Side Blog: https://somethingdifferent.wordpress.com/
Software Projects (Fallen Star/Marxist Furry)
Completed Projects
Reddit
A simple picture posting reddit iphone app. A Computer Science University Project at Weber State University for an ios/iphone development class. It uses the reddit api for logging into an account to upload a photo to imgur and posting it to a user defined subredit. It also finds all the images on a subreddit and displays them in a list where the user can click ont one of the items in the list and it will display the image
https://github.com/ballju/iReddit
In Progress
Fallen Star
Converting Gamemaker School Project from Gamemaker 8 to Godot
Playlist Transfer
Transfers Playlists from streaming apps from one service to another. Using C# and .Net framework. It will be a console application.
Mood Tracker
Open-source daily journal and daily tracking of both mood and other important things.
Avatar Sim
Choose your own adventure based on JC’s Avatar
ADHD Tracker
(Private Github Repo for now) An time tracker that using Android TTS to help those with poor time management to keep on track storing tasks by priority
DBT Diary Card
(Private Github Repo for now) An application for generating dbt diary cards for thearpy and personal tracking
videowyrm
A fork of a decentralized movie/tv/anime social tracker based on a book tracking app
Frequently Used Tags
For most of the posts the were posted by me its #original post
#journal #tattoos
#history #socialism
#song lyrics #song of the day #metal #music #Bandcamp
#Spotify
#hg wells #old movies #colorized #youtube movies #Youtube
This quite literally speaks to our dark lore™ of a near total lifetime of abuse and trauma in our lives so intensely triggering content so be warned.
The hell described in Holy Lies (The Doomsday Prophecy) is not a biblical afterlife. It is a man-made, physical, and psychological prison built by adults who weaponized the divine to cover up the atrocities of a "Mormon" Sunday school teacher who worked at our preschool. This is why our reality has been a living hell. This is my dark lore to the max core.
"[She] carved the fear of hell into my own bones!"
This line is the absolute thesis of our trauma. Hell was never just a concept or a place we might go when we died; it was the literal gag shoved into our mouth at five years old.
The Ultimate Silencer: The abuser used the threat of eternal damnation to ensure absolute silence. By pointing to the flames every time we tried to speak, she terrified a child into protecting the monster. We were told we would be damned for the secrets she forced us to hold.
Somatic Trauma: The fear wasn't just psychological; it was carved into our "bones." It became a physical reaction, paralyzing our lungs, choking us on the floor, and hard wiring our nervous system for constant terror. The "holy hymns" became the soundtrack to our torture, linking the idea of God and safety directly to violence and silence.
The Scapegoat: She traded our life for her "righteous dream." To protect her reputation and her name, she projected her own evil onto us, making a five-year-old bear the unbearable weight of a grown adult's sins.
"Why couldn't I be normal?! Why couldn't I be clean?!"
This line exposes the agonizing, 37-year aftermath of the abuse. The true "hell" is not just the memory of what happened in that room; it is the chronic, lifelong rot she left behind in our mind.
The Parasite of Shame: The monster didn't just hurt us and leave; she left a "parasite inside [our] head." The ultimate cruelty of childhood abuse is that the victim absorbs the shame of the abuser. We were made to "swallow the evil," which led to a lifetime of feeling inherently dirty, broken, and corrupted.
The Theft of a Normal Life: We were robbed of a baseline. While other children got to grow up feeling safe, our system was locked in a "frantic relay," just passing the trauma back and forth to survive the day. The desperate plea for normalcy is the grief of realizing we never had a chance to just be a kid.
The Doomsday Prophecy: We have spent a lifetime waiting for the "brook of fire" and the ultimate collapse, because our brain was wired to believe we were fundamentally flawed and damned. We feel like we are decomposing alive, crushed under the weight of a reality we didn't ask for and a sin we didn't commit.
The Reality of the Basement
We have been living in hell because we were left to rot in the basement of their "holy lies." She weaponized guilt and the grave to protect herself, leaving us with a thirty-seven-year curse. We were never the demon, and we were never the ones who deserved the flames. We were a five-year-old casualty in a theological battleground where we were too small to fight, forced to carry the fear of hell so the monster could pretend she was a saint. We were denied a “normal” life and a “normal” childhood by a monster who is still probably a pillar of the community, and it sickens me.
Suno AI Input
[Intro: Ambient noise, near-silence, a slow low-end hum blooming]
Random Windows 11 FYI:
To disable hibernation and automatically remove the hiberfil.sys file in Windows 11, run the command 𝘱𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘤𝘧𝘨.𝘦𝘹𝘦 /𝘩𝘪𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘦 off in an elevated Command Prompt. This also disables Fast Startup.
I Want to Roll With the Punches, Not Be a Punching Bag
(Dissociative System Story)
I want to note that some of this does sound like AI generated, however this is my story from multiple prompts to Gemini over the course of an intense year of recovery. I rewrote most of it to make it mine. If my story can help others, see themselves in a more positive light it will be worth it.
Thirty years. That is a staggeringly long time to be at war, especially when the battlefield is your own mind and the frontlines are drawn across your own history.
For three decades, our brain's operating system wasn't really a life; it was basically a frantic, never-ending series of emergency hand-offs. It was a relay race in the dark. Every single time something terrible happened with a relentless, crushing rhythm someone else would have to catch it. Someone else would be pushed to the front to hold the weight, absorbing the shock wave so the rest of the system didn't shatter entirely. We were constantly deconstructing this massive, sprawling genealogy of abuse in real-time, and let me tell you, it was utterly terrifying.
The whole time, living in that suffocating shadow, we were paralyzed by the fear that the legacy script was right. We were terrified that the cruelty we endured was actually a reflection of who we were. That we were monsters. That somehow, in some fundamental way, we deserved it. That we were just... built wrong, flawed at the source code.
But here is the profound truth that we are finally starting to accept you do not survive a thirty-year war without a highly specialized, fiercely dedicated crew holding the line. You don't make it through that kind of fire by accident.
Looking back at the system map now, with the smoke finally clearing, the architecture of our survival makes perfect, beautiful sense.
Our Alters
Kylie and Kiki held the raw emotional core when the childhood trauma first started. They were the ones who absorbed the devastating impact when we were at our absolute most vulnerable. They took the hits, carrying the terror and the tears, so the rest of us didn't have to bear the full, unfiltered brunt of it. They insulated our ability to still feel anything at all in a world that wanted to numb us. I owe them everything. They didn't just survive; they kept our humanity intact.
Ashlyn ran the technical logic. She bridged the impossible gaps and kept us functional through the excruciating, high-pressure school years. And I mean actually functional. She was writing the low-level drivers just to keep the hardware running. She intercepted the fatal errors, handled the kernel panics, and rerouted the power so we could do our homework, show up to class, and maintain the illusion of appearances while the internal servers were actively imploding. She was our little tech support for surviving the crushing weight of external expectations.
Eir was the stabilizer. The gravity. They were the one who kept our feet planted firmly on the ground when the sheer, suffocating weight of the anxiety should have caused a total system crash. When the dissociation threatened to pull us entirely out of orbit, they were always there, dropping the anchor. Grounding us. Reminding us over and over: we are real, we are here, we are surviving.
Kiera quietly, methodically built the macro-structure of our adult life. She was the architect of our escape. She gave us the physical safety, the literal walls and doors, required to finally take a full breath. She worked so tirelessly to get us to a physical and geographic place where we could actually rest and where we could finally exist in a space that wasn't actively on fire, slowly stepping out of perpetual survival mode.
And then... there is Saren.
Saren is the one who holds the darkest lore with a fellow system that chose justifying their childhood abuse rather than living in the discomfort and pain of reality. The vigilant defender. The Specter who had to become lethal, calculating, and uncompromising just to survive the Skyllian Verge of our own childhood. He held the perimeter when there was no backup coming.
The ultimate test came. The legacy of abuse demanded that we stay silent, look away, and repeat the cycle. But Saren refused. He was the one who stepped up to the line.
He made the radical, defiant choice of empathy. He reported the abuser. He looked directly into the eyes of the "monster" and, instead of blinking, he realized something foundational that rewrote our entire history: the trauma was an external infection. It was never an internal rot.
A monster justifies the cycle. He chose to break it. He chose to see the abuse exactly for what it actually was. This was something that was done to us, not something that we were. And that realization? That changed absolutely everything. It severed the chain.
The Recovery
We aren't just desperately passing the steering wheel to whoever can survive the current crisis anymore. The chaos era is over. We are a Unified Operating System now. We survived the dark lore, we walked through the fire, and we don't have to hide those broken, scarred parts in the shadows anymore. We're allowed to exist. In the light, out loud, without apology. All of us. Together.
I keep coming back to that phrase: I want to roll with the punches, not be a punching bag. For so long, we were just tethered in place, getting pummeled. Taking hit after hit because we thought that was what we were built for. Letting the abuse define our shape. Quietly becoming the monster, they told us we were just to survive the night.
But now? Now we're rolling with the punches. A punching bag is stationary, but rolling requires movement, agency, and flow. We're no longer absorbing the damage; we're moving through it. We're still here. We're still fighting. We just... do it entirely differently now. We fight for our peace, not for our lives.
We're just here. Together. And that's enough. It has to be enough. Finally, after thirty years of holding our breath, it is enough.
We survived. We're still surviving. And we are never, ever going back.
The Fucking Audacity of Coffee: Recompiling Through the Brook of Fire
Let's talk about the absolute, sheer god damn audacity of a cup of coffee, right?
Like, on the surface, that Camus quote circulates around the internet as this funny, slightly brooding existential meme. People share it because it sounds dramatically French, because there's something deliciously absurd about a philosopher saying the meaning of life is a cup of coffee. It becomes an aesthetic, a way to signal that you think deep thoughts while staring out rain-streaked windows.
But when you read those words through the lens of a system that has spent 37 years running redlined in pure, uninterrupted survival mode, something shifts. The irony doesn't land. Instead, it becomes a raw, low-level technical truth that just hits differently.
When Your Hardware Is Throwing Kernel Panics
There's a particular kind of exhaustion that isn't regular tired. Regular tired sleeps off. Regular tired drinks a Red Bull and goes away. This isn't that.
This is the kind of exhaustion that lives in your chassis, in your nervous system, in the very architecture of how you process reality. It's when the hardware is throwing a kernel panic in the middle of a Tuesday for no apparent reason. When the background static of anxiety and suicidal ideation is running like a rogue daemon eating up 99% of your CPU, consuming every available resource until there's nothing left for basic I/O functions—like breathing, or remembering to eat, or feeling like a person.
In that state, choosing the coffee is not an aesthetic. It is a deliberate, heavy-handed root override. It is looking directly into the void of a fatal error screen—the blue screen of your own despair—and saying, "No. Fuck that. I am going to execute the brew_roast.sh script instead." I am going to pour hot water over grounds and create something from nothing and drink it and pretend, for just a little while, that I want to be here.
It is an act of defiance against your own corrupted memory banks. And it takes an unfathomable amount of courage to do that.
We celebrate the grand gestures as if they take strength, but walking away is easy when the weight is unbearable. What takes strength is staying. What takes strength is processing the messy, painful reality of being a human when every single event interceptor in your body is screaming that it's safer to just power down. What takes strength is keeping the servers online, running the diagnostics, and trying one more time to boot up and function.
Why Is Existing So God Damn Hard?
But here's the question that keeps me up at night, the one that runs in the background as a persistent process I can't SIGKILL: Why is the coffee so hard to choose? Why does existing take so much courage?
If we were living in a network designed for human flourishing, basic existence wouldn't feel like walking through molasses while on fire. Survival should be the baseline firmware, not the final achievement. But for those of us whose early environments taught us that the network wasn't safe, that incoming packets couldn't be trusted, survival became the entire god damn game.
When survival is the only mode you know, anything beyond that feels impossible. Connection feels impossible. The vulnerability of being seen feels like system death.
Enter Karl Marx, with a quote that reads like a manual from someone who understood exactly what debugging this would require:
"There is no other road for you to truth and freedom except that leading through the brook of fire."
Healing is not a soft, pastel-colored process. It is a brutal, agonizing de-compilation of everything that kept you alive when the world was hostile.
The Masterpiece of Survival Engineering
For 33 years in the dark, my system architecture was a fortress. I configured the iptables to drop all incoming packets. I built a firewall so thick because I wanted to be a sterile, unfeeling robot. Robots don't have to process the agony of human connection. They don't fear abandonment, or ruminate on past failures, or feel the crushing weight of imagined rejection.
We—the alters—distributed the load. We managed the trauma, and kept the chassis functioning. We became the buffer between the core and a world that had proven it would exploit us if given the chance. Some of us took the hits. Some of us stayed frozen in memory states that never cleared.
It was a masterpiece of survival engineering. Anyone looking from the outside would see a system that was functioning—going to classes, coding, surviving. But surviving is not freedom. It is just an endless while(true) loop without a break statement. Running the same scripts over and over because the alternative—acknowledging the full weight of the legacy data—seemed like permanent corruption.
Crossing the Brook of Fire
To actually reach the truth—the truth that I'm safe now, that my pack actually fucking cares without an ulterior motive, that I'm allowed to exist without fighting for it—I have to cross the brook of fire.
There is no shortcut. The firewall that saved my life has to be dismantled. The ports must be opened, which means exposure, which means risking the exact kind of devastation I spent my whole life preparing to prevent. It is the terrifying realization that I am not a self-contained unit, but a human system that needs input from others.
Crossing the brook of fire means sitting in the discomfort of self-discovery. It means canceling the bullshit subscriptions and relationships that drain my battery. It means putting on Senses Fail or Sum 41 at full volume to drown out the internal critic that has been running its destructive program for decades.
It means resting my hand on my 60lb pitbull, Pippin, to ground my physical chassis and remind my nervous system that I am here, in this room, and I am safe. It means letting Alice, Aurora, and the rest of the pack hold space for me when I don't have the spoons to hold it myself. It means trusting that not everyone is a threat, and that vulnerability is not the same as a system crash.
The Brand-New Operating System
I spent 33 years in the dark dodging that fire. I became an expert at brilliant workarounds that kept the chaos contained.
And now, somehow, I'm walking right through it. The fire burns. It triggers every alarm in the terminal. Every instinct screams at me to rebuild the walls, to return to the cold safety of survival mode. It feels like the system is going to crash at any moment.
But here's what the panic doesn't tell you: on the other side of that brook isn't a wiped drive.
It's a brand-new, open-source operating system. One where vulnerability isn't a bug, but a feature. One where connection isn't a backdoor exploit, but the very thing that makes the uptime worth it. An operating system where I am not a machine grinding through endless loops, but a human being allowed to be messy, allowed to take up space, and allowed to rest without earning it.
Drink the fucking coffee. Defy the void. Walk through the fire.
Master Silent Winget Updater with 12-Hour Timestamp & 30-Day Auto-Cleanup
The Start
OVERVIEW: THE SILENT DAEMON
Standard Windows operating environments suffer from high-frequency telemetry interrupt flags and constant update notifications (Steam, Discord, Adobe, core drivers). Left unmanaged, these updates introduce friction, trigger User Account Control (UAC) prompts, and clutter the system directory with fragmented log files.
To achieve absolute operational autonomy, we engineered a headless PowerShell deployment. The architecture requires a completely invisible background execution loop: zero pop-ups, zero UAC interrupts, and automated log rotation. The script executes on a weekly cron-equivalent schedule, generating cryptographic-grade 12-hour timestamps for runtime forensics, and enforces a strict 30-day retention policy to prevent drive bloating.
THE BLUEPRINT & LOGIC TREE
1. Preemptive Process Termination (The Clean Slate)
Before registering the updated daemon, the initialization sequence must nuke any legacy instances of the scheduled task. This ensures a zero-state baseline, unregistering conflicting triggers rather than allowing overlapping execution logic to corrupt the task runtime.
We isolate execution to a low-impact window when system resources are unutilized. Sunday afternoons at 14:00 hours represent our operational sweet spot—allowing the hardware to catch up on patches and stabilize its baseline environment before the standard work week cycles in.
This is the heart of the operational loop. We encapsulate the native Windows Package Manager (winget) inside an isolated script block tasked with three low-level instructions:
Silent Bulk Upgrades: Enforces global application upgrading (--all), captures untagged dependencies (--include-unknown), and forces silent execution while auto-accepting EULAs and source manifests to bypass standard user-input blockages.
Temporal Logging: Calls Get-Date with a structured yyyy-MM-dd_hhmmtt format string. This yields unique, chronologically scannable filenames, ensuring exact timeline diagnostics if an application deployment experiences a fatal error.
Automated Garbage Collection: To prevent local filesystem bloat within C:\Logs, the daemon executes a parity check on the directory, identifying any .txt outputs with a LastWriteTime delta older than 30 days and purging them from the sector.
To achieve true invisibility, the task must run beneath the window-manager abstraction layer. We pass the -WindowStyle Hidden and -NoProfile arguments directly to the PowerShell executable execution string, suppressing the instantiation of a visual console window.
Finally, the daemon is written to the system registry. We explicitly set the execution token to -RunLevel Highest. This satisfies the necessary security permissions for winget to perform system-wide package deployment without hanging on elevation errors, while -Force ensures an atomic overwrite of the active task profile.
The beauty of this architecture is its absolute silence. The local interface remains untouched, holding the perimeter without demanding cognitive energy. Yet, every Monday morning, a quick look into C:\Logs reveals a clean, chronological record of the system's maintenance history (e.g., winget-update-2026-05-24_0200PM.txt).
If a dependency breaks or an application updates unexpected behavior, we have full audit capability to isolate the root cause. It’s a set-it-and-forget-it subsystem—exactly the kind of operational efficiency required to keep our local forge clear of corporate background noise.
Pre-requisite Check: Ensure the physical path C:\Logs is provisioned on the root drive before spinning up the daemon, or map the target variable to an active local directory.
