Breathe

The Declaration

New Art!

There’s a new piece to add to the Netropolitan Collection! Also, we’re celebrating our nullcentennial since we haven’t existed prior to now. The nullcentennial will start now and go through 2025!

Btw—

I’m happy.

I’m so so happy I was able to finally make the distinction that my story and how I tell it is an “instance narrative”. Now I can breathe, have fun, and be creative with less scrutiny. Setting the context matters, cause now I can have fun with my posts on The NET!

There’s a moment where after I’d lose my job unfairly and I’m going broke while trying to stand up to the bad people, I’ll realize that other survivors couldn’t get as far as I did because they didn’t have the privilege I have or the unique set of talents and abilities which I have that has allowed me to speak out in novel ways and stay alive.

I’d say to myself… “I have to keep going because they weren’t able to and I have the ability to…I must…"

I would then go— “Wait…oh no…FUCK!!!”

Cause I’d realize in that moment that I am Peter Parker— the comically broke NYC hero tied to an ethos that won’t allow him to give up. After that realization I’d only stumble over MORE and MORE Peter Parker parallels through my journey and life.

(this actually tracks cause I’m the nerdy engineer dude who always gets his shit blowed up while doing my best to stick to his ethics and then I’ll suddenly fall ass backwards into dating some really beautiful women…BOOM Parker)

One day I would be writing something about my abuse ordeal and I’d refer to my “Peter-ness”, and then I’d gasp and immediately get to work on a piece.

And with that introduction I’d like to introduce to the world the first piece in our soon to be illustrious Netropolitan Collection!—

There’s something I do instinctively at the outset of my journey and I welcome anyone who is victimized or a survivor to do the same as well. I’ll shout to the universe—

“This is my story!”

This singular declaration is important. An abuse situation encompasses many wrongs, and one particular wrong is something I have coined and called—

“The Crime of Stolen Narrative”

In any abusive situation the abuser will steal and co-opt the targets narrative. After I first witness Nicole Block creating a narrative where she tries to make me seem disordered and possibly dangerous, I knew exactly what the end goal was for my narrative.

I was abused and neglected most of my life. I worked hard to be who I was. I was proud of myself. And subconsciously I knew that this filthy Staten Island rat was going to try and take that away from me, turning me into a caricature of my identity.

I think that is why those words burst from me that day. I would later add to those original words—

“This is my story! The pen is in my hand! And this story ends when I end it!”

Honestly, I didn’t feel that way through the first many months of investigating my case and this journey I was put on. I was scared and unsure of everything, with only a faint trace of the wrong that occurred to me. I had to fake it till I’d make it, so the first many months were more like—

“I…I can do this. I think. Everyone is turning their back on me but I c-can do this. I think…I can do this. I can do this. I have to do this…this is my story…because it has to be. I’ve worked my whole life just to have this story…so what else will I have once that’s gone? If that is gone, I am gone.”

It’s weird. After what occurs to me the world will look at me like “get up”, and they won’t realize that all I’ve had is a lifetime of “getting up” and this time they crippled me because it all went too far.

And frankly, it should not have went ar all.

And also, they ripped my story from me which I had been writing my whole life. Some of us have stories written for us, in fact, all of us likely do through our identities. I did not like the story they had scripted for me, so I wrote my own. They tell you that you can do that in America. It took hard work and labor to write that story.

Imagine a small girl or boy at the beach, working all day on a beautiful sand castle. The day begins to end. They look at their work and they are proud.

And then a group of older kids come by. They sneer and kick down the younger child’s sand castle. They stomp at it incessantly, laughing and mocking as they spit on the younger child.

“Just build a new one!”

“If you’re so good it should be easy right??”

My story was my sand castle. I remember doing my best to hold onto everything while being spit on and kicked. Eventually I’d watch all that I ever worked for and all which I loved fall through my grasp.

I don’t think they’d expect what I did next. I sat there. And just sorta…stared into the distance. I think they expected me to try to “get up” like they commanded so they could watch me move through life crippled. This would make them feel more powerful in a twisted coward’s way.

But something in me chose not to do that. I just stared. And contemplated. I’d look at the world. And the stars that surround us.

In March I’d have my trauma event that would change my life. I’d investigate relentlessly, and in

There are moments in this journey where I must remind myself…”breathe, the pen is in your hand.”