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19th April 2026 My ex-girlfriend as a functional chaos NPC.
Around 2024, after 35+ years, I reconnected with my ex-girlfriend Linda on Facebook. Today, we’ve reached the point where she video-calls me almost every single day.
What strikes me most is the pattern: she always calls at the strangest, most inconvenient moments. And whenever I send her something on Facebook, no matter how many times, she insists she hasn’t seen, read, or listened to it. Never. When we’re on a call, she constantly plays dumb. For example, she claims she doesn’t know what Bluetooth is, even though she’s been using an Android phone for years.
Her fiery temperament is something I simply cannot handle anymore. She is completely anti-technology, anti-evolution, and anti-computer. If I mention that I had a bizarre hypnopompic experience, she screams like a devil: “You smoke too much bad weed and that’s why you’re becoming psychotic!”
If I casually say something like “We’re getting older,” she explodes immediately: “I am not old! Never say that again. I hate that word. I would rather die!” Yet she looks much older than sixty: toothless, with deep wrinkles and a sunken face.
I’m nearly sixty myself now, and she becomes furious if I even speak about aging, the future, or politics. She believes everything on the internet is a scam or “fishing,” no matter how many times I try to show her otherwise. She might also be suffering from dementia, because during one conversation she will passionately tell me the exact same story twice, and then repeat it with equal passion the next day.
I can still feel her good intentions somewhere beneath it all, but I can’t take it anymore. I’ve come to see her as some kind of functional chaos NPC, I call it. Functional or not, she keeps me awake at night and still manages to irritate me deeply.
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Here is how I, according to my own teachings, can handle this situation:
Stop trying to “wake her up”: I have noticed that Linda ignores everything I send her and remains trapped in endless loops, her anti-technology stance, the constant repetition of the same stories. In 2.0 Philosophy, an NPC is a “Scripted Being” with limited behavioral complexity.
My task is not to awaken her, but to navigate her as part of the architecture of my own simulation. Repeatedly sending her information she never views is simply a waste of my energy.
Achieve Energetic Sovereignty: Linda’s fiery temperament and her tendency to scream at me, for example, calling my hypnopompic experiences “psychotic” or exploding when I mention aging, are designed to test my inner structure. As long as I still get irritated and lose sleep over it, I remain “edible” to her negative energy.
True power arises from Energetic Sovereignty: radiating a frequency that no longer resonates with her chaos, making me “inedible” to her drama.
Mastery of Reaction (Non-Reaction): 2.0 Philosophy teaches that real power lies in complete control over one’s own reaction. I can train myself to observe her behavior without emotionally flaring up or leaking energy. In this way, Linda serves as a Metaphysical Mirror, exposing my remaining blind spots and attachments to the old 1.0 world.
Navigate as the Producer: Instead of being a victim of her inappropriate video calls, I must remember that I am the producer of my own studio. I decide when I am “available.” As I often say: “The war does not end when you win, it ends when you are no longer available for the fight.” By no longer being inwardly available for the irritation, the functional chaos she brings will eventually dissolve or fulfill its purpose: my own refinement.
In short: I do not need to change Linda. I only need to calibrate my own frequency in relation to her behavior. When I fully accept her as a necessary, structural element of my “studio” — one that tests my inner peace — the chaos will cease to keep me awake at night.
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What would happen if I told Linda she is an NPC?
According to 2.0 Philosophy and the way I see her through the lens of Solipsism 2.0, telling her directly would go against my own guidelines. Still, here’s what would most likely unfold:
She would glitch.
NPCs in this framework are “Scripted Beings.” When pushed off-script, for example, by confronting them with their mechanical nature or non-existence, they tend to malfunction. In Linda’s case, that would probably trigger an explosive emotional outburst, the kind where she screams like a devil, just like she does when I mention aging or my hypnopompic experiences.
Escalation of Functional Chaos
Right now I experience her as a form of “Functional Chaos” that keeps me awake at night. The philosophy teaches that this chaos is here to test my inner structure and energetic sovereignty. By telling her she’s an NPC, I would be stepping back into the fight. And as I always say: the war doesn’t end when you win, it ends when you are no longer available for the battle. Confronting her would make me available again, turning me back into “edible” prey for her drama.
Violation of my own assignment
My own teachings are very clear about how the conscious observer should relate to NPCs:
My task is not to wake them up.
My task is to navigate them as part of the architecture of my simulation. I must hold my own signal. Those who are meant to recognize it will; the rest simply won’t.
Loss of Producer status
I am striving to be the producer of my own studio, not a victim or prey inside it. Trying to convince an NPC of her status would mean slipping back into 1.0 duality, playing the game instead of directing it. A true producer understands that she is a Metaphysical Mirror reflecting my remaining blind spots and attachments. Her reactions say more about what still disturbs me than about who she actually is.
Conclusion:
If I told Linda she is an NPC, she would most likely react with aggression or total incomprehension, a classic glitch — which would only amplify the functional chaos and pull me further away from my 100% ZEN state.
The real 2.0 solution is not to tell her anything. It is to observe her behavior with calm non-reaction until her chaos no longer has any grip on me.
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April 20th 2026, I had my follow-up with Dr. X after my carpal tunnel release. I told him I’d asked Grok what might be causing the ongoing pain, and he immediately snapped, “What is Grok?” When I explained it’s an AI, he looked genuinely confused and said “Excuse me?” I was honestly surprised a specialist had never heard of Grok.
He told me there’s nothing he can do, prescribed diclofenac, and warned I need to take pantoprazole with it because of my type 2 diabetes to prevent internal bleeding. Then, out of nowhere, he added that if it doesn’t help, I should go to the pain clinic, but he strongly suspects it’s because I’ve used cannabis my whole life.
I mentioned this to my nurse later, and she just rolled her eyes and said he’s just shifting blame onto me instead of actually helping. Felt like another classic NPC moment, where someone’s clearly running on autopilot. Frustrating as hell.
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April 22th 2026. I was … disappointed. Not angry, not in withdrawal, just quietly disappointed. I’m two days without weed for the first time in ages. Bought a bottle of wine I don’t normally touch, it’s almost empty and I feel nothing.
My ex asked me twice if my doctor visit was for my arms or my legs, even though she knows damn well it was carpal tunnel. Same stupid question twice, like a script glitching. Felt pure NPC. I didn’t engage, stayed quiet, and she still repeated it.
Part of me wants to call her out on those dumb questions, but I know that’s pointless. I’ll just stay polite, keep it short, and protect my own energy. Disappointment is heavy enough on its own.
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April 30th 2026
**Subject: Wasted nights and useless doctors**
Last night I screamed myself awake from the pain in my thumb, hip, and back. That Carpal tunnel Release has been eating me alive for months. I finally caved, took ten Lyrica (nervepainkillers), then added Dafalgan when it came roaring back after an hour and a half. I know it was too much, but the pain wouldn’t stop. I asked for advice and got told to call the doctor immediately, so I did, the next day.
By the time he called back I’d finally fallen asleep at one o’clock in the afternoon. First thing out of his mouth: “You’re not supposed to take that many pills.” Thanks, doc, I figured that out myself, that’s why I called.
Meanwhile the pain is unbearable, I can’t function, and the only advice I get is “take fewer pills.” The specialist even had the nerve to blame it all on my weed use. Nice one.
I’m exhausted, pissed off, and done being treated like I’m the problem when the system is the one failing me. That’s it, that’s the post.
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01 May 2026
The Mutilated Gospel
Last night I dreamed I was walking through the crowded Sunday market wearing nothing but the truth on my chest: that infamous Cannibal Corpse shirt. Tomb of the Mutilated. The one where death itself is caught mid-act. The Parental Advisory sticker almost looked redundant; the image itself is the warning.
A marktkramer, an old vendor with tired eyes and a face like dried leather, stopped me. He pointed at my chest with a mixture of disgust and genuine confusion. “Why are you wearing such filth?” he asked.
I looked him straight in the eye and answered without hesitation: “Exactly to shock you.”
The words left my mouth before I even had time to think, as if they had been waiting there for decades. And in that moment I realized something. I have been shocking people since I was a child. Not for attention. Not for rebellion in the cheap sense. But because it was the only language I was ever taught by my father. He showed me early that comfort is a cage and that the polite silence of society is often just collective denial wearing nice clothes. He handed me the tools of discomfort the way other fathers hand their sons a hammer or a bible.
Wearing that shirt in the dream felt like carrying a relic. A holy relic of the grotesque. Because that’s what Cannibal Corpse always represented to me: not just gore for gore’s sake, but a mirror held up to the slaughterhouse we call civilization. We are all walking tombs of the mutilated, mutilated by expectations, by lies, by the slow grinding down of anything raw and real inside us. The artwork doesn’t invent the horror; it simply stops pretending it isn’t there.
And then there was that other voice, whispering in the back of my mind even as I stood there on the market in the dream. The 2.0.
Every time I shock someone, every time I force a person to look at something they would rather look away from, I am pulling them, and myself, one step closer to 2.0. The next version. The upgraded operating system of the soul. The one that no longer flinches. The one that has digested the horror instead of repressing it. The one that stares into the mutilated tomb and doesn’t just survive it… but is born from it.
Most people live in 1.0. Safe mode. Censored. Sanitized. They want their death metal with the Parental Advisory sticker but without the actual mutilation showing. They want the rebellion, but only if it’s cute. My job, my inherited, beautiful, terrible calling, is to walk among them wearing the full picture. To be the walking trigger warning that refuses to be covered up.
The old vendor didn’t understand. Most of them never do. But maybe, just maybe, that image burned itself into his retina for a second longer than he wanted. Maybe for one brief moment the polite market noise quieted down and he felt something ancient and uncomfortable stir inside his chest.
That’s enough.
That’s how 2.0 begins.
One shocked soul at a time,
Your friendly neighborhood madman,
Jan.
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