every month i think about how much i hate this website and want to leave it and question why i stick around and then things like horse plinko and urfaveisunfuckable nft drama happen and i remember

There were some dreadful (reactionary) takes on the symbolism in an absolutely batshit animation about Jordan Peterson (I can send the link to those interested, it's actually quite entertaining) that I felt compelled to dispel, which resulted in an incredibly long comment which I will now share, since it's the first time I've articulated my issue with Peterson and his cult so explicitly or coherently (relatively speaking). I can't be bothered editing out references to the video or tidying up some of the sloppier phrasing, so here it is (sorry for the long post, mobile doesn't have a read more function):

"Some, ah, interesting analysis on the symbolism here, but I suspect some people have missed the point a little. As far as I can tell, this isn't an endorsement of Peterson's "heroic" early work and an indictment of his later "fall", it's a surreal representation of Peterson's shallow self-help philosophy obsessed with absolutist individualism and "natural order", and rife with unjustified axioms, logical fallacies (lobsters have a hierarchy, therefore hierarchy is good because it occurs in nature - hence the cow's horrific chant) and improper analysis (relying on the outdated socio-anthropological works of Joseph Campbell and arbitrarily misapplying Jung's archetypes), a self-help philosophy which ultimately proved insufficient for providing even the man himself with the psychological support necessary to keep his life in order in the way he suggests (i.e. under one's own power alone, without outside help, which is construed as weak or shifting blame - stop complaining, tidy your room).

Those who follow Peterson's advice slavishly are here represented as mere husks devoid of any ability to connect in a human manner (indeed, they are no longer even human) or live their lives spontaneously, outside of the neat rules which Peterson presents as a way to make order out of the apparent chaos of life ("he's telling me how to live"). To characterise Peterson's early work as heroic is to buy into the idea that all one needs to do to be happy is conquer the chaos (the inherent unpredictability of life) by actively and artificially imposing a predictable order (hence the fetishisation of hierarchy), an approach which, through its inherent fear of unpredictability (here branded "chaos", which is Bad) inevitably leads to utter sterility and an inability to adapt or live organically within within a world which is inherently messy - only our obsession with mental labelling fools us into believing that reality really does consist of discrete categories which we can manipulate at will to our own benefit (a child's fantasy - "this is my toy universe, it is at my command, nothing can hurt me here").

Peterson's entire spiel was that if you could simply pull yourself up by your own bootstraps and stop blaming the world for your problems, you'd live a happy life - unhappiness thus becomes a moral failure, a sign of weakness or corruption (such as being tricked by the evil, chaotic left into critiquing systemic issues), rather than a complex psychological issue which results from a vast network of interlinked causes, which includes but is not limited to one's own will and actions, as well as one's genetics, biochemistry, life circumstances and so on. The man's own life is a testament to the fact that the notion that to be happy all one need do is set one's house in order (literally and figuratively) is simply not true - we need community, and we do on occasion need help from others; we don't always have the capacity to solve all of our problems alone, and imagining that we do (or worse, should) is to foist the inherently fearful, fragile and selfish ego to the forefront of our lives and ask that this limited mental construct do far more than it was ever evolved to do; conquer the universe, or perish. Either we, the hero, forcibly /make/ ourselves happy (by subduing all chaos and uncertainty, thus killing the living universe and its inherent unpredictability), or we perish (the ego fails to overcome its fear of uncertainty, and collapses in on itself with all the force of a dying star, often taking those we love with it). It is a recipe for psychological meltdown, as Peterson has demonstrated quite aptly.

A healthy psyche acknowledges its interconnectedness with other persons and the surrounding world - it is only by constructing a false dualism between self and other, man and nature, that this fear of "evil chaos" and unpredictability arises, since it is only the being which feels itself to be inherently separate, alone and vulnerable that becomes afraid of the changing and shifting dance of the universe, and attempts to nullify that fear - first by inflating itself beyond all proportion to the imagined status of all-conquering cosmic hero, (the hero and order both framed as inherently good), and then attempts to kill off "chaos", that unpredictability of life which is seen by the ego-hero as inherently evil, since it threatens its felt sense of control by demonstrating there are forces at play in the universe fear larger than it, reiterating the painful truth - that the ego is not an all-conquering hero, but limited, and vulnerable, alone in a world it cannot control.

Life in its very changing threatens the cosmic hero's mastery, and thus must be slain - the order-obsessed ego, whose kernel is fear, attempts to pave over the universe with nice and predictable grey concrete. Rather than coming to terms with its own fear, trusting others, and learning to feel and live as part of a network of relationship extending beyond itself, the ego creates a fantasy whereby it is in control of everything - its entire life, and by extension, the entire universe - and wherein anything which threatens this fantasy must be ruthlessly exterminated. Since life is an endless supply of surprises, the neurotic cosmic hero thus wages war against life itself, to terrible effect for themselves and those around them.

By instead coming to understand that we are in community, that we can and should reach out and ask for help when we need it, that we are not some all-powerful cosmic hero but a very mortal and imperfect human person, we both see the truth of our own situation without "heroic"-neurotic ego-inflation, and open the door to receiving and providing the care and support that we and others need as human beings. Peterson has only recovered thanks to the diligent attention of those around him, a fact which is perhaps the most potent lesson to come out of the man's life. We are not alone, nor should we pretend to be - help is there, and it is okay to ask for it."

Hello World

Or whoever has stumbled upon this page. Welcome to significantlyinsignificant, the universe through my eyes. My two little slimy bulbous seeing machines, out of fourteen billion other eyes on our planet. Let me give you a little background as to what this is and why...

It is 2017, and I am 21 years old. Within the past year or so, I’ve been overwhelmed with this horrific feeling that everything around me is going to shit. Not just in my own life, but the whole-ass world around me. And its not just a feeling-- evidence supports this notion. My country, which I’ve been raised to believe is the greatest nation on Earth, is slipping into turmoil under the “leadership” of a delusional, narcissistic, TV personality. Senseless acts of violence are claiming the lives of hundreds of innocent people, time and time again, with no resolve. I’ve watched people I thought I knew show their true colors and choose hatred and fear over love and fortitude. And if that’s not enough, I’m hardly comforted by the fact that I can get out of this shithole and start over in a new place, because the effects of climate change are increasing quickly, sending natural disasters that leave unsuspecting and innocent communities-- peoples’ homes and entire lives-- in ruins.

But don’t be mistaken, I’m not as angsty or cynical as that introduction would lead you to believe. In fact, something amazing has come out of this mess. I’ve become more thoughtful, and this part is hard to describe so bear with me. I know this sounds crazy (which is exactly why I want to share it-- I’ll touch on that later on), but its almost like a switch turned on and my perspective of the world has widened tenfold. I’ve been consumed with thoughts about EVERYTHING in my life. From the troubling events going on around me, to my own experiences and feelings being a melodramatic twenty-something, to my sense of self, to what’s beyond us here on our lil chaotic planet, and whats beyond that and so on and so on... I hope that makes sense. My point is, I’ve been full of thoughts lately, and I want to share them with someone-- anyone-- who might be able to relate.

Why, you may ask? Well, one thought I’ve particularly been pondering lately is what lies beneath the surface of what we show to other humans about ourselves. We present ourselves a certain way to the public, and then our friends and family get a closer glimpse at who we are at our cores, but then there is another layer. Thoughts. The billions of fleeting “awarenesses” that occur in ALL of our brains, every single day. And I’m not sure about anyone else, but I know that I keep the vast majority of my everyday thoughts to myself. And usually that works for me-- I typically enjoy having a private aspect of my life... My own little world, safe from judgments or criticisms from others... the pure, untainted autonomy of giving no one besides myself any power over my thoughts or feelings. But recently, that changed. 

All of a sudden, it feels selfish to keep these things to myself. Sometimes I feel like I’m going batshit crazy because of the thoughts I have, but through talking to some good friends and scoping out some internet forums, I’ve come to realize that I’m not totally alone. In fact, I’m starting to believe that although I’m living a totally unique human experience, the thoughts and feelings I’m facing are a very COLLECTIVE human experience. And this realization has brought me a great deal of comfort in some pretty uncomfortable times. So, that being said, I want to share some of my thoughts with you. Some pieces of who I am that are rarely exposed by who I portray myself to be. About all kinds of stuff. In hopes that someone who comes across it will find comfort in relating to me, and in turn, I will find comfort in the fact that I’m not actually going insane (or if I am, at least we’re going down the rabbit hole together). 

On top of that, a sad side effect of all the tragedies occurring lately is that I’ve been forced to think about death a little more than usual. I’m not suicidal by any means-- I don’t want to die. I think life is the most wonderful magical gift we’ve been given. Buuuuut, I also am very aware that this gift can be taken from us in the blink of an eye and we’ll never know when its coming. If my life were to be cut short for some reason, I don’t want my thoughts to die with me. Our thoughts and words are the most precious testament to who we are or were while we existed. And while some may argue that there is no meaning to life, I like to believe that the meaning is what we make of it. And I’d like MY meaning to stick around on the interwebs for awhile.

SO, if I haven’t bored you by now, please feel free to come along with me while I explore the archives of my brain and excavate out some nice thought-gems. I’ve been journaling pretty consistently for several years now so I will probably start by recapping the thoughts and experiences that have gotten me to where I am today. I’m gonna try to structure the entries into different categories or topics so they’ll be a bit easier to navigate. Also, I will try to make these entries a bit shorter and reader-friendly from here on out :) just bear with me in the meantime!

All my love 

- k

His voice first came to her in a dream...not calm or gentle as he wished, or even as comforting as he wanted to be. Gaster was desperate. In a cacophony of voices shouting her name, a single strand of words could be caught, blaring loud in her mind's ears that she would have thought she could go deaf. Vi would have only been sure of one phrase, to the point where, when she'd shot up from bed it'd still be echoing in her mind. "I will find you!"

Cold sweat was running down Viala’s back when she woke up, and she cringed in pain as her muscles protested the way she’d bolted upright, distracting her from the multitude of voices still droning in her head as she frantically looked at the clock. Relief washed over her when she saw it was still too early for her boyfriend to be awake. Yet for a moment she nearly ceased to breathe, trembling in her bed as she listened through the wall between their two rooms. She strained her ears over the non-existent voices in her head as she tried to make sure she hadn’t woken Shayne with her nightmares. There was nothing but blessed silence apart from the birds singing outside her window.

Vi was still sore from the beating she’d earned two days ago by disturbing Shayne’s sleep with cries of distress, and she had no wish to start the day off with another. Usually she waited until he’d left for work to try to sleep, but he’d nearly knocked her out during his visit to her room the night before, and she’d gone to sleep half sure she had a concussion. It hadn’t been Shayne’s fault, of course. He’d come to her rather late, hands fumbling with his belt, and she’d selfishly asked him to wait until morning to take her to bed. As she reached over to turn on the bedside lamp, Vi noticed that there was a thin crack in its base, likely from where Vi’s head had smacked into the nightstand it sat on before being yanked up by the arm. Thoughts of the voice she’d heard in her dreams slowly returned, and she furrowed her brow in confusion as she slipped out of bed. Her voices rarely came across as anything but a confused jumble of sound and emotion buzzing in her head. Why had this one been so clear, and why did it seem almost…familiar? Who could possibly be looking for her? Hell, she didn’t even know who she was aside from the few things Shayne had told her, which didn’t amount to much more than his role in her life and the undeniable fact that she was crazy. She should have just blamed the voice on her insanity, but instead, Vi knelt by her bed to pry up an inconspicuous piece of carpet and the loose board beneath. Hands shaking, she pulled out the journal she’d hidden there. All of the notes in were in her handwriting, though she couldn’t recall writing anything before a certain point. It had been among her things in the apartment she’d lived in before Shayne took her in. Obviously the contents – mostly brief rants about missing someone named “Gaster” – had once been significant, but she remembered nothing. ‘I’ve had possible contact, however brief, from the being named in this book as “Gaster”.’ she wrote, trying to keep her pen steady, ‘The voice in my dream could have been anything and also nothing. I admit to having a strong bias, as I’m strangely desperate to discover more about him and form a line of communication. Maybe he can tell me things about myself that Shayne can’t or won’t. Last night someone or something promised to come find me. Even the thought of disobeying Shayne by talking with someone unnerves me, but I have to try.’ Suddenly she was pulled harshly upward by a hand gripping her short hair, and she dropped the journal, letting out a cry of shock. Her eyes watered from the pain as she scrambled to get her feet under her to relieve the pressure. “So you’ve started hiding things from me, you sneaky bitch?” The air around her went frigid when she heard Shayne’s voice growling, his hot breath against her ear causing goose bumps of terror to rise on her skin. Her hand instinctively pawed the air trying to somehow reach the notebook, and he tossed her away before scooping it up. Vi curled into herself, propping her body up on one arm to watch in horror as Shayne’s eyes scanned over various parts of the book, and though she prayed he wouldn’t see her last entry, she knew from the fury growing in his expression that it wouldn’t matter whether he saw it or not. She covered her ears and cowered in the corner while he screamed and called her a traitor. Shayne pulled her to her feet, and she let out a few yelping sobs as he shook her and demanded to know whom she’d been talking to. He hit her hard across the mouth each time she denied speaking to anyone. Interrogation was one of the few areas where Shayne showed patience. As he pulled her down the hallway, he bounced Vi’s face off the wall until she could no longer tell which direction they were going. She was forced to her knees moments before her mouth and nose were filled with the semi-familiar taste of toilet water. Shayne was still shouting and cursing as he yanked her up by the hair for a few brief moments before plunging her under again. Viala couldn’t have answered even if she had something to confess, and she weakly clawed at the wall and air trying to pull her head up for air. Everything was going black, but a solid punch to her abdomen made water come spewing back out of her, leaving her gasping for breath on the tile with one arm draped over her stomach. “So this is the thanks I get for helping you?” Shayne spat, “I could toss you onto the street any time, and do you know where you’d end up? The nuthouse. That’s where they send batshit crazy people like you, where they’d hook that empty little head of yours up to machines and zap the voices out of you. Is that what you want, huh? IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT?!” He started kicking her then, and she vaguely felt a jolt of pain in her head as her head hit some hard object. The pain didn’t ease much when the blows finally stopped coming. Vi barely had the strength left to whimper as Shayne tossed her onto the bed like a ragdoll and slammed every door until she heard him drive away. A groan escaped her, something thick and wet spilling from her mouth onto the floor before she shifted to properly position her head on the pillow. For a moment, everything went black, and when she opened her eyes again, she felt no pain, and the dark that enveloped her senses had deepened into a nothingness she’d never experienced before. Shivering from the fear that was still strong in her, she moved forward into the gloom. Shayne would be even more furious if she wasn’t home when he returned that evening. Yet, it suddenly occurred to her that she might not be able to get home. Injuries didn’t simply vanish, and this didn’t feel like a dream. Had she…died? If so, was this hell? The label seemed incorrect somehow. Wherever she was, Vi was clearly alone, and that thought increased the fear that was already pressing down on her. “H-hello?” she called, her voice seeming to echo despite its timid tone and volume, “Someone…please, help…” She wandered and called out for what must have been a few minutes with no response. But why should anyone help her? She was just crazy, lost woman who had nothing to offer and was more trouble than she was worth. The voices had told her these things even before Shayne had found her and confirmed it. Sobs escaped her, and she tried to quiet them, suddenly terrified of what sort of help she might find in a place like this. Something in her chest seemed to shift, and she cried freely as she got the strangest sensation that she was somehow fading. “Please…please help…” she begged, her voice now no more than a whisper as she sat with her knees to her chest and slammed her eyes shut, despair crushing her like a giant hand around her ribcage. Perhaps she was in hell after all.