I hate writing.

I used to believe I loved writing, and so I applied the scientific method to such feelings.

The guiding question, of course, was does Ping Møøn love writing?

Preliminary research was likewise straightforward; I asked if I love writing and answered “Yes.”

To subvert and counter the invasion of Earth by superhuman beings, first we must learn to recognize, identify, and expose their existence.

Until then, the odds of homo sapiens surviving, as a free autonomous species, are approximately zero percent.

Zero.

Had I known that agreeing to write Among Perfection would destroy my non-writing life, thoroughly, I would have still agreed, for which I hate writing even more. Every wasted year I tell myself it’s only been ten, already too many to write one lonely book.

Consider reading no further -- however fucking tough you are -- because the robotization of humanity is devastating and will progress exponentially unless and until we craft and execute an effective response. The urgency is clear but common sensing is not.

As much as I hate writing, I love reading, and do so nearly all day, almost every day, until my eyes burn and my mind exhausts itself to sleep.

If reading were not part of writing, I would never write a single thing -- except for what you are now reading.

While not reading, or forcing myself to write, I think. Relentless, intense, compulsive thinking is my normal state of mental being.

For example, I think we do not yet know we are subjected to subtle meticulous robotization, nor do we know how or by whom.

Hypothesis: Ping Møøn loves writing
Experiment: Agree to write Among Perfection for Nia Synecta
Results: Ten years of writing, zero pages written, Ø!
Conclusion: Ping Møøn hates writing
Publication: Write a book about hating writing

This is not that book.

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END//FOREWORD/AMONGPERFECTION//PINGMØØN
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Nice. Keep writing.

P.M. "I hate writing..."

V.W. "Nice. Keep writing."

P.M. “Merciless.”

Merciless 😅