M.S. Forensic Psychology, summa cum laude. Licensed embalmer w/ formal training in mortuary science. Criminology, behavioral analysis, theology. Ph.D. candidate
Joined July 2024
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To My Beautiful Soul-Twin, October 18th, 2026
Babydoll...
There are days I still cannot quite believe you exist in the same world as I, that something so beautiful and so graceful could have found the half-dead thing I had become and decided, without ceremony or condition, to stay.
I have spent most of my life among people who either flinched from what I carry or tried to sand it into something they could tolerate.
You have never done either.
You simply saw me, the whole of it, and you remained. That alone would have been enough. What you have given me is so much more.
Before my father died my heart was already at half-mass, a heavy, half-living thing I had learned to carry without expecting it to do more than keep me upright.
When he went, what remained of it went with him.
He was the last person who had never asked me to become smaller, the last one who had loved me without flinching at the places the dark had remade. After him there was no one.
Not until you.
You are the first and only soul I have felt absolutely safe with, and unconditionally loved by, since the day he left.
I still can't believe it.
We are the same in nearly every way that matters.
The same traumas live in both of us. The same mothers are dead to us, erased by the particular cruelty of women who should have been shelter and were not.
We share the same instinctive distrust of most people, because we have both learned, too thoroughly and too young, that they are usually very stupid, very psychotic, or insidious in some other way and neither of us has any remaining interest in pretending otherwise.
The only real difference between us is that you are Christian and I am not. I was for years... But things didn't work for me.
You know everything. You judge nothing. And that is so precious to me because it shows how you don't place conditional "love" on me or anyone else.
That is so rare and so beautiful.
Everything else aligns with a precision that still startles me. Especially when we are recording the same exact vm at the same exact time. (🤣🤣🤣...6 times a fucking day. At Least.)
You carry your own darkness. I see it. Yet unlike me you remain light unless someone is foolish enough to fuck with you, or your mini you, or, God forbid, me.
Then the light does not vanish. It simply becomes exact. I have watched that precision settle over you and it is one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen.
You found me earlier this year when I had already begun to disappear. Four friends were gone. My heart had torn itself open more than once.
And I think, there was an ex gf somewhere in the mix....? I don't recall molecular negatives. I only remember deleting a name from my bio. Though whose name, I literally haven't the slightest. It was probably something stupid I wrote in it one night drunk as fuck. You might have to remind me babydoll.
Anyhow...
I was the lost, sick kitten under the porch, half-dead and finished with the work of staying alive.
You crawled into that dark with me. You were so gentle with a creature who had forgotten the texture of gentleness.
You still are. You know every secret and every fault. You do not flinch at the places the darkness still lives in me. You do not ask me to become less so you can remain.
You simply stay, and in the staying you did what no one else has known how to do.
You found what was left of my heart after it went with dad, and you wrapped it in your hands. You have it still. I can feel the weight of it resting there, warm and certain, every time I think of you.
I have not truly celebrated a birthday since I was thirty. I am celebrating this one today, my forty-eighth, because of you.
You are the reason I am still here to turn another year older.
Babydoll....You are extraordinary in ways I have never encountered in anyone else, soft where the world taught both of us to harden, steady in a manner that does not require me to diminish myself in order to be held. And your light is absolutely brilliant.
You are resurrecting what should have stayed dead, not by force and not by demand, but by the simple, relentless fact of your presence and the way you continue to be gentle with me.
You are my favorite person EVER. My rescuer. My soul twin. The greatest gift I have ever received in forty-eight years of being alive.
I love you to a degree I still cannot fully shape into language, greater than survival, greater than anything I once built to keep myself breathing.
You are the one who refused to let me die under the porch. You are the one who found my heart again and keeps it wrapped, carefully and completely, in your hands.
I am here today because of you.
I am celebrating today because of you.
This is going to be the best year of both of our lives. The Matrix Master fucked up, so it won't be for him or for anyone who would dare try to get in between us... (Evil laughing).... But for you and I we are going to fucking thrive.
Always, your Grey...and your God of War when the fucking idiots try to get close to you.
(Aka - Puppy 🤣🐶)
(Aka - Rabbit 🐰)
(Aka - Daddy 🖐🏻️🤣)
(I fucking love our inside jokes...Juice and cookies make blood!)
This will probably be my favorite photograph for the next 48 years. It is just absolutely beautiful. The Yin and the Yang have found each other.
This girl...
I'm speechless. This is so epically beautiful.
I have to relearn some words quick. This is my favorite photo of my dad and I and seeing her animated version is just.... Wow.
I love you fiercely babydoll. Absolutely fiercely. 😭😭😭🖤🖤🖤
In 1978 a legend was born. The girl who treated the dictionary like a bit of light reading grew up spending Saturdays in a windowless van that reeked of formaldehyde, riding with a man named George who chain-smoked and told stories about the years they still used arsenic. She kept the bone saw he gave her. Because of course our angry little gothic fairy did! 😅
She stacked the forensic psychology degrees, trained in embalming, and mostly used all of it to write instead of diagnosing anyone who still had a pulse. Her father named her Grey, never asked her to shrink, and taught her how to land a clean hit. He died with no warning. She found him. After that the heart started keeping its own inventory. A few agonizing stops later, including one that actually ended, feeling anything at full volume still comes with a physical toll; the heart keeps trying to commit seppuku.
Fifteen people she loved went into the ground early. Murder, suicide, overdose. None of them got a soft ending. She stayed upright in the rooms where the blood was still warm, made the calls, kept moving, because falling apart was never an option. The mother who was supposed to be shelter was her tormentor and her captor for many years. Blessedly, that chapter is closed now.
Plenty of people wanted a piece of the sharp woman who writes the way she does and still looks half her age. They wanted the story, the access, the something they could take with them. All she needed was someone who would love her without wanting to sleep with her or take anything from her. No project. No extraction. Just the rare version of staying that does not require her to pretend to be something more palatable.
You found that. You are still here, still cutting clean, still refusing to negotiate with a body that has gone rogue and turned into a terrorist. For the first time in years you are letting the day actually count, and I'm blessed and privileged to be sharing it with you. 🖤
I'm proud of all you've survived and how you choose to overcome every, single day. I'm proud of the woman you are now, and the woman you are becoming. More importantly, I know your daddy is proud of you too.
Happy birthday, my darling.
The world is a better place because you draw breath. My world is a better place because you exist.
You are the sister I never knew I had. 🖤🖤🖤
@Grey_0G
Yes. We're ridiculously loyal to each other.
I wouldn't go there. 👌🏻
This is what y'all don't realize about my relationship with @TacoforFive1 and @Grey_0G. I'm loyal, so if I need a disguise, shovel, (Grey is against zip ties - she says they break), rope, duct tape and an alibi then... we ride at dawn! 🤣😂
I'll give an update soon about yesterday and what they did. Right now I'm going to lay down. I'll be on and off guys but I love you all.
Thanks for absolutely sticking by me and for the love, support and prayers. You've sustained me in ways you'll never know.
I'm thankful for each one of you.
🖤💋
Introduction
I am a horror fan of the highest nature.
I have sat through every variety of extremity the genre has ever produced and I have never once flinched from the work of looking.
I have dissected the psychology of killers on the page and on the screen with the same clinical precision I bring to any other pathology. I do not scare easily.
I do not moralize about darkness. I study it.
And yet I swore I would never say the name of this film.
Not because I am delicate.
Because I understood…even from the distance of reputation…what it was actually doing.
I understood the difference between extremity that reveals something and extremity that simply exists to be extremity.
I understood that certain lines are not crossed for insight.
They are crossed because the crossing itself is the product. I refused to grant it the oxygen of my attention. I refused to let the title pass my lips.
Well. I am saying it now.
A Serbian Film is not a difficult case once the alibi is stripped away. It is a clean one.
The director has spent years insisting the work is political allegory…a diary of national molestation…a necessary confrontation with the hypnosis of power.
The claim is unfalsifiable.
Every rejection is converted into proof that the rejection was the point. The images do not communicate the claimed history. They communicate the images.
The rest is licensing language that allows a portion of the audience to consume the product while narrating the consumption as something else.
I am not interested in the film as film.
I am interested in the structure that protects it.
The forensic question is not whether the extremity can be justified after the fact.
It is why the justification is required in the first place…and what it reveals about the people who need it. That is the dissection. Everything else is noise.
Link to article in the comments.
If we do not vote, this is what is nearly here.
What follows is not a warning.
It is a forensic autopsy of the terminal sequence already in motion.
The Republic has been methodically stripped of the immune system that once protected high-trust, high-competence order.
The pattern is no longer predictive.
It is observable.
Demographic replacement at scale, institutional euthanasia of competence, economic cannibalism of the productive core, and the conversion of a nation into a low-trust extraction zone governed by resentful managerial elites and imported client populations.
These are not policy disagreements.
They are the predictable mechanics of civilizational necrosis once electoral brakes are removed.
The midterms and 2028 remain the last structural decision points.
After that, the process becomes self-reinforcing.
The data on trust collapse, the psychology of permanent grievance, the historical record of core populations subordinated by client coalitions, and the institutional capture already underway all converge on the same outcome.
California is not an outlier. It is the prototype. Rome’s late phase is not metaphor. It is sequence.
This is the dissection. Precise. Unsentimental.
Lethal in its clarity.
The venom is not decoration.
It is the accurate description of an ideology that treats the traits which built the institutions as proof of malice and the founding population as residual material to be managed or replaced.
Read it as autopsy.
Then decide whether the remaining decision points will be used.
If we do not vote, the necrosis is already the default.
Link to article in the comments.
Three tears.
Three separate insults in which the myocardium, under a catecholamine load it did not choose, began the process of opening itself.
The tissue held.
What returned was not the previous organism with a cautionary tale and a slightly more careful relationship to stress.
What returned was an organism whose threat hierarchy had been rewritten by primary data rather than by narrative, and whose tolerance for the diagnostic theater of amateur pathologists had been reduced to zero.
This is not a recovery story in the soft sense.
It is a forensic accounting of what remains after the body has tried, more than once, to end the experiment and the experiment has continued anyway.
The scar does not negotiate.
Neither does the woman who inhabits it.
If you came here expecting gratitude for the unsolicited case notes written during the silence, or a specimen still willing to bleed on a schedule convenient to your sense of relevance, you may leave now.
The door closed when the apex ballooned the third time.
It did not require your permission.
Link to article in the comments.
To my darlings…
Do not worry.
The quiet was not retreat.
It was triage.
And I am about to come back fresher than a brand-new scalpel…sterile, cold, and already angled for the first clean incision.
Anyone who has a problem with that can suck every fuck they have ever rehearsed in the damp little theater of their resentment…and keep sucking them.
Until the jaw locks. Until the performance becomes the only organ they have left.
I will not be attending the show.
You mistook absence for permission. That is the oldest diagnostic error in the book.?
The narcissistic supply chain panics when the specimen stops bleeding on schedule. The commentators, the amateur pathologists, the ones who need a living target to feel briefly real…they filled the silence with their own unfinished business and called it insight.
Cute. Projection wearing a lab coat. I have read better case notes on the back of a gas station receipt.
Let me be surgically clear.
I survived Takotsubo three times.
Three...
The heart tried to tear itself open under the weight of what it had already carried, and I am still here…meaner in the myocardium, clearer in the cortex, and profoundly uninterested in your little verdict.
Do you actually think I give a fuck what you think, or say, or do?
Hahaha. Hahaha. No. A ventricle that has already negotiated with death does not take notes from people who have never survived a Tuesday.
This is the part they never understand, because understanding would require a self that is not rented.
Sovereignty is not a mood.
It is what remains after the body has tried to kill you and failed, and after you have watched the audience clap for the attempt.
Philosophy is simple once the theatrics die.
The self that returns is not asking to be welcomed back into the herd. The herd was never the point. The scalpel was.
So breathe, darlings. Sharpen nothing on my behalf. I brought my own.
And to the rest of you…the haters, the hall monitors of other people’s nervous systems, the ones still writing fan fiction about a woman who does not know your name…I sincerely am flattered.
You do not mean a fucking thing to me. You never did. You were noise in a room I had already left.
Daddy is back. Still the cunt you remember.
Only worse.
Tighter, colder, and with the same zero fucks. The diagnostic error line and the ventricle line do the heaviest lifting.
The rest is just the scalpel confirming the incision.
Most of my work will be on Substack because I genuinely loath this site of zero free speech and pronoun police.
Ciao.
💀💋🩸
The life that arrives is rarely the one petitioned.
It is the one rehearsed…after the fracture, in the quiet wreckage, when the nervous system is still scanning for an external hand and the only voice it trusts without interrogation is its own.
That voice does not narrate. It trains.
And the training leaves architecture.
What follows is a precise dismantling of the oldest self-deception the organism maintains: that private thought remains private, that repetition is merely internal weather, that the map of the cortex can be redrawn only by the hand that actually moves.
The evidence is older than the scan and newer than the crystal.
In the mid-1990s Alvaro Pascual-Leone placed subjects before a piano and required a simple five-finger sequence.
One group executed the pattern for two hours daily across five days.
Another group performed the identical sequence in imagination alone…same timing, same fingers, no contact with the keys.
A third group did neither.
Transcranial mapping afterward showed expansion of the motor cortex representation for those fingers in the physical practitioners.
The purely imaginative group produced nearly equivalent cortical reorganization and measurable improvement in execution.
The brain had begun constructing the skill before the body earned it. Thought laid the road. The hand merely occupied it
This is Hebbian learning made visible.
Neurons that fire together wire together; imagined firing still counts as firing. The sequence run in the mind becomes the territory allocated in the cortex.
The sentence repeated becomes the filter through which subsequent evidence is sorted. Self-description is not commentary. It is instruction.
The nervous system admits the speaker’s own voice without background check. Sufficient repetitions convert the description into the default trajectory.
Call the self unlovable often enough and the organism ceases to require confirming data; it begins to generate the conditions that will supply it.
The partner who confirms the original sentence feels like recognition rather than prediction. Familiarity is simply prior rehearsal made flesh.
The Egyptians formalized the mechanism as heka: conception in the heart, the seat of mind, and execution through the tongue. Ptah does not wrestle the world into form with hands. Perception commands; speech gives the command a place to stand.
They inscribed it in stone because they understood language as a tool capable of cutting reality into shape.
Scripture states the same principle without the pyramid: death and life are in the power of the tongue. Not metaphor. Mechanism.
Every “I always,” every “I cannot,” every joke offered at one’s own expense is a practice session the brain registers as repetition rather than irony.
The system does not parse intent. It registers frequency.
Attention functions as a searchlight. It returns whatever it is trained to illuminate, including the marriage, the career, the recurring absence.
The same plasticity that consolidates the wreckage can be redirected toward another sequence.
The piano study demonstrated that the reorganization occurs whether the sequence is executed or merely held with sufficient clarity and duration.
The private rehearsal and the spoken one are not separate operations. One of them is already allocating tomorrow’s cortical real estate.
The discipline required is not optimism. It is surveillance of the specific sequences currently being run…the ones rehearsed in the dark after the crash, the ones spoken until the mouth and the map agreed.
Change the practice and the architecture follows.
The door does not open because it was asked.
It opens because the approach was rehearsed until the nervous system recognized the path as already known.
One of the stories is writing the next day. The only question is which sequence has been given the reps.
Read this beautifully written article from my Twin. It is truly amazing.
James Talarico arrived with the soft voice and the seminary on the résumé, telling a country that had stopped reading that he had recovered biblical Christianity from the people who still practice it.
He had not.
He had edited the book until it voted with him, then asked for the moral capital of a faith he has already said he hates.
Love of neighbor is true. The deletion required to make that love mean his platform is the lie, and a lie with a little truth in it travels farther than a clean one.
This is not a vote. This is an autopsy.
For the Christians I love, who keep getting handed this boy as if he were one of them.
He is not. The name is not his to spend.
Not Your Brother in Christ is live.
Read it, or do not. The book will still disagree with him either way.
Link to article in the comments.
