2025-06-08 - i have been/am treating this account as more of an archive of my behavior in the time that i was "active" on it, circa 2013-2016.
but i have also been meaning to tell my story for some time, for its value that it may hold to others.
the truth is, i can no longer withhold what i have to tell. i am a particularly fragile human—i fear that a single firm punch to the chest could likely kill or severely incapacitate me, and the world—my region of canada, at least—seems to be entering a temporary period of escalated violence (likely as a result of extreme wealth disparity).
this will undergo multiple periodic revisions. it's still a draft.
forgive me for how erratic it is at times—but i will not refrain from expressing myself.

multiple more trigger warnings than what i am aware needs warning are surely necessary: ahead of you lies graphic descriptions of war-induced death; child neglect and abuse; systemic failure; my written emotional outbursts, with lots of swearing; and finally, hard drug use (i want to make it clear; i do not, nor have i ever personally taken what can reasonably be called "hard drugs". i've also never used alcohol. i do vape dry herb for its THC. i once took slightly too much psilocybin about a year ago—it was extremely unpleasant, and while i think such psychedelics are useful, measuring doses must be done with extreme consideration and caution.)


special thanks to cynthoni, for her powers of empathy, applied to undeniable excellence in audio, and visual art:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ABBpsy6rlVU

special thanks also to hakita, for making ultrakill. emeramide may have treated my mercury poisoning—but from a miserable state of zeroness, ultrakill helped me push myself back into having confidence in my abilities.

finally, special thanks to boyd haley. the controversy surrounding emeramide (technically "OSR #1") was a case of misunderstanding.
if not for you, my husk might have clung on to this point, but this thing that we call "me" would probably be dead by now.


i got into the furry fandom in 2005, when i was 8. chakats were my favorite. i had begun to draw around this time, making things inspired by a mix of happy tree friends, roy d. pounds ii, and other internet furries. among these fur artists were lance foxx, some avatar hobbyists, etc.—whoever made stuff of chakats, furry futurism, or cartoon gore (which i was oddly enthralled by—real gore disgusted me, and still disgusts me. i faint at the sight, and thought of real blood. even detailed descriptions).

after my introduction to furry, still in 2005 and until 2009, the house i was living in gradually deteriorated as my mother began to descend into the consequences of a horrifying mental breakdown.

the subject of mom's breakdown, and my story at large, is factually inseparable from her husband's—my father's—breakdown. his time in the military was untenably violent, and wrought with traumas. it took nine years from the time the fighting had happened for the canadian government to even acknowledge the gruesome scenario that he—as a reserves enlistee, being deployed on a UN peacekeeping mission—was sent into. this lack of acknowledgement contributed to perceptions that he was "making up stories" when he talked about the ethnic cleansing he had witnessed—the gangs of rogue militants, blasting their names into the sides of buildings with vz skorpion submachine guns; him being tasked with dredging decaying bodies from sewers, where gobs of fat from torn abdomens would float, just as they would in the nearby rivers—where more bodies awaited removal; him being forced to withhold his fire against a psychotic opportunist who had taken advantage of the chaotic situation and kidnapped children, who they had violated—followed by having to live with the crushing knowledge that this opportunist had subsequently somehow escaped confinement; being similarly cruelly ordered to withhold fire against militant firing squads as they executed entire families, from parents to children; being fired upon for two straight days, and having bullets narrowly miss your head so often that you become familiar with the sound ("like someone clapping [two huge slabs of wood] together over your head"); and not the end of, nor the least of all, witnessing the disparate nature of the combat—particularly, that the party responsible for the ethnic cleansing was much, much better equipped and supplied than the defendants, who had supply routes cut off by the offenders. the offenders were not american, but wore and were obviously misappropriating american gear—provoking many questions in my father's mind about how they got ahold of this gear. it seemed as though the american government was supplying the side guilty of ethnic cleansing. why they would do this is not obvious.
why anyone would incite a gruesome, generationally traumatic war—destroying the capacity to create meaningful wealth in the individuals who fight—over so much land they could not make practical use of in the first place seems irrational.

war is irrational.

[mom's breakdown came, largely as a result of the circumstances of my father's—her husband's—time in the military, the severity of which was compounded by the canadian government's lack of accountability for, or even acknowledgement of the horrific combat he faced during his deployment--and her ensuing divorce.
the primary circumstances of her divorce were: the way my father treated her, prior to their divorce; her lawyer utterly failing her in divorce court, to the point of professional negligence; and how locals had treated her after her 2003 divorce with him—for she could scarcely discuss her story without someone chiming in to the effect of, "it was your fault he left you".]

rhetoric to the effect of placing the blame on her was vile ignorance, pointed at her like a knife—she was a woman rigidly, at the threat of verbal abuse, raised by her father to be a wife and mother. i will go on to make the flaws of this approach to parenting clear.

she feared reprimanding from her father above all—she would do almost anything to prevent this reprimanding she so feared, or anything adjacent; something adjacent was being yelled at by her husband. he was a war-torn veteran—essentially shrugged off as crazy by an oblivious society (inclusive of mom), who believed that he simply could not have experienced the horrors he truly did, and was lying about the severity of what he had faced for attention.
as a result of being poorly understood, and viewed without sympathy, he was pushed into extreme proficiency in intimidation and verbal punishment.
dad saw combat often-regarded as among the worst in canada's >150-year history. for many years, the government of canada would not even acknowledge that the conflict he took part in had even occurred. i avoid writing the name of the war here, so that this does not show up in searches for that battle (yet). simply search "canada battle 1993" and you should see the name of the worst part of the conflict he was involved in.

dad was the one to divorce mom. it should be clear, even by now, that she had valid reason to seek divorce of him—but as you may suspect, she feared divorce. she knew it would incur her father's wrath. he was wildly unstable and completely untrusting of available psychologists (whether valid or invalid in this belief—there are strong arguments for both). his voluntary enlistment, and the combat he saw in 1993 had essentially guaranteed the end of their relationship, and the eventual ruinment of his psychological state. it was a horrifying conflict.
further worsening her breakdown was the people who she had met beginning in 2004. in particular, one of the people who she had met introduced her to heroin (fuck this person. we all deserve forgiveness but this one hasn't earned mine).
the final nail in the coffin was the way her father—an often violently curmudgeony man, born in the great depression—had been treating, and would all along, treat her. (i break the flow of story and jump ahead several years, to 2010, to demonstrate the extremes of his unsupportiveness—he preferred a brand of "tough love" that would, in 2010, involve stripping her of her vehicle (her means of mobility—a virtual necessity in small canadian townships). this forced her to use public transit, where she would meet even more unsavory characters. the mother i know today is a very weathered soul.)

in late 2005, opportunists and other drug addicts began to enter the house—turning to a flood by 2006; a torrent by 2007. a blur of faces, most of which i cannot recall. i estimate their age range from ~15 to ~45. these people would rifle through our belongings for things to sell, and use the house as their partying spot. i made friends with none of them—the idea that i possibly could as our things were disappearing and beloved mom was becoming a different person seems insane in its premise.
none of them seemed at all like me, or my siblings, or my mother. or anyone i knew. they were opportunists and drug addicts.
we were suspicious of their thievery, until we were openly demanding they stop. this yielded responses ranging from proclaimed innocence to entitlement.

one day, i had come home from school, and—to my abject horror, unrivalled even to this day in the scale of emotion i felt—they had rummaged around my room and found my early drawings. a group of ~12 of these people were passing them around to one-another in the computer room, where i spent a lot of my time.
many of my drawings were on the floor—crumpled, stepped on, or with cigarette ashes on them. they were laughing derisively at my crude efforts.
they called me psychotic for my incredibly basic depictions of violence. they mocked me for my unrealistic animals. "what the fuck is this even supposed to be." "i could draw way better when i was your age." eruptions of laughter. me, begging for the works back. "don't let him have them!" frantic emotion—staring in exasperated disbelief; getting angry and shouting "it isn't yours"; crying; trying to empathize; trying to barter; holding back emotion, but absolutely not over it. them, holding on so tight as i tried to take what was mine that the pages would rip. working my fingers up the page, desperately trying to avoid ripping. them, watching hungrily for every ounce of reaction from me.
i was 9 or 10 years old.
i will never forgive canada for this.
i will never look at canadian people the same way, ever again.
even knowing, full-well, this isn't explicitly what most canadians are.
white. part-native. it doesn't matter. i don't care. i just see these nightmare people.
these people who are so low as to get off on derision and ridicule, and to celebrate it amongst themselves when they know they are safe from repercussions.
these deranged acts of child abuse. even just this one sole instance—far from the only one.
to know that this is in our blood. this level of detached, psychotic violence.
i want to modify my DNA. i want to be anything but this. (i want to be a chakat, lol.)

for all the success i may ever see, i will refuse—pound and penny—all rewards to this country.
how it managed to produce such failures of people. such hateful and insensitive fuckups.
was it lead poisoning? was it mercury poisoning? i am serious.
i don't understand otherwise how so many people—some of them not on drugs—could know no better than to do this.
you would have to have literally broken biochemistry.
was this "entertainment" to them?
how was it entertaining? because watching a child break down—literally collapsing into a weeping heap on the filthy carpet, curled into a ball—is entertaining?

what the fuck?

what the fuck?

is this divine punishment? is the earth actually hell? did i destroy cities in a previous life?
who is the sick fuck who designed this nightmare?
if they're so powerful and so almighty as to have this level of control over us, why the fuck not just use advanced brain entrainment techniques to make us all less violent, horrible meat computers? would they not realize that they are no better than the combined total of ALL of us were/are at our very, very worst, making them THE MOST deserving of such punishment by their own metrics? i don't remember burning down any fucking cities, so why the fucking fuck does life have to be, like, a fucking neverending torture experiment?
if the point IS to derive sadistic pleasure as a god-like entity, couldn't they find some way to have it not be real? like, couldn't they just project the scenario into their mind?
do i have to be the one to point out how fucking stupid it is that they're making the choice to IGNORE the precedent that WE set, as "INFERIOR" beings, with computer technology allowing us to simulate situations to derive pleasure from them without necessarily hurting anything? LIKE, NOT EVEN A FULL CENTURY AFTER WE MADE THE FIRST TURING-COMPLETE COMPUTER (AND THEN SYSTEMICALLY ABUSED THE CREATOR, IN GOD'S """"PERFECT""" IMAGE, BUT I DIGRESS)?! FUCKING IDIOTS?!?!
GOD—IF THAT FATALLY FLAWED CUNT IS REAL—IS AN ALMIGHTY FUCKING IDIOT WHO SHOULDN'T FUCK AROUND WITH THE POWER OF JUDGEMENT.
WE RUN THIS SHITSHOW.
WE WRITE THE FUCKING RULES.
SO LET'S RUN IT FUCKING BETTER THAN THIS DISASTER, FOR FUCK'S SAKE.
VIOLENCE IN ALL ITS FORMS NEEDS TO BE ERADICATED. (but not violent art. it's just a drawing. it isn't real.)


mom would occasionally snap out of her habit, and beg the local police for help. they would never help. they went on to victimize her, specifically; in 2013, she was given a criminal record for the possession of 6 valium, which literally weren't even hers. she pleaded this, but they didn't listen.
there is a case to be made that someone left it in her possession knowing that the police would be called on her—i.e., it was a setup.
town police are less than a joke. instead of solving actual domestic situations like drug addicts and opportunists invading your house and ruining the lives of vulnerable women and children—situations which would momentarily put them at roughly the same level of personal risk which my siblings and i were living through, every day, for four or more years—they instead opted to set up the only adult victim of the situation, further ruining her life (essentially dooming her, a college-educated woman and mother of three, to manual labor as her only prospective employment (yet another dire failure on the part of governance—cannibalizing its citizens to create labor that could be fucking done much better and at less human expense by machines. what the fuck is the purpose of money OTHER THAN TO SERVE ALL THOSE WHO MAKE IT VALUABLE—WHAT FUCKING GOOD IS MONEY USED AS POCKET LINING WHILE HANDS BLEED AND DRY UP)).

halfway through 2009, i moved in with my dad to escape mom's house. i had to sort of "force" my way in, as he (at first) was hesitant to take on the extra responsibility.
i made it clear that i was willing to help with chores. i desperately, innately wanted a nice living environment, as a change of pace from what i had at mom's. i didn't have to be motivated.
his house was completed that year, but quite small and not lavish by any means. i was simply happy to be away from the thieves and drug users, who were getting worse. i thought that my troubles were over. i was ready for stability, and a fresh start.
i dreamed of taking back up my furry art. maybe having a computer, somehow. i dreamed of being myself.

but the challenges of the old house were not yet over.

i had to leave behind many of my personal goods—not because there wasn't room, but because my father refused to take multiple trips up. (the drive was 30 minutes each way.)
on the few occasions i would return to mom's house in the remainder of 2009, it was always incidental. by the second trip up, most of the stuff i'd left behind had been stolen anyway.
the most fucked-up thing eating away at my psychology—i deliberately left behind my n64, given to me on the christmas of the new millennium, along with my beloved copies of SM64, OoT, and yoshi's story. i did this as a sort of "parting gift" with the people of the house. why? why would i do this?
the answer is, i was damaged.
when you damage a body part, it becomes susceptible to infection. viruses enter. warts can grow. it's a breeding ground for disease.
it was as if this was what happened to my psychology.
even well before 2009, all of the people in that house had looked down on me. to them then, i was just some pissant fat kid who once liked to occupy the computer (which could otherwise be used for playing rap music at maximum volume (to this day, i can't stand rap)), and who still was a mouth competing for the food mom was somehow able to put on the shelf.
i was so used to trying to avoid getting bullied, that even on exit, i was as if trying to avoid a fatal disaster from happening.
i felt as though i had to pay a toll. feed the troll.
i didn't have a gift more sincere left to give.
under this scar, i see another, even more damaged membrane.
i had largely parted with furry in 2008.
i had stopped playing roblox.
those things made me different.
they had made me a "nerd". a target for harassment. a handle for others to grab hold of, and thrash me about.
anthro was for nerds. real pictures of real wolves were at least relatable with some of the people in the house, though.
this was all so very dark.
i erased myself to avoid harassment.

i can see you motherfuckers rolling your eyes from ten-thousand miles away. from years in the past.
"this didn't happen." "attention whore."
you are the origin of damage.
in the context of what makes civilization function—you are as if the most egregious fuckup that could happen.
not furries.
not LGBTQ+ culture.
not your roundly-erroneous conception of "degeneracy"—be it sex culture, or video games, or other passions of pleasure.
your hate. your want to draw out an urgent reaction (i.e. trolling).
and you are here forever. all of us are.
james leininger is proof of this.
ryan hammons is proof.
dorothy eady is proof.
proof that you're poisoning your own water. motherfucker. damage-maker.
and you will lose, lose, lose if you tolerate the kind of behavior that leads to this sort of self-erasure in others.
and when it is your time to reincarnate—your odds of being deficiently poor in such an advanced world are shockingly high.
and with financial deficiencies comes insufficient recourse against challenges.
challenges such as troll "culture" imposing on you stifling restrictions to your ability to think your way out of your deficiency.

you feel me?
lighthearted fun is good, when it's fun for all—but then again, some of you mock brazil as if it's not the blueprint for the world you're helping create.

even if you should be a part of any of the groups which are NOT necessarily problematic, but you doubt others when they share their traumatic experiences, you still deserve to know—the more we act as if people simply "make shit up for attention" just out of the blue, the less any of us will heal and experience development.
and i will NOT fucking let you hold us back. FUCK YOU. MY DREAMS MATTER TOO GODDAMNED MUCH TO ME.

he lived with his girlfriend—the woman who he left my mom for. she had many countless personal problems.
(this isn't done. i'll finish the draft later. this isn't going into a journal, because if there is ONE thing you see from me, this should be it.)

2023jul02 > https://www.furaffinity.net/user/thebatsfeelgood

only yesterday ⌄
---
Hey kid I'm a nice old dust fallin' into oblivion

hint: 's fuckin' mercury poisoning

BULLIED AN INCH INTO THE DIRT BY THE LONG BITCH
"SHE WEAR SEA GUM THAT OUR CANINE CHEW"
AND COMMANDS A DITCH IN THE KITCHEN
WHILE SHE TINS SHARDS OF CARTILAGE
THE DIALOGUES WITH THE LONGEST PIG

man this next part is fucking awful—but wait! it gets better, or your !
Just a moment ago, its neck and wrists were hideously thin and straight—closely mimicking pencils. Now, as the creature leaned down towards me, its neck bent and creased in a manner similar to a drinking straw, and its wrists warped, becoming more and more slack as the creature knelt in closer. Staring blankly into his pale, fish-like eyes, I pulled myself closer towards the wall behind me. The atmosphere of the tale crumbles in my hands.
The creature's head collapsed into his neck, and his neck began to speak a concise stream of words, flailing around like the barrel of an overheating machine gun with the passing of each one. "Yeah! And give me six or seven more years, and I'll have coated your brain in ways that you will never be able to understand! I'll have your whole nervous system impaired beyond repair! You won't be able to describe me, or feel me. Hell—right now, you aren't able to portray me! I have been destroying you, and many others like you before any of you had reached the age of ten!"
and the ADA laughed and every lobbyist had their swimming pools paved with gold through the spending of the money that was provided by the fucking shadow group behind the advocacy of the agonizing placement of this shit that causes millions of people to have unfulfilled or absent childhoods because they're always in unbearable pain from having their brains destroyed with unknown cause and their family thinks that they're just having fucking stupid nonsensical emotional problems when they're actually drifting towards suicidal tendencies and slowly going insane as a result of suffering without gain or relent, and if at least part of their personal foundation can withstand it all without blowing their fucking tortured, medicated-numb brains out, they can live as fucking stupid and traumatized impaired defeated office slave adults—quietly, suicidally reminiscing over the days when they were at least living in the shadow of their former selves—and bask with fake enthusiasm in formulated, mediocre media because they don't have the ability to imagine anything else because they were FUCKED IN THE ASS BY OBLIVIOUS DENTISTS as children
AND THEN when one of the many stunned-as-a-fucking-stop sign doctors gets on the case, they don't take into consideration that maybe the eight pieces of hazardous toxic waste containing half their weight in one of the most potent neurotoxins on the planet—located in the mouth, no less—could EVER be causing the problem, because muh ADA and muh 150 years and muh medical training (of maybe less than an hour on the subject at hand) and muh (obviously industry-funded) studies that contradict the very clearly-understood, well-demonstrated and irrefutable fact that the (vaporous, and thus, highly-absorbable) mercury that these fillings are releasing is no different from the variety of mercury that is unbelievably destructive and does nothing but cause hard-to-properly-diagnose problems in people that the pharmaceutical industry can dance around and use as a means to sell their worthless, mind-suppressing drugs so that they can hoard increasingly worthless money at the expense of billions of people and their potential excellence—let alone the sole foundation for every other living thing in the entire world
fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you