Monday, July 2, 2018


Never trust anyone a day older than thirty. I've spent most of my young life more or less living by that ancient hippie code and I've had good reason to do so. My childhood is pockmarked by adult authority figures who have in one way shape or form betrayed my trust in humanity. Growing up, the lion share of my fiercest bullies have always been older than thirty. Most of them were people that I was told (by other people over thirty) to trust and confide in, teachers, clergy, psychiatrists, administrators, people who taught me how to hate myself and shut the fuck up. Thankfully, their lessons never stuck but they sure as hell left a mark.

This is part of the reason why I'm an anarchist and this is part of the reason why I'm so passionate about youth rights. Part of me will always be that angry thirteen year old goth girl thrashing to get out. This is also why my birthday this year tastes a little bit bitter sweet. You see, dearest motherfuckers, this Saturday I turned thirty and I'm tempted not to trust myself....    OK, maybe that's a touch extreme even for me but adulthood feels fucking weird as hell and I'm not quite sure what to do with it.

On the other hand, I've had to fight like holy fucking hell, tooth and nail, just to get here. The very fact that I've lived to see thirty outside of an institution is likely some form of small miracle. My first introduction to adulthood after high school, as an aspiring college student, ended in a calamitous nervous breakdown before I could even officially enroll. I spent the next six years as a prisoner of agoraphobia, locked up in a prison of my own design. I was a twenty-something shut-in and I've spent the last four years of my life struggling like hell just to have one and it all started with this blog. I have always been a writer. I've been horrifying adults with my prose since I learned to grip pen in my left hand. But when college blew up in my face I convinced myself that my dreams of being a literary terrorist like Mikhail Bakunin or Hunter S. Thompson were thoroughly shit-housed. I was way fucking wrong and I've done my damnedest to prove it.

I've been through a lot of shit since I've started this humble blog and you, my very few most dearest of motherfuckers have been there with me through it all. Since I became Comrade Hermit: anarcho-genderfuck jihadist, I've been in and out of therapy, I've come out of the closet and made peace with my torrential fluid kaleidoscope of a gender identity, I've gone toe to toe with fag-bashing trolls and transphobic therapists, I've made friends with more fabulous faggots and mental patients than a goddamn Lou Reed song, I officially broke up with my teenage squeeze Lenin and fell back in love with my ex, anarchism, I've busted my goddamn ass writing weekly manifestos and even managed to get a few published. I'm also roughly halfway through writing a psycho-sexual novella (think Georges Bataille meets John Hughes on DMT) and I'm volunteering at a thrift store (not as sexy as that ass Macklemore would have you believe). All while my tight tribe of a family has battled everything from Alzheimer's to car crashes and everything in between.

I haven't done it alone either. This blog probably wouldn't even exist if it wasn't for my anarchist faerie god parents, Angela Keaton and Thomas Knapp, who have shown the patience of saints in leading me through the decidedly passive-aggressive minefield of the Fifth Estate (the only one worth fighting for!). And god only knows that I would likely be locked up somewhere like Ted Kaczynski if it wasn't for the undying support of my aging parents and my uber-cis-hetero brother who have embraced my perpetual weirdness on every step of this strange fucking journey to god knows where. And of coarse I've had you dearest motherfuckers, the few proud misfits with the vision to recognize a crazy diamond in the rough when you see one. Nothing has ever meant more to me than being heard and you have heard me. For that I can only thank you.

So this is fucking thirty? I don't know if I like it but it's not like I can give it back for store credit. I'm not going to lie because that's not my style, this shit would be a fuck-ton easier if I were a sane cis-gender lesbian who actually got laid. But when was the last time you read about a great artist or revolutionary with a cushy childhood? As for the proverbial million dollar question- Does this mean I'm an adult now? My answer is a resounding fuck no. As far as I'm concerned, I'll be twenty-nine for the next thirty years, minimum. Here's hoping those years come with a little more pussy and a little less tragedy, but I wouldn't count on it. Either way, I'm in this thing for the long haul and all the adults in this room and the next won't shut me up.

Peace, Love, & Nostrovia- CH

Soundtrack; Songs that influenced this post

* Whisper to a Scream (Birds Fly) by Icicle Works
* 1979 by Smashing Pumpkins
* Swim by Surfer Blood
* That's the Story of My Life by the Velvet Underground
* Celebrity Skin by Hole
* If I Ever Leave This World Alive by Flogging Molly
* Shine On You Crazy Diamond by Pink Floyd
* Keep the Car Running by Arcade Fire
* My Generation by the Who
* Please Don't Die by Father John Misty


  1. Thirty came and went for me without any fanfare. Even though I had been schizo-affective for six years, I still hadn't gotten used to it, and at that time still had vague memories of what it felt like to be alive (before my initial breakdown at 24).

    As far as getting more pussy, hang in there. I didn't meet my former squeeze Violet, and had nothing in the way of a regular sex life, until I was almost 50. But then I got my fill, actually having slightly more than I had the stamina for (but still enjoying it -- "Heaven" would be an understatement).

    Angela and Thomas have inspired me as well, and, of course, Justin Raimondo in his former life as a consistent anti-statist. Keep up the writing. I would gladly give up my good spelling and grammar to have a little dose of your creativity. After all, there will always be people to proofread.

    1. That's a backhanded compliment, Borg, but I'll take it. I just hope I don't have to wait until fifty to get some action.


  2. We live in a society that doesn't tolerate fluidity. That's really the heart of it. Ruled by binaries even though that's not how things work. English language doesn't really help either I guess, it's a pretty rigid, noun-based, language not to mention not very descriptive. You might find this perspective interesting:

    These parts stick out to me, as well as the research methods section:

    "Western medical models are pretty guy-oriented, built around antagonism. That’s why we have wars on sickness, wars on cancer, etc. The Native way is more female oriented, about relationship. Instead of saying, “You have a major depressive disorder,” which crystallizes the sickness, we say, “You are being visited by the spirit of sadness.” It’s a very different message to give the patient. They are more empowered, they feel they can actually move through it.

    In English, there’s a noun-ing that happens that freezes you in space and time. If you say you are a woman, well, that's all you can be. But if it's woman-ing that’s happening, then guess what? Man-ning can also happen over there.

    DK: Womaning and manning in one person.
    ED: Yeah. Those energies can move. And what a way to live—you’re free to be whatever at any moment in time. I met this elder in Canada a couple years ago, and he told me that in his language there are no nouns.
    DK: My brain can’t even compute that.
    ED: What do you do with that, right? But that's how he walks through the world, with no nouns; so everything's in movement. And in quantum theory we're finding out that that's really the way it is. The universe is really in movement, and nothing really exists, right?

    In the Navajo tradition, there’s an idea of Changing Woman, where there’s no image that can be made of her because she is constantly changing, and because she’s constantly changing, she’s not anything. But if she’s not anything, she can be everything."

    Found some more links that might be useful to you and reporter. Zucker and the shrink you saw might run in the same circles?