I denounced all ideological demands years ago. I don't have a job, I don't have a sleeping schedule. I rarely bathe. I soil my underwear. I eat whatever I want whenever I want. I only communicate via written notes and angry grunting sounds. I haven't left the house since New Years eve except to take out the garbage. I recognize innate racial hierarchy. I recognize the indelible differences between males and females which make males superior. I am an elitist, and understand that a large percentage of any given population will consist of irredeemably dull and dim-witted cattle-like creatures. I acknowledge suicide is the only aesthetic and intellectual way to die. My diet is unpredictable and uncommon, having transcended ideological restraints in this area; for breakfast today I ate seven bananas dipped in whiskey. I have no friends. No girlfriend. No religion. No national bias. My mommy only tends my needs due to her animal-like being whose natural maternal instincts have not been eradicated (as my own familial instincts have been) by a profound genius of which she is obviously incapable. I spent most of each day in a semi-conscious state in bed, pierced occasionally by some sharp insight about existence which forces me to close my eyes and wait for my spleen to pass. I barely get dressed in the summer months. I only read books that are either under 200 pages in length or over 650 pages in length. Most of the books I read are hostile to life and the concept of living; many advocate suicide as a philosophical ideal. I have read over 45 books about World War 2 military history, and spend much of my time daydreaming about serving in the Nazi high command and directing their invasion of Europe and elsewhere. I have long dismissed music and film as inferior art forms and refuse to experience either. I wake mostly at night. My fatigue is so overwhelming at times that in order to navigate the house I simply crawl or drag my lower body from room to room. I weigh 278 pounds and I plan on expanding even further. My mommy claims she doesn't recognize me at times and when I explain in a consciously patronizing and demeaning tone that the concept of a consistent existential self is a myth borne out of our intuitive desire to comprehend our experience in the simplest terms, she shouts at me and cries but eventually apologizes and provides me with another meal. I am beyond alive. I meet all the criteria required of Nietzsche's proposed Ubermensch. There is nothing in the external world capable of shifting my ideological position, which is itself founded on ironic nothingness.