NO SKIN OFF MY BALLSACK, YOU LITTLE FREAK!

This is going to strike a variety of tones. It’s going to end with an obituary for a wrestler. I would like for you to read it. 

Listen, I never promised that this was a place where I’d communicate myself clearly. I’d like to occupy more of a presence here, especially with the aim to keep in touch with writing while I’m shifting into some new phase or season of my living. I’m scared of becoming a shallower thing, right? Like, all of this musn’t be without a cause or purpose. Let me have a space where I can remind myself what I am. Please. 

After a really sprawling, and recklessly messy blog post, I want to enforce some order. Something I did back in the March that got me into trouble was add a list to the end of my monthly post. There were five intentions. It doesn’t matter which of them got done, but that they were worked through. For October, here’s what I’m looking at. 

First, I am going to post twice to this blog. 

Second, I will finish reading some form of literature. 

Third, I will pass my first three weeks of The New Role. 

Fourth, when I die, my spirit will be condemned to several unceasing circulations in purgatory. It is essential to my mission that that there are living things who will pray for any possible journey onwards. 

Fifth, I will write a minimum of five thousand words. 

Lastly, I will complete the obituary at the end of this piece. 

Where we’re at:

It’s the season of big spending, big death, big ego, big love, big feelings. If I tell you I’m feeling suicidal, will you tell dad? We both know I’d prefer to avoid that. I can’t help that I want to get out while I can. I remain persistent, that the only way one may live their life is to live it. Sorry for the Spinoza-talk. I’ve just got very few things to hold on to at the moment, and I’m living in a city that hates me. 

 

I’ve been playing Star Wars Zero Company. There’s an option for all the voice work in German, and I’ve been enjoying it. I feel like I can interface with the game more clearly without necessarily seeking to solidify an opinion on the transmission of voice-acting. I miss the cautiousness that the environments would ask you to take to avoid discovering pods, as was a great dedication of my time in X-Com. This had the affect of a method for prolonged tension between me, the game avatars, and the ludic narrative simultaneously. It’s worth study why particular elements of these preceding games were excluded, and what has been serviced as their replacement. Is there a product-orientated argument to be made that the absence of stealth would be contrary to ideas of brand, or space warfare? Is this a game that finds comfort in the presence of a perpetual war? Who are our operators, and how did they land here? Why can they speak to the player-protagonist, and does this service to highlight their role as secondary officers below Trick, Kabb, and the other ‘main-er’ characters? Questions like these raise the need for an academic with a studious attention and interest in game-writing, but I’ll settle with looking forwards to replaying War of the Chosen later in the year. Im Moment trinke ich meine Star Wars-Weltraumlimonade, die viel zu kohlensäurehaltig ist.

 

 

 

I’ve loved this image. 

     I’ve been loving Love is Overtaking Me (2026 redux) by Arthur Russel. Already a beautiful, darling album, this is a collection of songs that will change how you think about connection. To the music, to the self, or some arbitrary other. It sounds good. Trust me on this.

I love Saint Mary Magedeline by Guido Reni. We saw it in the National Gallery. I cried about her for a long while after. Loving Ways of Seeing by Berger et. al. A woman must continually watch herself. She is almost continually accompanied by her own image of herself. Whilst she is walking across a room or whilst she is weeping at the death of her father, she can scarcely avoid envisaging herself walking or weeping. From earliest childhood she has been taught and persuaded to survey herself continually.  

I’ve been loving Fourtune’s Palette. You’re doomed, bro. I’ve been twitching between da tarot and da mood reading app. Fridgdle is worth your time too.

I’ve been rewatching Twin Peaks. I stopped at season two. God, there’s a lot of it. I loved Shea Charles’ winner versus Georgia. Can’t get enough of it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

            I love this entrance. 

           

Watch it again. Watch how he moves, how he presents himself. How he's lit. Nobody will ever dare to forget you, bastard. 

 

I want to close this insert with some words for my favourite wrestler. I loved PAC. He was the wrestler who got me into wrestling. You don't forget this guy. Wrestling is an ocular tradition, right? You have to see it to buy in to believing it. When you’d see PAC, you’d have so much to love. I’m only a fan. I’m only watching from forever way, but I loved his agility first, then his brutality, and then this domineering and kinetic man, who’d accelerate when he’d want to, who’d strike when he’d need to. He became this icon for the programme, for me. If you saw PAC, you’re going to watch something incredible, something made of steel, something brutal but so rich with inertia you can’t look away. Do you remember when he like, almost won the thing in 2015? Do you remember when him and Kyle Fletcher put on a classic? Or Speedball? Or any other unlucky sod who stood across from him? There’s his entrance, too, the Death Rider one. The one where you couldn’t mistake him for any fella other than the most important guy in the world. You could tell from how he looked, or glared, or came back with cropped, mussy hair: this is the guy. This is the spirit of wrestling. This was PAC. 

 

He wrestled like a gladiator and he fucking meant it. I remember trying to find clips of him when he went back to Dragon Gate in 2018. I wanted to see how he was doing, if he was winning. I wanted to see the next guy he was becoming. I didn’t care if he never flipped from the top rope again: this was the Bastard PAC. You stayed for the spirit, the lethality, the notion that every strike, word, pose, moment was embroiled in meaning, design, or love. I feel untethered to the world reckoning with the fact you won’t get to see this guy wrestle again, or shout about the skin off his ballsack.  

 

 In the Fletcher match, the one from the 2025 Continental Classic, there’s a moment towards the end, you’ll see it too, where he’ll hold the air as his own. He is contained, a coiled body-as-weapon sprung, aiming but not looking. Everyone has seen this move before but nothing means as much as when you see it right before you. He turns. He becomes. His intention and meaning are evident, but these are the matters of mortals or nerds. This is all about striking: about cutting through the space between bodies, and giving the world an image so unforgettable, you can’t help but make yourself know: this is it. This is the art. This is the dance. Nobody will ever fly like this again. 

 

The crowd takes this collective inhale as he doubles his height above the ring. You’re a part of it now. See infinity before you, and PAC will close the distance in a heartbeat. When he does, you’ll cheer as much as your body can handle. It’ll become a scream, an unleashing, a pooling of auditory force. You won’t know what’s coming out of you. 

 

All you could do is watch as the weight of the world was centred around one man. Now, all I can do is watch. All I am able to do is watch, and show you the clips. All I can do is watch.