🍥BONUS VIDEO AT THE END🍥
Hail to Jellatinous Portal. No, not a band name, albeit a crafty one; it’s the literal wordery here, in where my trickerosity lies. Tis’ in the initialization, JP, that’s the initials of, what I believe to be, one of our modern-day, legendary-status living pop culture “icons,” if I may be so bold. I can’t think of anyone else, to be frank, who can hold a candle to this amazingly unique individual. He gives so much, so much to the world, so much to YOU, he’s given much to me. Regardless of that, some people actually want this guy stripped of his credentials, & forced to be “re-educated,” whatever the fuck that means. It’s such a joke, this plasticized world of arrested-development children, in power positions, making rules for those they deem as “beneath them,” & thus, must apparently now be “forced,” to assimilate, or be destroyed. This isn’t hyperbolic, or exaggerated, or fictionalized, in any way, what I’m talking about is very real, unfortunately, & despite the long-game-slow-kill efforts of these elitist pigs, PIGS, just like the book Animal Farm, where the pigs are in charge, well what a coincidence…power-hungry pigs rule this 3d matrix too, according to them anyway, & seemingly according to most of you, who follow these pigs, & abide the dominion of said pigs. Why do you listen to pigs? Why do you pay extortion taxes, to pigs? Why do you let these pigs live in castles, like royalty, while you live in the gutter? Why do we keep letting these ruthlessly sinister porky-pigs, who worship avatars of chaos & destruction, & create chaos & destruction to appease their pseudo-god, why do we keep letting them even be? Imagine a world with no pigs, no pigs at all, minus the ones we eat, because I like eating pigs, with a delightful barbecue sauce, not let them shape my destiny from their high towers.
Who is this JP? Well, if you haven’t put it together yet, I’ll give you a hint…it surely must be that dastardly straight white family man from Canada, the alt-right white supreme pizza, that figurehead of the modern-day neo-Nazi, but where is a safespace? RED ALERT, RED ALERT, REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE…honk honk honk honk honk, there’s a REEEEEEEEEEEEE-cist showing up in the article, oh my oh my, whatever will we do? Derp, get back to Starbucks ya rainbow-haired gamma gophers. You hold no place here, now back to your soy lattes, double the soy. See ya. Now that the clown car has taken the express ramp off of a cliff hopefully, who am I talking about already? Don dada donnnnnnn…could it be? Can I be? Would I dare? How dare you Fish, you failed fool, how dare you bring this man’s name up….& here we go. I’m talking about Jordan Peterson, of course(make sure you spell my name right when you report me), YES, The Doctor is in the house, Dr. Jordan Paterson, the spiritual rebirthing of Jung & Nietzsche, combined with your favorite high school biology teacher(shoutout to Mr. Williams if you’re still amongst the living). Yes, DOCTOR Jordan Peterson, & said Doctor, helped me find the way, helped me to find the key to the golden door, when that key was always just dangling from a cheap chain around my neck, like when I was a latchkey kid in the 80s. This key, however, was stuck in a crack, a crack created by a terrible series of traumatic head injuries that weren’t properly treated. Left me a bit…foggy, you could say, for a long time. Sprinkle the purple haze of drug addiction on top of that, & damn if I just never saw that fucking key in the crack. It never left, it never rusted, if anything, it became a stronger key, as the steel propane-flame cured itself in the 4d spiral of time, waiting patiently for me to find it, when the fog had lifted.
Enter Jordan Peterson, at my own middle-age, but nonetheless, enter the keymaster. I have known the key was there, make no mistake, I have always been a writer, have always written, have always been able to go to the well & fill the bucket as needed. It just comes to me, & I don’t know how or why really, even now, but sure enough, I just let myself go, go into the flow, & what do ya know, THIS comes out. THIS, this writing that I’m illustrating for you, in real-time, but is now pastime, if you’re reading this now. My most special journals go back decades, hand-written, old-school journaling, kind of like this, on the daily, but with an actual pen, so it’s different. There’s an organic aspect to physical writing with a pen, & once it’s down on hard paper, the spell has been cast, & the words are now out there, blowing around in a whippety wind-whirlpool in the middle of an empty city block, until it blows into someone’s face. The digital pen involves a whole other dimension of creation to it, particularly if what you write you post on the Internet publicly for a global audience of all & none. The paper blowing in the wind whirlpool can now blow into the faces of potentially millions. Takes much longer for the physical pen, but the payoff, I’d imagine, would be glorious. GLORIOUS. Imagine handwriting a book, literally, then having it published, & it’s content appealing so much to a local audience, that eventually, the world finds it. Wow, what glory. Surely though, there’s a similar glory if ANY of your publishings happen to find reception from millions of eager beavers that can’t wait to see what you write next, right?
I don’t know, nor will I ever know, unless one of these rants that I channel from the big crockpot, making sure I get all the meat & potatoes that one can handle into the bowls of soup I serve from Source, to the slaves, to myself, to all of you, & to none of you at all. My soup is hot, hot out of the gate, because that’s how I serve it up. Who likes cold soup? My soup is so hot in fact, that your big tech overlords have exiled me from the majority of social media platforms, leaving me only this, my only thing I have left, my words. I guess TRUTH doesn’t work so well here in Clownworld. Virtue is verboten, & thought-criminal dissidents like me who know where all the exits are from The Great Mouse Trap, & then kick open the exit doors yelling, “Run free little mice, for you are mice no more, you are men, now run, you are free,” we are not welcome. Oh wait, but they just stand there, the mice just stand & stare, aimlessly eye-balling me, gawking at me like the village leper, like the exiled one, & maybe that’s because I am, for I’m surely exiled, digitally, & now in real-life, the moldy mold on the fetid fruits has spread, as I type from this proverbial jail cell that I’m always in. My own prison within The Great Mouse Trap. Maybe that’s why I know where all the exits are, because I never got through them, & just stay stuck, stuck in The Great Mouse Trap, with all these other menacingly moldy mice, no different, & certainly no better. I don’t know, I don’t know anymore, all I know is the writing, following this little Tinkerbell, & she keeps saying, “Write, write, for your time is running out, so write, like it is,” & she’s right, my time is running out methinks.
Ultimately, everyone’s time is running out, but particularly mine, I wonder if I’m near the end, at this middle-age I’ve reached. My grandfather died at the same age I am, from a heavy heart attack, & I could see that same scenario playing out for me. Just hanging out one day, probably between my paragraphs, as that’s usually when I leave my radio tower, in the gap between paragraphs. Yep, maybe I’m going to the fridge, maybe having a smoke, who knows, but all of a sudden, WHAM, OUCH, fuck my chest hurts, GAHHHH, my arm is numb, then oh fuck, I’m having a heart attack, & then what happens? I fall out, just going unconscious, like going to sleep, but not waking up this time? Damn, that’s a sordid scene. I’d hate for someone to find me unconsciousness and/or dead. Yikes. That’s how grandpa went though, wayyyyyyyyy before my mom decided to let herself get knocked up & have me. I have the traits of my grandfathers, the intelligence, the jovial wit, along with a dangerously addictive nature & reckless self-destruction. Ultimately, the failed fool, & I got all of it, one granddad dying a drunk, the other dying at the same age I am right now. Hmmm, kind of sounds like I’m genetically fucked then, yeah? Oh well, fuck it. I know death, as much as one can “know” death anyway from this 3d vantage point, & I know death is not an ending, so to speak. It’s only the end of this, this end of this 3d life of unwelcome incarceration. Thus, it’s a most-welcomed-ending then in fact, yes?…for those souls sick of being soul-sucked, stuck in this restrictive 3d meat suit, stripped of the memory of my our 5d immortality, our true selves, our Higher Selves.
Anyway, Jordan Peterson has an online writing course that I highly recommend. It’s a “Self-Authoring” course, practically titled, “Self-Authoring,” & involves guess what? Authoring YOU, yourself, writing about you, your life, & what happens when you do this writing course? I equate it to higher math, like anything algebraic & up. Math equations & proofs, designed to stimulate more complex synapses in the brain, well writing tasks have a similar function, in the sense that the more your write, the more you accumulate, the more your brain fires off electricity into fractally branching stems of elevated thought trees. It’s an essential nutrient, to keep your trees bearing their respective fruits, & the genius of the simplicity of this notion?…just write. WRITE, then keep writing. It doesn’t mater what you write, or even if you CAN write like a writer might, just WRITE. If your life has come to a cul-de-sac full of boarded-up crackhouses, figuratively of course, & no one else is around, & it’s only you left in the room, write about it. If all else has failed you, write about it. WRITE, WRITE, WRITE & as a lifelong writer, most surely, I have had periods of nil writing. Such wasted time, those lost pages, because I can only write about those times now from a present-perspective, rather than reflect on any actual real-time writing from the past, oh those many lost pages, so many I never wrote. Now I know my time grows cold, as my toilet has almost flushed itself away, I have to write like the crazy madman, much like I’m writing now in real-time, because the clock ticks away, faster & faster, flush flush flush, flush that toilet of 4d time away into the past. Who left a stinker? Go spray for fuck’s sake, the after-stench is stinking up the whole house ya filthy animal. (Fart Noise)
Sadly for me, he’ll never ever never never read this, as my view stats are around 20 visitors a day, so the odds of Jordan Peterson being one of those 20 readers, is analogous to assuming I just bought a winning Powerball ticket. Nope, never going to happen, as is anything ever going to happen in this horribly fucked-off life I’ll leave behind someday, maybe someday soon, via the unbearable stress of my own existence causing my heart to fail me. Or maybe one of my other organs? Maybe a car crash, like the one I have so many horrible visions of? Perhaps the powers-that-be will take me out? Or I’ll just keep going, towards directions unknown, who knows? I blink my eyes, & I was 5, then blink them again, & now I’m 45, so perhaps I’ll blink them again, & be 85, or blink the same eyes, only to never open them again here in this world tomorrow. You never know, when you’re going to go. Dang, all kinds of fishisms in this article, see the quotes at the bottom. In case you didn’t notice, I’ve been leaving my own quotes at the bottoms of my posts. Dropping rhymes like dimes, you could say. At the end of the year, when my 365-day straight writing project completes its first COMPLETE yearly cycle, If I make it, if I’m still here, I’m going to take all my pages of accumulated quotes, & put them into another book of mine, only this time self-published by yours truly. No more “someone else,” it’s all me from here. Too many parasitic snapdragons out there, don’t need anyone else to make my melody, I’ll do it myself thanks.
The spinning record spins, right round baby like a record going round round right round, & it’s time to go, dear readers. Until next time, don’t be a dope, check out my quotes, not only below, but from before, don’t ya know? Best check my older posts, and/or jump into my archives. Closing in on 5000, 5000 pages for you to pursue dear reader. That was nice of me, wasn’t it? Go ahead & form a line to the left to shake my hand & offer thanks, as I’m as humble as ever towards my audience of faceless ghosts. No one cares, no one ever did, no one ever will, & such is the way for the walk for this Jobian fish. Jordan Peterson helped, but there is no help for me, for I am forsaken. Still, Dr.Peterson’s “Self-Authoring,” program will open up the Pandora’s box inside yourself, letting your true self peek out, like a baby roo in a pouch, except once your true self peeks out, so do all the shadows of said self. The only way to confront those shadows, is to open that box though, setting them free, along with yourself, because that’s how you find yourself, the self that you lost long ago, should you find yourself in a similar position as I. Until next time, dear readers, check out his site, just click the link above, then thank me later should you take the course. & run your own gauntlet. So sayeth FisH™🎣
For all of you, & for none of you at all.🐡
“You never know, when you’re gonna go, go, go.” ~Fish F Fish🎏
“Oh, those lost pages, so many I never wrote.” ~Fish F Fish🎏
“Tend to your fruit-bearing trees, feed them well.” ~Fish F Fish🎏
“Run free little mice, for you are mice no more, you are men, now run, you are free.” ~Fish F Fish🎏
“The key to unlock the door, has always been noosed around your own neck.” ~Fish F Fish🎏
“Don’t venerate pigs.” ~Fish F Fish🎏
“While you think of something to say, I await the end of the conversation.” ~Fish F Fish🎏
EaT~aLL~YouR~FisH™ 