Can Trans People Become Enlightened?

Divisi sumus infirmiores

Apr 12, 2026

“And the humans gradually turned on each other, tearing each other apart like wild dogs, while those wishing to control them looked on, unable to believe their fortune.”

I know where you’re at.

You’ve evolved, right? For the first time in your life, you’re thinking clearly. All your problems, all your fucking dark green misery — it’s not your fault. It’s the fault of the immigrants and the trans people. And you realise that this whole time you’d been buying that tough, environmentally friendly clingfilm and smiling at strangers in the street and buying your wife flowers, you should have been upping your carbon footprint and your creatine intake. And you should have been deadlifting like a bear with high blood pressure doing a shit and practising Ju-Jitsu, aka erotic wrestling, to protect your wife so you can be an alpha male and slap her around for putting too much nutmeg in the mash.

Because it’s what women need.

And if they’d just stop letting men wear women’s trousers and letting in the people with funny-looking skin, if they’d just close those damn imaginary borders and close those damn imaginary gender borders, you could stop being fascinated with men wearing make-up and get back to being happy like you were back in — back in — well, I’m sure you were happy at some point, let’s just call it 1984 for legal reasons, okay?

And there’s this story that Rumi tells about a man eating Naga Jolokia on the side of the M6 just outside of Coventry. He’s crying and sweating like Sus scrofa domesticus steroidium, and some chav in a tracksuit says something like,

‘Oi, bruv. Why the fuck you eatin’ ’em like that, innit?’

And the man says,

‘Dear young chap, I’m waitin’ for the sweet one.’

And, you know, if you wanna go deep, you don’t have to go to Peru and drink ayahuasca with a shaman called Oprah or go on some orgasmic meditation retreat where you can pay to get legally raped in the name of spirituality.

You can start by looking back on your life, beginning with the first time you squeezed your minty self out of your mum’s toothpaste fanny** and started crying ’cause your skin was still raw, until the time when you let your uncle Terry touch your youthful perineum for a swig of his shandy, right up to the present day.

As Morgan Freedom said in that documentary, the life and times of Morgan Freedom,

Your entire life has gone from good to bad,

from good to bad, from good to bad.

Again and again, you take the ride

from black to white, from dark to light,

from fun to shite, from love to fight.

The beautiful dance, back and forth

like Arnold Schwarzenegger and Téa Carerra tango-ing in True Lies.

And still, you attempt, every day upon waking,

to permanently delete the bad

and to permanently extend the good.

move to trash—empty trash.

And you look like a damn fool.

And yeah, it might feel like the latest ten average white cock sixty-inch LG TV with blueball technology is gonna do it. Or getting that promotion at work so you get paid an extra $3 an hour to go towards your $3-an-hour coffee habit.

Or dipping your balls in warm Nutella and letting the dog lick it off.

But it ain’t. I mean, it might feel good for a minute, but you’re still gonna do the dance when the dog gets high on sugar and theobromine from the Nutella, starts doing psycho laps, and knocks your LG TV off into your antique coffee table.

Ask yourself a question:

Why do women fucking love murder shows so much?

In fact,

Why are we all capable of watching someone get sliced up in a movie? Why do we watch films where people die and people grieve and people suffer?

Don’t you think it’s odd that we desperately try to avoid these things in our life, and yet we fucking love experiencing them?

As Professor Xavier from Oxford put it,

“When there’s no central character in the story, or when there is a sense that it is not real, or that there is a sense of unreality to the situation, then there doesn’t seem to be any suffering, or, to take it further, there’s a general sense of enjoyment, regardless of the situation.”

And that brings it back to you, Jimmy.

You wanna kill someone? Kill yourself. And I don’t mean hang yourself from your TV antenna. That’s called killing the body. And when you have no idea if the mind continues after death, it’s a hell of a fucking gamble.

I mean kill your self. It’s that part of you that says,

These are my balls, that is my Nutella, that feels fucking good, that’s my dog. My wife’s gonna kill me when she gets home.

It’s the me, the mine, the I.

That’s the thing that turns a tremendous horror movie into the shitshow that is your life.

And don’t be afraid you’re gonna disappear. They’re just words. But as Adolf Hitler said, before he quit the weed,

“Words create our reality.”

How to begin?

Stop deadlifting like Winnie the Pooh. But more importantly, understand that you are not evolved. You have not found yourself. You have not become an evolved man by eating more meat.

“But Frank, humans have eaten meat since the start of time, it must be right.”

Yes, but humans have also raped children since the beginning of time. From where I am standing here on the edge of this cliff, human behaviour is not a justification for human behaviour.

And we don’t have to get spiritual about this. Let’s start with something solid.

You are a social media algorithm playing itself out.

Once you realise the grip social media has on you, you will be able to find a version of yourself you are happy with again.

Haven’t you noticed you’re becoming more extreme, angrier, more set in your ways? All hyped up and pissed off like a badger on steroids?

Didn’t you used to be old-school left? Didn’t I see you at that march against the Iraq War in 1984? Or was that your twin brother, Terry, and his buxom girlfriend Penny with the oversized nips? Surely it couldn’t be you, that steroid-bollocked fuck wearing the tight Ju-Jitsu gym T-shirt, ordering six egg whites with bacon for breakfast, forcing your wife to shave all her pubes and get medicine ball tits and lifeboat lips and suck your knob in restaurant bathrooms ’cause the algorithm told you that’s what successful couples do.

And look, I know it feels like you came to this new you all by yourself, but in truth, there was a gap, and social media filled it for you. And now you feel righter than you ever have because you have a solid identity, and it’s watered every day by the algorithm before you get a chance to realise that it’s just a featherlight rubber johnny. It might feel mildly like the real thing, but you won’t really know how fraudulent it is until you take it off and feel what it’s like to fuck in the warmth and moisture of perfect authenticity.

Let the men wear skirts, for fuck’s sake. Stop obsessing unless you’re genuinely curious. Learn to love the trannies and the immigrants and the police and the rest. Why? Because one day, you’re gonna wake up from this fucking creatine dream and realise that we’re all made of the same fucking sherbet, darling.

Relax.

Take your dog for a walk.

Delete fucking Facebook.

Stop watching those fucking short videos that feel like getting pumped by someone nice again and again right in the G.

Get off the juice.

There is a place called 1984. It’s not Orwell’s time.

It’s beyond conceptual prison.

It’s what the outside of the conceptual gaff looks like.

It’s what happens when you allow authenticity to fuck you inside and out.

And it’s terrifying.

’Cause when you’re a tiny orange fish who has spent their life in a glass box in a pervert’s bedroom, the freedom of the great ocean could break you.