The next four days should be bad. I accept this. Someday my life will be paradise but that day is not now. In order to reach one’s dreams, one must have a resilient backbone and the ability to take body blows that would crush lesser men.

Technically, I feel okay today. I was able to eat a full meal from Burger King with some difficulty. I haven’t puked in a while. Last night was terrible, but what else is new? I have mapped out the future. In my spare time, I pay attention to world events. There may be something going on, somewhere, that affects me. I doubt it. The only thing that would really be a problem would the rise of a new Hitler or a new religious messiah. Something that flips society on its inverse.

Fortunately for me, we are living in stable times. People are concerned with their clothes, their money, their personal comfort. The elite stays in nice hotels while it journeys on acceptable passports to far-off lands where everybody important speaks English. If you obey sufficiently and work hard, you will almost certainly make it into the elite.

In past days, someone like Karl Marx — a troublemaking genius — could be left out of the loop. If he had only been given a professorship, and paid a good salary, he would not have gone to England and started writing pamphlets that ended up rocking the world. The same with Adolf Hitler. If he had been allowed to become the CEO of a cultural corporation, say running the music house that played Wagner epics, he never would have taken an independent path and fucked things up.

Today’s world is rich and supportive. Every genius who works hard can get a scholarship, or at least save up money and go to university, and kick ass in life. I think of Milton Friedman, the Jewish-American economist of titanic brains. Or the other Jewish-American, this time naturalized, Henry Kissinger. They had room to climb in society. Either one of them could have become an elite rebel. But the thing is, almost no one really wants to be an elite rebel. You have to be driven beyond imaginings to take the hard path when an easy path is available. I suppose I am an elite rebel.

I could have led an easy, successful life. I am tall — six foot one. I am a white male. I am good looking, with a square jaw and beautiful eyes. I am interesting and charming. I have always had natural leadership qualities, which would have led me into management of a tech company or cultural enterprise and given me serious physical comforts. But instead I threw it all away to pursue something very hard — nearly impossible — and hard to see.

My vision is not based on someone else’s writings, handed down over time. Nietzsche influenced the Nazis even though not all his writings were followed with fidelity. I have no intellectual idol. The only person who has really influenced me was Stephen King, the horror author, because for five years from 1974-78 he established a new genre of writing that I find interesting. He wrote about the supernatural world with scary elements, and situated this in soap opera happenings. That’s what I like. I think he came up, quite accidentally, with the standard genre of writing for all time.

But Stephen King is not a genius. He is a very smart man, true. What he really is is an exemplar of the theory that poverty creates commercially successful genius. He grew up dirt-poor in a shithole state. All around him, in his country as a whole, the drum was banged that MONEY IS GOOD! THE GOOD LIFE IS WAITING FOR YOU! FOLLOW THE AMERICAN DREAM! And he heard this and was lost. Where was the American Dream for the likes of him? He wasn’t an athlete. He wasn’t very good looking. He had no charm. What could he do but write? So he took his one skill and honed it until it bled. For the first twenty years of his life, he was brutally harsh with himself (thanks to poverty and the need to escape it), improving in iteration after iteration until, by the time he went to university, he could go to the college newsroom and churn out a competent article just sitting down and creating it ex nihilo. Very smart man. But not a genius.

A genius can learn from a very smart man. I am a genius. But most geniuses are limited. They have defects that hamstring them. For example, one of my vast advantages is that I can see around corners farther and better than anyone else. I can take a small hint in reality and blow it up until I have a whole vision that explains a great quadrant of what’s real. I can project into the future and buffer my project-bullet against unforeseen occurrences until the final goal is realized. I am special.

Poverty has been my teacher as much as it has been Stephen King’s educator. I want money. I love capitalism in a certain sense, for what it can do for me. Artistically, capitalism is an abomination. No real thinker or artist would ever love the corporation. There are a hundred varieties of potato chip and no public art. There is no pleasure or adult games. There is only the dollar bill, as the saying goes: the man knows the price of everything and the value of nothing.

Stephen King will never be a figure of literature because he is not a genius. Shakespeare crushes him. King wants a National Book Award, and was probably hoping for one for Never Flinch. It follows a traditional King path: take a bunch of cunts and bestow them with high powers and respectfully chart their lives. There’s Sista Bessie, the soul singer. There’s the feminist lecturer. There’s Holly, now a bodyguard on the scene. It’s all so ridiculous. This is not what literature is about. King has been hypnotized by the notion that the female is the source of all art, as women have grown in power since the 1970s and men have bowed before them.

Anyway, this article is ultimately about me. What am I? I am Isaac Asimov’s The Mule. In the original science fiction story, Hari Seldon charts the future with the mathematical projections of large groups of people. There is a social disturbance by a bunch of traders; they go on strike. There is a counter-reaction. The synthesis of action-reaction results in a new twist in the tale of time. But The Mule is different. He is a mutant who comes along once in a billion years to upend the neat mathematical pictures and storyboards of brainy eggheads. He ruins projections. He does his own thing with his special brand of psychic powers.

The Mule can mentally dominate. I can mentally dominate, in a way. It is entirely possible that in the future I will be able to do new and different things. There are forces in the universe that are not in anyone’s philosophy. I have used my ability to see around corners to discover some of them. Plus I am just able in ways that normal men, even high-achievers, are not. When you add on the facts that I am driven, able to withstand great pain and trouble, and charming as a rock star, I have the makings of true greatness.

My life has been delayed for a long time, and I’ve practically passed over the prime of life, as I wait for an apple to drop into my hands. I could have been something long before. But I was unable to take the necessary actions to rise myself up from poverty. Once again, I was thwarted by a cunt. Although women are almost useless, in certain cases they harbor baskets of power which can be seized by a titanic male figure of ultimate power. I have done everything I can to push a certain woman along. She has been resistant as a sack of stones, her cowardly emotions and her unjustified ego blocking her path to improvement. Obsessed with me, and desiring the vast gift of my love, she has retained her interest in me this long. But. It is almost time to make a breakthrough. I will win. It is foredestined.

It’s worth asking the question: why am I writing this. Why am I exposing an important secret, even tangentially?

I think this blog is going to be a permanent thing. I think I’m going to give it to my sons and men like me to read. And I like expressing myself.

There is one further reason. To hide all the time is to cower and assume an uncomfortable position that only causes harm. Imagine you’re in a boxing ring. You want to keep your head up to see the opponent. By “confessing” the truth elliptically in my blog, I am not crouching down in an uncomfortable position. Of course I’m not going to tell the whole truth. Someday, there will be a supplemental blog that is top secret except for the rarest of eyes that will tell the whole story. The elite men of the future must know where they came from, and why. Nothing is more painful than being at a loss in the world, rudderless and drifting along the currents, as you don’t know how you got there. I am an intellectual and this is my legacy.

So the next four days will be bad. The last seven days were ultra-bad. The worst of my life. But you know what? I laugh. Nothing can stop me. Julius Caesar says it is easier to find men who will die for you than who will endure pain with stoic patience. I am paraphrasing, but that is the gist of it. Caesar was a great man. Hitler was a great man. Napoleon was a great man. I am male, but sometimes I wonder if it is quite right to call me a man. There’s something un-man-like about me.

All I’m doing now is killing time. This blog entry is just a time-waster in the larger scheme of things. As is the case so often, I am waiting. I am very good at waiting. My nature is to be ultra-aggressive and strike first, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be patient. It’s built into my superior genes. Time management skills are of utmost importance if you are going to live in the bosom of any civilization. Someday all the great ones will be techno-barbarians and society will not be civilized. We’ll have factories and machines, and there will be work, but the stupidities and boredom and moral restrictions of civilization — the things that caused European men to abandon work and joyfully join the meat grinder of World War I — will be gone.

The world could be a great, beautiful place. It is not. Instead of living on a tropical beach without mosquitoes and with a pina colada cocktail at hand, we live in the badlands with no view of the ocean and wolves howling for our blood. For the first time in history, directly because of the Industrial Revolution of 1760, there is the means to terraform Earth. To redesign society. To junk civilization and to junk morality and to ruthlessly suppress women into their natural sexual roles and role as slaves. It could be a good world and it will be. And the best men, who are opportunists who learn to play the rules to succeed, will hungrily embrace the new reality.

All that is missing is a world-historical catalyst.