Starting W1ND0W98 EROTOMANIC ID OS...
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The name of this album came to me in a dream. I’ve been aware of erotomania as a disease for not too long now, but long enough that it could rise up from my subconscious.
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I am so tired of being casted as this weird internet loser with irrational dreams and fucked up desires.
I fucking hate social media. Let’s get that straight. I think the algorithm casts shadows of increasingly insane, erratic, and extreme views. Not to say being an extremist is bad per say, but committing everyone to the guillotine for not following your increasingly puritanical views has got to go.
I belive in God. I LOVE God. I think humans have amassed a wealth of knowledge that can’t even begin to touch on an explanation of what is out there. I want to believe. I deeply deeply want to believe.
It is so rare to have faith, to have trust, to love something fully. To give yourself to something fully. When you have that, everything else is boring.
Before the Christians get to me, it’s not like that. Obviously this site poses threats to your existence. Don’t you dare think for a second that I am “raging against the wokes” or “horseshoeing” or whatever the fuck they’re saying these days.
I don’t really have a coherent ideology anymore. I went from a closeted conservative from the middle of smalltown Tennessee, to a child plagued by the internet of the 2010s, went down the /gacc/ rabbit hole, got married, lost myself to political lesbianism, and am now coming out of the other side discovering who I am outside of all of that. The only thing I know fully is that change is a constant. That’s it.
And this change, the delta, the region where I have lived my entire life up until this point defines me. All of this defines me, but unlike any other thing, change defines me.
My ideology is MINE. No one else’s. I make up what I believe because that is my right as a human. I create my own internal value systems. I create an amalgamation of political beliefs about the world. I create my own God.
Again, obviously, it is so crucial to embed these beliefs in history, or at least what humans have left of our history. Colonialism has plagued our entire known world, and it colors it as such. I can only create the beliefs of what I have learned. What I have studied. What I have crafted and decided to have faith in. Which, to say, is very little.
Change is constant. That’s it. That’s my ideology, it’s a wrap. Anyone trying to prevent this change is just getting in the fucking way. What does that change look like? What are we blossoming into?
This is where this thing called “utopian dreaming embedded in historical materialism” comes in. Shoutout to Lawrence Matthews for invoking this specific thought at a lovely art discussion on his death-induced liminal dreamscape at Crosstown Arts circa Spring 2026.
Utopian Dreaming Embedded in Historical Materialism - I wish I had a more precise wording for this. Hauntology gets close, but it doesn’t emphasize utopian dream enough. That is a very very key aspect. Maybe, simply, Utopian Hauntology?
Dreaming is an important act. We spend about 8 hours a day asleep, with maybe 4 hours of that time dreaming if we are lucky. It is fairly split on if people remember their dreams, but surely, everyone feels them. It is, in 2026, the only refuge from commodification. No advertisements can catch me in my dreams. And if I have dream-ads, it’s never something with the intention of selling me something. It’s just latent subconscious meanderings. Dreams are a very very special place.
And when - not if - when dream technology starts to be commodified, we will have no refuge. This is a privileged problem. In fact, dreams are becoming a luxury. The Forces that Be try to suppress our dreaming. They kill literacy rates. They limit where our dreams can reach. They have collectively clipped our wings.
And that’s why dreaming, Hauntological Dreaming, is necessary for our future. I guess that’s where I’m at with my ideology - this is the proverbial hill I will die on.
But now we must define Hauntology for those uninitiated. It is, simply put, how the present is haunted by the past. Philosophically and, from my frame of reference, spiritually. This is why history comes as such an important play, and why that erasure of history is a detriment. Preservation of history, of ancestry, of understanding your place in this world, gifted to you by your ancestors, is important. It gives meaning. It gives context. And this is what They want to take away.
And so I conclude with a message: live out your dreams
It would feed her so eagerly as she gnawed away. The hand - the hand that feeds - did something for her. And she hated it.
Together, the manuscript reads of something poetic. Words fell in place as the keyboard was smashed into pieces. Fingers slobbered on the grease of a palm as they escaped from something new. The new was scary. She didn’t like scary.
But it was all she wanted, all she craved. The gorror movies filled her brain’s crevices with seeping, shaking blood. A slasher of knives framing an exploded pupil that spills out like water. The imagery made her weep.
But the hand - the hand that fed - it soon no longer was. She made attempts to save it. She sure did. Because without it, she knew she would die. But the hand - the hand that feeds - it no longer fed. It no longer grabbed the kibble and worshipped the puppymummy.
What is the puppymummy you ask?
Don’t believe in dog
In mother
Got no puppymummy
Those words were carved into her scalera. It’s all she saw when she walked away from the hand - the hand that fed - and it’s the only thing she recovered from when she ate from the hand - the hand that fed - because it filled in the words so perfectly that she began to not see it at all.
Today, we look at the puppymummy as a sort of figure that denounces god. But what most fail to realize is that she is god, we are all god, and in connection we are all dog. Dog is bark bark. Dog is woof. Dog is whimper.
And you slurp up from the hand - the hand that feeds - because you are a good girl. You are the best girl, and you are the world. No one exists just like you. It is only you. It will always only be you. And you will exist because you are only you and only you will die because only you are you.
The girl who killed the hand - the hand that feeds - regretted her decision, not immediately, but in time. In time the words burned deeper and deeper into her vision. She had nothing to fill them. No visual liquid to fill the gaps. It simply solidified.
So she died. It never had to be like this. But it did. Because it all does end at some point. Just like time, just like you, just like the sun, just like me.
But never the hand - the hand that feeds - because even in death the hand - the hand that feeds - succeeds.
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