I was only 18 years old. I loved Bordiga so much; I had all the critiques and ICP publications. I’d read Bordiga every night before I go to bed, thanking for the understanding of marxism I’ve been given. “Bordiga is love”, I would say, “Bordiga is life”. My dad hears me and calls me an armchairist. I knew he was just jealous for my theoretical prowess. I called him a stalinist. He expels me from the party and sends me to exile. I’m crying now and my face hurts. I lay in bed and it’s really cold. A warmth is moving towards me. I feel something touch me. It’s Bordiga. I’m so happy. He whispers in my ear, “Revolution is not a question of the form of organisation”. He grabs me with his powerful italian hands, strong from incessant writing and puts me on my hands and knees. I lay bare revisionist tendencies for Bordiga. He penetrates my frail intellect. It humiliates me, but I do it for Bordiga.

I can feel the absurdity of my statements become apparent as my eyes start to water. I accept the correct analysis of soviet economy. I want to please Bordiga. He grunts a boring grunt, as he doesn’t have time to deal with ignorants. My dad walks in. Bordiga looks him straight in the eye, and says, “Gravedigger of the Revolution!”. Bordiga leaves through my window on an armchair.

Added to ask about spelled trophy belt

blud has been trying to add me for like 3 years now :skull:

please for love of god, tell fritzkrieg to stop adding me

-rep cheated on me with another man(yuck!)