chill | TBN 9-11-21

Bookmaking log: bookmade Sto’tryp up through 7,509 words | TBN +1,555 words

• • • nothing writ’ below these dots • • • is meant for human eyeballs • • •

Okay, something really weird just happened.

First, Joe Hawley personally accepted my follow request on instagram. I’d be surprised if I don’t hear him throwing CD cases against my window tonight, except the opposite, and with books.

uh

so anyway, something just happened and it’s happened before, and it’s always strange when it happens. So… I think I just got hit by a toxic energy bomb, and I think I know who tossed it.

See, there’s this human, right? Real nondescript, real two eyes and a mouth-type son of a bit, a real fuckin’ person this human is, and I really can’t stand them. They’ve infiltrated my life since the day I was born, they’ve stolen my spare ideas and energy and destiny, this extraneous human being stole my destiny! They stole it! I’m supposed to have been made a millionaire overnight, and this human being stole that from me! Metaphysically! With energy! By hitting me with metaphysical toxic energy bombs that make me, suddenly and out of nowhere, extremely and absolutely exhausted to the point where I need to lie down for a half hour! I didn’t even sleep, I was working Sto’tryp and suddenly I was just gone, just swamped, I’m talkin’ straight The Groggy Swamp of Gorgameschka, folks, and that’s a glimpse into Sto’tryp is what that is!

My contact lenses are so dry from being hit by a toxic energy bomb sent my way by you-know-who, like, as in you specifically, you reading this, right now, hi, yeah, you, you know the true identity of the toxic energy bomb thrower, you know it even better than I, and I’m not going to say it. Because even though they’re a subnorman son of a bitch, the tosser of the toxic energy bomb shouldn’t be named. That would give them power, anyhow.

Oh, and by the way, the toxic energy bomb has nothing to do with the three Nature Valley nutbutter biscuit sandwiches I pulverized over the course of about 5 minutes. No, has nothing to do with the 2,000 grams of sugar I may as well have just snorted, no, I haven’t smoked… well to be honest I haven’t smoked thaaaaaaaaaaaaaat much today, I was actually saying to my dad earlier that, now that I have the freedom to access weed and my work isn’t finishing old projects, I am not trying to smoke as much of it as possible all the goddamn time. Crazy how that works, isn’t it?

But anyway, the actual overdose of sugar I just slammed my THC-soaked brain with has nothing to do with the metaphysical toxic energy bomb sent to me by an unnamed metaphysical assailant who wants to slow down the creation of my books because they realize my books are the mission of The Bookmaker and, for whatever reason, probably because they have a truly gargantuan cock hanging between their legs, they need to stop the light from shining on all this darkness lurkin’ around around here.

But anyway, yeah, 100% got hit with a toxic energy bomb. If you want to sit there and believe, with your second and third eyes pinched widely shut, that you specifically know who didn’t hit me with a toxic energy bomb, be my guest. But I think it’s perfectly clear what actually happened to poor bookmaker incarnate today =[ the spirit bullies r reel, guise

So now that I’ve released all of that into the world, let’s talk about the only thing that actually matters: the books lining the shelves of this, The Hillside Commons, the actual next Library of Alexandria, aka, the Library of Hunter

no

The Library of Tungstok

fuck yeah, that’s it. That right there is it, end of the story, end of the past, end of time and history, beginning of the now. The Bookmaker is here, you sloppy illiterate fucks, and I’m having this Hunter A. Wallace faggot build The Library of Tungstok, it’s going to happen, admission is going to be free, and as for the thrower of the toxic energy bomb? Well they’re not invited in.

Nor are they invited to my birthday party.

But yeah, Sto’tryp is going well. I’m on page… 7 right now. Yes. Page 7. Of Sto’tryp. See, Sto’tryp has a backbook just like the majority of my other projects, but this time, the backbook goes in front. See, for Sto’tryp, you first get Boardtrip II: Can, Na, and Bis, You Bitch! which you’d know if you followed my Snapchat, which is listed on the Contact page, I think. Maybe the About page. I dunno. You could probably figure out my handle if you thought hard enough, it’s pretty obvious. BUT, yeah, it’s coming along nice. I’m excited for you to meet Tungstok “Rattlesnake” Thompson. He is the ‘man who’s image God was made in, straight-up Bookmaker lore, Sto’tryp is heavy with the The Garden lore, folks, it features the Astral Gods! It’s pretty solid, actually. Like, you need to acknowledge something at this point: Sto’tryp, if written by anybody else, would literally just be a stupid walk in the woods bullshit book, and don’t get me wrong, when I claim Sto’tryp will be the next great American novella, I claim as much for a very specific reason, okay, and I know very well what that reason is.

What I’m saying is that this is literally my 16th book. I’m so deep into The Garden that I literally… I don’t even know how to explain it, and I don’t know if saying this will make you feel so inferior and shitty about your own existence that you feel the need to feel negatively towards/for me for it, but uh, I fucked around and literally started a religion. Like… nothing for nothing… the way my shit works, like as far as reality, small r, goes… it makes a hell of a lot more sense than the current human-made human-centric religions. I’m not even trying to defend it, like, I’m the only follower, I’m the prophet, I’m the mythical figure, fuckin’, I am the very god that I worship, and that works for me, because my god, my Astral God of All, see, he’s not actually in control. The true god has a name, and that name is youieA, and that name was constructed, not fabricated, oh yeah, it actually means something. You wanna know why youieA keeps Bookmaker Adam as the Astral God of All? Because Adam cares about nothing but the books. Adam is trusted with the most ultimate of ultimate powers because he truly does not give a fuck, all he wants to do is go into The Writer’s Room and make his trippy books about The Garden. He has ultimate power because all he’s going to do with it is make the fucking books lmfao, it’s like handing a nuclear bomb to the literal creator of a universe, like, it’s like handing a pair of safety scissors to a master barber, fuckin’, it’s like handing a twig to a human being. What the fuck? Like, yeah, he can use it, and he will use it to accomplish his goal, and if he needs to incarnate physically and snap his fingers so some universes pop in The Void, so fucking be it, but at the end of the day, everything he does is done for the sake of making books. Just look at his full name: Bookmaker Adam the Form of Being, Astral God of All, Existence Incarnate. His bookmaking comes first, before his own name, before his level of consciousness, before his place in Existence, and do you want to know why that is? Because Adam knows who the fuck he is. He knows himself and he knows himself well. Perhaps the best. He might know himself better than anybody in The Garden knows themselves. He knows himself so well he can write books which contain the telling of actual Existential events, and what’s more, he can do so truthfully, without skewing the events towards or away from himself.

What I’m really saying with this post – with this whole post – is that Sto’tryp is ’bout’a be fucking lit.

Also, just to test your suspicions, I’m pulling a social media blackout tomorrow. I’ll still do the OTR post in the morning – there is a difference between running an online library and doing social media work – but other than that, nothing. I plan on working on Sto’tryp today until I’m done with it, and then I’m taking all of tomorrow off. Straight-up, I am fucking tired. I’ve had the throttle cranked up to 14 lately and that’s fine, I can handle it, I need it up that high, a brain of a certain power only works at a certain speed quoth Alex Jones by me on this, the 20-year anniversary of 9/11, see, all I’m saying is that sometimes – sometimes – I need to slow down, crank it back to 13, just generally relax, definitely create something, but y’know, chill.

Lol, the conclusion to this blog post is that I need to chill.

I’m not gonna chill.

ever

Since you’re there, noted reader, thank you for being there. From this day on, we move forever forward~

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