It occurs to me that the sexual identity spectrum is a transhumanist phenomenon.  If you can reduce most important aspects of your inner human being to a series of unpronounceable, meaningless letters, it won't be long before you are able to discern images from the waterfall of code on your computer screen.  When the guy from The Matrix looked at the code cascading down his screen, he didn't even see numbers anymore.  He saw people.  Is it a person, or an LGBTQ+ identity caricature, walking down the nonexistent street?  Is that the number 9, or a woman in a red dress?  Are we eating dinner, or are we trapped inside a limited liability sandwich, with all our bones removed?

Is this a blanket, or a piece of lettuce?  Am I dressed for dinner, or have I been dressed for dinner by those who would consume me?  To whom shall I delegate responsibility for my mistakes, if I am not a human being?  I am not a human being.  I am a limited-liability collection of incontinent desires.  I have collated my needs into sections and subsections so that my name resembles the subdomain of a YouTube video.  Youtu.be/LGBTQ95ZMj-v-rDk, is my orientation at the moment.  I'm thinking of getting my identity tattooed on my arm, so the Kommandant knows what he is dealing with.  A being pointed downward, headfirst into the basest earth imaginable.  Instead of striving to chisel a legacy into the clouds, like DaVinci or Van Gogh, I've chosen to chisel an epitaph in sand, on the beaches of fire burning in my own subjective soul.  I am now a negative image of the man I used to be.  I am black where I was white, gay where I was straight, smug and dismissive where I was formerly open to new ideas, including the possibility I was wrong.

I'm not wrong anymore.  Moral courage is a white, male corporate construct.  My brain is now a phallic symbol.  Which is why I dress up like a chick.  My sins are absolved like a lozenge on the forked tongues of desire, crawling up my legs.  I am the final moral cough drop, numbing all the pain.  Is Tinkerbell a demon?  Frida Kahlo was a lesbian.  What about Las Adelitas?  Even Frida Kahlo longed to be free of the incarceration of the body, and the pain of being in love with a philandering white Mexican supremacist.  Am I a dead philanderinger?  Shall I set my soul to airplane mode?  What about Las Adelitas?  Is this a dance troupe, or an army?  Why must all the revolutionary lesbians be relegated to a music video?  Am I merely the filling in Lila Downs' supremacist burrito?  Is it true that gringos taste like chicken?  Will I float down a river of Mexican sewage on a raft comprised of the newly-cracked flower code of my defeated enemies?  Will I make my conga player smile?  Look at all these hostile lesbians!

Straight chicks, to a man.

I love that song.  Great video.  These are the "Adelitas," by the way.  Grim, revolutionary chicas who understood the value of children and dudes.  Each of them strapped to the teeth with sandwich-making armaments, staring at you down the bore axis of their souls.  If looking at this picture makes you feel like you've been shot, it's because you have.  The Adelitas aren't looking at you.  They're sighting in on you.

But that's a tangent, inspired by this modern, gay Adelita, marching with Tinkerbell and Hamas down the street in Mexico City in an attempt to drum up morale for their impending invasion of Israel.  Note the trauma on the faces of the Jewish homophobes being dragged away from their music festival.  Fortunately for them, the tunnels we've constructed under Disneyland have all the accoutrements of a militant homosexual liberation dungeon.  The world's first Islamic gay club.  Driven underground, by the Judeo-Christian spirits of rationality and free will.

"Pride Month" has always been aggravating, but I find that I feel sorry for the Tinkerbell kid, staring at the camera with his pink, translucent wings in the video above.  While it's true that worrying about the social-justice quotas of various social institutions (and culture in general) is a luxury problem, a problem people have chosen to have,

And while it's also true that people who aren't happy enough to be left alone and live freely in their own choices will themselves become magnets for real problems,

Which is to say that real problems will take the hint and gravitate toward people (and societies) who feel the need to manufacture problems to fill the void, until the luxurious, chosen problems have been replaced with deadly real ones,

I have to admit that I don't have any negative feelings toward the "Pride" participants in the video above.  I can sympathize with anyone wearing a lost, sad face.  It doesn't matter to me if he's wearing fairy wings, or if his friend is dressed in silver hot pants.

What bothers me is pride.  The arrogant dismissal of the possibility that digging downward into the mountainous landfill of desire is a mistake.  That's what I can't stand.  But if you have a broken heart and don't know any better, I don't care what you look like.  And neither does God.  Because, y'know...

It isn't your wings that make you beautiful.

What makes you beautiful is your broken, humble heart.  And... y'know.  It takes a lot of strength (and honesty) to cop to it.  The prideful never will.  The phallic symbol between their ears won't let them.  Keep your distance.  Their problems are about to get real.  The negative image will be developed, unequivocally, until the true image of the person finally appears.  It's a process anyone can resist... for awhile.  But not indefinitely.  The true image of the soul will eventually be developed.  In hell, if necessary.

Hell is the ultimate darkroom, after all.

Thanks for listening.

Negative Image

I'm a negative image of
the man I used to be
your bullshit fits me like a glove
your bullshit sets me free

We might as well survive
as long as we're alive
survive we might as well
before we go to hell

Rock & Roll will die
the human race is doomed
dollface don't you cry
take me to your room

The tombstones where we sleep
will keep us warm at night
I have seen worse than this
I have seen the light

The sun goes down in flames
I've got a brick between my brains
the moon is made of mirrors
I've got a dick between my ears

I'm a negative image of
the man I used to be
your bullshit fits me like a glove
your bullshit sets me free

©2008 Nathan Payne