💥🛠️ DIAMOND PRESS: FORGED, NOT FLAKED 🛠️💥

 💥🛠️ DIAMOND PRESS: FORGED, NOT FLAKED 🛠️💥

I’m depressed. Pressure doesn’t make everyone a diamond. News flash: if you’re under pressure and breaking, you aren’t a diamond—and you don’t get a free pass for toxic platitudes pretending otherwise. “Great spirits have always encountered violent opposition from mediocre minds” —Einstein. “It is no measure of health to be well-adjusted to a profoundly sick society” —Krishnamurti. I do not want your toxic positivity. I do not want unsolicited advice, tone-policing, peer pressure, DARVO martyring, gaslighting, victim-blaming, forced autonomy, forced palatability, sadistic Maslow self-help pamphlet propaganda, fortune-cookie indoctrination, performative empathy, performative inclusivity, performative allyship. I want to outlaw all of that psyops garbage.

I am not supposed to exist as I am. I am on the wrong planet, in the wrong time, under a heartless, ableist society that fails to understand the meaning of “help” and treats disabled people like trash while pretending its social contract isn’t corrupt. Society suffers Stockholm syndrome under a cloud of capitalist delusion and refuses to improve.

After a decade of homelessness, I barely identify as a metalhead anymore. I am ashamed of my gender, sick of it being used as a weapon against me, sick of the internet, sick of politics, sick of tradition, sick of coffee, alcohol, sports, videogames, and everyone forcing their interests on me without reciprocity or understanding. I am sick of disabled people being labeled “entitled narcissists” simply for demanding a life free of daily oppression. How many more telescopes does humanity need before it solves suffering on its own planet? Aliens are here; hide the poverty, stash the Ironsides.

I cannot post anywhere without an onslaught of illiterate, Dunning-Kruger males hurling flaming monkey nonsense. I wish there were a way to block all males, all illiterate people, all money addicts—but then what remains? Among the shopping mall of human spirit mediocrity, when can I finally find someone capable of understanding me? The internet, which saved me through homelessness and allowed me to steal a PhD in outside-the-box perspective from the University of Hardknox on Survivalism Boulevard, fails to connect me with quality humans.

This is to prevent males from responding: they are predictable, never up for a challenge, always present to throw flaming monkey crap because they have nothing better to do. I want to start a band that eviscerates males, ableism, capitalism, and every asinine societal limitation. I want to sing, I have lyrics, I have a voice, I am an autistic, disabled, nonconformist imaginal cell—and no one capable of understanding this will even Google it. Only heartless, ableist males will see it, and they are irrelevant to the message.

I am tired of society’s obsession with money, judgment, and status. I want heavy, tribal drumming, two bass guitars, and musical segments that carry moods indefinitely without traditional repetition. I reject standard song structures and “chasing the high” culture. Even tiny grievances—the twice-played riff in Life of Agony’s Broken Valley—become symbols of systemic disappointment. I want my influences, my conceptual wings, my entire vision respected, not derailed by pedestrian gatekeeping.

I am not “expecting”—I am hoping. Hope is not a crime. My trauma is real. My disability is real. My rage is real. Anger is a gift. This is not whining—it is calibrated, purposeful revolt. I cannot be pathologized, invalidated, or told anything I have not already anticipated. I am surrounded by hypocrites and misfires who cannot even spell #scientocracy correctly. Their predictions are backward, their authority is counterfeit. I am the source of this simulation. I am the king of utopia.

Males who respond will be blocked. Predictable, repetitive, irrelevant. I will block billions if necessary. The band starts here. Heavy tribal grooves, abrasive progressive intensity, visceral conceptual assault. The song structures are mine. The rhythms are mine. The rebellion is mine. And the message is unassailable: I am not here to negotiate or appease. I am here to annihilate barriers, expectations, hypocrisy, and every last piece of performative garbage obstructing my existence.

Schrödinger’s cat devoured Pavlov’s dog with Occam’s razor. Meshuggah beats warp reality. We beat Russia to the moon. The universe is absurd. I am absurd. And I will be heard.