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Centuriae Cursus Honorum

This presents the one-hundredth article for my essay portal here. A sincere thank you to those who have followed me to my finest platform to date, who have shared the ride in battling ideas to unearth intent and motivation of the figureheads obliterating every perpetual vow made by newbie parents to their giggling bundle of diapers.

What I have built is an enviable thing, drawing parallels and drawing conclusions alike and aplenty; from mindfully delving into topics wholly ignored by voices with broader platforms to unraveling decidedly new twists and turns for established narratives; the proverbial ‘hot take’ galore, 100k+ words free of self-contradiction, free of ideological conflict or hypocrisy, free even of the abbreviated text-speak and emoji which nauseatingly convey the reaction and repetition cycle of what at times feels like the only language left to our species beyond bluntly lethal force. I find contradictions that others miss. My single-handed but two-fisted productivity and range of topics explored outmaneuver the full rosters of bullpens at paid sites. This is incontestable, because I’m not competing. I happily failed the piss test for the arms race.

For that matter it is my belief that the majority of persons are wholly incapable of discerning themselves, of formulating their own thoughts or feelings, and that their own thoughts and feelings must in fact be spelled out for them with everyone timid about stepping out into unfamiliar territory. Or else nobody would utilize social media or any other public forum for validation, yet all do nothing less. So in this portal is no parroting of sanctioned belief or party lines or official narratives, but rather my attempt at calculating precisely why such lines are there to begin with. I’m not doing this for money, but because understanding the world around us is what all parties should be doing with their own brief time hereabouts on the mudball rocketship. Being entertained is a waste of life.

The articles of this portal are non-corporate and non-commercial, thus ensuring its suppression into the well-earned niche of best kept secret on the web. There is no grandstanding, posed selfies for social media cookie points, not even bragging of past credentials like pursued collegiate degrees or which books I wrote the introduction for or which rockstar’s fiance grabbed my ass and cornered me in a corridor for an attempted make-out session. Only words, painted with my preference for archaic spellings and original syntax where good is good and evil is evil and justification to the contrary is naught but guilt; with each and every illustriously sublime comma, a teardrop well-spent. I do not conduct these words for the monosyllabic. I am not by necessity writing this for you nor do I scribe these meanderings for the rest of the living, but rather for those who will later dig through the ashes and ruin of what our lot shall undoubtedly leave in our wake. This, my only possible legacy and one which I would not trade or sell for the world, as I buy nothing and I sell nothing.

The professedly open-minded liberals and conservatives of the noosphere despise this portal for not leaving their own stones unturned, but boy howdy are they willing to borrow entire blocks of my wording for their own enrichment, as with anything else in this life. I spent several years as a sous chef despite never actually undergoing the proper schooling for such a task. And, my instincts more than made up for any lack of official training, confounding the many managers of days gone by ever so frustrated that I would endlessly prove more capable than the actual sous chefs in their employ no matter how exhausted or hungover. In that same sense do my own instincts, hardened by personalized perspective and unadulterated principles, propel me to offer the ideas which considerably nobody else is willing or able to explore themselves.

I refuse comments here, preferring that readers approach me directly, which a diminishing few are willing to do as the digital socials prove, if nothing else, a hiding place for those terrified by actual conversations or earnest debate. But the webmail I receive are amazing, strangers offering further information or prompting further questions. As is the case in the waking world, the most meaningful exchanges are free of an audience. Sharing ideas, what matters most, can possess an intimacy about it which ignites the senses impossibly more than being replied at by micro-blog from whichever sanctioned opinion-giver is cool that moment, such as the stars of reality television living life by the Botox’d seat of their child labor-produced pants. But should anybody know no better than to come at me with a gmail account I am quite happy to engorge my filters.

What you read here is kimo-kawaii art in prose form. My mistakes, my foolish blunders, my middle of the night rants desperately digging for meaning to this improbable universe before (and after) us. My insinuations, my conspiracies, my beseeching the memory of virtues, my willingness for dirtied fingernails, my lusts and my deaths. My secrets, my stories, my originality, my hard labors, my lessons learned, my knowledge of the exits, my wishes that you one and all evade yourselves. My unwillingness to take credit for the work of others, my unwillingness to allow others to take credit for my own. My resolution. My accomplishment. My threat. My own private portal to the abyss gazing blindly down all the paths propriety has never even jokingly considered. All on record for the befuddled bemusement of shadows yet to be.

So what’s your excuse?