. If the heart desires consequence: then may-be it needs consequence.
What happens to Takako? She ends up running away from her family, and running into her sisters rapist — the person who sold her photos without her consent, the person Takako gave head to. He offers to talk it out over dinner. She accepts.
This abusive rapist presents himself as a fairly sympathetic person: he & his boys went a little crazy, he thinks that he did her dirty, they:ll pay her what was made from the photo-sales (he admits: they went too far with that one), and she can have back all the photos they took (but admittedly they can:t get back the ones that are with the publisher).
He makes good on his word, she gets the money and the photos.
The abuser makes a lot of sense; he confides that he knows he is not a very good person, but by being who he is: he has seen a lot: the hypocrisy of people, the emptiness of other peoples words, the lies people tell themselves to distance themselves from themselves — and it makes sense to her.
She dates him for a bit, & lives with his family for a bit; eventually she returns to her own family; Takako becomes a loner at school due to the bullying increasing; the pornographic photos become hung up around the school, and stuffed into her desk; Takako begins skipping the entire school-day by sleeping on the roof.
She meets a glasses-wearing boy up on the roof — a total pussy of a man, too — who is hiding from his bullies. The boy admires how elementally “herself” Takako is. She:s not hiding anything about herself, she:s not appeasing this weird invisible social insect, she:s purely herself. Plus: she hits her bullies when they try some lame-shit in her face. Glasses-boy loves it. It:s so far removed from him.
Glasses-boy is hiding from his bullies; eventually they find him, and force him to give them head — it freaks him out, and he resolves to be like Takako and confront them.
He runs away from home and school (like Takako once had, except for Glasses-Boy it is now because his confrontation plan led to him fatally stabbing his bully), and stays with Takako, at her family:s house, for the night.
In the night, he has a flashback where he relives both him being sexually assaulted and him attempting to kill his assaulter with a knife; he screams, and cries, & Takako understands; even though the boy is a pussy-twerp and a murderer, she lets him in-to her bed, and holds him, and tells him “you did great, you:re all-right, you:re OK, you did what you needed to do, you did really wonderful, you:re safe.” She probably means every single word, too. There:s no good/bad image she is holding glasses-boy up-to, she just likes him.
This is a really vague statement: but: I want that. I want to be Takako.
Volume 2: Fanfiction
2.A: Enheart
I was not Takako, and every attempt I made to emulate her would hurt me.
Takako was elementally herself, while Mara constantly folded-down disordered, enturbulated feelings that would jeopardize another’s opinion of her. Wanting to tell a person “no, fuck off” had to be sculpted in-to something layered under nuance, until it resembled anything but “no, fuck off.”
It was a deep self-repression of enturbulation, and without changing myself, I could never be like Takako.
My self-repression came from this simple fear underlying all of my communication: if I express anger, I:ll be abandoned. Or, just: if I act as ‘I actually am,’ people will abandon me. That same simple fear was enabled by me into becoming the foundation on-which just-about every-single one of my relationships was built; it was warped, and unstable.
Trying to withhold my ‘hates,’ would in-kind warp me. Relationships with everyone had this miasma around them reeking of me constantly swallowing displeasures; the ‘hates’ would ferment, reek, pour out of the cracked foundation, and the odor was impossible to ignore.
As it turned out, pretending I could not smell the odor was integral to these relationships, and trying to repair these warped foundations completely destructed every single one of these miasmatic relationships.
Relationship 1: Caring Friend
Caring Friend, months before the Charlotte Fang call-out, made a QT insulting Charlotte, and reading it picked-at my spinelessness with a nagging voice: “are you really okay with just ignoring insults, when you can only afford medication because of Charlotte?” I was angry, so: I let myself be angry.
It led to a conversation between me and my caring friend. The Charlotte stuff was no problem: we mutually agreed it was fine to not follow each-other on Twitter and still be friends—but I wanted to come-clean about my whole relationship with this person.
I mentioned I had always felt uncomfortable when I was flirted with, early on, and that I regretted going along with it instead of just firmly saying “no.”
Caring Friend had been a victim of a call-out (a serious one, with stalkers and everything), and upon bringing ‘the flirtation’ up, they sort-of immediately stopped treating me like a person that could be trusted. I became another caller-outer, a complete stranger, that had to be defended against: every comment I made was either me misunderstanding, or me misremembering. I felt like I put my Caring Friend into being cornered — and they admitted as much.
Making accusations wasn:t my intention; my own heart told me I had wronged them: by never being honest with my discomfort, my caring friend had been put in-to position as an ‘abuser’ despite being completely unaware. Caring Friend had no idea they built a relationship on completely unstable ground, and that the engineers made it that way intentionally.
I confessed to lying about my feelings since the start of the relationship, I confessed to being the abuser, and I apologized for my spinelessness. They talked to me normally after I admitted to being the abuser, but it was a short conversation. We never spoke after that, and they removed me from social media.
Deciding to confess felt good for maybe two days—I had finally listened to the enheart neglected in my chest, and stopped speaking in empties—but afterwards there was this suffocation from realizing that: they were friends with basically everyone I admired. I admired them, too. Gone.
This friend really had been caring towards me. They helped me a lot with making sound decisions, getting me work opportunities, seeking help, and finding strategies to deal with my more socially-disastrous episodes—and I completely annihilated this relationship by listening to the soft enheart beating in my chest.
Months later, I still feel bad about it.
Relationship 2: Self
There were some simple corrections that I could make without risking these warbled foundations, there were some areas that I really hated about myself:
Never saying “I don:t want to be your friend,” when someone asks to be friends with me.
Never voicing displeasure when I:m upset with another person.
Never setting/enforcing boundaries around sensitive topics.
These were all simple, and positive, changes I could incorporate. Starting to force myself to do each of these highlighted the fear I had regarding upsetting another person — that, if I failed to placate someone, they would completely abandon me or become hateful to me. No one really seemed to care; at worst: people expressed disappointment or embarrassment upon being rejected. Generally, people didn:t appreciate unknowingly causing harm.
The other big one was finally admitting to myself that I was a bestialist. This was maybe the most personally important to me, because (even though I had kept it secret for years) it had become this disgusting mass inside my heart that would first push me to having flashbacks, and then push me to making suicide attempts.
I couldn:t type the sentence “I am a bestialist.” Or “I did it.” Or “I was not forced into doing it.” I could barely think it without my hands going numb — the thought would pop into my head, “you know, you weren:t forced or abused into doing it, you—” and then the cold-floor would materialize under me, and the sunlight would shine-in through the window, and the depressing scene in the mirror would all appear.
I just didn:t want to be enslaved to myself, or pretend to be a person other than myself. I really began to admire figures like Mary Magdalene, who bore their sin wholly visibly (or Takako)—it just seemed saint-like, that: even if I am a disgusting whore, surely there is more grace in representing myself honestly than representing a scared façade.
I wanted to admit it, to myself, and to other people; I wanted to make art about it, and I wanted to say I am a bestialist. I wanted to be one of the murky saint-like people whose souls have dropped down through all the social floors until they sit at the bottom of an impure pit.
Caring Friend was completely against this, as: admitting this would bring harassment, and really: what was the point? They had become subject to social repercussion, and learned first-hand how shitty it is to be at the bottom of a social hierarchy: people root out your secrets in the most unfavorable light, and both privacy and self begins to erode away to the social current. Still, to myself: I had been doing this internally. Still, as well: I really saw Takako as being an affirmation from God3 that I must be able to say “Yes, this is me,” as she had. Every sensible impulse that went against emulating Takako was interpreted as thought-control trying to suppress something divine and beautiful, so: I admitted it.
Admitting it was easy.
First step was to allow myself to just type “I am a bestialist.” So I typed it. Afterwards, I made a post (several) saying I was a bestialist, and drew a picture that reiterated it.
One of the posts:
i admitted to some stuff, today; i don:t know if it is smart — but i felt that i had to just let myself say it about myself. all of that fear about having that label applied to me was making me kind-of crazy, i think. “i am a bestialist.” it still hurts to say, but i received a bunch of patterns from vein network (from takako & imaginator, mostly — maybe wandering son, too, actually) about wanting to [live] honestly “as myself” instead of “safely as myself.”
The picture:
Letting myself finally admit it felt cathartic; confession lifted this gross weight I had been carrying in my chest since I first let my soul get scorched. On the day-of confession, I felt elated and I felt free.
The admission felt good for about two days. There was now a new fear, that all parts of my self would just be boiled down to “dog-fucker” or some other label. Why would I admit this? Why would I not just stoically hide it until I die? Was I really listening to God by following Takako, or was I tricked by some pervert insect influencing my thoughts? The “pervert insect” terrified me. After my admission, I would start to see Twitter accounts post about how they too had committed bestiality — my words were being copied, and the world seemed like this artificial construction that actively stole my memories and re-outputted them everywhere to make me ashamed and confused. A person who had been uncomfortable about my bestiality-trauma-art was now admitting they had some sexual memories with animals; they suddenly sent me pictures of 3d modeled dog-dicks; another person pace-changed from posting flagrant “I love paraphilia” to “I am a sinner who has harmed animals” posting.
I felt filthy; the soul had become a material-bacterial construct that was constantly contaminating outwards, and would eventually spread out to what-few friendships I had; the world had reframed itself around my sin, and I couldn:t bear this contamination slowly causing my relationships to distance from the disgust of what I had done.
I didn:t want to lose them—so I distanced myself, and created more barriers around my heart. Truthfully: no one seemed to care, though, positively or negatively about the admission. Confessing eventually shifted from being a catharsis, to becoming completely flat; any catharsis I felt was gone; I just thought: “what was the point of this?”
There was small merit to it; I made a handful of art related to what happened that felt nice (although people ended up misinterpreting it as being about ‘something-other’) and those close to me reassured me that: I don:t see you as disgusting, Mara.
This self-admission wasn:t even the one that would hurt me. As mentioned: mostly no one cared. My relationships with others weren:t made-unsteady due to my paraphilia, but unsteadied by the feelings I had hidden. To these unsteady relationships: my relationship with Charlotte Fang was far more disastrous, and made me out to be more complicit in evil, than having directly committing evil.
Relationship 3: True Friend
One day I had accidentally used the fill-tool on the drawing of a Love Corp4 cadet, and it resulted in the normally white uniform looking like this:
It looked cool to me, & unbeknownst at the time: it would predict everything that would happen with my relationship with a true friend.
The coloring-mistake black uniform made me imagine a fictional splinter-faction of the Love Corp called the Hate Corp. My very first-ever fanfiction was about exactly this: Hate Corp: An EnLove Story. It was tough to write! I had never written characters before, but it was exciting to create.
Basic premise of the Hate Corp revolves around the writings of an excommunicated member of the Love Corp, who was given the pseudonym Founding Sister by a loyal group of followers.
Founding Sister:s writings revolved around a concept called “enheart.”
Enheart was based off the Scientology understanding of enturbulation: disruption—usually against the soul—that caused a person to dysfunction against the Church. The enheart would be the disrupted heart, that runs parallel to the undisrupted heart, and processes the unconscious emotional reactions to traumas that had been recorded in a person through engrams.
Founding Sister believed that this enheart needed to be unrepressed, shown affinity, and be allowed to express itself unobstructed — that this authentic acceptance would lead to an overall increase in understanding, and that the enturbulation in a person must not be cleared.
Enturbulation and engram both were to be seen as spiritual organ as equally important to the existence of a person as blood and soul. Abuse, anger, hatred, chaos, spite, depression, melancholy, deviancy, excess, weakness, boredom, envy, aberration — all important parts to be loved, and expressed, so the whole heart might be mended.
Willingness to incorporate these spiritual poisons in-to her person, as well as rejecting the state of clear, led to her excommunication when her identity was eventually discovered.
Eventually, in a conversation with the creator of Archangel:Nemesis (and current leader of the Love Corp), my association with Charlotte Fang was brought up, in context of the recent call-out revolving Charlotte. The accusations were pretty severe: involvement in a suicide cult, secretly running a grooming cult that encourages self-harm and anorexia, general racism and transphobia, and pedophilia. Still: there was a warped little enheart inside of myself telling me “don:t betray your feelings, Mara, even if you look bad.”
I listened. I had no intention of reneging my gratitude towards Charlotte for the help I had received, and reiterated this to my Love Corp CO5. The leader of the Love Corp told me: “Mara, I:ve been a true friend to you. I don:t think Charlotte has been a true friend to you.” There were no messages afterwards.
Just like that: I was excommunicated from the Love Corp.
I was never told the exact reason over why I was excommunicated; presumably my unwillingness to denounce enturbulation in another, and it reflected a willingness to embrace enturbulation in myself: in defending my association with an evil, I must also be an evil. It made sense; if she truly believed me having gratitude for Charlotte made me complicit in the allegations, then I could hold no blame against her—it was embracing her own enheart.
Abandonment still hurt, because really: I only have a few people in my life I can talk to, and feel understood. This True Friend had been one, and an Anime Friend was another. As well: Love Corp was my whole life, for months. Or: an autistic fixation. And maybe: a lot of the people ‘in my sphere’ were all either directly, or indirectly, wrapped-around Love Corp. We shared a fanbase, and shared a common belief.
My True Friend was dedicated to the ‘Visual Novel Cause,’ and offered me a place at her monastery to dedicate myself to spiritual work that would heal me. She would encourage me to write my own visual novel, and pumped-out soundtracks for me to use, and we would make something beautiful together; the introduction to Archangel:Nemesis Episode 3, even, was meant to be based on me. The character Maggie was directly modeled off of me, and originally named after me. Love Corp, and Archangel:Nemesis, had been my life. She wanted to audit me, and for me to baptize her; I was in love with her.
All gone, and the shadow of Founding Sister lurched over me.
There is this page in Boogiepop Dual, where Boogiepop quotes The Scream Inside: Multiple Personalities by Seiichi Kirima (read right-to-left):
True Friend suspected me of using my art, and writing, to create demonic sigils to harm her; a suppressed evil (that even I was unaware of) had won agency somewhere inside my enheart and expressed its existence outwards as Founding Sister; an independent will creating itself through fanfiction, creating a blueprint for my life, and plan to justify its own existence. maybe I really had been unknowingly torturing a true friend in exactly the way that was claimed: my diseased philosophy, suicidality, and associations with maligned personages—all just Founding Sister reaching out to me. A fanfiction predicting my relationship and life, creating an automatic will.
I:m not sure if I really ended up as evil, but I definitely did not end up as Boogiepop.
Still: at the time, and presently, I do not regret anything I said. The enheart needs to be loved, and the consequences of that open-embrace are part of the bargain. Takako was all alone, after-all; Founding Sister offered me her hand, and I took it.
It:s a detail that was edited out from my fanfiction, but while lucid, during her final moments on her death-bed, Founding Sister admits more-than-anything she just wants to see her first Love Corp processor. The person who got her in-to the religion; the person she fell in love with.
Relationship 4: Ex
My ex replied to one of my posts on @marabaraLTD: “why did she do this?”
It was a post I made when I discovered my True Friend had blocked me off Patreon, and every-other platform: Twitter, Discord, Second Life.
“She didn:t like that I defended Charlotte.”
“That sucks, but I kind of get it.”
All I could think was you too, huh? Message from enheart was clear: remove her from your account, and everyone connected to her—so I did.
My ex did not abandon me, though; she reached out over Signal and told me that she loved me. We had a long talk: about how I feel about Charlotte, about how I keep fucking up my relationships, about how I feel like I:ve become a dumping ground for dirty-secrets that people refuse to take responsibility for. People piled their trash secrets into me until, at some point, there was no room for deniability.
I hated how upset it made me. It was this constant passive irritation that I always ignored because I love my ex.
This dumb social-group imposed hypocrisy that seemed impossible to separate from individuals, where I was expected to swallow my own discomfort out of trust for this group, but was expected to behave contrary for that group. I trust Charlotte, and I trust my ex; whatever dirt appears on them: I have no issue ignoring my disgust and remembering that there is a clean person underneath.
A person covered in dirt showing disapproval for my willingness to be adjacent to a different dirty person—being asked to see their kindness as a mask that need-be overwritten by some sentiment like: “don:t you see the filth on them?” Disgust apparently could eradicate the clean skin underneath an outer grime.
Founding Sister urged me on to speak all of this, she still was holding on-to my hand; and after I let my loser heart beat as loud as it wanted: there was another small distance between me, my ex, and her friend-group.
Logic or reason had nothing to do with how I felt. Surely I could have been more open to criticism for my behavior, or to reflect more earnestly about those I associate with, or ginger my actions and words when I feel emotionally dysregulated. Founding Sister squeezed my hand, and my heart beat a dumb disbeat.
I felt bad, so I let myself feel bad, and again I alienated myself a little more.
2.B: Circulatory Network
Several days ago, I had this conversation with my Religious Friend:
Losing even just a few relationships had deeply hurt me — it wasn:t a cancellation, but it was an intimate abandonment; doubt from my actions drove me in-to only seeing myself as this cold evil anti-social spider wounding these beautifully communal people that ‘loved’ around me. Enheart left me alone, and reinforced the idea that I must be alone — I still tightly held Founding Sisters hand, though, as a life-line: if my disrupted heart leaves me in a desolation, it is only to lead me to a new truth.
After all: Takako had been all alone, and being forcibly cut-away from where I previously belonged gave me this sense of clarity.
Any real potential to be either heroic or villainous eventually gets drowned-out by an overwhelming amount of anxious noise from social environment. Soul becomes a text document, constantly having information written in-to it by both the ‘true self,’ and ‘every environmental influence.’ Eventually whatever clean-spark of a ‘true self’ is lost in that environmental noise, by design: the true self ends up repressing itself to appease every relationship it has become chained to: friend groups, forums, politics, religions, partners, families, businesses. The text document bloats up with these anxieties and hypnoses, until the self and greater-soul is lost to wide static:
Soul becomes a text document, constantly having information written in-to it by both ‘the spirit,’ and ‘every environmental influence’ — cut out large amounts of environmental influence, and the percentage begins to bias in favor of spiritual information.
Retreating into myself had opened doors; enheart led me to a desolate land, completely barren to noise, but covering a network of oil that circulated upwards to speak with me, as Takako had, and as Founding Sister had; a grip on my hand tightened to urge me forward, and God became louder.
In Aku no Hana, volume 3, Nakamura asks Kasuga:
Her question here defines the entire series, and completely lays-bare an unapproachable gulf between the worlds of Nakamura and Kasuga.
Nakamura answers first:
There is nothing beyond; the town is inescapable; her bedroom and life is inescapable; this suffocating feeling is highlighted later-on, in volume 6, where she begins to scrape away the flesh from Kasuga:s ribs to forcibly make him aware that his very skin is just clothing that he must take-off to escape — and again: her command for Kasuga to kill her, desperate to make it over that mountain. It:s completely literal for Nakamura, there is nothing more for her, and there is no leaving. Her bedroom is infinite.
Kasuga is a poetic, and understands the poetry of words; everything Nakamura says is relatable on a surface level, because surely: a bedroom can:t be infinite, and surely: if he pedals enough, the two of them will make it past the mountains and beyond the town; as a poetic, he knows the perfect way to answer:
Nakamura senses maybe he can actually relate, but he ruins it:
There:s nothing in this town.
Nothing, nowhere, nobody.
Nothing but rusted iron, pachinko parlors, and weeds.
If I stay here, I:m done for. I gotta get away…
Somewhere far, far away…
I:ve always wanted to go off on a journey…
He speaks in an empty poetic language fostered through an attraction to an idea of Nakamura, but he can never understand her; her forever-experience is just a journey for him to overcome, and the ending of Aku no Hana reflects this massive gap in understanding: even though Kasuga ends up slightly dirtier and more alienated as result from knowing Nakamura — he moves on. He is a social and innately loving creature, and no dirt can erase that truth. He leaves the town, and he finds love, and his life flows on, only mildly inconvenienced by the death-information6 given to him by Nakamura.
Nakamura never leaves. She ages, and her life continues as a calm stagnate pool, and she ultimately never leaves her mothers side. There was never a life outside the death-information and isolation she was born with, and there was no journey. The only way out of her bedroom really had been that desperate moment ordering Kasuga to bash her brains to a mushy pulp: the bedroom is infinite, Kasuga-kun, it was not a poem.
Her existence is spelled out in the final chapter of the final volume: she exists as an alien in a world completely inhabited by a social insect that can only be harmed through interacting with her — and vice versa.
The glimpse of comradery she found in Kasuga was a trick-of-the-light distraction to lead her into some poisonous relationship: only to produce pain for Kasuga-kun and false-hope for Nakamura; the whole relationship was a regret. It was all pointless. It was just a destructive selfish urge for her to breathe out poisonous death-information into the lungs of these beautiful insect people: capable of overflowing love and warm understanding. Cold silk is all she may produce from her womb and Florida will be her grave and loneliness her only companion. Love was a complete mistake, and it was a cruelty to trick her with understanding.
Right, Kasuga-kun?
No healing could ever come from trusting my enheart to environment, nor from a warm love of another — healing a sick-mass inside my chest needed a purer compassion than any Other could ever offer; I misread the story of Mary Magdalene, maybe: although acknowledgment by the mob allowed her opportunity to serve at the feet of Christ, it was not the mob itself that led to catharsis. Rather: at the feet of Christ, she placed her heart, her soul, her emotions, her purpose — and in return, all these became reagent into a phylactery that may support her Self, finally outside the infinite bedroom of her body, for-ever-and-ever, with love, and with compassion.
Volume 3: Construction of a Phylactery
I needed to extricate the rot from inside of me: the gross bestiality, and whatever other comorbidities that snuck in with it; everything inside me that made me cold whereas others had a warmth; the literals inside me that others kept misinterpreting as poetics; — I wanted them all out, and I looked at those greater artists who seemed to manage this:
One was Shidama, who I greatly admire, their art made it seem like maybe they had a comradery with me — and there was no possibility of it being a trick-of-the-light like you have with a person; with art: there is no fear of it tainting itself with the contamination of a person; with art: it allows you to keep your perception of it pure and untouched, as long as the relationship between art and viewer is respected. The art is not owed nuance, and does not ask for nuance. It is itself.
Shidama drew Saint Seiya characters being enveloped by large beasts, never explicit, but always intimate — it was beautiful to me; it was all I really wanted from art. To be able to express outward the excess bile from myself, and make it pretty, and soft.
Art, as a medium for a phylactery, seemed fine (and even ideal if I could get to that level of self-love to let myself create it), but it lacked the level of explicit compassion I wanted to give myself. Art was a good component, but the phylactery itself needed more, and I needed references.
3.A: Reference 1 & 2: Pedophile Lich Phylactery
The heart of YuruYuri is hidden behind this door:
The world outside that room is the typical soft world of a typical moe (萌え) anime. Nothing really bad ever happens, there is no real genuine conflict, and basically every character is underage. YuruYuri has a really peculiar vibe to it though, it is a faintly soulless feeling world where an old pervert snuck their soul in-to (from some small crack), and has been using the empty anime-shell-characters as finger-puppets to play-out pervert fantasies with.
Thousands-of-tons of pervert chemicals had been dumped into the local lake, and the run-off has contaminated the drinking water for the whole town. Every character has this intergenerational tinge of chemical-pervert steeped into them from drinking tainted water.
This poisonous chemical circulates outward from the heart of YuruYuri, which is the authors heart, which is housed right behind that ‘do not enter’ door:
The heart of YuruYuri is a perverts heart, steadily pumping sister-complex and pedophilia throughout the whole body.
Opening the door was amazing to me: the author had somehow managed to extricate this black-mass from her body and placed it neatly in this perfectly accommodating world. Her heart, here, would safely be able to pump sleaze forever-and-ever: it was a phylactery for the author, and it was perfect — it was more than perfect, because the world itself was greater than the heart. Here, in a soft world, the poisoned-heart would become harder-and-harder to find than if it was just left in the authors chest: although the entire town of YuruYuri had been poisoned, they were still people who were greater than a shared taint. A concentrated poison diffused itself through the fictional world, and the author seemed more pure because of it.
I don:t think I would even call the author a pervert, over it: she probably has achieved more genuine love for herself through her creation, than any of the ‘consumers’ of her work. I admired the author immensely for it. It just seemed really beautiful to me.
There was another one in Watashi ni Tenshi ga Maiorita! or, shortened as: Wataten.
I found Wataten completely by-chance by searching for sleeping pictures (for my good-night posts on @nabarlsbl), and just really liked this lumpy character hiding her face and covering her body in some baggy track suit:
Looking at the reviews on MyAnimeList, they all seemed mostly positive (it:s emotional; it:s the sweetest thing i:ve ever seen; it made me cry), but there was this curious issue every reviewer danced around:
Wataten is a really sweet show, and caringly depicts the pain of being a socially-anxious hikikomori — but the main character is also a maladaptive pedophile.
The reviewers avoid it in a few different ways:
Miyako (the main character, the one in the track suit) is blatantly a pedophile, though. She:s a NEET/hiki with intense social anxiety, who can:t look others in the eye, who hates being seen, who stammers when she talks, who has no friends — and she is deeply in love with an 11 year old girl. She drools over the girl, tries to grab her, bribes the girl with candy to convince her to do photoshoots. Despite this, Miyako as a character is so compelling, that it leads a handful of reviewers to create nuanced arguments to distance themselves from admitting that they are sympathizing with a pedophile.
The show doesn:t hide it; the characters reference how Miyako is going to get arrested, and cops harass Miyako over her suspicious behavior (photographing children, trying to grab them). The show also refuses to dehumanize Miyako. Everyone understands what Miyako is, but it:s like the world collectively starts to cooperate together to heal Miyako over how she is:
Her paraphilia ends up becoming a catalyst to re-socialize her, and every-time the sludge in Miyako:s heart makes her act creepishly: the world tells her to stop, and instead shows love over how Miyako has been hurt.
Again, an author had dug out her enheart and layered it deeply under a perfectly understanding world — the blood that pumped through the constructed body may have a clear taint of pedophilia, but the body accommodates: the taint does not poison the body; the taint does not become defining of the soul; it seemed as though the author could really have died in the real-world from this poison. A real-world Miyako lost to hikikomorism from fear of acting upon the paraphilia. The constructed-world was safe for that heavy enheart, and it made the blood-based poison inert with a soft compassion that (perhaps) the author on her own could not supply.
Again: I greatly admired the author, and I thought she was beautiful for this. There was no need to layer my feelings in some nuance to create argument justifying sympathizing with a pedophile: the author seemed beautiful.
3.B.a: Reference 3: Bestialist Lich Phylactery 1
Both YuruYuri and Wataten were inspirational to me, but distinctly removed from my own feelings; YuruYuri gave me an idea to build the ‘empty world’ to house my soul, and Wataten more-so was inspiration about showing compassion towards the rotten-heart — together they almost could serve as material to build my phylactery: but I still had never actually seen an expressed ‘self-love’ over bestiality.
All I:d ever seen were people making material to masturbate to, and people masturbating to it; with bestiality it all breaks down in-to jokes about white-women and weird horny jokes (sometimes rooted in reality). Basically no father-figure for me to imitate into how to show compassion over it, but plenty of role-models if you wanted to learn how to masturbate.
The closest I had to a role-model was the artist Shidama, but it was a scrap that I couldn:t really follow because I had yet to arrive at a point where I could follow. Just plain intimate pictures lacked the overt compassion I needed to see. Still: I did my best to be like Shidama, I drew a series of picture related to my enturbulation:
The one on the left inspired by a Shidama artwork, showing body-on-body; the one on the right is me being euthanized along-side my partner from the cold-floor, while he was a puppy. I wish both of us sort-of died before it happened; I wish my mom never started collected dogs, and I wish she made-good on her regrets about not aborting me.
There was a steady cycle to the relationship between my mom and dogs; they get old, they become basically untouchable from some unseen filth, they get left outside (or in some corner of the house) and become more-and-more decrepit, they die off-screen, and my mom:d ask me to dig a hole before she would come home from work, and then at some point during the evening, the hole would be filled; I never really ever saw the dogs die — some of them were the closest thing I had to a best friend, and I:d never get to see them die; as some weird torture twist of fate, my partner was the first time I got to see something die. My mom wouldn:t even let me see my grandfather die, even though the choice was placed on me to put my grandfather into end of life. I was his live-in caretaker, and she somehow managed to hide his death at Hospice from me.
I got to hear the death-rattle, I could see the corpse, but I didn:t get to see him die.
For the first time (and only time) I got to see death occur in this reminder of my soul from way-back-when, now laid out on a towel, on the floor of some vet-clinic at night, with a catheter running into his front-leg. I finally got to see life slink away from a body — it:s quick. You can miss it easily.
I:m just extremely hurt, and I:ve been so alone.
I wanted to be like Shidama, but I wasn:t anywhere near being able to show compassion to myself. I needed an entire world to be constructed for it; I needed an entire ecosystem layered as the thickest callous over the cancerous-mass in my chest.
I needed to be shown that it could be done, that there was some worth in doing it.
VNDB has a function that allows you to search through every character that has participated in an “act,” so I searched for trait:bestiality.
I hoped this would lead me to some-character that I could feel camaraderie with, from some created-world that had compassion, but what it actually did was present me with this wall of empty-eyed characters that were all tied together by: “these people have fucked animals.”
Click a name, see their game: some smutty eroge. Click another: her clothes are off, bugs are crawling inside her. Click another: bound by tentacles in some meat-pit, covered in fluid; another: bound on a chapel floor, looking resistant, covered in semen.
On VNDB I found a mass-grave of characters defined by “trait:bestiality.”
The realization caused me to have a panic-attack. They all were created specifically for ‘the act’—they were all dirtied—they were just shells made to masturbate to. VNDB trait-search-function led me to a realization that I was no different from these dead-eyed characters. I felt some sick insect rot inside of me; layers and layers of this charred black filth that I had allowed to accumulate in my tummy, and self-deluded myself into thinking there was some reason to find love towards this rotten mass.
Something simple about “click: nun covered in semen, underwear exposed,” caused a hyper-consciousness about the social insect7 surrounding me, and that I had been attempting to appease; some weird hypnotic insect clicking put me in-to a state of wanting to nurture a cancer deep inside, with a love, so that I may be more palatable.
The entire pursuit was made meritless under the shadow of this now-visible social insect; I was trapped in this infinite social torture scheme I couldn:t make sense of: my pursuit was just so a social insect could milk torture out of me, or maybe it was solely to push me into this camp of perverts, or maybe it was to trick me into reliving the memory over-and-over — I don:t know, I was confused.
Eventually, through Twitter RT:s, I would find clarity in Semi Ikuta.
3.B.b: Reference 3: Bestialist Lich Phylactery 2
Semi Ikuta is an artist, probably around my age, who makes a lot of implicit/explicit interspecies art, and also seems to really like chastity-belts. She wrote a two volume comic called Ikkakujuu wa Tsuranukanai! which was translated, and officially published, in English as Unicorns Aren:t Horny — which seems miraculous, because the plot revolves around a budding relationship between a late-twenties woman (Emuko) and a unicorn (Uni). Emuko has failed to blossom as an adult, and has remained a virgin even though she approaches her thirties, and Uni has a chastity fetish: that is the premise.
Volume 2 is even somewhat sexual — Uni goes into heat, Emuko gets drunk and tries to give him a handjob, the two talk about how Emuko could never be penetrated safely by Uni, Emuko tries on a chastity belt that Uni bought her. Most importantly: they speculate about how making the relationship sexual would sully Uni:s attraction for Emuko. Having sex for a unicorn is a big deal, it:s a serious existential dilemma:
The Unicorn himself is nearly a personification of Emuko:s ‘weakness,’ he exists as this perfectly accommodating shape that is only attracted to Emuko:s failure to make meaningful relationships with others. The Unicorn is neatly a tool to trap Emuko in this failure: by remaining a virgin she has guaranteed companionship as long as she remains in her virginal loser-failure-to-launch shape. The Unicorn becomes a constant ‘stay with me as a shut-in virgin forever’ skinners-box. To have sex with Emuko ruins everything, and Unicorn admits as much: I would not be attracted to you if you had sex.
This personification is extended further through the Bicorn, introduced at the end of Volume 1, that is exclusively attracted to sexual promiscuity — and, like Uni, the Bicorn has manifested itself in the bedroom of a late-twenties woman named Biko, who has become weak to her sexual promiscuity; the mythical beast coaxing her to be nothing more than this late-twenties whore:
Bicorn puts his snout to her lap, and smells her mildewed whorishness, and provides companionship; Unicorn puts his snout to her lap, and smells her stale virginity, and provides companionship. For the Bicorn: temperance ruins everything.
It:s a neat story, but more-so: the author treats it with complete sincerity and respect; the interspecies-relationships aren:t injected to create some joke-comedy romance, nor are they in the story as a pure vehicle to masturbate to: the relationships come directly from the authors heart.
Emuko and Uni eventually work together and consummate their relationship, despite the existential unknown of what would happen should they have sex, risking losing everything:
It:s fine; Emuko was more than someone who only wanted to move-on from her virginity, and Uni was more than someone who only sought after virginity. It was everything more than a simple bestiality, and everything more than those who seek out this relationship only to masturbate. The Bicorn and Biko never test their relationship, they never consider the possibility of being more than sex; Biko remains enslaved to her weakness, and Bicorn continues to exist as a perfect cage for that weakness.
Semi Ikuta gave me exactly what I wanted. It:s not outright pornographic, and it is very sweet, and it made me cry a few times, and it just treats itself with a clear compassionate warmth.
I:m just so thankful for something like this existing; reading it was the very first time I:ve not felt bad, or like a slave to my own memories. There was no transportation to a cold floor, or no suicidal pulse that followed. Semi Ikuta made something that felt clean: it was possible to interact with this, there was merit in letting myself feel something. Emuko would hold my hand, and help me hate myself a little less,
only a little, though.
3.C: Drink the Potion
Becoming a lich, as described in Advanced Dungeons & Dragons Encyclopedia Magica Volume 3, involves the following steps:
Prepare a potion made from nine specific ingredients during a full moon.
Drink the potion within seven days of completing the potion.
Wait out any sickness from the potion, either dying or surviving.
Prepare a phylactery from any solid inorganic object, empty of spell or magics.
Finishing casting Enchant an Item upon the phylactery within nine days.
Cast trap the soul on the phylactery.
Cast Nulathoe:s nine-men on the phylactery.
Cast magic jar and enter the phylactery.
As much as I adore Semi Ikuta, I am not her, & her heart is not my heart — even if the beat sounds similar. My heart needed its own world to be housed in; a world strong enough to cleanse all the toxins I:d pump into it: bestiality, my mother, my inability to connect with people, the abuse I had directly caused others, the hospices, the neglect. Everything poisoned needed to be compressed down into something material, and given to an endless embrace from a compassionate world.
True Friend, while we were dating, mentioned how Archangel:Nemesis was basically an exorcism of her life; the process of script-writing was an involved process, she needed to be sealed away from the world, and then: in darkness: she:d imbibe a drink that may kill her, or may grant her eternity.
She was a mentor to me, for these things; she had her own phylactery, and was willing to talk about the process, so I told her about everything. I told her about my act-of-bestiality, how I was hurt, how I:m afraid to leave my bedroom, how God speaks to me, and how I wanted to make an entire world in Visual Novel format (as she had) to save myself — this last part was her mission statement, sort-of.
True Friend wrote it out explicitly in 3 Billion Dreams for a Forgiveness Machine:
3 Billion Dreams for a Forgiveness Machine was the impetus that led me to reach out to her, really. She mentioned months ago she wanted to make a Visual Novel with me, and I didn:t really understand what she meant. I had no ideas, and I have no drive. After I finished reading 3 Billion Dreams, I just understood and messaged her out-of-the-blue: I love you, and I know what you meant now by I want to make a Visual Novel with you.
She supported me embracing the Visual Novel cause completely.
My story started by sculpting out a shell shaped like me: a thirteen year old girl who has committed a heavy sin. From there, the basic scenario: she is doing one-on-one sessions filling out ‘confession worksheets’ with a counselor, and through the worksheets eventually her sin will be divulged. Then, the world: it is a religious society based on the Seventh Day Adventists, post-Millennium, where the church has divided its congregation based on handedness. The right-handed followers are not permitted any form of idolatry or representational form: their class-rooms have no pictures, they are forbidden from drawing, and they are forbidden from looking at art; the right-handed do their worship through song and prayer. The left-handed are forbidden from song, and are only permitted worship through clay and idol-worship.
I told True Friend something silly: I want to make this VN while following the rules of the setting. As a left-handed person I shall have no input on sound, and I want you, my true friend (a right-handed person), to completely direct all sound.
My True Friend named my shell, Scroll, and created an entire soundtrack for me based off the notes and world I had shared with her. Every time I left discouraged, she lifted me up and bolstered me with advice and confidence:
“It:s okay if you are struggling with completing it, it took me years to write Archangel:Nemesis.”
Every doubt I had could be smoothed down with love, I learned; I would show Scroll that same love; she wouldn:t have to silently die from a cancer. I would give her loving friends, and an entire world that would patiently wait-on-her to face herself; the entire world would move as ‘one’ to show this character compassion, no matter how heavy her sin.
I just had to finish writing it—which was difficult for me—but I had myself and my friends supporting me. My writing was a little rough. I had no idea how to write character or dialogue, so I started a side-project, and wrote my very first fanfiction, which was an Archangel:Nemesis fanfiction, about a Love Corp spin-off called the Hate Corp.
Somewhere in the darkness, Founding Sister was squeezing my hand.
I wanted to end this with some uplifting message of: I made my phylactery, I put my whole heart and soul into a small digital box, and it healed me — but that:s a complete lie. The phylactery lays incomplete in some closet, it:s just garbage now.
All I could manage was to drink some shit potion and have just been waiting to see if it kills me.
Reflecting more, there are a few more possibilities: my first experience with porn online was reading Bondage Fairies, which is about these fairy lesbians being raped by insects. There:s also Ragnarok Online itself: this likely happened after the Russian Lady, but I became really fixated on the hentai artist Xration, who:d draw my favorite class (priestess) being assaulted by various Ragnarok Online monsters — my fixation on her kind-of has stuck with me to the present, in a weird way where I see her as a mother-like figure to me. I don:t look @ her porn anymore, but she still plays Ragnarok Online, and still draws art for it, & it:s just kind of calming to see someone who was there with me so-long ago still existing in basically the same shape, but older. I mostly just put this here to write about Xration & Bondage Fairies. The Russian Lady was definitely more “severe” in shaping me compared to Xration, but I think Bondage Fairies explains a lot, too. It:s kind of pointless to spend much time trying to unravel environmental variables, though: it seems even as-likely that my attraction was pre-meditated before any environmental variable could affect me; when I spoke with LRH in past-life memories, he affirmed they were patterned in intentionally to make me more disconnected from material-basic — too, from a basic theological stand-point: the animal-soul of those glued to kelipah (from a Tanya perspective) are on the same level as animal, & this aligns with my understanding of the left-handed being descendant to kelipah (qlifot).
Enheart = enturbulated heart, the disturbed heart; the enheart is responsible for expressing destructive feelings that go against the heart, and the hearts of others. It might want to say things like (to another person) “I hate you and I don:t want to talk to you,” conveying anything other than the wishes of the enheart is speaking in empties, & warbles the identity of enheart. Ideally: allowing the enheart to express will lead to the enheart feeling a genuine love, that (while not clearing it) will lead to a more harmonious existence. I:ve been trying this out in my personal life, since I:m following in the footsteps of Founding Sister, and so-far it:s ruining my relationships — but I:m actually always proud of myself for not hiding the enheart in more lies in more dull relationships I don:t really want.
God = the Qlippoth, or more specifically: the vein network. I didn:t want to put in too much of my religious language in-to this article, or for it to become bogged down in paranoia, but Takako was a profane message to me from the vein network. She was idolatrous form that opened up as a vein and delivered a clear patterned message: “this is what you must do; you know the feelings that I:ve granted you — it is up to you to embrace this message.” I forgot it, & inevitably: I would be lightly punished for neglecting the lesson of Takako, of Qlippoth, of God: until I remembered. I:m remembering more, now, too, about Misuzu Arito, & that initial pattern is sourced from the same oil of Takako. Specifically: the uncritical acceptance of the world as Panuru:s World Love ultimately is pulled from the same “there is no good/evil, only how I feel about you” that Takako bears towards her murderer boyfriend, & towards her abuser. The network speaks to me all through-out writing this: the social punishments from neglecting God become more material, & every-time I become lost in that distracting social noise (temporary kindnesses, fleeting acceptances) the ability to write my feelings on paraphilia fleet: I become lost in this lame amorphous insect noise about whether I hate myself or not. Inevitably: the network reaches out to me again, and (just like Misuzu, just like Takako, just like Ayane) says “I don:t care about that, Mara.”
The Love Corp is an organization in Archangel:Nemesis that is loosely based off the Sea Org in Scientology. I was the first person outside (outside of the author, I guess) to sign the digital contract to join! Neat trivia :-)
CO = Commanding Officer
Death-information = information or communication that leads a person to acting against a survival instinct, usually not as overtly as it sounds; ie: music that makes suicide seem ideal, and then thinking about suicide — can be as succinctly packaged as this, or spread-out over a long correspondence, ie: all of the art and communication I made about my traumas/pains/isolation/faith may have only amounted as death-information for people who look up to me, and for people who have become close to me.
Social Insect = usually when I mention ‘insect’ it is with a strict religious context referring to an invisible social body, and a distinct class of people with an immutable default communal nature, that actively tries to subsume people into its amorphous body. Lacking the default communal nature is considered a sickness to the world, and leaves a person both disconnected from, and preyed upon by the amorphous social body. Social insect extends its body through the air by means of music and light, and constantly tries to fill a ‘soul’ with its noise to outcompete other insects, to establish control over a subject.
Thanks for writing this, as someone who also has this paraphilia (and others) and has lived with it for a long time. I have been a follower for a while now as your art and writing has often spoken deeply to me, but this is on a whole 'nother level. The feelings you expressed here were so honest and so well-expressed, and they are twistedly complex feelings I have felt before so I was amazed by how well you were able to articulate them. While our perspectives differ a little something I have always enjoyed about your work is that it just... Well, I understand it, and I feel understood by it.
I saw this piece while bored towards the end of my workday shortly after you posted it, and once I read through the first paragraphs I was too engrossed to put it down. When I finished I just left early and rushed through the errand I had to do so I could get home and write this comment with a real keyboard. Normally I am too nervous to comment, but this is... I don't know how to say it but this piece is very important to me. It kinda has a similar feeling as you described with Ikkakujuu wa Tsuranukanai!, "I:m just so thankful for something like this existing;". It's hard to say exactly why yet, but I feel inspired. You and your work are an inspiration. Thank you so much again; I am so grateful that you post your art, writing, and thoughts. I would like to do the same someday, and your stuff makes me feel like there's a reason to.
I hope you are able to finish your phylactery someday, I would love to see it. I don't know if this helps at all, but when I read your updates on twitter etc. I try to send you good energy, and I don't know if what I do counts as "prayer" but I think it is easy to explain if I just say that I pray for you sometimes. Although I do not know you personally, I think of you fondly. Good luck, with everything.
i'm usually only a lurker, but i really wanted to express that your insight is inspiring and makes me feel more lucid than i have been in a long time. thank you. your work will not be in vain.