Jan. 14th, 2025: A Short Autobiography

I was born in 2001 in Haifa. My parents—then students—were, and have remained, both traffic engineers. My mom, a dominant Araratian female, from Assyrian descent, met my father (a provincial Galician shlomo) through their mutual friends. They chose my name, “Haddar”, for whatever reason—and as a kid, I used to be ashamed of this name, which was unisex...; nevertheless, today (from the height of my Biblical literacy) I am prideful and vocal about my name’s symbolic meaning: הדר, Haddar, means, in English, “Citrus”, and is translated literally (in KJV) as “Goodliness” (see Lev. 23:40, “Boughs of Goodly Trees”)—a term whose esoteric meaning is too divine for me to explicate, in this forum. The Citron has been seen—by the rabbinic sages—as the original “Fruit of Knowledge”, which upholds a goodly character on top of its natural “evil”. I am then what could be called a “Demiurgic royalty”. I’d surely be a good candidate for the Antichrist if only I had a charisma, popularity and power; but, “alas”, I don’t.

Our first “abode” was a rented apartment in Raananna, Israel. A well-developed city with a higher quality of people compared to other sites in the country. In kindergarten I had my first best friend, a guy named Iddan, with whom I’d watch the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles every afternoon, in his place. Eventually, near our proceeding to 1st grade, he moved with his parents to the far-north—to some place, Jesodd ha-Maala, an agricultural settlement. Because of the geographical distance we rarely drove to his new home, but when we did, I really enjoyed myself: his house had a very “vintage” (if that’s the correct term?) aesthetic. One of those rural households that you don’t see in a Brutalist capital like Israel. But apparently there are lots of pretty, comfy places in the far-north. I’m just not in the business.

Upon reaching first grade, we moved to a new town—in which I’ve been living to this very day. I will not disclose its actual name for privacy reasons, but I’ll just say it’s in the country’s “near-north”, and has the shittiest, ugliest, dumbest people I’ve ever seen—and unfortunately, they are most of the people that I have, generally, ever seen. The unpleasant brutes, populating my classrooms throughout the entirety of my childhood, have deeply damaged my cultivation. This is why many a person would consider me as a provincial Jewish degenerate, later in life.

My first crush was a girl who joined our class in 5th grade. Her name was Daria. A red-cheeked brunette. Somehow, by a way of miracle, she was sitten next to me by our teacher. I was very stupid and “autistic” already then, and consistently rejected any effort of her to become intimate with me—even one time when she offered to make-out with me, during a Bat Mitswa party of a classmate, in a cheap coastal club. In middle school, we’d meet in the corridor, and she offered me to be my girlfriend—I chuckled, and before I managed to say “yes” one of her friends pulled her over with her to other girly businesses. We haven’t talked since then.

Seeing that I’m struggling to integrate into my middle school class, my father encouraged me to adapt to my classmates’ personalities—they (very simple idiots) liked soccer, vulgar TV shows and gambling. To make them like me, I had to jestermaxx until my rep was gone. I stopped going to class for months until my teacher agreed to transfer me to another.

In my new class I made a number of friends. When we went on to highschool I formed a band with two of them. I had a very grand musical vision, and required from them a very strict rehearsal regime. Needless to say they’d barely attend rehearsal, not even once a week. Sometimes I needed to beg for them to come to a single rehearsal in a month—maybe even entire two months. I wanted us to be something like Sonic Youth or Minimal Compact, but that was impossible with stupid provincial idiots like those.

A little bit before highschool I started cultivating the hobby of animating little cartoons. In 10th grade I was accepted to a special program of the Israeli Education Ministry where I was tutored by a Belgian-Jewish classical animator named Albert. I made an 8 minute long short cartoon in the span of a single year. Albert was an affluent westerner, who lived in a tasteful apartment in Jaffa. I enjoyed riding to Tel-Aviv every once a week, and work with him. After we finished the project, I tried to keep in contact with him, but his mother became sick and he stopped responding to my messages. She must’ve died by now, he was an old man; although, I hope not.

My plan was to create a new animation—one with which I am more content—and add it to my repertoire, with the intent of improving my “career”. In 11th grade, as I was working tirelessly, I became increasingly catatonic. My teacher sent me to a psychiatrist, who started prescribing me anti-depressants, which didn’t work, & then gave me anti-psychotics, which did. Comfortably then, I got exempted from IDF service; and retreated to my parents house, where I laid down and rotted for a very long time, and I perhaps still do.