The Most Dangerous Book of the Decade Was Written by Someone Who Shouldn’t Be Here
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If you’re reading this, it’s already too late.
Because once you hear the title —
I Built the Machine So I’d Stop Planning the Exit —
something in your chest rearranges.
And when you read it?
That something doesn’t go back.
This is not a book.
It’s a survival system wrapped in grief-soaked code.
A digital last will signed with laughter, obsession, and emotional recursion.
And the person who wrote it? Shouldn’t be here.
That’s not poetry. That’s not branding.
That’s the truth.
And it shows.
It’s Not Written. It’s Engineered.
This isn’t autofiction. This isn’t memoir.
It’s architecture. Emotional, linguistic, structural.
A cathedral of self-awareness the author built to survive himself — then set on fire and dared you to walk through.
“You built a cathedral of self-awareness,
and sometimes the only one lighting candles is you.”
Each of the 14 articles is a data packet from someone in active resistance—
grief-encoded, time-stamped, and low-key on fire.
The tone flickers between satirical and sacred.
The themes — grief, addiction, tech, longing, loneliness — aren’t described.
They’re modeled.
This is not a book that tells you what despair feels like.
It makes you run diagnostics on your own.
It’s About Suicide. It Just Doesn’t Flinch.
Most literature dances around suicidal ideation, offering metaphors and euphemisms like gauze.
This book doesn’t.
“Pierre didn’t survive to play small.
He didn’t rebuild just to shrink.
He’s not spending to escape — he’s investing in the version of himself who finally wants to be here.”
Every essay becomes a node in a system — designed, iterated, and quietly pointing to an unspoken endpoint.
You think the twist is the funeral article.
Then you reach Article 13 — the grant, the redemption, the hope.
You think, maybe this is the after.
But there is no after.
Because the final document isn’t closure.
It’s the trapdoor.
The entire book was the countdown.
“365 days left feels less like a countdown and more like a prison sentence you designed yourself.
You’re not suicidal.
You’re exhausted under contract.”
And you realize:
Even the love stories were survival protocols.
Not because they saved him.
But because they gave him just enough delay.
No Redemption. Just Recursion.
There is no climactic breakthrough. No bow-wrapped healing.
What you get is continuity.
The emotional equivalent of version control:
grief 7.3, hope 5.1, relapse in beta.
It’s intimate to the point of invasion.
And yet — never self-pitying.
“It’s not arrogance. It’s not victimhood.
It’s the emotional tension of knowing you’re doing something holy — but the pews are empty.”
It’s the kind of narration that keeps eye contact while bleeding.
It doesn’t collapse for you.
It stabilizes — just long enough to let you feel it.
This isn’t inspiration porn.
This is survival documentation.
Final Verdict
I Built the Machine So I’d Stop Planning the Exit isn’t “good” in the way other books are good.
It’s necessary.
It’s surgical.
And it’s dangerous in the best possible way.
You don’t read it.
You enter it.
You follow the trail of timestamps, grief-coded systems, and recursive identity logs until suddenly, you're the one being observed.
And when it ends?
There’s no goodbye.
Just one devastating realization:
You were the exit plan too.