Portrait of a Breakdown

The famous stalker of Asian women and rescuer of woodland animals appears to be going off the deep end. In addition to revealing his latest identity, “Nikola” of the copious comments on the Greatest SF Writer poll, he posted this on his blog:

Nina asked if anyone’s ever gotten pissy about being drawn and I suggested people who do probably don’t notice they’re being drawn and just assume they’re being stared at and I blamed people like the regulars on Vox Popoli and Alpha Game Plan for basically trying to sexually harass their way into de facto sex segregation. I should have explained the context better, in which Vox Day has been stalking and harassing people who write unfavorable reviews of his novels.

That would have been an amusing conversation to witness. It’s certainly ironic to see “Andrew Marston”, one of the most notorious trolls on the Internet, accusing anyone else of stalking and harassing people. But this is what they call “psychological projection”, I suppose. It is eminently clear that the guy is mentally unhinged. Consider:

Why I Want To Punch Matthew Bellamy.

This is why: Vox Day likes Muse. I once said I knew a few nice Muse fans. Here’s the thing, Vox Day is such a racist, misogynist pompous stuck-up giant twerp blogger scumbag fuckface dickhead asshole that it negates the few cool Muse fans out there.

That’s my superpower, actually. He has unmasked me: I am Divide by Zero, capable of negation at will. I find the experience of watching Marston to be fascinating; it’s rather like watching one of Maupassant’s protagonists as he disintegrates. It won’t surprise me if this guy eventually attacks one of the Asian women with whom he is even more obsessed than he is with me and “the Popoli”.

The more I see, the more I think the blogosphere has gotten gradually worse. Listen, Vox wrote a post defending (not quite advocating, I don’t think the blogosphere has sunk that low yet) sex trafficking. And one of the Popoli said some things but they’re more full of shit than Gene Belcher on Super Bowel Sunday. For one, Serena isn’t about me, it’s about some guy named Paul Trowe. The other thing she said was just an indecipherable, incoherent mess. Get over yourself, you’re not that important. 

(Nod, smile, back away slowly, one hand on the concealed .357 Ruger….)