So I finally figured out what Verification was/is, and how it works.

And, sadly, I figured something out.

I was born wrong, so I will never get it.

Verification does not account for being trans.

My entire public persona is based on my chosen trans name. Honestly, you would think, that at this point in time, people would just have put trans people into the same Verification pipeline as, say, people with stage names; people with pen names. I’m really open with this: Margaret is my chosen name. I have, in fact, been using it most of my life. I’m not shy about the fact that my legal name differs, and practically every social media platform’s governance actually knows, and has proof, of my legal name. Even Steam knows who I am: they’ve got my social security number, for example. (By the way: I don’t even really consider it my ‘dead name’— my mom, my family, even my step-family, and my wife call me by my birth name— though my wife occasionally calls me “Margaret”, given certain situations. I just don’t want to be called anything but ‘Margaret’ by weird Internet people.)

When I was trying to get Verified on Facebook, I kept getting it kicked back instantly— “the names don’t match.” Okay, that’s weird. How do celebrities get verified?

Well, the answer is, they have someone submit for them through backroom mechanisms that normal people don’t have access to. So it’s never a problem.

Verification doesn’t have any sort of mechanism— or does not want to create any sort of mechanism— wherein trans people are accommodated. And I get that the whole thing is a unique situation. But I’m not parading around with my legal name on the Internet. I’ve had enough of people trying to take harassing me from online to offline, and I’m not giving them any ammunition (esp. given that, at one point, someone tried to kill my parents by SWATting them).

The emotional reason behind why I wanted this is simple: I qualified, and I felt left out. I didn’t like the checkmark; I didn’t want it next to my name. But I wanted to see why I kept getting denied. I wanted to make them give me what I actually was eligible for.

It’s not going to happen. Or, at the very least, I don’t feel like taking it past this point.

Because I’ve understood it, and I think that will have to be the end to that story.

The Secrets of Verification

We’ve been workshopping this over the past few weeks. Probably a month’s worth of time. Here’s the secret to getting Verified on every platform:

Bluesky
It’s too young to tell. The teams are too small. It seems to be a combination of luck, but you should be able to do it if you’re a government official, a company with supporting documentation (even small companies have gotten verified), or, you are a warlock.

I’m not fucking around with that last part. That one worked for that person.

Twitter
2,000 verified followers or subscribers, or pay for it. It is useless now.

Instagram (and Meta in general)
Pay for it, or, be a musician with press (2-3 news articles). Instagram’s got no fucking clue what’s actually a good music press site, so you can just ask some dipshit to rate your beats. It does not matter to them. It’s assumed that your name has to match: they might go easier on you because musicians don’t usually publish things under their own names, but it seems to be an easy pipeline.

Facebook
Name has to match; be a journalist or a writer. This is the simplest pipeline. They have (had?) a special journalist pipeline that’s publicly accessible, where you just submit bylines. (‘Bylines’ are slang for ‘articles you wrote’.) They don’t accept every single publication, so you’ll have to check that and get a job there if that’s the route you want to go.

TikTok
I succeeded but failed here.

Your name has to match your ID. It would seem that every single person who isn’t using their real name— or isn’t proudly displaying it— is gonna be jolly well fucked here.

I submitted with an interview I did in a major news outlet, my book on Barnes and Noble, articles where I was listed alongside legendary musicians and actors (I was also quoted); and then, I added my verified(?) Official Artist Channel account on YouTube. The creme de la creme was showing them my Google Knowledge Panel, which is, hysterically, the fucking hardest ‘checkmark’ to get.

Google Knowledge Panel
I’m not gonna tell you.

I researched this heavily. However, throughout my 40 year existence, I’ve been getting nothing but fucked for helping others.

I raised $5 million USD for other people, to help them in their time of need. And when my mother got cancer and needed their help, nobody came.

You, the reader, have nothing to do with that. But I’m not going to tell anyone how I got it. I got it fair and square; I figured it out.

The hardest checkmark.

If you’d like to know how to get an official artist channel, please Google “how to get an official artist channel”. There are steps. You can do it! c(◕ᴗ◕✿)

For additional help

Ask an A.I.

I’m serious. Present the A.I. with the things you have that you think are verifiable, or ask it what you will need. It will help you in real time, something that I cannot do.

The End of an Era

I bet my Dad that I could get Verified on Twitter.

He told me that it wasn’t worth it. That it didn’t mean anything.

And that was true.

But I still wish that I could’ve done it.

The fact of the matter is, though, while I absolutely was eligible for it . . .

. . . if the name on your driver’s license doesn’t match, it seems you won’t get it.

Which is strange. I’ve seen trans people get Verified on Old Twitter; get Verified on LinkedIn…

. . . but I guess it just isn’t going to be something I’ll be getting.

I’m going to resent you for this, by the way.

The post A Farewell to Verification appeared first on icze4r communication.

Today, I was particularly grievously injured. I’m talking, gushing blood, thought I was going to need to go to the hospital; it was bad. It was also painful in a way I’ve never really experienced before in that part of my body.

And so, in my desperation— and I know you’re not going to understand this, but I’ll say it anyways, because it’s true— I asked a space alien for help.

Part of the problem I’ve had with my belief in UFOs and space aliens is, I have precious little evidence for it. Sure, I have decades of memories, but very few of these are corroborated by external parties. These could be hallucinations; delusions; confabulations; anything. Without at least another person there acting as a witness, I don’t really know. Or, at least, I thought I did not know.

I ran to Her for help.

And She healed the wound nearly instantaneously. There is not even really a mark where it happened— I cannot tell, just by looking, where it happened.

And so, this is the beginning of something new.

I’m really not going to bother explaining what’s going on beyond that. I will, however, be explaining a few key essentials:

• I know what I should be doing, now.
• I know that it is not this.
• I have experienced enough of this in order to know that, in comparison, it is not what I’m supposed to be doing with my life (nor what I want to be doing).
• I have hard choices to make, and I’ve already made them.

For the past two years, starting in February of 2023, I’ve pursued a hard agenda: I wanted to convince America, and the world at large, that UFOs and space aliens were real. I did this partially to finally figure out if I was, indeed, insane; and if I was, I could move on, and figure out my life.

But if I wasn’t insane, I could get everything that I’ve ever dreamed of.

Well, being healed by that person is the start of everything I’ve ever dreamed of. It turns out that, yes, getting myself into a bad situation, inadvertently, and being injured, was the start of… like, I don’t know; like when you get the edge of a sticker on, that’s really on there. You’ve got your fingers on it; under it. And you have a grip.

And you’re going to get it off.

In the same way, I have gotten my fingers underneath the start of what I want for my life. And this start will transition into something more. It already has been, over the past few months. And one day, I’ll be back Home.

But that’s where I have some bad news.

There are no Stars in Heaven.

The Anunnaki have a saying: “There are no Stars in Heaven.”

It’s difficult to translate its meaning. Basically, it means, once you have reached the highest point, there is nothing left to attain; you are living the moment of your victory, and there will be no indicators.

But there will also be no celebration.

If First Contact is to happen, I, for one, do not think that I will be doing it. Inevitably, inexorably, I’m fucked; I’m going to do it. I know that I’ll be the one at that podium. I know that I’ll be the one making the announcement.

But I don’t want to. Because, when I look at this space alien woman, and I know everything that everyone on this stupid fucking planet is going to try to do to Her when they realize that She’s real, and that I’ve been telling the truth?

I think I would like to go away, now.

I think I would like to be regarded as having been just some strange, old, washed-up, has-been of a schizophrenic. Someone that no one really understood— that no one really wanted to understand.

Because I don’t know how to protect the people I love, should I get famous again. And, when I look into Her eyes and I hold Her hands, I don’t fucking know how to protect Her from all of these horrible fuckers on this stupid goddamned planet.

The truth will eventually get out. It’s inevitable. What I’ve started is a slow burn that only goes to one location: the truth of reality. You haven’t ever been alone on this planet. For the past 50,000 years, you’ve been living alongside a space alien species. All of you have met one of them, and almost none of them have been famous. Even now, you probably have had at least one friend who was one of them.

I can’t stop it.

But I can make sure that, in realizing the dream of one of my family members, that I do not let this desire consume my family members.

I can stand and step out of the way.

I don’t need to be famous.

I need to protect my Wife, and my family.

This, I think, is why none of the human whistleblowers came forward.

The post A Bright Light appeared first on icze4r communication.

Using my account, I fundraised for people’s GoFundMe’s. I got some goofy shit, like a guy asking me to raise $8,000,000 for his kid’s cancer treatment. I actually found out that that guy owned a house that was worth nearly as much: I told him, screw you. Go fucking sell your goddamned house. Of course he didn’t have a kid. He was just a greedy fucking asshole.

I remember everyone I fundraised for. I don’t talk to any of them anymore, and I didn’t even really talk to most of them to begin with. You see, where I’m from, when you help someone, that makes you instant friends. Not these people.

I regret fundraising for 99.97% of the people that I did.

Because they didn’t deserve anything.

You might say, oh, Margaret, why would you say such a thing? Because it’s true. I got fucked. I didn’t do it because I wanted anything, but the entire thing left me in a poorer state than I had been before. I went out on a limb for a lot of people, and, most of the time, they either just ghosted me when they got the money, or, they tried to actively get me killed. That was fun.

There are organizations and people who I don’t regret fundraising for. I won’t mention those, as I won’t mention by name anyone whom I’m talking about. Because, fuck it. I don’t need more problems.

But the fact of the matter is, I regret almost everything I did. For one reason.

My mother.

Sepsis

I don’t particularly recall what day it was that my mother got Sepsis. I tend to not put dates on things because I would rather not have the date roll by again and be reminded of some terror. In point of fact, I’m not directly aware of the day my father died. Oh, sure, I could tell you; but it’s held so deep in my cerebrum, because I don’t want to know.

It was the turn-over hours of August 17th and August 18th, 2024. My mother had just gotten Zometa, and, as far as I can tell, the sudden lack of Vitamin D in her system mimicked the onset of Sepsis. Whether or not she actually got sepsis— no one ever found out anything, and that was the end of that.

My mother was and is fine.

But that was the night that I just . . . realized, that I didn’t even really like a lot of my ‘friend’ group.

I had a ‘friend’ who, despite my trying to alter the ‘relationship’, just wouldn’t stop sending me porn. Porn I didn’t like, and didn’t want to look at. I couldn’t talk to them about anything that I really liked, because they would just pervert it.

And then, on that day, I sent them a message.

And they responded the exact worst way that they could have.

. . . and I realized that I had never felt so alone.

Yeah, RIP

At the time, I don’t really think that I was fully an ‘adult’. I have kids— grown, adult kids. You’ll never know about those. But I went through parenting, and I did a halfway decent job.

Nothing really fucking makes you grow up like realizing that your mom’s gonna die.

Nothing really makes you grow up like seeing your dad die.

And through it all— through my father’s death— suddenly, the Internet didn’t seem so ‘fun’ anymore. The people who I had palled around wif, I already knew that the vast majority of them were fuckheads with nothing in their skulls, and I knew that the vast majority of them were trying to use me for their own purposes. I continued to look for new friends. Real friends.

But the Internet is no place to make friends. It’s a kind of Hellscape, where the human psyche is allowed to fester. And you can’t look at each others’ faces very easily, and you can’t hear the tone of each others’ voices very easily.

There are people who livestream at one another, and they still somehow don’t recognize each others’ own humanity.

On the night that I thought my mother was going to die, I realized that, despite trying to get to know her, trying to talk to her, trying to feel some sort of connection to and with her, I had failed. I had failed, and, now, there were going to be no more second chances. Just like with my father’s failures, she would just be gone. No re-do’s. No continues.

No more second chances.

And I realized. . . one day, my mother was going to die.

And the day that she did, I wanted to be in a much better place than I was on that day.

What’s happened in the past 5 months

Serendipitously, it has been exactly 200 days since the night my mother went into the hospital. And, across those many days, which feel as though they have come and gone in the blink of an eye, I have placed myself in a much better position, mentally, physically, and financially. I am not ready for my mother to go. And she will not be gone for many more decades.

But I can see a world where I can stay alive without killing myself when she inevitably goes.

And I couldn’t see that before. I couldn’t see that, in a world where I just passively allowed someone to send me disgusting porn, and I never really confronted them on it. I couldn’t see that in a world where I was constantly afraid of people online— of what they could do; of what they may be capable of.

The old world is dying. The new one will not be born. There were always monsters, here. But they are not immune to the chaos and poverty that destroys everyone else.

I like the idea of making friends online. Human beings, however, are ultimately some of the most-disgusting creatures I’ve ever come in contact with.

You don’t beat the space wasps, honestly. But God in Heaven, if anyone did, the whole planet would have to be glassed ten times over, just to fuckin’ make sure.

An ending

I regret helping people. My mother was right: pearls before swine. Human beings, though, deserve food, water, shelter, medical care, and to feel safe. But I don’t want to ever interact with them, ever again.

On the day that I get to fuck off and leave, oh, I’m sure I’ll be back to help you. And I’ll give you free food, and water, and whatever.

But I know what you are.

I’ve seent it.

You cannot convince me that I haven’t.

Not anymore.

The post Post-Mortem: Charity appeared first on icze4r communication.

I didn’t ever want to become one of you. Your science fiction bullshit, those stories where non-humans fetishize ‘humanity’, that’s just a comforting conceit. No one’s really like that. That’s a falsehood, driven by puerile narcissism. No one wants to be you, dude. You suck.

In my writing journey, one of the worst problems I’ve ever faced has been humanity. There’s this thought of a necessity: that I, and everyone else, we who ‘write’, should subjugate others before our varying audiences.

And now, as part of my journey, my journey to let go, I have to tell you, as a species, to go fuck yourselves.

If you’re not bound by the limitations of human narcissism, by your association with your species, and you’re actually a kind and thinking person who is trying their best (and is succeeding— I have no room in my heart left for well-meaning fuck-ups, because they do nothing but continue to fail, over and over and over again, and those failures eventually claim the lives of innocent people), then I feel no enmity towards you. But, at the same time, I also no longer feel any kinship towards you.

Because you failed me. As a species, you had 40 goddamned years to convince me that you were worth trusting. And you weren’t.

I have no interest in humanity anymore. I used to try to write things for the benefit of others. I used to speak with them, in order to try and help them. But all I have ever gotten is aggression— and you, as a species, are so worthless, so absolutely goddamned weak, that that aggression has been nothing but insulting. You are blind kittens hissing at shadows, and the worst part of it is, you’re not even cute.

In the past I tried to write for your benefit. I tried to communicate for your benefit.

Now I write for the benefit of me.

For the longest, I tried to help other people. It is in my nature. And though I know that, if I stay here any longer, I will continue defending human beings, I have come up with a long-sought-after solution.

I want to be apart from you.

Your World has many problems. I do not want to fix them. Many people have suggested that I am the person who should find the solution to many of your problems. Problems that you yourselves have caused, on purpose.

I have seen many people try to fix your problems. You end up killing them. Or they end up killing themselves, through overwork or many other various fates I do not wish to share.

I will not be a victim. And though, in some world, some other worldview, it may be seen as my responsibility to save you, I do not want to, and I will not.

Many people have come to me with explanations about how I should help them fix the problems. And I have told them, many different times, in many different ways– but they have never understood. So I will say it one more time, and then, I will stop speaking to you.

What if I like the problems?

What if the ‘problems’ make me happy?

When I was with the space aliens, every day was a dream. I did good works, and I was rewarded. Handsomely. I was called friend.

One time, my friends and I decided to help a disabled lady buy a chair lift. The moment she got the money, she immediately turned on all of us.

That’s you. That’s what you’ve done to me.

You don’t actually like me. You don’t want me to succeed. I’ve had many ‘friends’, over the years, now long gone and forgotten, who wanted nothing more for me to fail. They just wanted to use some part of me for their own benefit. They didn’t actually care about my own happiness.

But I cared about their happiness. And I wanted them to succeed. And I actually did like them . . . and I wanted nothing more than for them to be happy.

I still feel these feelings. But I recognize that this effort is misplaced.

I have known that you, as a species, have not wanted me. For my entire life, I have known this. At times, at best, you have been indifferent towards my existence: you thought that I was merely a resource to be used. At worst, you’ve wanted to wear my own skin.

I am not like you. I will never be like you. I can never be like you. And I do not want to be like you.

The aliens are here, now. And I prefer them to you.

I want you to know something.

In 40 years of my interactions with you, I haven’t felt, from you, even 1% of 1% of the love and acceptance that I did in one hug I got from a space alien.

The world— or, rather, your World— will function fine without me keeping it afloat. And I will not die, I should let you know. This is not a suicide note, but rather, a note indicating a severance of another type. I am not a part of your civilization anymore. I am going Home.

In thinking about my future, I realize that I do not particularly care to write for the space aliens. And I certainly won’t write for you.

I’m going to write and create for me.

I’m going to put my affairs in order, now. Things like websites, and such. Consolidations, and things that will make maintaining a presence here for as long as it brings me pleasure, as such.

I want you to know that you’re not a good species.

The day that I don’t have to interact with you, ever again, I want you to know that, not only will I not miss you, but it will bring me happiness to forget that you ever existed.

I’d say goodbye but I don’t even like you.

The post I’m going to stop talking, now. appeared first on icze4r communication.