Monthly Archives: April 2020

Impressions in the Apocalypse

If I’m to believe what I’ve been told, and I do, the world as I knew it ended ten months ago. The inevitable conclusion to a story began some three and a half years earlier, though the nature and form it took was anything but that.

I did not see it take place, rather I’ve been abducted and held prisoner in an unreal limbo, a sort of waking dream that drags on and on. I have precious little agency to myself — the things controlling my environment, and my body by extension, do not allow for me to exercise much free will. I eat, I smoke, I look at the internet, and I go to parks and the Alameda Beach. The only clues i receive as to what’s going on outside my bubble comes to me through the expression of a group of hyper-intelligent con artists, so I never know what’s true and what isn’t. However, I believe the broad strokes, that the theory behind the wonderful life that awaits me is sound. Some day, perhaps soon, perhaps not, I’m going to go to a heaven for which my actions and behavior, if not my intension or knowledge that such was the ultimate outcome, are largely responsible for bringing about.

According to the con artists, who I like to call “the bitches”, a grand, beautiful palace with a bevy of 12 lovely, hand-picked women, who want nothing more than to be responsible for my happiness, is waiting for me, the culmination and validation of everything I’ve been through the last seven and a half years.

I started reading an old textbook from a class on personal essays I took at New York City’s Columbia while waterlogged Tulane in New Orleans was drying out. The bitches like to get in the way of my literary pursuits, as this, more than anything else, has always been a source of pride and joy for me. They’ve ruined almost every book I’ve tried to read, by making up non-sensical content for my eyes to pass over. They didn’t today. Lo and behold I came up with an idea I want to try to bang out before I leave this endlessly irritating, insulting reality they’ve constructed around me. In a word, I want to jot down my theories and expectations as to what awaits me. The bitches have led me to believe many things. They’ve been promising me heaven for a long time, which is one reason I’m sure it’ll come about. I performed on the world stage and made everyone fall in love with me. Unfortunately this wasn’t enough for everyone to escape the game they played with themselves and each other. Thusly their anger overcame them, and the end of the world arrived, and, when the bitches began to reconstitute it, the universal, overwhelming love and admiration of one Antal Polony was the only fact each of them held in common. It was enough to, eventually, bring about a worldly paradise a thousand times more peaceful and happy than the civilizations that had preceded it.

But what, exactly, does it look like? What do the houses in what were once Rio de Janeiro’s favelas look like? What is there to talk about? What kind of jobs are there? Is it boring? It sounds kind of boring. The concept of safety has been largely anathema to my life thus far, and especially since the world-changing Occupy Oakland e-mails went out. The only place I can say I truly felt safe was in mom’s cabin in Paradise, surrounded by woods and space. Certainly wasn’t unpleasant. Perhaps that’s the feeling I’m looking forward to.

As it turns out there was a fantastic hidden benefit to the end of the world. Weeks after the whole of humanity began destroying itself in a bedlam of murder and psychosis, I got them to stop. I didn’t know what I was doing, as I’d already been in the bitches’ dream about two weeks, but it was effective nonetheless. I told the governments of the world to dispose of their guns, armies, and nuclear weapons. I thought they were all listening to me, and, in a way, they were. I suppose it made everyone stop and wonder why on earth they were doing the things that they were. Then, a few days later, they panicked, and those still living committed mass suicide.

While one might think that would end it, here came another all-important moment: the bitches brought everyone back from the dead. Call it an unsuccessful escape attempt. I imagine many of those awakened let out a collective groan that it wasn’t all over after all.

What kind of technology do such strange, all-knowing beings possess? This dream I’ve been in the last ten months has sure felt realistic enough.

All of it because of me, little old me. The recently re-animated dead saw me in all of their minds, a projection of the bitches who meanwhile raped and controlled me. I was there but I didn’t know anyone else was. According to the bitches the rest of everyone can’t get enough of me, can’t stop staring. At first this was all they had to look forward to. How very, incredibly sad, especially considering how determined they’d seemed to murder and control me. No wonder they hated themselves so much.

I wonder what the bitches told them at the outset. Probably that no one would feel this way forever, and that I, likewise, would one day be happy. But they also kept up their violence against me. It was often, indisputably, rape. I’ve been wearing the most total of blindfolds this whole time. What worldly wonders await me when it is removed?

I might not have much time here left. I want to try to think it out so I can see, in retrospect, which of my predictions came true. Honestly it feels like an exercise in science-fiction. I cannot imagine what everyday life now consists of. I’ll be the latest arrival, but I don’t think I’ll be disappointed.

There are several aspects to the heaven that I believe is waiting for me: 1. a grand, beautiful palace with every amenity I might come up with; 2. twelve women I’ve chosen from my previous life and the public eye; 3. knowledge so vast as to be totally inconceivable; and finally 4. total, infinite freedom, from the voices, the internet, and the terrible game Occupy Oakland unleashed upon the world.

1. What will my house have? What kind of architecture? It might look something like the Hungarian Parliament building: expansive, extravagant, utterly unique. I’ll have a nice big room with a great view, perhaps of the ocean. I think it’s on a Pacific island, perhaps in Hawaii. The water will be warm and playful. I hope my room has a good desk, a comfortable easy chair and couches, King Tut’s burial helmet, an aquarium, an ant farm, and a good computer with a good sound system. A piano, of course, and why not two so that I and whoever wishes can play duets?

The rest of my house should have ample room for my wives to spread out, and for us to eventually raise a family. There should be an arcade for all the video games that might come out or have already (they probably have photo-realistic graphics). There should be a great big home theater with plenty of seating. I hope there’s a sauna, an indoor pool, and a hot tub. Not sure we’d need all that living on the ocean, but why not? Maybe it’ll be nice to swim in a climate-controlled environment.

There are probably acres of scenic grounds to wander through, and a bunch of animals. I know I want my dog Bernie to be there (he’ll live as long as I do), and I know I want a tiger. And, why not, a chimpanzee or mountain gorilla. If I have the technology, which I probably will, some day I might make myself a dragon. Might be cool to have. There’s probably a great big dining hall and dance hall. I think that’s about all I can come up with.

2. What will my wives be like? That too is quite difficult to wrap my head around. Twelve sure sounds like a lot, but they might be perfectly happy just to be there, and won’t need, and certainly won’t demand, my constant attention.

I’m gonna give them all a fair shot, but I expect, after the first few years, to narrow it down to between four and six of them. For some reason I look forward to meeting Alex (AOC). She sure sounds cute given the little snippets of interaction the bitches have sent me about her (which, of course, may be lies). They’ve told me many times that they think Marika will be my favorite. I bet Chris and Tina will be good. The bitches also seem to like Jia, a Russian girl, my favorite son star. They seem to think I’ll break Nora’s and Hailey’s hearts. I think this possible for Araxi too. One thing’s for sure is they’re all lookers, and I think they all feel pretty to have been selected. I can’t imagine how awesome this is going to feel: my wish will be their command. Just like everyone else in the world they would literally die for me. Quite the ego-booster. They will just want me to be happy. I’ll try to return them the favor.

3. A big part of the post-apocalypse world is the ability the bitches have to turn our minds on to their full capabilities. That means every nerve ending enhanced, radically more pronounced strength and dexterity, and photographic memory. They have compiled all experiences of every human being they can reach back into history for: all intelligence, creative and scientific endeavors, all impressions and thoughts and moments. No one has any secrets to start this world out with; these will only be developed later.

This is probably the most personally transformative aspect of heaven, and the hardest to imagine. I’ll actually know how to write my memoirs, all the details and vibes and emotions I thought were beyond my capabilities to describe. That first time coming down for breakfast in the kitchen when Dawn looked at me and emphasized the word “person”, as if I was no longer that, the moment I realized I truly was less than nothing.

I’ll have so much material. It might take me a while to get to my memoirs. First I’m gonna finish the two books I’ve been working on the last few years, then I’ll write about my parents, then I’ll write about 9/11 (I’m pretty sure that was the bitches’ handiwork), then I’ll write an epic Batman vs. Joker tale about how the world would have ended had I not come along. Sounds like I’ve got my work cut out for me.

4. Freedom, which, all along, has sounded to me like award enough. No more voices, no more Facebook, no more social games, no more puking, no more touches. Today all it takes is for the bitches to recede into the background and my mood vaults into the stratosphere. I’ll be master of myself again, with the awfulness never to return. I’ll probably cry with happiness.

The bitches make it seem almost every night like it could be their last. So far I’ve always been disappointed. But, eternal optimist that I am, I remain convinced that it has to happen some day.

I’m writing this essay because I felt it was important to get a record out about what I think awaits me, to see what I get wrong.

As for what the rest of the world looks like or is going through I’m not even going to try. The houses will all be pretty and resistant to natural disaster. I bet the internet still plays an important role in day-to-day life. The bitches will disappear. Everything, almost literally I believe, from the clothes we wear to the food we eat, will be made of bio-engineered hemp that can grow and produce in seconds, like Star Trek’s replicators. I think everyone has flying cars. A lot of work has to be done to prevent the coming climate change cataclysm, but, unlike before, now it is possible: weather will continue to be crazy for the next twenty years, then a more healthy, pre-industrial revolution equilibrium will establish itself. They said they even know how to get the plastics out of the ocean. If we hadn’t done this life on earth would have become inhabitable in 200 years. In that way Antal Polony turned out to be a bigger deal than the asteroid that killed the dinosaurs. Solved climate change and human nature in one fell swoop.

The bitches say there are still jobs for everyone, though of course there’s no money. I really don’t know what these must consist of. I think I want to work for a publishing house or magazine. I think that would be a lot of fun. I bet a lot of what people have been doing the last ten months is cleaning up the old world’s pollution and waste and shooting it up into space. Oughta keep us all busy for a few years.

Just as there will always be jobs the bitches say there will always be something to talk about, subjects to satirize, suggestions to be made. Again, I can’t imagine. I’ll have to see it for myself.

I guess I should have added one more aspect to my victory and the changes I can expect: 5. What will happen to me when I finally get laid? It has been 15 years since last it successfully happened. I remember after the first time I fucked Ashley I felt undeniably that which I’d heard would happen: that losing your virginity changes you. I felt satisfied and relaxed, more self confident, successful. I was more fun to be around. I felt more on point than I’d ever felt before. I saw all these women walking around who seemed to look at me differently, each a walking repository of potential enjoyment.

I remember Erica telling everyone at one point that clicking on Facebook material for everyone was better than sex. I would guess that refers to the thrill of it. She wasn’t there very long though. For me Facebook was a reality, a chore and performance I had no choice to continue to try to conquer. If the last seven and a half years have been anything they’ve been a constant learning experience in the vagaries of power dynamics. I know more about power than anyone else, except maybe the bitches. I say this with full confidence. There was a quote in House of Cards: “Everything is about sex, and sex is about power.” That’s why I think I’ll be good at it. Maybe I’ll be super horny for a while — with 12 wives I can’t imagine this representing much of a problem. With the confluence of my cosmic powers, and how very happy I’ll be, I can’t imagine any challenge being insurmountable. I want to be the best writer ever — I might have to write under a pseudonym to know for sure, as I think the general populace has, for some reason I don’t fully understand, become totally brainwashed by prolonged Antal exposure.

It feels almost ridiculous to write these things, if I wasn’t reasonably sure it was all true. It’s technically possible I could be wrong. Only time will tell.

I wonder if I’ll forget how difficult my life used to be. Soon after I moved back into her house mom wrote me a note to put on my wall: “DON’T FORGET.” This felt like very good advice back then. I intend to frame it and pin it up by my work station. I hope, no matter how happy I become, that I don’t lose may edge, especially where writing is concerned.

I only get scared here when I think it’s too good to be true. I wanted to write this essay so as to record my predictions and presumptions, to see how they end up stacking up to reality. Imagine if it’s all true: I’ll be so fucking proud of myself!

Well, I think that just about does it. Who knows what the future holds? I think I met the challenges presented to me more ably than anyone, including the bitches, could have imagined.

I think I’m going to get drunk, smoke a bit, then go to sleep. When I win, I’ll be a walking talking example of the axiom “Anything is possible.” Here’s hoping I’m right.

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