Doxxing Myself

Jeremy spoke in class today

At home drawing pictures
Of mountain tops
With him on top
Lemon-yellow sun
Arms raised in a V
And the dead lay in pools of maroon below...
King Jeremy the Wicked
Ruled his world

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Identity is a strange thing.

When I first created this Substack I encountered a certain degree of pushback from people who thought me a coward for publishing my ideas pseudonymously. It wasn’t uncommon for my critics to allege I “didn’t have the balls to speak my ideas publicly,” or something retarded like that.

This was always quite bizarre to me, because anyone who knows me IRL will confirm I’m significantly edgier in real life than I’ve ever been on the internet. For nearly a decade now I’ve been casually dropping racial slurs on dates with libtard girls and discussing race and IQ with my bosses at various bugman jobs.

Walt Bismarck is frankly kind of a milquetoast cuck compared to Jeremy Ryan.

The thing is Walt is also a lot more serious and deliberate (some might say agentic) in his behavior, and in most respects is just a far higher quality person.

Walt rose to prominence as an eceleb on two entirely separate occasions, leveraging his unique talents to forge an influential brand and grow a business that now comfortably pays his bills. Jeremy spent a decade bouncing between actuary roles in a miserable disassociated malaise without ever learning anything that stuck.

Walt is a social butterfly whose work is respected by dozens of interesting and obviously meritorious people, including Boomers with lengthy Wikipedia pages. Jeremy’s friendships have mostly been superficial and performative, with most of the exceptions being folks who eventually became his mortal enemy or killed themselves.

Walt has meaningful and layered connections with sophisticated women of his own age and social class. Jeremy’s relationships have typically involved leveraging money and hyperverbal swagger to procure asymmetric dynamics with emotionally vulnerable working class Zoomer girls who wouldn’t object to being instrumentalized as a cat-fleshlight hybrid, because he never really stopped being a resentful incel even when his body count entered the triple digits.

Walt Bismarck is a name chosen with ferocious care and deliberation; it reflects the choices of a man demonstrably capable of imposing his Will to Power on the universe. Jeremy Ryan was the moniker assigned to my larval incarnation by a woman whose odious Gen X individualism could never permit me to be John Ryan III.

By her pantsuit sensibilities I simply had to “have my own name.”

And so I shall, but it certainly won’t be Jeremy Ryan—it’s time to put that old boy out to pasture. My real name is and has always been Walt Bismarck. That’s why I’m elated to announce I’ve officially begun the process to legally change my name.

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Clearly I remember
Pickin' on the boy
Seemed a harmless little fuck
But we unleashed the lion...

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I’m done hiding my face and identity—it hasn’t been necessary for years and maintaining this double life feels insanely silly when I’ve literally never identified with the name on my birth certificate. 99% of the people who know me best think of me as Walt, and other than my parents (who understand my decision) I don’t even talk to my family. I certainly don’t feel rooted in any particular “traditions” or “lineage.”

It’s time to strike out and establish my own dynasty. Perhaps the Bismarck line will expire in the loins of this neurotic spergy theater kid, and perhaps it will persist through many future generations, but either way it’s going to exist on my terms and my terms alone. At this point anything else means ruinous dissociation.

Jeremy had a good run, and I’ll always look back on him with fondness for holding on long enough to create Walt. But it’s time to let the kid fade away in peace.

Because Walt Bismarck is here to stay.

And unlike poor Jeremy, the world will never erase him from the blackboard.