pukenza

pukenza= unfiltered mental puke of Kenza.

Recently, I was watching a Johnathan Bi podcast titled Capital is Cheap, This is The Last Scarce Resource with guest Albert Wenger. At one point, the discussion shifts to strict cultures. The interviewer, Johnathan, raises a question:

"What's really interesting is that you can say the strictest culture (the German culture) has all these open elements, including the Berlin sex culture. And you see the same in East Asia, where I think one of the strictest cultures in Japan also has this very open, like sexual mores kind of culture. And my question for you is, what do you think is the relationship between this? Is the relationship hydraulic? Hydraulic meaning because they repress so much here, they need to go to Berkheim and go crazy once a night?" (22:57)

The guest of this episode didn't have an answer, but I thought I could give it a try.

Taking Muslims as an example, I believe the performance and ritual demands in Islam are genuinely high. From praying five times a day to fasting for a month, Muslims are contained within this rigorous structure.

But the key variable isn't the quantity of rules or even the domain of rules. It's the phenomenology of how the rules are experienced, whether they land as a burden or as belonging.

Islamic observance for many people isn't experienced as repression at all, it's experienced as meaning and structure. The fast isn't a cage, it's a spiritual technology. If something doesn't feel like repression from the inside, the hydraulic logic doesn't apply. Whereas a German businessman grinding through Q4 probably does feel that as pressure needing release.

A Quranic point is really the crux of it. If the theological framework itself preemptively addresses the question of burden through a verse "God does not burden a soul beyond what it can bear" then the entire relationship between the believer and the rule is different. The rule isn't an external imposition, it's understood as calibrated to your nature. That's almost the opposite of repression.

Therefore, the release valve cultures might not emerge from strictness at all. They might emerge specifically from alienated strictness : rules that people follow but don't believe in, or social performances that feel hollow. That creates genuine pressure because there's a gap between the outer life and the inner life. Similarly, even a Muslim-by-family-only who doesn't connect and is forced into the faith would feel pressure and release it accordingly to the hydraulic model.

Representative of the angiosperms in homo sapiens affairs No fruit has reached such a pinnacle in human lore Sworn by gods and tech, it graced the lips of Adam & Eve to leave on earth an heir, And fell on Newton's head to bend the arc of human thought,

After all its cidereal conquests and prestige The apple and I share something pre-anthropic A love purely ontological for this quiet Stoic That harbors a stubborn faithfulness inside my fridge,

Unapologetically cold, tame, and unbothered, The apple in my fridge doesn't rot and leaves the trompe l'oeil in malic body dysmorphia Weeks pass; it does not wither, does not soften, does not flee Still ruddy and resolute, its waxy skincare seals the mystique

My uterus is a butterfly

I am menstruating today. It's not a deliberate decision, as my fate has already been decreed — not that Mother Nature has ever consulted me. Impromptu, insidious, and sending me into a dysphoric spiral, I stare at the vermillion drops on my gusset with revulsion. Two stains. Faint, reddish, almost courteous in their smallness and already nesting on the gusset to make room for the newcomers. My stomach knows before I do. It always does. The nausea doesn't climb so much as materialize, sudden and total, and my eyes are wet before I've had time to form a single thought about it. Before I even realize, in a nimble, I have already downed half a pill, changed into adult diapers, and forced myself to sleep the pain away.

I wind up gesticulating like a Kafka on his bed, still conscious with the contractions reaching a crescendo. Yet, it's only the beginning of this predicament. My temperature rises in upheavals, causing incipient sweat to break through and create a clingy layer of dampness. Soon, my clothes could easily be wrung out to douse my burning forehead. But this is meaningless in contrast to the harrowing pain buzzing in my uterus. It's a succession of waves that pull back only to crash harder. But the feeling itself is eclectic: squeezing, tearing, grinding, and riddling with needles. On my other side, invisible blows hit my lower back like acute hail. I crawl into a fetal position and ironically wrap the blanket to not let the same suffocating heat escape. I wallow, ignore, bargain with sleep, but my mind refuses to rest under scorching body heat and a uterus grotesquely undoing itself in an ugly metamorphosis.

At its climax, it's one of those times when I ask God for His Mercy. Because human intervention rarely works on me; pills are meager and not strong enough to obliterate this evil. And even my spirit is too defeated to conjure a placebo.

Free Afghanistan

As I shoulder the door to enter, the short-order cooks all glance up from the griddle, greeting me with warm smiles while their hands work on autopilot. The boss blooms into a wide smile the moment I speak, showering me with honeyed, saccharine attention as he walks me through my order. Each question is punctuated by an eager glance as though every answer I give is the most delightful thing he's heard all day. On one occasion, the owner of a kebab shop showered me with fries refills, thrust a complimentary drink my way, and hovered nearby as I ate, ready to swoop in at a moment's notice. And since my name remains a mystery to them, I have once been summoned to the counter with nothing less than a simple, unabashed "Princess, your order is ready." There was also the time a cook, while settling the bill with me, became so visibly captivated with such undisguised admiration that he forgot entirely to hand over my meal.

These are my favorite songs of theirs:

Beautiful boys

Lackluster No