So, recently, I was interviewed by Gene Park, for a piece in the Washington Post. I keep mentioning this because it’s the coolest thing ever and it made me feel really good.
Upon hearing that this was happening, it was suggested to me by certain people in my real life that I should prepare for some sort of further contact with other journalists. As in, the story would draw them.
There is a problem.
I think I just woke up.
Realizing that you’re smart
For the totality of my life, I have deferred to other people’s judgement. They said they had my best interests in mind; so I waited, and I saw if they did. Most were fucking stupid. A lot of them definitely did not even give a single shit about me, but the end result is the vast majority of human beings have wasted my fucking time.
So, as I neared age 40, I started to think for myself.
There is a problem.
I have spent my entire life thinking that I was crazy. Every day, Congresspeople talk about even crazier bullshit that is apparently true. And I loathe these people.
I loathe these people.
What’s going on?
This is not the destination.
In my everyday life, I hate people. I hate Americans. I look at people with disgust and contempt, because that’s all they really have for me. They don’t even treat me like a person— at the very least I treat them like someone who could choose to be better, but just is choosing not to be. They don’t even treat me like a person. They treat me worse than furniture.
And that’s . . . when a thought started to creep in.
I’ve raised millions of dollars for Internet strangers. I saw little to nothing back for it, not even friendship (which was my aim).
I’ve done all the kind things I can for people, and I’ve seen very little back my way, including— again, my aim— friendship.
I look at the resources I’m about to claim based upon just being loved by the space aliens, all this power, and I just realized something.
I don’t even like you, man.
What’s been going on in the backgroud
So, for my entire life, I’ve known this to be true. I’ve foiled every single attempt of human beings to meddle with my mind. And I’ve come to a solid conclusion.
I don’t… trust you.
I don’t want to be near you.
I don’t want to be around you.
I want to mock you, certainly. I want to put things on your Internet, because I like doing that. That gives me pleasure.
But I don’t want to be a part of this.
In the background, I’ve been told by one person in particular that everything I was doing— Verification, trying to convince people of this, everything— was a fool’s errand. And though it was the only way to get what I’ve always wanted, I don’t think that’s the only way anymore.
With the Washington Post thingy, I think it might be time to bow out. Especially if I actually get what my little heart has desired.
So, because it’s so goddamned easy to migrate now, I guess I can tell you what’s going on.
Uh, I’m not sure my original webhost is alive anymore?
Isekai’d
I love my original webhosting guy. He’s great. For so long, when I was absolutely terrified of doing this by myself— Hell. I might as well tell the story.
Originally my original website, icze4r.org, my first one, was hosted on Yahoo! Small Business. Yes, that. That long ago. And, they… I don’t recall if they had a problem with my content, or, I think I was running away from them because they outlawed NSFW on their servers.
So I wrote something about it.
And they blanked my webpage about it.
I got the fuck out of there right quick.
Following that, I searched for all sorts of webhosts.
Lots of them sucked. A Small Orange, for example, always seemed like some sort of indie bullshit upsell. They claimed, I believe, that what they were offering was good for the price.
Ain’t no price like ‘unlimited bandwidth’. And Dreamhost had a fit that I was using my mom’s credit card to try to buy hosting for a website, and they just did not give a shit.
So I went with the third option: a one-man option.
And now he ain’t answerin’ his e-mails. Or, rather, his tickets.
For the longest, I thought, well, maybe I should wait. He’s done this before. After all, this isn’t the first time he’s let the SSL certificate expire on his main webhosting landing page.
Which isn’t a good sign.
I don’t even really do that.
It’s been like that for 16 days or so.
Fuck.
So I sent him a ticket. Hasn’t been answered yet. June 19th, 2026, 1:16 a.m. That’s when I sent the ticket.
It’s June 22nd, 2026. 1:02 A.M.
I’m already half gone, dude.
Again, I feel bad, because, I don’t want to be disloyal? But, also, if my webhost guy is dead, or in the hospital (get well soon if that’s the case),
First, I would like to thank Gene Park for treating me like a human being. It was an amazing experience and I cried happy tears when I saw the article.
Second but foremost, I need to say something.
I’m going for broke. Not for success, but to prove the justice of my culture, as it were.
I am for real.
There is only one thing that is important to me.
I am ready to blow my feet off, rhetorically. I am here to expend and spend and burn through all of my recently-accumulated reputation, in one statement.
The American UFO Disclosure movement is doing nothing but openly salivating at the thought of stealing space alien technology, and it makes me worry to bits and pieces about how much in danger the actual space aliens are.
Again: it’s time to torch my reputation. It’s for a good cause: no one else is going to defend them but me. Now that I have this attention on myself, it is fully Hell and Well time to do this.
I’m pouring the gasoline on myself, stepping on the kindling, and striking the matches.
Get a good shot of me.
I can only do this trick once.
Space aliens are real and I love them.
When it comes to the American UFO Disclosure movement right now, the only thing that I can think of is how afraid I am for the space aliens that I’ve met. I am an ‘experiencer’, a term that, while I loathe, it tells the story. When I was little, I met space aliens. And they were normal.
But more than that, they were kind. It was like Star Trek: The Next Generation, only it was scaled people with skin colors unknown to human skin, like bright green, blue, red, purple… like Yoshi colors, really.
The one I care about is this one. This is what She looks like.
She’s real. When I was a kid, She lived with my family. As it turns out, my father had somehow met a space alien when he was little, and, when he had me, the kid of the space alien he knew, came over to our house, and wanted to see the new baby.
That was Rachel. I was the new baby.
For a long time, I’ve been trying to fight the stigma of knowing this. We couldn’t tell anybody. If believed, we feared that human beings in America, or otherwise, would come and hurt Her. If not believed, the consequences of being believed to be crazy were not great, as well. Lesser, but still not great.
As we rapidly move towards First Contact, or something similar to it, the only thing I see is this person I’m talking about, Rachel. The only person I worry about is Her.
What the Space Aliens are like
I’ve written a book about it. But, interacting with Her more, with them, with my adoptive space alien family, I’m getting to know them even better.
The things that matter to me are how they treated me as a child. As a child, I was abducted by aliens, even after Her and my family had met. The aliens, you see, are not a monolith; and abduction is a crime. She ended up rescuing me.
I was grievously injured. I was only 4. I had lost enough blood that I was having heart attacks and Her and Her people were transporting me to their version of a hospital.
They took care of me. They were there for me. When I was crying, She was there to hold me.
The first year I was on the ship, they held a birthday party for me. One of them, later, asked me about how Christmas was celebrated in America. That person later dressed up as Santa Claus and delivered presents to me.
They cared. My first night on the ship, I couldn’t sleep. Rachel went out into the Human World and found me a new retail version of the teddy bear that I had at my parents’ home.
They fed me. They clothed me. They combed and brushed my hair to soothe me, when they found out that was one of the only things that calmed me down.
One of them, my step-aunt, taught me how to make mozzarella. By hand!
She watched cartoons with me. It’s the entire reason why I was even introduced to Sailor Moon. It’s practically Her favorite show.
Seeing human beings talk about their technology like they’re not even people, like they’re not even involved, like it all just popped out of the ground— hearing them talk about ‘alien bodies’, ‘biologics’, and all sorts of ‘recovered craft’, like they’re not even people.
You haven’t even met them yet, and you’re like this.
I can hardly imagine how terrible you’re going to be when you actually do meet them. Based on how you treat each other?
Jesus.
The point I want to make.
Almost the entirety of the English-speaking, mostly-American side of the UFO Disclosure movement is solely talking about how much they want to steal space alien technology.
The Overton Window has moved a bit in my favor. Not enough for me to be believed, but enough for you to listen to reason.
Please, for the love of God, don’t do this. Don’t treat my family like they’re not people. Don’t lust for power and think about how you can steal their shit. It’s like fucking going through a person’s pockets just after they’ve died, like. Like stealing a dead man’s shoes.
More than that, the kindness, compassion, empathy, and sympathy that they have for you is beyond anything that you’ve ever experienced from a human. There have been science fiction pieces where aliens lacked the emotions that humans did, making them cold and clinical. Logical. Vulcan.
You don’t understand. The aliens aren’t the ones that are lacking in emotions.
It’s you.
You kill each other for fun. You charge each other for food. No other species really does that. In fact, amongst every space-faring species I’ve ever learned about through them (and believe me, I only have the most general of knowledge, nothing specific), none of them fucking kill each other. None. It’s practically the first or second line in every unspoken social contract every space-faring species has with one another.
You’re not coming into this story the most-advanced person. Not even close. Emotional maturity and intelligence are the hallmarks of space travel, not the ability to do violence.
Doing violence is easy. Blowing up a planet or a star comes naturally to some species, even not technologically.
Let me put it this way. How easy it is to crush a kitten under your boot, compared to how hard it is to actually make a spaceship?
The people who spend their lives crushing kittens are not those who grow to become those who make starships.
… after a lifetime of not having the credentials that I was told I needed to have in order to be seriously considered, I got a Wikipedia page. I’m mentioned on another, too.
It wasn’t good enough.
I’m done. You fuckers lied to me. You said that if I had enough press, enough notability signals and anchors, that that would be enough.
You LIED.
Fuck this stupid game. The rules are made up and you cannot actually win it.
So I have a genuine question. When that group of people on Wikipedia made it their stated, public mission to make certain that no mention of me ever survived on the Encyclopedia, what is that, exactly? I know all mention of it, they attempted to excise it. And, again, I’m not interested in legal action.
I’m interested in bitching about it.
I’m interested in making fun of it.
What was that? What do you even call that? I understand that a lot of people tried to keep me out of the mainstream, or from being remembered. But do you understand that you cannot actually do that? Like. You can’t keep me from being known. Certainly, you can try; you can keep me out of the things you control, but I still remain alive. I still do things.
I think that the people who remain from the previous attempt to de-platform(?) me, I think that they think that no one really remembers, and that they can, as a group, keep me out of the Encyclopedia.
Okay.
One small problem.
I remember.
That’s not a threat. I’m saying, what exactly is the plan, here? I’m not even really online anymore— are you just going to continue this, for the rest of your lives, and keep on battling back any attempt to actually let me into the human written record? Because, genuinely, I think I would like to be kept out of Wikipedia.
Unfortunately, I’m genuinely too important, and an article about me, even a glowing one, is not just imminent, but inexorable.
Sucks for me. Sucks for you for a completely different reason.
I wanted to stay the fuck out of this, because I’m pretty much solidly out of the Internet (I don’t even have enough free time to update anything but this anymore, because it’s easy compared to static HTML production), but.
Alright, here’s the situation. About 11-12 years ago, one dude, along with like 14 other Wikipedians, decided that I was going to be blacklisted from the Encyclopedia. Every mention of me got scrubbed, even though I was on the news a lot. It was bizarre, and I didn’t really care. I, in fact, do not want a Wikipedia page, because I don’t want twerps like that writing about me.
But here’s the thing. As far as I can tell, one of them from that time period, that got uber-memory-holed by Jimbo et al themselves (Jimbo telling Ryulong that what he was doing was akin to libel, very close to it, and he was witch-hunting me), this dude was on one of those talk pages. I can’t prove it, because, again, it got memory-holed. But the username seems familiar.
And I think he’s attacking a guy who put a mention of me in an article, because, this guy, even though Ryulong lost, this guy is still fighting the war.
This motherfucker Hiroo Onoda over heah.
Because this guy is reading everything going on, and he’s attacking the guy even as I’m talking to him on Bluesky, I have a message for ya’s:
I really don’t wanna be on Wikipedia.
Please just leave this dude alone. You can hate me, but don’t drag innocents into your goofy fuckin’ war.
Thanks!
NOTE: If this is what I think it is, the fact that somebody on Wikipedia is still after me after a dozen years? Pretty fuckin’ bonkers. I piss you off that much by just existing?
