Three hours ago I dreamt I had a second child. This dream was ‘programmed’ yesterday morning by a young woman asking me if I’d be ok with having more children if I was in a relationship with a young woman who wants children now.

I said: “Two half Belgian, half Mexican kids. Maybe yes, if I love her.”

I overemphasize my preference for non-blonde, non-white women, because she is the living embodiment of what western mainstream culture thinks of when it hears the word ‘fashion model’.

It’s to for once let her talk to someone with high T levels who doesn’t try to bed her. It’s partially a trick to immediately kill any chance of erotic tension between us. Erotic tension between us has effectively been gazified. Cause that gets messy between private tutor and student. Even if the setup makes things loose from the get go. Corporate people treat languages lessons their company pays for as a very long coffee break at work.  

If anyone is curious, Melissa Barrera (Sceam, Vida) or  Tuba Büyüküstün (Another Self) are hormonally most volcanic to me. And this woman looks like she should be on a remake of Baywatch.

Bonus points for Melissa Barrera: She lost her part in the Scream franchise for speaking up about Gaza.

So the lady said I will miss taking care of Bruno once he will be older.

What she really meant is: You will miss creating wonder for Bruno.

That’s not in most people’s vocabulary around here. People don’t do wonder around here, but it registers as an oddity when they see someone else do it.

Here’s a dream for a four days ago:

Me and a faceless friend get stuck in some cistern underneath an exotic hotel. We got there by falling into a hole in the hall on the way to our room. He fell into one hole, I fell into another.

In the cistern we talk. We don’t yell. We don’t start banging the walls.

There is a ledge I can climb onto and sort of stay out of the water, but it’s not comfortable up there.

There is some kind of table with an old radio, think John Cusack in the movie Say Anything, that legendary boombox scene.

We could have made it play loudly to draw attention.

Waking up I understand the message.

I sit stuck under ‘normal life with its normal pleasures’, the hotel, the world that gets excited over the world cup soccer, stuck in a huge reservoir of water, my emotional world. Talking to a faceless friend. Where are there faceless friends in my life? On Twitter.

And instead of finding a louder, better way to broadcast I throw my emotions, my distress calls, my stories, my observations on a ledge.

The uncomfortable ledge being Twitter and the website I cobbled together myself.

Instead of creating a media studio and using YouTube, Rumble, and what not.

Constant production with very amateurish distribution.

As to that World Cup.

In Slovakia the envied, admired and begrudged Czech Republic is followed with some intensity, since Slovakia didn’t qualify.

I used to get excited over Belgium. My football fever peaking in 1994, 1998, 2002, then gradually eroding.

Mexico 1986 has top level epic status in Belgium. A team of hard workers that made it to the quarter finals.

I don’t have any affinity with the Belgian team that is particpating in Mexico 2026.

It’s been 40 years and my country is not my country anymore.

It’s just another node in a globalized influencer culture full of spoilt people looking away when the west through its little parasitic colony Israel systematically murders children and their helpless parents.

With the best French fries and mayonaise in the world.

Which I don’t enjoy half as much as before, cause fitness culture, low carb diets, protein obsessions and sixpack abs deification got to me too.