Uilleam Whitedale | Updates

Just Block It Out

Uilleam Whitedale — Tue, 8 Sep 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Just block it out! Block it all out!

It’s the self-absorbed cope everyone uses.

Just block it out! Block it all out!

Forget everything. Forget whatever hurts.

Forget the good, along with the bad.

Drown it in cultivated sociopathy.

Drown it in the superficial.

Replace it with convenient games, feigned relationships.

Fear not. The egotistical moron will protect you …

With lies to be discovered later.

That’s the sensible solution.

So say the mindless and dead.

See nothing. Hear nothing. Feel nothing.

Read nothing.

Bury it all in a mental construct called the past,

A forever excuse, an escape from accountability.

Surely that’s a healthy solution.

Surely it’s not all still there, lurking behind that artificial wall,

That frigid dam,

Waiting for a crack to flood consciousness.

Hide.

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ARCs - The Aberrant Erasure

Uilleam Whitedale — Thu, 3 Sep 2026 00:00:00 +0000

ARC sign-ups are now open for The Aberrant Erasure.

Donnie Darko/Repo Man/Jacob’s Ladder/SLC Punk

Cosmic Horror Punk

Fill out the form below for consideration. Estimated time frames are on it.

https://forms.gle/Jq6tYPmZ2yXE4gz9A

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God's Vampires

Uilleam Whitedale — Sun, 30 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Lo, I wear my faith upon my chest.

For it is a shield against the world,

Protecting me from being seen for what I am.

It serves to hide my true nature,

A blinding red herring, a steel man fallacy, unquestionable,

Covering the darkness of my psyche.

I do not commit to true service, give my life,

For it is my personal victim’s ploy.

I preach in public, casting myself as holy,

When those of true piety would call it hypocrisy.

I hide behind the cross, so I am not seen,

The ugliness I secrete in infantile sham,

For I am stunted, egotistical, slightly inbred,

A forever child with no identity away from mother.

And I use my faith to manipulate,

To get what I want, playing the sympathetic ear,

The all-weather friend, the anodyne lover.

But I could be all those things without the show.

It is the show that matters, the show that keeps my perversion safe,

For without it I would only be the lying brute I am.

It is my forever excuse,

And the more I cling to it, shove it in your face …

The more you can be assured that it is an act,

A guise, a ruse to hide the darkness within me.

Yet you fall for it, accept the obligation faith demands,

And you give me succor, as I begin to consume your soul.

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Degenerate Asshole

Uilleam Whitedale — Sat, 29 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Oh that degenerate, self-serving implication sent to numerous people without shame, indirectly accusing him of being a danger to the very children he would have died to protect. She’d known it wasn’t true, but she’d played every pity and smear card in the deck that had been given to her by the most atrocious of people. And who was it that she supported, suborned without reflection? Who were those surrounding her? One, a man who had followed accounts (since removed, but not by him) that showcased links to child sexual exploitation. Did she remove him? No. She never removed anyone she had once known, no matter how disgusting. And what of the man who made it his career to ensure that firearms would be easily attainable to any school shooter? She kept that peach of a human being too. How about the die-hard supporters of an administration packed to the brim with rapists, child rapists, protectors of child rapists, and wife beaters? No, she could not remove them. They were sacrosanct, and she’d known them for years … She’d known what pieces of fucking trash they were for years. The ones who idolized grifting, fake religious con men? They were fine. Or how about the ones, the majority of them, who passively voted for the very people who now starved kids, defunded education, were openly hostile to special ed, and were now providing bogus, blanket legal arguments to sexual predators … like she did. Who was the threat to children? She was, through her own passive adherence to a moronic political label and through enabling the very people who were putting children in danger. And she had called him a threat because he’d been pissed at her for her lies, the degenerate asshole.

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A Useful Damnation

Uilleam Whitedale — Sat, 29 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

It was, likely, an unhealthy obsession, but it had its bases in something totally justifiable. The utter lack of any remorse on the part of the subject, and that was all she was then, and the perpetual wound inflicted commanded his attention, even if it were only a form of perverse desire to see fate finally deal a deserved karmic blow. For him the equally shared blame was as fresh as yesterday, though only he had paid and she had forgotten everything he was before he’d ever known she had, though she feigned otherwise, part of what made her guilty as sin. He was not now a passing thought in her selfish little head, if he had ever been as any sort of real person. So, when the tables turned, and they surely would, though he might win a silent Pyrrhic victory, she would likely never even notice, or allow herself to notice, her own predicament, burying it in excuses and delusion, as always, thereby robbing him of some of his long-awaited schadenfreude. But it had to come, either way, and he did not want to miss it, knowing exactly how it would come, as that is how it always came for her.

What was she to do now? The world was eroding around her feet, everyone’s feet, with most people, including her, ignoring it as hard as they could. Life was about to get very hard for any without a Jurassic-sized nest egg, brought on indirectly, ironically, by many of her own acquaintances, and all she had ever done to cope with insecurity when necessary was to attach herself to some degenerate male. That would assuredly be her plan now. Had it ever not been? But she had a problem—being that she had abused herself into a premature state of decay. He had never cared about that and had loved her anyway, earning his own reward of total disillusionment and stained reputation for following his heart. She likely thought that if he, younger, had fallen for her, that someone else would just the same. But she had horribly miscalculated, because he was not the shallow man of ulterior motives that she had encountered, been taken by before, and was surrounded by now. No, those around her own age, those who knew her, would never want her now, unless they had become some sort of social rejects themselves, control freaks and heretical religious lunatics who were too fraudulent, cruel, or insane for anyone else. There was no trophy in it any longer. Her only other hope of luring a fat, cushy retirement was to find a man who thought her younger than himself, in short, to find a geezer on death’s door.

Given the sort of degenerate she had made herself subservient to in the past, that path was not out of the question, but it would require she accept the fact that she was no longer a 20-something debutant nor “catch,” and that may have been far beyond her ego. If she had enough of her own money, she might be able to temporarily snag a young gold digger to appease her narcissism, but it would never last. So, in idiosyncratic fashion, she would most assuredly take a freak, one of those she’d known marginally for decades who’d suddenly decided she was all they wanted … because she was all they could get, degrading herself, yet again, in a pattern of self-degradation. According to her world, useful was better than real, and it would never occur to her to reach for something she’d wasted that had been exactly that. She damned herself, and that was, likely, the only solace he would ever get, even if and when she began parading herself around with whatever total creep she’d settled for.

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Taking a Bullet

Uilleam Whitedale — Tue, 25 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

He’d said he’d take a bullet for her. Yes, it was trite and uninventive, but it had hit the feeling of sincerity in the moment. For it he was mocked, as she’d hated him that much, so much so that his life wasn’t worth anything to her, just a joke to be toyed with, betrayed, and shot. But she’d missed the real point, as she usually did, allowing her jaded conceptions, given by her crowd, to blind her to deeper meaning. For the bullets he’d meant were those who sought to mislead her, manipulate her, use her, betray her, hurt her, and to stop her from walking into another dungeon, with the truth no others would say for fear of her taking offense. However, he had not foreseen that those bullets were exactly what she sought, bearing her chest for any sniper with the right pedigree. And, instead of seeing his words as something she would never have from those hitmen, never spoken in earnest, she fired her own bullet into him, leaving a gaping wound she thought he should just get over, because she was used to sociopathy and narcissism and had adopted those same tactics, a willing target

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You Big Mad?

Uilleam Whitedale — Mon, 24 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Don’t be mad at me for describing you as what you chose to be.

You’ve had your chance to be beautiful and squandered it for petty,

Spending your heart on those below you, and disregarding sincerity,

Imagining I would forgive without apology.

Or do you think I hurt you in a way that can’t be redeemed?

You were never hurt, and it was your lies that you screamed.

And what of the harm you did to me, with your dishonesty?

Does that not count for anything, with its weight so hefty?

No, do not be mad at me for the mountain you made of a hill,

For you could have healed it anytime, but bent only to their will.

Fake it until you fake it some more, right babe?

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Proof of Deceit

Uilleam Whitedale — Mon, 24 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

There was more than enough proof of the lies, all in black and white, easily disproved, but no on ever listened. And there was proof that you knew you were lying consciously, though harder to discern. And it was this—you only told your whole story, identified your victim, to the ones who were closest to you, those who could not be swayed from other sources. He knew it was true, as so many you kept around you had no idea but your superficial account. You only told those instrumental in your game, fearing you’d be outed if it got beyond your rein.

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Sickness in the Eyes

Uilleam Whitedale — Mon, 24 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

That one’s batshit crazy,

Sometimes you can just see it in the face, the eyes,

But look at what he does, and it comes as no surprise.

He styles himself after a savior, sees Jesus in toast,

He preaches the gospel of a victim and surely is not wise.

And that is what you think is normal, think that’s how it should be,

When it’s a psychological disease of ego that anyone sane can see.

Should have seen it in your penchant for speaking private thoughts aloud,

Your attraction to the worst of men, your bigotry parroted proud.

Should have seen it in your inability to focus, except to conjure lies,

That narcissistic disregard for those you wanted to control,

Should have seen the sickness in it all, should have seen it in your eyes.

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The Super Pig

Uilleam Whitedale — Sun, 23 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

There was one who was just ghastly,

The bottom of the barrel in ugliness and ego,

A greedy pig beyond measure, just no,

And, yet, she still let him in farther than she had one better,

One who’d loved her so.

And the only asset that specimen of disgust had was money.

So she could not say it was not that,

That there was some other consideration, just no.

There was nothing else there.

That’s what she would take over him for greed and status,

To reap applause from others for landing a wad.

But he was there than gone, the grotesque fraud,

And while it might have been pleasant to think she’d would not allow herself to sink that low,

She never got rid of anyone, no matter what level of slime, oh no.

And so, even that shame to humanity, had felt superior enough to toss her aside,

Because she’d made herself so low by pining for things that were not men,

And having lied.

And even if she’d told him no, prompting him to depart,

She’d still let him farther in her world than a sincere heart.

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Rotten Rotting

Uilleam Whitedale — Wed, 19 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Sarcopenia makes its presence known,

An unhealthy obsession with zero body fat, unnatural,

Now nothing but veins and loose skin,

Years beyond your time,

Deteriorating into a stick to blow away in the wind,

Age beyond age, bad choices, internalized hurt and anger,

Compounded by delusion and paranoia.

It is not a noticing of hate nor revenge,

Not to make you feel bad, just a statement of what is.

They see it and shy away, eyes you wish would want.

And your worst choice of all, a lie to chase away caring,

The biggest tragedy that I would have loved you even now,

Would have still wanted you, still see outer beauty, thought the heart is rotten.

But you thought yourself too important,

Saw in me only what those lies wanted to see,

Which wasn’t even there.

Yet you’d rather rot than ever admit it.

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Values Zero

Uilleam Whitedale — Sun, 16 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

There were no real values there,

The reality was she did not care,

About herself, only the judgment of her peers,

And she’d date the ugliest, the slimiest, to win their placation cheers.

She didn’t care that the post that made her upset so long ago,

Was undertaken for her benefit, by a heart that loved her so.

Someone who cared enough to tell what was true,

Which was something her coddling peers simply would never do.

But she lived her life for them all the same, according to their rules,

And made herself available for rich creeps, perverts, and lying fools,

Those who loved only possession and cheered for the worst of men,

And she never saw them for what they were, never thought of him again,

Never regretting the loss of one who really cared, as she hid in the pews,

Because she didn’t own anything resembling real values.

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The Wretched

Uilleam Whitedale — Sat, 15 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

It didn’t matter how wretched a person was, how false, how unctuously ugly or how ugly underneath a pretty wrapper, how dishonest, or how greedy. It didn’t matter how low they’d sunk or what harm they’d done to others. There was always someone who would take them, some stained-soul bum, who’d stumbled off the highway of morality into the shit-washed drainage ditches, but who would want to call them theirs, if only to be able to say it, to pretend it were true, really wanted. It was why no one ever had to face their iniquities, their bad faith reflections, because they could always hide behind someone just as horrible as themselves and bury their transgression as bad dreams, someone who would always want someone else, someone better but couldn’t earn their love, for they had nothing real to give in exchange. It was why solipsism prevailed and narcissism was deemed normal, expected, and why every succeeding generation was more tainted than the last, as the vulgar reproduced and sullied the core fiber of humanity.

Do not mistake them for the downtrodden, the poor, the unwanted, not for the kind souls with nothing who never received a fair shake. They are those seen every day, those called upstanding and caring, those with the “dream” the television sells, those with privilege and expensive toys. Those who deem themselves “good people” and people of faith, for truly good people, truly faithful, have no need to convince anyone of it and do not believe that their god loves only them, as they wallow in their continued sins, abetted by sleaze so filthy that could not find anyone else and merely took what was available. That is their definition of love.

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Your Evil Skin

Uilleam Whitedale — Sun, 9 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

You affiliate with, enable, justify, and love the grotesque,

Yet you believe you are pious.

You ignore their vile cancer of beliefs,

And you revel in learned bias.

You are not holy, do not admit your own sin,

You cling to monsters and allow them your skin.

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Acts That Betray Secrets--A One Act Play

Uilleam Whitedale — Thu, 6 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

“Oh, but I cannot continue to go there. I cannot. It makes me sad, but I must let it go.”

“Why? What stops you from following what you claim you care for? You wish to help the pups and whelps. What possible obstruction is there from so convenient a place? That is what you care about, is it not? Or was your only interest in the ability to appeal to another, who, himself was only interested in it for the sake of the companion he cost himself? It was her interest, not his, and why do you mold yourself for others instead of being who you are? Were you only feigning for applause?”

“ … No? … No! I cannot see him, let him know where I am, see his devious face, his sickness, and remember the harm he caused. I am afraid.”

“Did you not cause harm yourself and much greater? Did you not light the fire that burned you both with your attention and touching, your incurable flirtation and spoken entendres? Do you still deny it? Have you not deigned to see strangers of a caliber so low he could never see it, reach it? Men vile and dangerous to emotional health? And we have all been around, and we know you do not fear him. We know you reached out. We know you did not run from him on sight. Why do you persist in this ruse? Why is it now you hide?”

“I fear him, damn it!, and you must soothe my apprehension since you call yourself a friend.”

“He always knew where you were before, and, yet, you did not quit that, not for years. And he never did a thing. So what is it you fear?”

“That he may come for me, when I least expect it.”

“And do what?”

“ … “

“Why would he risk his hard-fought freedom just to rile you, when he never has? He knows you spit venom, knows how cold your heart is and how you twist the story to suit your whims. Why would he risk that? How long has it been, and you persist with this nonsensical nightmare you inflict upon yourself? Why?”

“I cannot see him. That is all that anyone needs to know. I would rather subject myself to the fraudulent of faith, those with smiles hiding gnashing fangs and boiling hatred or the using, groping hands of scum than see his face.”

“The truth begins to shine.”

“What truth?”

“You do not fear him, love. You do not turn away and run. No, you hide your head in shame. You fear a constant reminder, not of the bad but of the good. You fear feeling regret for what transpired and, since you cannot, will not, admit to any of it, you give up what you say you desire to do for self-fulfillment. You fear the truth. You fear being exposed for what we all know or should know that you did, and so you hide. You are a coward, sad to say, though I say it in your interest as the truth, and it is your own sickness that is your true obstacle. Instead of walking in the light, you run to those who have none and blame him. You betray the strays you sought to aid for fear of betraying your secrets, for fear of admitting things to yourself that you have tried to bury. You seek shelter from your own heart.”

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NGL for Shits and Giggles

Uilleam Whitedale — Mon, 3 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Follow my NGL linl to ask anonymous questions about writing or whatever floats your boat.

https://ngl.link/whitedale

No promise I'll answer, and the app is shite on Chromebook, so .... fire away if you've got something.

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The Ruse's Thorn

Uilleam Whitedale — Mon, 3 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

It took years of every day to see what seemed like magic inside of you,

And though it wasn’t real the love it sparked was sincere and true.

But you still believe you’ll find the same on a date with one who’s shallow,

Or in passing, spontaneous attraction, some childish fantasy in tow.

But those you chose only see the outside, what’s only good for show,

And what is left of that now, my dear?—The meaning you should know.

So you’ve stuck yourself with either those who fantasized about you in the past,

But that’s not who you are, nor they, and has no foundation that can last.

Or with a stranger who has dug his reputation into dirt,

That’s what you choose to flirt with, ugliness with whom you flirt.

Or with an immature whelp looking for money and a mommy to abuse,

You left yourself with those three option, so it’s assured that you will lose.

And it was always your choice.

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Permanent Red Ruts

Uilleam Whitedale — Thu, 30 Jul 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Years in which fresh torn earth never healed, only turned to permanent ruts, caked with blood, and yet you still use him, tell your deceptive admirers, so sacrosanct in their own hypocrisies, tell them of him and the insanity you invented to score pity points. He sees them, when they come to spy for you, when they seek to play your protectors, soon to turn abusers, telling you what you want to hear to con you. You tell them he is obsessed. But it is you who use your cruelty and lack of honesty to keep it alive, though you pretend you don’t, pretend that you’ve moved on. Yet he lives in your head, but really in your dysfunctional heart, from which you tried to exorcise him when he was never a devil like those in whom you confide. You pretend his presence there is fear, but you fear nothing. No, he is not obsessed with you. You are obsessed with your own lies, lies you never plan to admit. To think, once you were everything in his eyes, but, now, you are nothing but an archetype for selfishness, as insignificant a soul as the diapered nepo-babies and sick assholes you call your own, useful only as inspiration for horrific tales, and, with that, he’s turned your own game on you. And you created all that yourself, for no earthly reason. No, if it were not for those cemented ruts, you would never be a passing memory to him, having never actually existed as a real person. And you created that as well. You could have healed it all long ago, made some concession, let mutual apology take it away, but you regret nothing and could not use it then and he would not talk to you anyway, coward who only speaks when there will be no record, no chance of a trace to expose you, even when there is nothing left for you to worry about … because he was kind when you were not. They told you no, and you always obey.

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Too Good to Be True (Redux)

Uilleam Whitedale — Tue, 28 Jul 2026 00:00:00 +0000

It was too good to be true. Out of the gaggle of self-absorbed nincompoops she had held on to, out of the massive narcissistic ego trust she’d chosen, the one she let push himself into her life was lowest, the very one he would have chosen for her to make her life miserable. No doubt her dipshit friends were pushing it as well, only concerned with his being marginally affiliated with their clique, not his obvious cringiosity. They’d done that before, and she’d never learned.

A sad sack of a man who thought because he’d decided to hit the gym after middle age and get his hair did that he was suddenly some kind of catch. The smallest dick in her line up, who believed a gun fetish made him appear manly, a child who stopped to gawk at overpriced cars and made sure everyone knew he did. One of the confirmed infants, who thought that portraying himself as pious made him so. That was the one she let force her attention, and, as was her neurosis, she made herself believe it was wanted. None of it made him anything but another jackass like her ex. It didn’t make him look any less like an 80-year old Italian woman, with smug dictator and sociopathy written all over his face. It didn’t lessen the palpable feeling his entire presence cast that he was an incel loser who couldn’t find any other woman to cling to as his mommy/maid and, therefore, had to set his sights all the way across the country and into the past. The fact hat the guy never had a woman didn’t even make a dent in her tick head, and, of course, there was a reason for that. The guy radiated real Anton Chigurh vibes. But she was a fool, always had been, and nothing spoke to her other than the fact that he was someone she knew.

She didn’t really know him, however. She’d been marginally affiliated with him back in the day, memories she let twist her current perception, but, she had, assuredly, never really knew him well and he had never shown any interest until recently. And, after decades, when he did not even live in her area of the country, she didn’t know him at all. He’d no reason whatsoever to start contacting her, other than the fact that he’d realized he was a creep and was scared of having no one to control. He didn’t know her either, but her idiotic desire for attention from any man had led her to tell him things she shouldn’t have, just for pity, things he could use … and he did so now. He saw her as a loser, easy to take advantage of, nothing more, and, even if she sensed that, she leaned into it. She’d never have the self-respect to toss the used-car-salesman-looking narc, who’d probably owned more than one pair of white loafers. And she was, likely, willing to throw away all she knew and relocate to a real shithole of a state where men from her area who had failed at being people went to play big shot. She’d done it before.

It was beautiful. The one she had stabbed, misdirected, lied about, and lied to, the one whose life she’d tried to ruin to reap herself the greatest amount of pity, saw no one better for her, the pick of the lot in the worst ways, the biggest fucking embarrassment and, ultimate, the greatest disaster she could have chosen. He was euphoric about it, as if he’d handpicked the mismatch. He’d never wanted to take revenge upon her, because that wasn’t who he was. But he’d known she would punish herself, one way or another, and that troglodyte was the cherry on the shit sundae. When she became Mrs. Ugly-Ass-Incel-Dweeb, he would have his revenge, because there was literally nothing that caustic clown could offer her but a name and a leash cast in jealousy, life under his thumb, since he would always fear she would find someone better. She was going to blow her last token on Ed Gein, and it was perfect. A better ending to a script could not be written.

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Man Aflame

Uilleam Whitedale — Mon, 27 Jul 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Passion inexhaustible and a worship of the face she cursed,

Love that blinded him to superficial flaws and neuroses.

A will to fill her all day, all night—one that would never die,

To sate her appetite however she craved. She was his energy.

Deep interest in her interest, a loyalty unquestionable,

And an oath to always be straight with her, if she granted him her love.

With a ferocious urge to protect her, which barely knew bounds,

But an understanding of needed space, if that need arose.

To love her in any way available to him, was all he ever wanted.

And every day, the sight of her made everything alright.

And none of it worth anything, without an offer of gold.

Now, in lieu of a man set aflame in union, he only wore perpetual wounds.

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