Or well, I can be a prick sometimes.

Case in point, this imaginary dialogue between me and one of the keener kids from one of the advanced classes I took in high school :

Me : No no, you see…. you are gifted. I am a genius. You are intelligent, driven, and ambitious. You focus, study hard, do everything right, and get good marks on the test. I, on the other hand, show up looking like I slept in my clothes and not even knowing there would be a test that day and get a higher grade than you. You see how that works? That’s why you are gifted, and I am a genius. Have a nice day.

me, just now

I guess that was more of a monologue. Oh well.

And the thing is, that whole monologue, minus the “have a nice day” at the end, just spontaneously sprang into my head like someone faxed it to my brain a few minutes ago, as I was sitting down at the computer.

And that’s not the kind of thing that occurs to someone who is entirely nice.

And that’s what made me realize that I can be, in certain situations, an absolute prick. If someone rankles or offends me, or is committing an injustice in my eyes, I can laser focus in on them on a mission to deliver absolute force.

To the point of going too far sometimes, although that hasn’t happened in a long time so I hope to God that means I am over it.

Then again, nobody has really seriously pissed me off lately either.

There’s just been little things like this^[Julian] :

Like I say in the vid, expressing anger is very difficult for me. I guess that comes part and parcel with being dead inside. Anger comes directly from the id and therefore my overly intellectualized mindscape suppresses and minimalizes it like it’s the weird, misshapen cousin they keep locked in the attic in a gothic novel.

Plus I have what I know to me an exaggerated sense of the power of my anger. I suppose that comes from how suppressed and concentrated it is. It honestly feels like if I open the floodgates I will go on some kind of spree, and it won’t be shopping.

Or that if I vent my anger with someone at them, they will just shrivel up and die like they’re a daisy in a blast furnace. Like my sheer force of personality and projecting empathy are so strong that no mere human can survive them.

But people get mad at each other all the time, and manage to survive it. I might be extremely gifted but I am not some kind of enraged demigod.

Not yet, anyway.

So I really have no reason to fear my own anger to the point where I am afraid to express it in my life in any way.

Hell, I don’t even get mad over the news any more. I am too cynically determined to not give the enemy that satisfaction and to instead respond to their evilness with an icy dagger sharpened by my razor sharp mind.

Which is kinda weird, come to think of it. But I am what I am.

Anyhow, I can tell myself all these smart and sensitive and inspiring things about not being afraid of my own anger any more till I am blue in the face, but if there isn’t a change at the deep emotional level, it will all come to nothing.

But I am too empathic to risk hurting the ones I love like my Dad used to do to us.

And therein lies my conundrum.

More after the break.

---

Once more round the post

What the hell, let’s chew on this old bone s’more.

I don’t wanna hurt anyone unintentionally. And I reserve hurting people intentionally for very specific circumstances and following my own set of rules.

But I can’t let my anger out without risking hurting someone or at the very least scaring the hell out of them. Or so I have always believed.

It’s entirely possible that I could let my grumpy and sarcastic side out of its little cage and let it roam free and everyone would be totally fine, no lasting damage done, and I would be a much saner and happier Fru.

But I don’t think so. I am trying hard to cut through the mass of self-reinforcing delusions in my head to get to observed and verifiable truth, and the truth is that nobody can actually handle the uncut unfiltered unrestrained me.

Were I emotionally normal, I would have presumably worked all this out when I was an angry and angsty teen and/or college student. I would have been angry and reactive and sarcastic and rebellious and a severe pain in the ass but I would have come to some sort of acceptable middle ground between inchoate rage and wanting to get alon with my fellow humans, and that would have been that.

But I am not normal, emotionally or otherwise. I am a bizarre stunted weirdo who is a living testament to differential development because I have a mind vastly more advanced than most peoples’ and everything else is downright vestigial.

I have this vision of myself as this vast megacomputer floating in space who just observes and records and analyzes things from around the galaxy but has no propulsion system and no will of its own.

And there’s nobody there to ask it questions, so it’s basically useless, despite all the powerful inherent in its analytical database.

For some reason, I imagine it as being shaped like a Toblerone, but with rounded edges, and covered in radar dishes, antennae, flashing lights, and other futuristic space ship kibble like that.

It’s a depressing picture, but painfully apt.

Dear universe : can someone give me a push?

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

[Julian]] Let me be clear, dear. I am not angry with you any more. It all worked out fine and I am over it. You are an amazing person, and I love you. Never forget it! [[Julian]]

I wonder if there’s a statistically significant increase in the probability of my making a morbid psychological deep dive video on the days where I have therapy.

All those emotions have to go somewhere, I guess.

This time they went here :

In this case, I let some of my feelings about being dead inside out and hopefully that will make room for the good stuff to get in.

One can only hope.

Like I said in the vid, I am trying to shock myself back into the world of the living. But I think the problem is that I am basically trying to start a fire on wet kindling.

My inner world is very numb and highly resistant to being ignited. I have had this toxic pattern of never acting on my emotions or impulses that my mind stupidly quashes even the slightest show of motivation or drive in order to maintain “control”.

Oh yeah, I am so in “control”. That’s why my life is going exactly how I want it to.

And it all happens so fast and at so deep a level that I can’t just catch it and stop it, CBT style. I am going to have to somehow condition myself to stop viewing my own motivation as a god damned enemy or danger and to take a nice deep breath and let the life force fill me up instead.

Breathe in the light and breathe out the dark, just like that yoga lady on TV said.

Wish I could remember her name, but I was like three at the time.

I do feel like I need some kind of deep purification. I would love to have the opportunity to have a good long soak in a hot tub.

One with a really good filter so it doesn’t get all clogged up with my toxins.

Heck, just a regular bath would do, but that’s not an option for someone with my disabilities. I could get into the tub easily enough but I can’t imagine how I would get back out again with how weak my legs are.

I keep imagining myself breaching like a whale and escaping the tub like I am Free Willy jumping out of his enclosure in that movie.

I think it was called “Last Tango In Paris”.

Otherwise, I think it would take some sort of winch to hoist me out of the water like I am a nice big catch of salmon being hauled on board a fisherman’s boat.

I would also love to spend some time in a sauna. Note, that’s sauna, NOT a steam room. My one time in a steam room damn near killed me.

No, a nice dry sauna. It recreates the same effect I get from lying on a towel on the sand on a beach. That lovely radiant heat just bakes the toxins out of me and clears out my pores and makes me feel all healthy and free.

Hey, look at me, expressing desire for things. Yay that.

But of course, it’s never been that I lacked desires, it’s that I have been too afraid to express those desires consciously.

That’s why I could/can only describe them as dreams – things I wish I had or could do. Those don’t come with a pressing need to make them come true.

They’re just nice thoughts, with maybe a bit of wistful sighing. But they don’t involve any kind of longing or feeling of incompleteness or even just really strong desire.

So maybe what I need is to give myself permission to dream harder. And bigger. Let myself really want some things.

And put up with how much that can hurt if the desire goes unfulfilled.

Worse things can happen. Trust me.

More after the break.

---

The work of life

The work of life seems slightly more onerous lately.

You know the stuff I am talking about. All the little things involved in being a live human being in modern society that are not, in and of themselves, enjoyable.

There’s no getting around them. Like I have said before, even Elon Musk has to brush his teeth and use the toilet and choose what to eat and so on.

That’s why it is so deadly to fall into the trap of treating all effort like it’s the enemy. If that goes too far, you are basically at war with being alive.

Like the ultimate luxury lifestyle is that of the paraplegic.

Anyhow, the work seems more like work lately, and I don’t think it’s because I’m sick or anything. I think it’s because I am feeding my id and it’s making me feel more cranky and lazy and self-indulgent.

Kind of like a teenager. Which tracks, I suppose.

Something that came up during therapy today is how my return to life will perforce require struggling with my less than noble emotions.

It’s easy to be high minded and “above it all” when you’re dead inside. Then you’re perfectly free to look down upon the masses from your Olympian perch and tut-tut them for all their crude, base behaviour.

But when you want to be alive instead, you have to actually struggle with things like anger, greed, selfishness, arrogance, and the rest of the Sins.

The big story is that coming back to life will mean sacrificing detachment and that’s not going to be easy for me because detaching is what I did to escape while I was being raped and it’s been my go to response for everything ever since.

That vast gulf between me and others is the moat of the castle I retreated into when something far worse than I could handle was happening, and if I want to live – and I do – I am going to have to lower the drawbridge and let people in… or walk out.

And that means letting people get close enough to touch me.

And that means calming down that psychotic little animal inside me so it won’t attack people when they get too close.

And this is all going to be one hell of a project.

But it’s not like I have anything better to do.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

I got deep today.

I don’t recall how I got on to the subject of justice, but those are thoughts I have had for a long time and that I truly and specifically wanted to convey to the world, so regardless of how I got there, I am glad I did.

Also glad I didn’t go any deeper into the whole “nature isn’t fair” thing. I wrote a brutally, life-scarringly depressing short story about that a long time ago and I am still ashamed of it, but it was something I had to get out of my system.

I am not going to link it here, even though I know it’s in the deep archives of this blog and I could totally find it if I wanted to do so.

It’s evil. It’s poison. It’s the distillation of a lot of years of silent sadness and deep thoughts about nature, and if someone else had written it and I had read it, I would hate that person with the white hot passion of a thousand suns forever.

In my partial defense, I was crying my eyes out the whole time I was writing it. And for a while after I finished, too.

That’s probably why writing it was so cathartic.

I wonder if I have something else like that in me? I suppose that little story about the fox in the glen is a step in that direction. That naked allegory got out some of the feelings I have about the way that I live, at least.

But I know that I could get a hell of a lot deeper if I had the nerve. And if I came up with the right set of central metaphors for the whole thing.

In a weak way, I suppose talking about myself as a wizard in a tower is also a step in that direction. I didn’t use it in fiction or even develop it very much, so it doesn’t really count, but clearly something inside me is trying to express itself.

Maybe I need to trip balls on some strong hallucinogen so I can go on a psychedelic journey into the very depths of my spiritual existence and find there the solution to all my mental problems which the current rigid structure of my psyche denies me.

That could be fun.

More seriously, microdosing LSD or DMT or the like might actually do me some good. A lot of very interesting research on the therapeutic efficacy of low dose hallucinogens in the treatment of things like anxiety and depression is being done down in the States.

The idea is that a low dose of these drugs melts the mind’s walls just enough to allow your brain to fix itself without your mind getting in the way.

No need to climb inside your own belly button.

I would definitely be willing to try the low dose approach. I know that my mind is its own worst enemy and loosening things up a bit in there sounds like a good idea to me.

It could certainly help me recover from being way too rational and analytical for my wn good and maybe even help me to become more human again.

That sure would be nice.

I don’t think I would go the full Timothy Leary “mind astronaut” way though. I’m not a stupid hippie poking around in my brain in search of an interesting mental sensation. My naturally cautious nature balks at taking such a huge gamble with my sanity.

If I lose my marbles now, I might never get them back. And falling all the way into full bore insanity is one of my greatest fears.

So no, I am not going to go on any acid trips any time soon.

But maybe I would go on an acid “trip down to the 7-11 for a diet drink”.

More after the break.

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If I were crazy

I mean all the way crazy, not just the “standard life crippling neurotic” kind of crazy I am currently in my third decade of.

I dunno how realistic my fear of losing contact with reality completely is. It seems most likely that it’s just something my depression uses to keep me from making progress.

Scientifically, if I was psychotic it would have shown up a long time ago, between the ages of 16 and 25 if not sooner.

And I have never “heard voices” except for the occasional half a syllable when I am falling asleep or have recently woken up.

And even then, that hasn’t happened in the last 20 years, so I am in the clear.

Just in time for me to be entering dementia territory, when my brain could fail me from the opposite direction. Yay.

Although I dunno. Maybe it would slow down my mind just enough that I can finally calm down and rest and get some decent sleep.

Silver linings and all that.

Anyhow, insanity. It’s probably not going to happen any time soon, anyhow, unless I have a stroke or something.

I’m such a cheerful sort, aren’t I?

So I can probably stop imagining that I am barely clinging to what little sanity I possess and the slightest perturbation could send me screaming into the void below.

Though I suppose that does add a certain dark romance to my daily struggles. Sure, it looks like I’m just a fat lump who plays video games, but on the inside, I’m a hard edged existential daredevil walking the razor’s edge of insanity every waking moment and a lot of the sleeping ones too.

I’ve been having “bad moments” lately. Moments where I feel alienated and panicky and haunted and hunted and confused.

I am learning to appreciate them. I think they are moments where my brain is trying to reconfigure itself into a saner shape and while they are very unpleasant, they are brief.

Maybe one of these times I will resist the urge to immediately slam my mind back into its accustomed shape and just sit with the experience instead.

Who knows, maybe I will even get some healing done.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

I actually remembered to record my vid du jour when I had some downtime before Wound Care instead of mindlessly playing games on my phone then having to come up with a vid when I got home.

This is the result :

Not exactly my most breathtakingly brilliant or soul searingly insightful work, but what the hell, sometimes I plumb my soul for gold and sometimes I just vlog.

What can I say, I am capable of anything and you can never tell what I will say.

To some people, I suppose, that makes me chaotic and unpredictable.

To me, it just makes me interesting.

You already know how my day has gone. Right now, I have come home from Wound Care, pooped, napped, then woken up around 5 pm to get this all rolling again.

It’s been a very busy day by my standards. I feel pretty tired and a bit sore like I always do on Tuesday. But in a pleasant way.

I feel like I have actually done something for a change, and that feels very good.

And it’s always gratifying to have hung out with Lynda and Judy and Lea and John without feeling alienated or alienating.

Turns out I can totally get along with normal people if my anxiety isn’t screaming in my ear and making it hard to think.

I wish I had Xanax back when I was at VFS. I am sure people would have loved me then and been happy to recommend me to jobs.

Oh well. The thing about the past is that it passed. It’s gone, over, finished. It is eternally immutable and can never be changed.

All my profs at VFS screwed me over and there’s nothing I can do about that.

I wonder if at least Rick Drew stood up for me. He seemed to like me.

Anyhow, the sun has started to go down and that means I am feeling sleepy in a strange, slightly spooky kind of way.

I think I may be starting to “sundown”. Actually, I think it’s been happening for a while and I only just became conscious of it.

And I know calling it “sundowning” is me being totally overwrought and histrionic. Actual sundowning only happens to people with dementia and I am nowhere near that yet.

I am, at most, becoming slightly more absentminded. And I am having the usual age related “senior moments” when something I am trying to think of just vanishes from my mind like a rather shitty magic trick.

I am no more demented than I have ever been. Mua ha ha ha ha.

I have just noticed this mood shift that occurs once twilight begins. I start to feel sort of cold and insular and withdrawn, and like all I want to do is sleep.

I think part of me wants to hibernate.

Well too bad! There’s stuff to do and fun to be had. I am trying hard to go in the opposite direction and become more awake and involved with life, not less.

I’m working on it.

I have only just gotten to a place where I don’t nap as much. I am in the process of breaking myself of the habit of seeking to “hide” from life in sleep whenever my incredibly low impact life becomes too much for me.

I don’t have to do that. If I fail to snooze as much, all that happens is that my body reaches a little deeper into my personal energy supply to keep me up, and I end up sleeping later on.

Ideally, I will get to the point where I sleep eight hours a night like a normal person, but I don’t see that happening real soon.

And some people think that a nap during the day is actually good for us, so there’s that.

And now, I will indeed nap as I have had a long (for me) day.

More after the break.

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I took that nap

I took the above mentioned nap and yet, somehow, I am still sleepy.

And cold. Around 8:30 pm, this chill started creeping in on me and I have been feeling distinctly refrigerated ever since.

The most obvious explanation is, of course, that it’s cold in here. By 8:30 pm the sun was mostly down and so the temp dropped outside and this bedroom of mine is not quite thermally sealed, so the temp difference between inside and outside air sought some kind of equilibrium and that sucked some heat out of the room.

I know that’s a more scientifically elaborate explanation than necessary. I could have said “Cold out thar means cold in hyar” or the like.

But I enjoy doing the sciencing, so humour me.

If so, I may have to fire up that fan heater I got last Spring to keep me warm.

It’s a rather crude and inelegant solution but it works.

It could also be that the thermostat in this room has somehow ended up turned down again, in which case I will be very upset.

So I really hope it’s not that. I know that I set it to 27 C a couple weeks ago, as 25 C was not quite cutting it. And I will turn it up again if I have to.

But if I find it turned all the way down to nothing again, I will pitch a fit because I have made myself very very clear on the subject, that nobody is to touch my thermostat but me, ever, except by my explicit and immediate instruction.

I don’t wanna have to do that, so, here’s hoping.

Finding out I am cold because of someone else’s interference feels like such a betrayal.

And of course, I might be coming down with something. It could be that sort of chill. It did seem to come with a vague feeling of unwellness but nothing definitive.

So I will check the thermostat and see what’s up.

Then I will crawl under the covers and take yet another nap.

Maybe I really AM starting to hibernate.

In which case…. see you next Spring, I guess!

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

Today, I rambled on about my strange and tragic life.

It’s a subject that has been on my mind a lot lately and so I thought it was time to express some of the emotions involved and see if that made me feel better.

And it did, actually. I feel better now. Yay catharsis. It’s good for me to get those negative emotions out from time to time in order to make room for healing.

So much of our mental anguish comes from all the unexpressed emotions we carry around with us.

I am striving to change that about myself. I know that a big part of my self-resurrection is going to have to be learning to actually deal with my emotions, including the really tricky and troubling ones like anger, instead of more or less consigning everything but that narrow band I previously found comfortable to the void of forgetting.

This will make life far more complicated. But also worth living.

It’s a tradeoff like everything else.

Turns out being a real little boy is quite complicated. I have often wondered about the really awkward conversations Geppetto had to have with Pinocchio right after he became an actual human boy.

Explaining the need to occasionally shit and piss and how to handle everything about it alone would be one heck of a conversation.

Anyhow, back to the topic at hand. Though I am glad I am thinking in comedic terms.

The image of myself as frozen in place haunts my mind a lot lately. I think my brain is trying to resolve the situation and to do so it has to keep returning to that disturbingly accurate image as it tries to melt that ice and get things flowing again.

Images of Spring spring to mind.

And of course, like I have been saying lately, this all revolves around my id and my very distant relationship with it.

The “decision” to sever said id when I retreated into myself to escape being raped turned me into an emotional cripple and every day I comprehend a little more of just how deeply scarred and contaminated that left me.

No wonder I was timid and shy. I had no driving force inside me any more!

Another, even more disturbingly accurate and harsh image haunting my mind is of myself having broken both legs (emotionally speaking) and never getting them treated at all so when the bones knit again, it was at crazy weird angles that made walking extremely painful and awkward and I have lived with being such a twisted and warped being ever since.

I told you it was harsh.

But it rings true for me on an emotional level. After all, being raped when I was four was a profound trauma for which I got absolutely no treatment because I didn’t even have the language to express what had happened to me to anyone, let alone having someone I could express it to.

Back then, in 1977, predators like the one who forever scarred me operated with relative impunity because of those exact factors. There was absolutely no awareness of child predation and so monsters like him could rape all the children he wanted, safe in the knowledge that the kid would be too freaked out and hurt by this horrible action from beyond their little world to say anything and even if they did tell somebody, nobody would have believed them and they would have been accused of “making up dirty stories” or the like.

People didn’t want to believe that something like that really happened.

Thank god we got over that, anyhow.

More after the break.

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On self indulgence

I am currently eating shawarma poutine from Shawarma 2 Go that I can’t really afford.

Last Friday’s grocery run was especially expensive ($75) due to running out of both microwave popcorn ($12) and margarine ($9) in the same week, plus I had to pay for my DoorDash Plus ($11/month for a reduction in DoorDash fees, saves me $$$ in the long run). so my usual $125/week of credit card money was already spent.

But whatever. I will probably just pay for my next $30 meal at Denny’s in cash and order shall be restored to the force.

The poutine was pretty good. I got it with shawarma lamb, of course, because if lamb is an option, I get lamb.

It just tastes so good. And beyond that it seems to satisfy something in me. Something that’s more than just hunger.

Maybe I am secretly the reincarnation of a Scottish werewolf.

I’ve had a few miniature dizzy spells today. Just a moment of imbalance, enough to make me think “whoa!” and need to regain my balance, but then, gone.

It felt like a circulation thing, as opposed to a sinus thing or head thing.

I really wonder about my circulation sometimes. I spend a lot of time sitting at this here computer o’ mine in the same basic position, and when I am not here I am lying in bed, and neither exactly encourage robust circulation of my vital humours.

I know I should move a lot more. I even know that I would probably feel a lot better if I did. After all, I always feel better after my exercises at the Kinsmen.

But I am still too “stuck” to get myself to exercise. My id is too detached. I have not yet found the key to feeling truly alive instead of feeling like a frozen zombie all the time.

Here I am, brain the size of a planet, yet frozen like a block of ice when it comes to actually pursuing my own best interests, or anything at all really.

It’s ridiculous. It’s absurd. With powers like mine, I should be living in a golden palace and not this dirty old wizard’s tower.

I should at the very least have a minimum wage existence.

But most of the time, most days, I just go through the same ol shit over and over again, unable to do anything more than follow the same old default script.

Where’s that handsome prince of mine again? He’s taking forever to get here.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

As it relates to a recent viral TikTok video, as it was explained by the Dadvocate.

I haven’t watched the original video because it got taken down not only for being revenge porn but because you’re not allowed to show nudity on TikTok.

She should have posted it to their sister site, DickTok. Ha ha.

I do think it would be fun if there was a single site for women to share the unsolicited dick pics they get though.

Anonymously, of course, otherwise they would be as bad as DoorDash lady.

It could actually be of great scientific value as a basis for a wide analysis of the human penises of the world in all their splendiferous glory.

As well as advancing the accuracy of AI penises by leaps and bounds.

But enough silliness. (Aww. ) That was just a good test case for my thoughts on prejudice and how to test for it.

I don’t expect it to become a viral sensation like the Bechdel test because unlike said test, my test is primarily intended to be administered to oneself and that’s no fun.

It doesn’t take a lot of imagination to see how it could be applied to judging others, thought, which is always a more popular option.

You just have to doggedly ask the Bertrand test style question, “Well what if it was… ” and put the changed variable in there.

This will win you no friends, of course, because those who point out when other people are being bigoted are rarely thanked for their assistance.

Even if, or especially if, they are absolutely right.

Take it from one who knows.

That’s the thing about being a soothsayer and/or truth-sayer. You have to do it because you have a burning desire to put your truth into the world and try to make it win out over the perniciously self-serving lies in which people hide their general shittiness.

I mean, there were segregationists who would have insisted they weren’t racists.

And despite my general softening of my “veritas uber alles” pro-truth extremist attitudes at least as they apply to myself and my mental health, I will always been an outspoken firebrand when it comes to fighting selfish lies, petty cruelty, mass hypocrisy, and all other forms of public evil as I see it.

After all, technically, on paper, I am just a citizen sharing his opinion like everyone else.

I just happen to have a greater capacity for self-expression and insight than others. By like, a lot.

And while that arguably gives me an unfair advantage in, say, an argument with other people, it arguably means I have a greater responsibility to contribute to public discourse than the average citizen too.

I’m working on it.

I am great at the expressing part, it’s the getting people to listen part that is not within my current temperament or skillset.

Way in the back of my mind, I keep hoping that I’ll be like my old pal Nietzsche and toil away in utter obscurity until I get recognized as a genius by a small group of academics who eventually make me a household name.

And it’s possible. My stuff IS on the internet after all. I have followers on YouTube and TikTok and BlueSky. I could be discovered any minute now.

But it’s not bloody likely.

What I want to be able to do is climb to the higher metaphorical peak around and be able to shout my messages to the masses from up there.

With a loudspeaker, of course, otherwise nobody would be able to hear me.

Like many a visionary prophet before me, all I really want is for people to listen to me. Yes, it would be nice if my words actually convinced them and changed their minds – I am not speaking just to hear myself talk after all.

But the main thing is to deliver my message to as many ears as possible. After that, it’s up to the people whether they actually listen or not.

It’s a strange way to live, to be honest. I can grasp why prophets end up climbing up a mountain or fucking off into the desert or whatever.

Sometimes it’s better to be alone than to be ignored.

More after the break.

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On being alone

This should hurt.

I have realized that not wanting to feel resented or ignored or in the way is the main reason I took to spending all my time in my room when I was a child.

And that’s still what I do to this very day. Most of the time I am all alone right here in front of my computer in this dirty ol’ bedroom of mine.

I can’t imagine living any other way. The thought of being around people like all day makes me feel like I’m gonna break out in hives. I am very emotionally dependent on this state of solitude where I am experiencing what amounts to zero social stimulation (VR doesn’t count) and the fact that this leaves me incredibly lonely all the time is something I’m so accustomed to that I don’t consciously notice it and when I do, well, that’s one of the things that compulsively playing video games shields me from.

I wonder what would happen if I just sat there, alert but unstimulated, and let whatever emotions I’ve been hiding from come to the front of the class and say howdy.

Well, I know that for a while, I would just be catching up on my incomplete thoughts. That’s what happens when I am forced to wait in real life.

Until I got a phone. I guess that’s a thing of the past now.

And often that’s what I am doing when I am just lying in bed, or sitting on the edge of the bed, hovering somewhere between being awake and being asleep as my overstimulated mind catches up with the backlog.

I guess that’s the answer to the question, “what am I waiting for when I sit on the edge of the bed staring into space?”.

I’m waiting for my mind to catch up. To come back into sync instead of having different layers running at wildly divergent speeds. To regain some degree of focus.

That makes me feel better about how long it takes me to get out of bed sometimes.

I’ve got a lot of brain stuff to do!

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

You know, I can be pretty charming when I just start the camera rolling and ramble on.

Case in point :

One of the unintended consequences of spending a certain portion of every day staring at my own face as I edit my videos is that I am finally developing the basic awareness of my appearance that should have been there since I was a toddler.

It’s almost like something really terrible happened back then that interrupted my development at the anal stage and sent me back to the oral.

But then I’d be really passive and weak willed and prone to getting other people to deal with reality for me while I mostly just sat in filth doing very little all the time.

Wouldn’t that be pathetic.

The other developmental stage where a person might become more conscious of their appearance is their teen years, when it suddenly occurs to them that they might want someone to be attracted to them for the sexing.

But not I. I was a closeted fag in small town Canada in the 80’s and that meant that there was no safe way for me to explore my raging sex drive.

Were I a more id driven fellow, I would have no doubt been driven to try to find something any way I could.

But I was too “smart” for that.

So I never really engaged in normal teen life at all. I had friends in grades 6, 7, and 8, and we did stuff like hang out and play video games or watch movies or TV, so that was at least somewhat normal, but that’s where it ended.

And where it still ends, really. I love hanging out with my friends but it would be a lot more “normal” of me to also have a love life.

As well as a job, but let’s not go there.

Presumably, a more emotionally mature human specimen would be driven by their instincts to go out into the world in search of sex and love.

I can’t imagine what it’s like to live like that, more’s the pity. Patient readers are intimately familiar with the perils of a life like mine where you aren’t “driven” by anything at all. Not a single functional drive.

All because at some point I decided that I, the absurdly rational I, had to be “in control” and that meant only doing things I have rationally decided to do.

Turns out that doesn’t work too good. We’re not meant to live like that. It’s a tragically unbalanced and unhealthy way to live and it’s what has led me to be the hyper-intelligent infant I am today.

That goes a long way to explain why I am so “stuck”. I never developed any of the instincts that drive normal human emotional growth and so I have a very weak connection to the very mainspring of life, the id.

So I have led this extremely passive life where I do very little based on my desire to do it and do most things out of habit and routine so I don’t have to decide.

I’ve never even decided where to live. Every time I have ever moved, it has been because on some level people got sick of me and kicked me out.

Until I found Joe and Julian, who have given me my forever home.

My whole life, all I have really ever done was react to things. Change never came from within. It was in response to externally sourced changes.

Like I have said in this space before : too adaptable for my own good. If my life isn’t changed by something outside myself, I don’t change either.

Hence being “stuck”. Without drives and instincts prodding me into action, how am I supposed to generate any momentum in life?

Where would they even come from?

No wonder I am such a paradoxical creature.

The fox in the glen has magical powers but he never uses them.

Because he’s scared.

More after the break.

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On being dead

Or if not dead, then frozen.

That’s what my being “stuck” feels like. Like I’ve been frozen immobile by some terrible chill and need to find some kind of cosmic microwave oven to thaw me out.

Did I mention I’m eating a TV dinner right now?

No mystery as to where that chill comes from – being severed from my id. When I was raped when I was four years old and I retreated deep into the depths of my extraordinary mind, I basically cut the cord to my id and stop being a “natural” human being in favor of hiding in a world of icy abstraction.

And the thing about being cold is that if it goes on long enough and/or the damage is severe enough, it doesn’t feel like cold any more.

You just feel numb.

And it’s easy to mistake that numbness for being okay. After all, says the child mind, if it stopped hurting, that means you’re okay, right?

And sure, you’re not really okay. You’re still deeply and horribly injured and it’s going to go untreated for a very long time. And that’s going to twist and distort everything about how you develop from that point on.

And you hadn’t even finished primary brain growth yet.

But being numb lets you escape the damage and pretend things are okay and show a bright and shiny face to the world in order to protect your wound from being poked at by the curious (who won’t be able to help anyway) and lets you fool yourself into thinking you’re okay and even into forgetting the horrible injury at your core and instead just blaming yourself for being so god damned broken.

So, ya know. The system works.

And so you spend the rest of your life mindlessly wandering naked through the midnight tundra of your mind looking, without hope or anticipation, for shelter.,

And escaping this frozen purgatory will require hooking up that id that got severed in your escape into your mind so very long ago.

Good luck with that.

I have come to a terrible conclusion!

Namely that I am going to have to start writing notes before I make my videos, at least if they are more than just me vlogging about my day or whatever, because I keep getting partway into a video when my mind goes totally blank and I forget at least half of what I had intended to say and I end up dissatisfied with the final product.

Aging plays havoc with our working memory, and mine was prone to randomly dumping its contents even when I was a kid, so there might be a LOT of note-taking in my future.

In the meantime, I will at least write notes for my vids at least some of the time, and that means I will need to exercise a little more self-discipline.

Speaking of which….

Either than, or I have recently made a quantum leap in brevity. This would please me enormously because I’ve always thought of myself as being too prolix, and I have been striving to make my writing more compact and impactful for God knows how long.

So it’s possible that I am just getting my point across faster now. In which case, huzzah.

But that would not explain the feeling of an icy cold wind blowing through the shockingly empty caverns of my mind all of a sudden.

That must be what it feels like when people find their minds going blank when they sit down to write an exam or the like.

But in my case, that’s knowledge, and I can almost always dredge up things I know.

It’s trying to think of things to say while recording that has been suffering lately.

Also, my little comment about lacking self-discipline got me thinking about the subject, and while my point about it having made my life harder still stands, in other ways I have demonstrated a lot of self-discipline.

For example, in writing 1K words a day since 2011.

And I got to that level of self-discipline exactly how I said : by repetition. I just did my thousand words a day for long enough for it to become normal to me and at this point I am pretty sure I would go (more) insane if I didn’t have this outlet.

You have to teach your words that they have a way out into the world.

And it’s getting that way with my videos too, even though I have only been doing them for like four or five months.

This time, it’s also my personality and expressiveness that have found out there is a way out and have started clamoring for it every day.

I am still pondering ways of making my videos way more ambitious and more professional looking. I feel like I need to make a quantum leap to a new energy level with both my vids and my extremely geeky metaphors.

I feel like I could make something truly amazing if I could get my shit together. These videos of me talking are okay for TikTok because that’s what a lot of TikTok is like. But on YouTube they look so boring.

And I want to make stuff with pizzazz. Stuff that, to the best of my ability, seems like actual television to me.

Or at least like the other YouTubers I admire. Ones that, I must stress, are actually making money at it.

I want to be like them so bad. I want to have a large and attentive audience who actually listen to and respect what I say and who appreciate my words enough to want to buy my merch, join the channel, stalk my Discord, or whatever.

I don’t care. I just want the money.

More after the break.

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Getting it together

So what do I mean by getting my shit together and why do I find it so hard?

In my case, getting my poop in a group would involve gathering up all the loose threads of possibilities in my head and putting them into a single coherent picture that could then be used to go forward as a single, powerful, unified whole.

Which sounds really impressive. Yet a big part of me rejects it utterly.

Because i am very much a creative type person and as such I don’t like those kinds of constraints. I like to keep things loose and open because that is how creativity works best – when your mind is as open to connections as possible, without a lot of walls and barriers getting in the way.

So it really comes down to the question every kind of creative must face at least once – are you willing to make artistic sacrifices in order to make your talents pay?

And I’m not sure, to be honest. I certainly don’t want to do it. If I wasn’t so interested in finding a way to pay my own way for the first time in my life, I wouldn’t do a damned thing I didn’t feel like doing and would just continue to let my creativity express itself in whatever way it happens to come out that day and be done with it.

But I want to finally become a real, honest to goodness grownup, and my best long term bet for that is to learn to make some dosh with my creative talents.

It needn’t be a lot of money. I would be quite happy to just make a minimum wage living on my videos. After all, it’s not about getting rich, it’s about finally being self sufficient.

By my calculations, a minimum wage living gets you $2856/month dollars before deductions in this province. I get $1375/month on disability.

So that would double my current income, more or less. Not bad. To me, that seems like I would be living in the lap of luxury.

And it’s probably doable… if I can get my shit together.

And I don’t really wanna.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

I was doing the Therapy Thursday thing and talking to Doc Costin about how I feel like the real me is that scared little animal hiding way down deep in my psyche and how the person I normally think of as myself is, in a very limited sense, a false front I constructed in order to hide that scared little animal.

And I had just told him about how I think getting to the heart of my problems will involve dealing with that scared little animal and we had come to the mutual conclusion that my best way to do that would be through fiction and that’s when the phrase “the fox in the glen” popped into my head like a secret whispered in the dark.

And that’s how I ended up making this :

I briefly considered marking that video as having been made for kids, but it isn’t, not really. That’s why it has the hashtag #storiesforbigkids because it’s really a story for the inner children of other wounded grownups like me.

And I might write more stories like that. I have at least one more chapter’s worth of ideas bubbling in my head. I can see myself continuing it as a series just like I did with those Fruvous stories long ago.

Maybe I should call my scared fox “little Fruvous”. Because just like the Fruvous who was adopted by the nice family next door, and made their Xmas a little more festive, this little fella is also me.

He’s just a version of me designed to help me deal with that scared little animal inside me as opposed to the previous version who was there to deal with my feelings of having been abandoned by my family.

Who knows. Maybe I will write a happy ending for Lil Fru, too.

That would be nice.

I feel even more like I am getting very close to the actual root of my problems now. Lil Fru is at the heart of a lot of my problems and has been pulling the strings behind the scenes for a very long time as he follows his own extremely fear filled agenda.

And that agenda is all about feeling safe. Safety above all else. Safety as the only thing that truly matters. Safety that required eternal hypervigilance because the moment you drop your guard, that’s when they GET you.

Meaning you can never actually believe you are safe. You can never truly relax.

Which means you are very, very tired.

Lil Fru doesn’t even remember what it’s like not to be tired any more. He has been running on fumes for a very long time. This is his “normal”.

Maybe it’s better if I don’t put everything about me into the Little Fru stories, because that would make them even more brutally depressing that the Big Fru ones.

What can I say? My truth is an unpleasant one.

I mean, it starts with a child being raped, for fuck’s sake.

I also talked with Doctor Costin about eventually having to remember the actual rape so I can finally finish processing it and let those memories go.

Not something I want to do, obviously, but I am willing to do it if it means I can find some peace of mind and finally feel like I am home safe.

That means convincing Lil Fru that he’s safe, too. So my thinking is that this will mean taking those terrible memories he’s been holding for so long away from him so he can finally lay down and rest.

He is, I am sure, at the heart of all my anxiety and high-strung agitation. Also quite possibly at the heart of my extraordinary creative and intellectual energies.

Being crazy can have fringe benefits, after all.

But I still think I’d rather be sane.

More after the break.

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The infantile response pattern

Consider this to be an appendix to my thoughts on the billionaire brain.

It will be observations on how some people act and consider yourself warned that once you see this pattern, you will see it everywhere.

This response pattern has three main output modes : anger, sadness, and contentment.

Anger is how they demand that their needs be met. They might pound the nearest surface, scream, throw things, and get quite red in the face.

Sadness is how they announce their needs are not being met in a way meant to elicit sympathy. Crying, especially directed towards potential caregivers, is the main mode of expression, with the desired effect of eliciting sympathy, comfort, and nurturing.

Contentment announces that the needs have been met for now and is, of course, expressed via smiles, laughing, and contented little noises.

You may have noticed how I have carefully avoided mentioning anyone’s age. That’s because, while I call this the infantile behaviour pattern, it is found in a hell of a lot of adults as well, especially the wealthy.

Because wealth infantilizes. A wealthy person is like an infant in that they don’t do anything for themselves. Everything they do, they do through those around them.

The main difference is that infants can’t do it for themselves. The rich can, but won’t.

And it doesn’t matter how rich or successful or well-educated the person is, they will still yell when they are unhappy, cry when they want comforting and reassurance, and babble contentedly when they are content.

This is especially noticeable in the classic angry cigar-chomping man. Imagine replacing that cigar with a pacifier and the picture is complete. This is a person who only knows how to relate to the world through anger.

And when perturbed, what do they do? Scream, yell, pound, and throw things while their faces turn red.

And they will often mix in some crying about what a martyr they are and how cruel life is to them and how they don’t deserve all the abuse they are getting from these lazy and stupid and ungrateful people that surround them.

But note how passive this all is. Like with the actual infants, it’s all about getting the response they want from others.

Often while hilariously insisting that they could do a better job themselves and how they are so much more ruggedly independent than you.

Sure, boss, that’s why they kicked you upstairs.

So now you have a quick n’ dirty guide to all the big babies in the world. Feel free to apply these lessons to the next overgrown infant you encounter.

Even if he’s the President.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

First, the vid du jour :

Nothing staggeringly new in this one. I somehow thought I had a lot more to say along the “they didn’t vote for this” line, but once I started recording most of it fled from my mind and so I ended up repeating some of the stuff from earlier this week.

This is the problem with doing things directly on TikTok. I have been contemplating taking another stab at learning to do at the very least basic cut n’ paste video editing on my phone to get around this issue, or at least summoning the wherewithal to export the video to my PC and edit it there before putting it on YouTube.

But whatever. It’ll happen or it won’t. I won’t hold myself hostage to it.

On to the topic. The good news is that those flu-like symptoms I was experiencing never turned into an actual illness… for the most part.

But I noticed just a little while ago that I have been feeling more tired than usual lately. It’s getting harder and harder to motivate myself to do things. I’ve been spending a lot of time just sitting on the edge of my bed again, feeling kind of lost.

And getting myself moving feels like it’s taking twice the usual amount of effort. And once I am moving, it feels like that is taking more energy than usual too.

I have been getting that “rusty” feeling lately. Like every move I make requires overcoming a stiff resistance that was not there before.

So it could be some kind of bug. One that forgot to take the muscle stiffness of the flu with it when it left.

How very inconsiderate.

Or it could be something else causing a systemic inflammatory response. Those have definitely been known to cause that “rusty” feeling.

Or it could just be a symptom of being really fuckin’ old. Can’t ever rule that out.

But a more specific diagnosis is generally desirable.

Or it could be psychological. Maybe something is going on deep in my subconscious mind that is draining my motivation and making me want to turn away from reality and hide from it all and not have to deal with things even more than usual.

If so, I can accept that. I know that I am definitely operating on some very deep layers of my mind these days and surgery of that sort is bound to cause some disruption, kind of like how you can’t have roads without them needing to be closed sometimes.

In a way, I would greatly prefer that this was all a symptom of my attempts to shift my attitude and repair the deep down damage of all the corrosive isolation I have endured.

Most of it seemingly by choice but actually as a result of being driven to isolate myself most of the time by my pervasive anxiety.

It’s only when I am alone that I come close to feeling safe.

I’m working on it.

And I mean, even when I am here by myself in my filthy bedroom, sitting at this computer. I am still caged in by anxiety.

That’s why it’s so hard for me to do anything of the job type things I “should” be doing like getting back on UpWork or something similar.

Even something as seemingly benign and harmless and simple as that increases my social stimulation level and triggers an anxiety response.

And I am so damned sick of that bullshit.

Anxiety is my jailer and my tormentor. It keeps me living this pathetic routine existence where I live the same sad day over and over and have little to no adult dignity or self-respect at all when by all rights I should be living like a king off of all the money I make with my outlandish amounts of genius and talent.

And I can bitch and moan till the cows come home about all I “should” have by dint of my overwhelming and magical specialness, but I am never going to have it unless I can get the fuck over myself and go out there and get it.

At least there’s always Xanax.

More after the break.

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What I tell myself

Then again, getting all tough and butch with myself like that doesn’t seem to help. In fact, it probably does more harm than good by increasing the very pressure that I withdraw into myself to escape.

Why do I have to be so god damned complicated?

So anyhow, while it feels good to vent my frustrations with my life and my clogged state of being on myself in some vain attempt to jump-start my life, it is probably ultimately counterproductive and just another way for me to vent internally.

Instead of figuring out some safe way to externalize or harness the anger so that I can be nice to myself and give myself a break.

Which brings me to the realization that I might not hate myself any more but I am still not very nice to myself. And I think that means that I have a very long way to go before I can manage to forgive myself for how I am.

I am not sure if that means I haven’t really stopped hating myself or not.

I certainly get angry with myself fairly often, and that’s probably not good.

That’s probably internalized abuse. Or something just as bad. But I just get so sick of putting up with my own bullshit sometimes.

Not that getting mad at myself helps, of course.

And round and round and around we go.

Wow, I had no idea what a bunch of dorks those guys were.

But I know that every whirling wheel, no matter how fast it’s going, has an angle of centripetal escape that you can find if you sit still and watch for a while.

And if all else fails, just crash the motherfucking thing.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.