I dreamed I saw my maternal grandmother sitting by the bank of a swimming pool, that was also a river. In real life, she had been a victim of Alzheimer’s disease, and had regressed, before her death, to a semi-conscious state. In the dream, as well, she had lost her capacity for self-control. Her genital region was exposed, dimly; it had the appearance of a thick mat of hair. She was stroking herself, absent-mindedly. She walked over to me, with a handful of pubic hair, compacted into something resembling a large artist’s paint-brush. She pushed this at my face. I raised my arm, several times, to deflect her hand; finally, unwilling to hurt her, or interfere with her any farther, I let her have her way. She stroked my face with the brush, gently, and said, like a child, “isn’t it soft?” I looked at her ruined face and said, “yes, Grandma, it’s soft.”
- Jordan B. Peterson, Maps of Meaning: The Architecture of Belief
Y'ever seen a repressed boomer pseudo intellectual grifter work through his own shit in the most unhinged way possible in the guise of an academic work? Would you like to?
you must read every book he has ever written thrice (x3) or this is taken out of context
I wish the machine learning model that let you generate him reading anything were still online... For a second I assumed that's what this was... I should get motivated but I have enough tech projects on my plate and I fucking hate computers
It was called NotJordanPeterson FYI
