Still feeling violently apathetic.

And as usual, it’s a reaction to all those noisy neuroses in my head clamoring for my attention and trying to freak me out with worry, anxiety, and confusion.

Violent apathy is a heavy but crude tool for the id to use to silence that shit with the power of primal rage.

Good stuff, that primal rage. I should use it more often. My massively mentally masturbating monkey mind could use being thumped into a cowed silence by a club-wielding id a lot more often.

Shut the fuck up you yammering morons. You think you’re clever but you’re not. I’ be a much happier, wiser, smarter, and sharper person without you.

So don’t fucking test me.

Right now I don’t want to do anything. And I don’t give a shit about anything. I want the world to just leave me the fuck alone so I can try to sleep my life away.

I don’t want to have to deal with anything right now. Everything hurts. I can’t think of anything I would actually enjoy doing right now, even if I had a million bucks.

If I had that kind of money, I would probably just check into a really fancy hotel with really comfy beds and extremely good AC and top notch soundproofing.

Throw in a big dicked prostitute/masseur to rub and fuck the tension out of me, and I might actually get some decent sleep for once.

It’s worth a shot, anyhow.

Maybe I should start a GoFundMe. “Please get me fucked up the ass with a huge cock in a five star hotel room so I can sleep!”.

Call it a GoFuckMe.

I really am aflame with horniness lately. So much so that I am actually pondering looking for a hookup via one of the apps like Grindr (gay) or Growlr (gay bear).

Surely someone out there has a passion for fucking big fat juicy thicc bear butts.

Because I got the bitch itch something fierce. I try to scratch it myself with my big ol’ purple gel dildo but it never quite works.

Feels great and all, fucking myself with Biggie, but it ultimately fails to satisfy.

So what the hell, maybe I will join the millennium and do some random hookups to try to get my needs met.

I am way past due for expanding my sex life to include other people. Might be quite therapeutic too. Could do wonders for my mood to actually be sexually satisfied for once in my life.

I’ve heard good things about it.

And Covid is very very slowly coming to an end, so we wouldn’t even have to wear masks while fucking.

Rubbers yes, sadly, but masks are strictly optional.

My conception of my own sex life has been pretty much restricted to solo performances for a very long time now.

Hard to imagine including others when your avoidant personality disorder keeps you locked away like some big fat Rapunzel.

Whatever. I’m going back to sleep.

More after the break.

---

About creeping paranoia

There is a tensely nervous notice posted in the elevators of our apartment building imploring people not to let people into the building if they do not know for a fact that said person lives here.

Which is ridiculous because nobody knows any of their neighbors these days, so it might as well say “never let anyone in ever”.

Except that would also be absurd because it would require Canadians to be rude to strangers and that is something we are not at all willing to do.

Anyhow, this plus their recent adding of a second gate to the front entrance to make sure strangers don’t use our visitor parking (???) has put creeping middle class paranoia in my mind and so I am going to talk about it tonight.

What I am talking about specifically is the sort of feeling of vulnerability and the presence of shadowy nefarious forces seeking to take your nice things that seems to take hold and fester specifically in the places where people are the safest.

It’s the sort of thing that leads to the resident of idyllic green suburbs spending thousands of dollars on elaborate home security systems even though there has not been a break and enter case in their whole area since the days of the Great Depression and the occasional opportunistic hobo.

It convinces people that one apocalypse or another must be coming and that therefore they have to build bunkers under their houses and stock up on food, liquor, and potable water in order to be “ready”.

It even stokes the fires of xenophobia because surely “those people” who don’t have what we have are going to try to come take it from us somehow.

Maybe it’s immigrants. Or Communists. Or terrorists. Or racial minorities. Whatever.

The important thing is THEY are COMING for us and we have to be READY.

All of these fears are quite clearly insane. And yet they persist and end up infecting not just our nightmares but our politics, our social attitudes, and the moral fabric of society.

And ironically, it is our very safety which breeds this toxic attitude. I think that we are born with a certain sense of danger that cannot be assuaged by any amount of actual safety we can muster.

Ergo, when the danger is not present, we are compelled to invent it.

I also think that the specific feeling that the have-nots are coming to take what we have are our minds’ way of maintaining the sense that what we have is valuable.

After all, if nobody wants it, is it really worth having? Once you have the thing, whatever it is, the thrill of acquiring it fades and we come dangerously close to realizing the long term worthlessness of material possessions and thus seeing that our materialistic lives are spiritually empty.

So we start working on getting even better stuff. And in the meantime, we imagine that we are surrounded by shadowy forces who want to take what we have and are just waiting to pounce the minute our guard is down.

These forces are phantoms of the mind. Any rational examination shows this. And yet we persist in believing in them because otherwise our whole worlds would fall apart,

And these are not isolated delusions. They are mass hysterias that lead to laws, penalties, security measures, and intrusions upon out autonomy with real effects on our lives and our freedoms.

But how does one slay such widely embraced boogeymen? Is it even possible to convince people they are safe when their instincts say otherwise?

Could even a world absolutely free of crime and violence convince us to let our guard down and enjoy ourselves?

Or would that make the delusions worse than ever?

This is not rhetorical. I truly have no answers.

But at least now, the questions have been asked.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

wp:paragraph –>

For extremely good and necessary reasons, the issue of sexual consent has been a hot button issue at least since the 90’s.

And because the law is involved, the issue has become very complicated and nuanced, and even the most well meaning sexually active human might be tempted to despair of ever figuring out what proper behaviour is, exactly.

So today I am going to address the subject and attempt to add some clarity to the issue.

Wish me luck. We’re going in.

First of all, we have to remember that despite how it seems, consent is fundamentally an extremely simple thing : it just means agreeing to and/or wanting to do something.

This is a very basic concept we all understand. It is a fundamental component of all social interaction and by default is considered to be required for most of what we do.

Sure, there are many things where it seems like we have no choice but to do things we do not want to do.

Like our jobs, for example.

But even those we consent to do. After all, it’s not like our employers can hold us hostage. It is presumed that if you don’t want to do your job, your can quit. You can walk right out the door and never come back.

There might be penalties. But nobody is going to stop you.

This is one of the foundational concepts of a free society, and as such, it’s something we all learn as children but may not actually “see”.

After all, fish don’t know they’re wet, and all that.

So you see, consent is something we all intuitively understand outside of the sexual arena. So the question is, what makes sexual consent different?

Consequences, for one. Because sex can be extremely intimate and is powerfully connected to our sense of self and our boundaries, a violent of consent in this context can have enormous emotional consequences.

Even minor violations can loom large in the victim’s mind for quite some time.

But this would not be such an issue without another component, temptation.

Lust is no mere idle craving. It drives us forward with its pleasure and its stimulation. When we are horny, the adrenaline (amongst other hormones) is flowing and the rational mind is on vacation and so we might be tempted to not listen when someone tells us no.

It’s very wrong to do an is luckily pretty rare, but the temptation is there,

The final component is ambiguity. The body signals flow fast and fluid in sex and that raises the potential for miscommunications exponentially.

Altogether, then, we can see why sexual consent seems so complicated.

But it is still the same old consent, something we all can understand.

So who can consent? Simple, anyone who can freely choose whether or not to participate. This does not require a great deal of IQ,

Even a child can understand that.

Heck, even your dog can understand that.

Of course, consent still needs to be clear and freely given, without coercion or force.

But that doesn’t require a lot of IQ either.

People (and critters) can generally make their willingness to do something crystal clear, especially when they are left free to do so.

More after the break.

---

The latest mutation

Or rather, the latest manifestation of one that has been going on for a while.

Warning, there is some very gross stuff involving sputum coming up. ^[!]

So this thing has been happening now and then. It always happens when I am sitting on my couch (love seat, whatever) watching stuff with J&J out in the living room and imbibing my carbonated beverage of choice.

It starts as a case of the hiccups. But not normal hiccups. No cute lil “hic!” here, at least not from my point of view.

These are the kind that feel like they are attached to something. Something that gets jerked upward like a fish you can’t quite land with every hiccup.

And with this comes a very odd feeling of fullness not in the stomach or guts but in the region of the trachea and esophagus between the sternum and a few inches above the belly button, or thereabouts.

It’s a sort of overinflated feeling. Unpleasant and a little painful.

Now if I am lucky, I can just hold my breath and make the hiccups go away like I normally do when I have them.

Learned that from my music teacher in grade 3.

But if I am unlucky, as I was last night, the hiccups just get more intense until I suddenly hork up a ball of some kind of mucus the size of my fist.

Ta da, a wild SPUTUM arrives.

It’s incredibly gross and alienatingly weird. I have never heard of this happening to someone else. Somehow, a ball of gas forms somewhere in my esophagus and gets trapped somewhere in the neighborhood of my diaphragm and the pressure from my esophagus pushes a ball of the sort of thing that is never meant to see the light of day up the trachea along with it and then I have a very nasty moment.

At least, that’s my theory.

Happened twice last night. And the second time the color was….distressingly dark.

Not midnight black or anything. I’m neither a smoker nor a miner.

But a lot darker than what I normally hack up when I have a chest cold or the like.

This phenomenon has recurred about six times this year or so. And I have yet to tell a doctor about it mainly because I could not figure out how to even describe it.

Well I have done that now, so bang goes that excuse.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

[[1]] Sorry, but I could think of no gentler way to put it. “Some gross stuff ahead” is not nearly specific enough. Different people are grossed out by different things. I can read about someone’s bad time on the toilet without much trouble. But menstruation…. [[1]]

More me than you, but still.

Had an appointment at the Wound Care Clinic today. The first thing the nurse did with me was this completely bonkers blood circulation test which involved slapping something a lot like blood pressure cuffs on both upper arms and both ankles.

The machine then sort of kneaded and squeezed me like I was a piece of fresh fruit it was examining for ripeness. This tickled my claustrophobia a little, seeing as i was tied to the machine and all.

But I kept it under control by choosing to reimagine the experience as some kind of bizarre luxury spa treatment.

At an even more bizarre remote luxury spa which may or may not just be a front to let s mad scientist experiment on people.

My imagination is not just fertile, it’s downright fecund.

The machine printed off my result via what looked like a printer from a printing calculator and which made a noise like an angry robot insect ranting in bug language about a serious personal grievance.

See remarks about imagination above.

The nurse looked at the results and become very worried looking.

Oh crap, here it comes, I thought.

She asked me if I had any heart problems in the past. I laughed in relief that it was not something new and told her about my three 90 percent blockages and one 80 percent.

She nodded and said, “OK, because that’s what this says. ”

Ya know, I bet if she had just looked in my file, she would have learned that without hooking me into Doctor Weird’s Cuffs of Doom.

But nobody does. I think the problem is that we now generate more medical data on people than a busy medical professional can take in all at once. And so they have to inhale the bits they think are relevant and go on that.

What we need is medical case workers who follow the patient through the system and keep track of the big picture and let all the specialists take care of their little slice.

Theoretically, your GP is suppose to do that, but they are way too busy too.

Honestly, the whole system needs way more people. More doctors, nurses, techs, orderlies, medical transporters, the works.

But whatcha gonna do.

After the circulation test came the actual wound care part of the visit. The wound looked depressingly the same as the last three or four times the dressing was changed.

Really got to get the blood flowing better in that region.

Unfortunately the nurse also noticed the lesions on my left leg and so she put dresses on those too.

I am very bandaged right now.

And I call it unfortunate but that is dangerously wrongheaded of me. Someone should have been taking the lesions seriously this whole time. The fact that my profound psychological issues made me stop caring about them does not mean they do not matter and are not a problem.

I get the feeling that a full report on all that is wrong with me would shock most medical professionals right to their core because there would be so many serious issues that would prompt them to ask, voice cracking with hysteria, why I didn’t tell anyone about these things until now??

And all I could say would be, “Because depression, man. ”

Followed by : “I’m not saying that I shouldn’t take care of myself better. Obviously I should. I am just telling you why I don’t.

It’s not that I hate flying or don’t want to fly or haven’t seen how awesome flying is yet.

It’s that I don’t have wings. And I need you to understand that. “

More after the break.

---

What’s the point of all this misery?

Catharsis, I suppose. That’s what it all boils down to in the end.

That’s why I go through these negative phases where I just blast out all the pain and darkness and negativity I can find and clear out some space in my head for me to think and feel like a real human being for a while.

It’s the only way I know of to deal with all the darkness and bitterness and pain inside me. To let it all out, without worrying that my demons are going to destroy everyone who reads my words.

People can take care of themselves. And I am beyond worrying about that kind of thjing very much anyhow.

If my road to sanity costs some people some of their, so be it. I have to do whatever it takes to get myself to a saner place and in some circumstances, that might mean just taking what I need without worrying about the consequences to others.

Self-actualization requires selfishness and even foolishness sometimes. You do what you have to do to become more of who you truly are and evolve as a person and to hell with what logic, common sense, or even compassion tells you.

I’m not saying abandon morality and be a selfish asshole 24/7. Perish the thought.

But the route to redemption might lead closer to that outcome than you are comfortable with, and therefore sometimes, you have to be at least a little selfish.

And trust that the world and those you care about can handle it. They are not made of spun glass. They, like you, can take a shock or disruption or two and be just fine.

And they won’t hate you forever for upsetting their applecarts. There are far worse crimes than rocking someone’s boat.

But even if it is going to do actual lasting harm to people if you do what you nee to o in order to actualize yourself, you have to do it anyway, and apologize later.

Normal people who act on their emotions at least some of the time get this. They do things because they feel right. Because a little voice tells them it’s what they need to do.

I wonder what my little voice will have to say when I find him.

Sorry I’ve ignored you and all my other instincts as well, little buddy.

I honestly thought I knew better.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

Set to drain.

Well, it doesn’t look like I am going to make it out to McD’s with La Gang tonight because I have been incredibly sleepy all day, and I am pretty sure I am coming down with something nasty.

I have this scratchy and swollen feeling in my throat and it is making it harder to swallow. My lungs feel raw and scratchy too and I think there’s goo in there as well.

But mostly it’s this heavy tiredness weighing me down that has me worried. It’s way more than my usual malaise. I feel positively saturated with sleepiness and concentrating on the screen and my words is very hard.

I just wanna go back to bed and sleep more. But I need to eat n’ blog so here I am.

I’m just glad I don’t have any appointments today. Pulling myself together enough for a medical appointment seems insane to me right now.

Like being drunk out of your mind and having to suddenly sober up enough to perform microsurgery on the President’s brain.

Yeah, good luck with that.

Then again, I suppose letting a doctor or nurse or whatnot see how tired I am might not be the worst thing.

They might have some helpful suggestions. Or prescriptions. Or both.

If they asked if I had any underlying medical conditions that might be causing it, I would just say “Yes, many. ” then take a nap while they read the multi volume epic that is my medical file at this point.

At some point, it will be easier to list what I don’t have.

Under all the sleepiness, I continue to be pissed off and depressed. How I long to slip this skin and go be someone else for a while.

Skip this whole downward slide into oblivion and let someone else deal with the consequences of my self-neglect.

Watch the whole catastrophe from afar, then pick up my bag and move on.

Not physically possible without some kind of Freaky Friday shit going on, but it is a thought I can’t seem to avoid anyhow.

Talk about being an escapist to the extreme. I want to escape my entire self.

But I am stuck being me so I guess I will have to learn to make the best of it. Learn to turn and face the strain instead of always escaping into the fallout shelter of my mind while the world outside gets worse and worse due to my neglecting it.

And I know damned well that I would be better off dealing with things but I just don’t have the courage or the grit.

And of course, the longer I neglect things, the worse they get, and the scarier they get and the harder they are to face so I keep neglecting them instead so they get even worse and the cycle continues until I end up where I am now.

And it shows no sign of stopping. I am not suddenly developing the courage and grit to deal with things properly now that I am nearing the end.

That’s how I know I am going to die.

Because I am just too weak and pathetic to stop it.

More after the break.

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Why depressives are night owls

I think it all boils down to stimulation levels.

One of the least discussed hallmarks of depression is what I will call stimulation intolerance. As a group, we definitely strongly prefer low stimulation levels.

It’s why we dress in black, like quiet place with subdued lightning. feel acutely uncomfortable at parties with their high levels of both social and physical stimulation, and why we like staying up at night.

At night time, the world is quiet and dark. Most people are asleep, so even the background subconscious stimulation of other living humans being around an awake is at its lowest level all day, And the air is cool and still as well.

These are the conditions in which we thrive.

You will note that there is heavy overlap with introversion. I am not sure what to make of that. I do not think I have ever met an extroverted depressive, only former extroverts.

But I have known plenty of non-depressed introverts. Make of that what you will.

More broadly, I wonder why some of us are so stimulation averse. I can’t help but think it must go all the way down to the level of cellular neurology. There might be something fundamentally different about our neurons.

Something determines whether a given stimulus is interpreted as “excessive and therefore painful” or not. Somewhere in our nervous system, there is a level set that when exceeded equals ouch.

It probably has both an absolute and a relative component. So if the stimulation exceeds this total level OR increases by this amount over a short period of time, the excess stimulation alarm goes off.

And if both happen at the same time, we begin to whimper.

It’s certainly not how I’d prefer to be. I’d rather be able to take at least the ordinary hubbub of daily life without cringing.

Ideally, I would be able to take even a loud party with tons of people and hard pumping music in stride. On the most basic emotional level, I have no problem with those things, but sadly my neurology does. Big time.

So there are places I can’t go and things I can’t do, and that pisses me off.

Not that I blame the world for this issue. It’s not that the world is too bright, loud, social, and so on. The stimulation levels are perfectly fine for most people.

No, the problem is mine. I am not suited for high stimulus environments.

On the other hand, I am ideally adapted for low stimulus environments which extroverts would find intolerably dull, so I supposed it all works out.

So to sum up, we depressives are night owls because only at night are the stimulation levels low enough for us to relax and feel comfortable.

Hit me up if you need any more of life’s mysteries explained.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

In the midst of a pretty bad allergy attack – of the nasal explosion sort – despite having taken my Reactine Complete Allergy and Sinus this morning.

So instead of allergies, I now have allergies and resentment.

Thanks a ton, Reactine!

I guess all clearing out my sinuses did for me was to make room for more pollen.

Because this is an attack of above average intensity. Not by a huge amount but by a notable (and noteworthy) amount.

And it’s annoying, painful, and gross.

Annoying because I have to blow my nose all the time or risk drowning.

Painful because when it gets this bad, my nasal cavities get inflamed to the point where it feels like I am snorting fire.

And gross because snot.

Meanwhile, I am still pretty pissed off about life and the world and everything. It’s horribly unfair that I am going to die before getting to live at all.

Is there a Make-A-Wish foundation for people who are (technically) adults?

And there was nothing I could have done to prevent myself from ening up this way either. I know it looks like there are millions of things I could have done – exercised, taken care of my diabetes WAY better, pushed my emotional boundaries more. taken up an active hobby that included social interaction, and so forth and so on forever.

But looks can be deceiving. All of those things require having a mind, soul, and spirit strong and healthy enough to sustain them and I just plain don’t.

I’ve been very psychologically ill for far longer than I have been physically sick. Its a pervasive spiritual sickness that drains my very soul of vitality and coherence and makes it hard to even be alone with myself sometimes.

Hence my constant need for distraction. If I keep my mind overstuffed with stimulation and diversion, there is no room for the predator within to creepy in and then leap out of the shadows of my mind and GET me.

So whether or not I could have done better and not ended up trapped in a burning capital ship of a body that will likely die before he’s 50 is highly debatable.

Arguably I did the best I could by just making it through the day without having a nervous breakdown and/or killing myself.

Nothing guarantees that if I had just stayed out of my head more and learning how to get along with people I don’t know that I would have made it out there.

I am not built for survival. Which is why I will not survive.

At no point did I really have a chance. The game was rigged from the start. When you are too sick to do the things that will make you well, you are just plain fucked.

So now I am stuck in this slow, heavy death spiral headed for a huge crash and unable to pull up.

Because maybe I don’t want to.

Maybe I want to end it all.

Maybe I want for it all to finally be over.

And maybe that conflict is what will kill me in the end.

More after the break.

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None of this matters

Guess I am at the “violent apathy” phase of my breakdown now.

Because at this moment, I just want to tell the world to fuck RIGHT off. Nothing has meaning, nothing matters, and the whole is just one nonstop out of control rolling shitshow to end all shitshows anyhow, so why the fuck should I care about anything?

I am sick and tired of life. My life in particular – I’m sure yours is fine. And unlike pretty much everyone else in the world, I know the difference between “my life” and “Life”.

For one thing. only one of them is a cereal.

I feel so god damned frustrated. I yearn for so much and yet it is all out of reach. I feel like a dog tied up in a back yard who can see and hear and smell all the exciting and stimulating things going on in the world outside the reach of his leash, but can never actually experience any of it.

All the poor pup can do is bark and howl in frustration, which is what I do here I guess.

The most frustrating thing is knowing how much I am capable of doing. I’m a wizard, Harry, and I can do wonderful, magical things that could make the whole world smile if given the chance, but my fears and my damage and my disintegrating infrastructure are holding me back like a ball and chain.

Only not as kinky.

The thing is, I can’t do this alone. I need help. Lots and lots of help. I need people who believe in my extraordinary potential who are willing to be patient and persistent with me as we work together to haul me out of this god damned hole.

But those people do not exist, in my experience. People might want to help in theory but when it comes down to the wire they see how much blood sweat and tears helping me would actually costs them and they vanish like they were a hologram the whole time.

Not that I blame them. I am a lot to deal with. I might be a sweetie (I am) and all, but I am also a very sick animal and thus not exactly a prime candidate for adoption.

Nobody can handle the real me anyway. Fruvous Uncut is too full of anger and depression and sickness and too socially distorted and diseased for mere mortals to contend with without risking their very sanity.

I have made it the tiny distance I have made it by showing the world a highly filtered version of myself. Everything you see is real but you by no means see everything.

Nobody does. And nobody ever will. Not even my shrink does.

He can barely handle the version I show him now.

The real thing would damn near kill him.

And even if there are people who could handle me out there, my issues keep me from reaching out and finding them anyhow.

I don’t even know how to let people into my life.

I’ve been cold and alone and abandoned since the first day of Grade 1.

I don’t know how to be anything else.

And that is the saddest thing of all,.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

Yeah, still not in the greatest of moods.

I constantly feel trapped. Trapped in this crumbling edifice of a body. Trapped in this absurd and pathetic life. Trapped in this genuine accept no substitutes apocalypse.

I just want to run, run, run away from it all and keep on running until I find someplace pristine and new where I can start all over and re-invent myself as someone possibly actually worth the space I take up.

Which is considerable.

Some place where nobody knows me. Where the people are wholesome and kind and understanding and willing to help a stranger find his place among them.

I could be one heck of an asset to any community willing to take me in and teach me how to get along.

I am positive that my social issues can be overcome with enough positive emotional input. With the right group of warm-hearted open-minded good-natured people I could flourish pretty fast.

Right now. I feel hemmed in by this bewildering maze of bad tapes and hostility and paranoia and fear. So many demons rise up when I even contemplate trying to socialize with people I don’t know that I am afraid they will try to unionize.

And all of them are shrieking in my ear and jumping up and down and clawing at the walls of my mind making it incredibly hard to think and rendering me effectively a drooling moron who can barely remember to breathe.

And yet, none this torment and turmoil can be seen by the world outside my skull. They just see a fat dude with a pleasant but slightly sickly expression on his bearded face, like he is being held hostage by an invisible gunman who said, “Get rid of them!”.

Which is not entirely untrue.

Because no matter how badly I want to make friends and connect with people, all those demons are pushing me in the opposite direction and just want to escape the situation.

Even if it’s a really nice situation. “Nice” doesn’t cut it for them. Only “safe” will do.

So eventually I will have to flee or push people away. But all the while I will have my mask of friendliness and sweetness and light on, so I will confuse the hell out of people who wonder what they did wrong to set me off.

Nothing, folks. You did absolutely nothing wrong. I am just being chased and hounded by monsters you can’t see and they chased me away.

Wish I could stay,

That’s why I asked for and got some fast-acting anti-anxiety pills like Ativan and that other one. In theory, one of those could take out my anxiety for long enough to get the positive social interaction flowing in a social situation and that could go a long way towards erasing those bad tapes in my head and replacing them with something good.

But I have not exactly been in the mood to stretch my boundaries lately.

So I guess that will have to wait.

Some day I will find my door into the real world.

More after the break.

---

The burning of the blood

I should be talking about how awesome it was to finally go to Denny’s with my friends after all this time, but that’s not what I am feeling right now.

So in summation : It was awesome.

But right now, I burn. I am through with the wistfully longing for escape phase of my shit fit and now I want to burn the world down with my hate.

As far as you know. I might be doing that right now.

Granted, it’s taking a while.

I am definitely feeling like some kind of manic deranged mystic right now. Like I want to wander the streets shrieking incoherent prophecies and outlandish pronouncements and lurid free-form poetry and/or bizarre prayers to obscure gods.

My hero in this would be this guy :

Right now I hate the world. Because everything hurts. Every bit of stimulation is painful. Every reminder that I am alive and have so much more of this shit I have to put up with makes me feel like I am going to explode with rage. My blood burns and boils with raw malevolence and makes me want to take an axe to everything I see and kill it, kill it, kill it now, then kill it again.

In other words, I’m a touch out of sorts.

I feel like a volcano long overdue for an eruption. I want to bust open like Krakatoa with a sound so loud the whole world will hear it and belch forth so much soot and lava and re hot rocks the size of houses that my rage will burn the skies for years to come and everyone will know my name and why it was a bad idea to wrong me.

I want to climb up high, glare at the sky, then take a deep breath and scream the air black with my pain and my rage and my vast unfulfilled id. Just scream and scream like homesick banshee until my primal wrath is spent.

This may or may not involve a Godzilla style rampage through Vancouver.

I’m still working out the details with my agent.

Most of all I want to bellow a battle cry and leap into the fray. I want to fight something, preferably something bad or at least willing. I want to shake the heavens with the thunder of my blows and fight like a crazed beast till drop from exhaustion.

Maybe then I will finally be able to get some real rest for once. Maybe then I will actually burn myself out enough to be able to relax. Maybe then I won’t feel like this :

Like a gear within a gear within a clock within a store
On a street that’s so familiar but you’ve never seen before
Like a telescoping nightmare that has nightmares of its own
Like a book of ancient knowledge you should never read alone
Like too many constellations on a night too full with stars
Was that a doomsday comet or the lights of passing cars?
Is this fever finally ending? Is the meaning underlined?
Or is this just another turning of the windmills of my mind?

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

Went to the Wound Care Clinic for the first time post discharge from the hospital’s IV antibiotic unit today.

Turns out my memories of how huge the Community Health Center is were enormously exaggerated. I kind of suspected that would be the case because the version of it in my memory looked a lot like some kind of concrete mausoleum than a health center.

So, phew on that. But I must admit, I will miss that crazy crypt with the spiraling ramps and the oddly warm decorative style.

Maybe I will put it in a sci fi story some day. Make it the final resting place of a race of meticulous and very religious interior designers.

Positive Feng Shui isn’t just a good idea – it’s the law.

I was almost late for my little date because I slept through my alarm. Twice. I know it went off because I woke up with it still beeping.

And it strikes me that every time I have cursed my alarm for “not going off”, I have actually had no proof of that other than my not waking up.

The hidden assumption being that if it went off, I would have woken up.

Evidently this assumption is unwarranted.

Anyhow, I ended up sliding under the wire with like 30 seconds to spare.

’cause I’m awesome like that.

Then I was the victim of bad signage. I was told by Reception to go wait in Waiting Area B. I saw a sign that said Waiting Area B. It had a chair under it. Sitting next to said chair was a cleaning cart.

So I sat in the chair and internally grumbled about the classy accommodations.

Well it turns out Waiting Room B was a much nicer place further down the hall. The sign did not indicate this at all.

So the two ladies from Wound Care had to come find me and show me where the actual Waiting Area B was, then admit me to Wound Care.

And that was embarrassing. You would think I would be used to this kind of thing by now. But it hurts my pride every single fucking time.

I really need handlers.

The appointment itself was no biggie. Sadly, there was still no wound reduction to be done. The wound was pretty much exactly the same as it had been over a week ago, which was the last time something could be done.

Better get cracking on improving my blood sugar and my circulation or that thing is never going to heal.

Yeah I will get right on that just like all the other things I should be doing but don’t.

I just can’t handle it all. I have too many things wrong with me all at once. All I can do is hang in there and do what I can do when I can do it and go to my appointments and hope to live long enough to get better despite not always doing the homework.

I wish I was strong enough to handle it all. But I’m not.

Hell, there are things I haven’t even told anyone about because I already have too much on my plate.

I wish I could just go surrender myself to the medical system, and tell them to check everything, test for everything, and verify everything because I suck at self-reporting.

And please, hold me here in the hospital until I am fully healed. I cannot be left in my own care. That would be severe neglect.

Because I just plain can’t do this.

Which means it will not get done.

Which means I am gonna die.

And there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

More after the break.

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My last days alive

Traditional wisdom says that when you know you are going to die, you start whooping it up and living life to the fullest.

I don’t know how to even begin to do something like that. Not without a lottery win. I m

I mean, if I was capable of living the good life, even within my extremely modest means, I would not dwell in the darkness of depression like I do.

But I am a cramped up closed off cloistered loner who is too scared of the world to o anything but squat in my cave like one of those poor souls who doesn’t know the war is over and is still, in their minds, hiding behind enemy lines/

Dear me : The war ended a long time ago. You can come home now. Please lay down your weapons and surrender to the authorities so you can get the help you need.

O wait, never mind, they don’t give a shit either. You are, as always, alone in a world you are far too weak to handle.

Some baby birds fly. But others just die.

My being unable to have fun explains why I have $1200+ sitting on my reloadable VISA waiting to be spent. It’s been there for ages and I am no nearer to spending it than I was this time last year.

Too many options and not enough will or desire to form a basis for choice.

Do whatever I want? I don’t know what I want.

I can’t just buy a job writing for TV.

So not only am I running out of time, but I cant even benefit from it. No “Scent of a Woman” style lavish last days for me.

Just the same pathetic lifestyle till I finally die. The perfect ending to a pointless life.

Oh well. At least I won’t be around to see the end of civilization as we know it. The whole world is going to burn because saving it would make twenty billionaires slightly less rich and we can’t have that.

They might get all pouty and throw a tantrum.

This weekend, the air quality was so poor due to all the forest fires that we skipped out usual hangout on Friday night and stayed home where it is relatively safer.

And it only gets worse from here, folks. This time next year even being indoors will not save you and we will all be wearing filter masks 24/7 like the residents of dystopia we quite surely have become.

So maybe it’s for the best that I won’t make it that far.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

And nothing to do.

Today is the first day in almost three weeks where I don’t have anywhere to go. No trip to the hospital for IV antibiotics, no other medical appointment, no nothing.

And that’s got me pretty depressed.

Because now I am back to my pointless god damn existence. Just filling up the hours with distraction and mindless mental simulation while the hours and days and years and all the minutes of my entire life pass me by and I just wait to die.

Not that I want to die, exactly. I mostly want to live. I want to keep on experiencing life, thinking about things, growing, learned, getting wiser and stronger and happier.

Not that I am doing much to bring that about. Squatting in my grotto hiding from the world by playing video games and writing does not do much to stimulate growth.

But it stimulates a heck a lot more growth than death does.

I get so tired, though. Tired of coping, tired of dealing with things, tired of life. Tired of struggling though every fucking moment. Tired of dragging this heavy weight around everywhere. Tired of being crushed by it. Tired of living life with the parking brake on.

Tired of not being able to do simple, basic things. Tired of feeling humiliated by said inability. Tired of being feeble and helpless and clueless and confused. Tired of feeling lost and abandoned and alone.

Tired of being so god damned pathetic.

Tired of completely failing to be an adult. Tired of feeling so much deep and brutalizing shame about it. Tired of feeling like I don’t even deserve to be around people because all I do is disgust them and fill them with gut-wrenching pity and contempt.

Tired of wanting so bad to be a part of things but knowing I never can be. Tired of being on the outside looking in at the bright and shiny wholesome world full of being much stronger than I will ever be living vital, connected, freely flowing lives instead of squatting in the darkness like I do,

They have no idea how good they have it.

Then again, neither do I.

Tired of being alone and isolated and frozen and disconnected and detached from it all. Tired of feeling overwhelmed by life and wanting to just crawl off somewhere and hide from everything forever. Tired of feeling weak and scared and small.

Tired of dying. Tired of getting sick a million ways at once. Tired of being the dumb frog who only just now, when it it possibly too late, had his problems penetrate his very thick sensory threshold and who therefore only now realizes the water he’s in is boiling hot.

Tired of having terrible future prospects. Tired of feeling like I fucked myself over via apathy and inaction. Tired of seeing nothing but pain and fear and doom coming for me like an incoming tide – and having just as much chance of stopping it.

Tired of living a flawed and futile life in a doomed and dying world.

But mostly just plain tired.

I don’t want to die.

I just want to rest – truly rest – for a while.

And that means subduing my tormented and tumultuous mind for a while.

And I don’t know how else to do that.

More after the break.

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More YouTube overflow

The following is a reply to Story 3 (wimpy kid) from the following

Wow, that one hits home.

Here’s my reply.

Story 3 : Look kid. I was a whiny, wimpy, bookish, nerdy kids myself once. I am totally with you on that. I would rather read than doo outdoorsy bullshit too. Know that we are brothers in this. But let me clue you in on something. “Mommy, make them play with me!” is about the worst thing you can say/do. It instantly shows that you are a whiny spoiled baby worthy of almost infinite contempt. If you don’t believe me, imagine the situation is reversed. Imagine you have a group of nerdy friends, and someone drops an eight your old into your group. And he hates everything you do,. He thinks books are stupid. He hates science fiction. And he whines to his mommy in order to get her to force you to do the active, rough and tumble, outdoor stuff HE likes even though he absolutely refuses to do anything you like. Now, how do you feel about that kid? Because that’s how OP’s group feels about you. Get it? A big part of growing up is learning that other people aren’t like you and that’s fine. The key word is diversity. If you want your own diversity tolerated, you have to tolerate it in others. So accept that they are different from you and there’s nothing wrong with that. And let them do what they like to do, just like they let you do your thing too. And nobody but your mother owes you love and friendship, get. With everyone else, you actually have to earn it. Take some free advice worth double the price, kid. Get over yourself NOW. It only gets harder with age.

And a big part of getting over yourself is realizing that the world is not about or for you, and that you aren’t any more the center of other people’s worlds than they are the center of yours, and that to the world you are just another person like all the rest.

And there is nothing wrong with that. You haven’t been singled out by the universe for deprivation, denial, or punishment.

You are being treated exactly like everyone else. And if that feels like punishment to you, all I can say is that you have a lot of growing up to do.

Better get it over with ASAP.

And yeah, it will hurt, but it is totally worth it. Once you get over yourself, the world is a much happier, friendlier, and above all more understandable place.

Once you abandon the ego-bound narcissistic pose where anyone who causes a negative emotional response is the epitome of evil and you are just a poor helpless victim of a cruel and malicious world, you will find yourself in much friendlier territory because you know grasp the place your own actions play in your suffering and that means now you can change for the better.

The truth really will set you free. Shed your old baby clothes like a snake shedding its skin (and for the same reason) and put on your big boy/girl pants and grow the heck up.

I swear to God it is totally worth it.

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I am so glad I eventually got to see how unpleasant it was for my “friends” to be around me when I was a teen. I was a total drag.

It doesn’t excuse how they abused me. But it sure as fuck explains it.

Turns out I needed to go to college before I found a bunch of wimpy nerdy friends with whom I was actually compatible.

I still miss those guys.

But hey, I got my new nerd family of Joe, Julian, and Felicity!

I love you guys so much!

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

Well, here we go, deep into the places I don’t want to go.

I have a lot of latent unmet needs that will only go away if I meet said needs in some way and yet are nearly impossible to get met as an adult, let alone a 6’1″ 280 bearded dude with a sky high IQ.

And they are all humiliating as fuck. Because they are infantile, or at best, childish. They are the exact kind of think where even asking them to be met opens one to massive and unrelenting mockery that totally invalidates your worth as a man and as a person.

Our taboos surrounding what is age appropriate are harsh a unforgiving, and remain largely unchallenged unlike all the other bigotries.

But what the hell, let’s lance that boil. Here are some of my humiliating unmet needs.

I need to be touched. God, do I need to be touched. My recent two weeks doing the daily IV antibiotic thing made that abundantly clear. I was absurdly grateful for the small amount of human touch when my IV was connected or my dressing was changed.

It felt so good. Like a little warmth and sunshine after a very long winter. Like for once I was a tiny bit alive and vital and real. Like I was part of the human race.

And now that has gone away. Oh well, at least there will be dressing changes via the wound care program.

Further along that line is a need for affection. Cuddles. Hugs. What I really need is for someone kind and understanding to hold me and stroke my forehead and rub the back of my neck and tell me everything’s going to be all right.

And I need them to do it for a very long time. Days, perhaps.

No wonder I am such a cuddlebug as Fruvous. I am trying to meet a profound unmet need via text chat.

It’s nowhere near as good as the real thing, but it’s all I can handle.

And all I can get.

Further along that line is a need for sex, or rather, sexual affection. I need someone to touch my peepee and let me touch theirs. It’s really an extension of the need for touch and I year for it so much it aches my bones.

I need a playdate with a playmate where we can play “mate”.

And I need love. I need someone to love me so hard I can feel it despite the layers of ice around my heart. A love so strong and so loud that it reaches my lonely little planet in interstellar space and lets me know it’s OK to be alive.

Love and all the rest. I need to be valued, accepted, and appreciated. I need to be guided, advised, given a sense of purpose and direction by someone who has my best interests at heart.

And I need to be cared for. Like an infant or toddler. I need someone looking after me so I can complete that stage of my development and move on.

What the fuck happened in my early childhood to leave me with all this?

Something way before the rape, that’s for sure.

More after the break.

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Because it’s too hot

Too hot, baby.

It’s too fucking hot.

Or at least, I am. (lick finger, press to hip, make sizzle sound)

The thing is, the temp is not that high. Got up to 27 C this afternoon. That’s not danger zone high. Not like earlier in the summer when it got up to 32 C.

So part of the problem must be me. I have not showered in a while because the nurses told me that I could not shower with this dressing on my wound.

Which struck me as odd, because I had been allowed to do so the previous time I had a nasty infection on my leg, with the caution that I should not let hot water hit the dressing directly but having it run on to there from elsewhere on my body was fine.

But they know what they are doing, I guess.

This means that I am filthy and my pores are severely clogged and I desperately need a long hot bath to get this fucking gunk off me.

I feel glazed. Like a donut.

And i have figured out how I can do it. I feel dumb that it took me this long.

I just need a spare dressing. Take one dressing off, take my power bath, towel myself vigorously, and then carefully apply Dressing #2.

Compounding my feelings of mental vacuity is my remembering that I did that exact same thing many times during the previous infection. D’oh!

Oh well. The thing about the past is that it passed. It’s gone. And there’s not a god damned thing you can do to change it.

All you can do is learn and move on.

I’ll be going to the Wound Care Clinic this Saturday, and I will ask for an extra dressing then, and then make with the bathing when I get home.

I haven’t bathed for a very long time. I’ve been mostly a shower guy ever since I outgrew my childhood tub back in my early teens.

So I will need to refresh myself on the procedures.

Right now, at this moment, my main problem is that heat stroke has completely slain my appetite and yet I really should eat supper.

I have been trying to think of things to order in that might get me excited to eat, but I got nuthin’. Eating seems like an alien and bizarre act right now.

Hopefully, once it cools off some more and I manage to get myself hydrated enough to actually get ahead of evaporation for a bit, I will cool own enough to want to eat.

Otherwise, it will be yet another skipped meal for me.

And I really should not be doing that.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

But a new. sinister player has appeared.

Today was officially my last day on IV antibiotics.

Which is a sad.

But at least I got to thank the nurses for the great job they did making me feel relaxed and comfortable while I was there.

It came out sort of sideways and awkward, but what the hell, it got the job done.

Got to consult with Doctor Vortel one last time. He reminded me that if I want my wounds to heal, I need to fight the stasis dermatitis by sitting with my feet above my heart whenever I can.

And I probably can do this, but I am not yet certain how.

The obvious and uncomfortable way would be to sit with my legs up on a box or whatever when I am on the computer. But there is nowhere near enough room under my computer desk for me to get my feet up high enough.

Dang these long and lanky legs of mine.

That leaves the unpalatable option of sitting with my legs up on a box or whatever and my torso and head perpendicular to my computer,

This strikes me as hilariously awkward and uncomfortable and probably very very painful and unhealthy in the long run.

And the idea is to get healthier. Severe torso pain is counterproductive to that goal.

The other solutions are worse still.

Like somehow moving myself lower, thus lowering the bar on “above my heart”. But then I would be reaching up awkwardly to use the keyboard and mouse. and the monitor would be way too high for comfort.

Ditto if I was to somehow make the desk taller. Same problems.

No, I think the only solution is to rearrange the items on my desk so that the monitor, keyboard, and mouse are in their proper places when I am sitting (as it were) side-saddle to the computer desk.

There would still be somewhat of an angle due to my current tragic inability to phase through solid matter (some day!), but I think the angle would be small enough that I could get used to it without a period of spinal trauma.

Otherwise a pretty radical redesign of my living space would be required.

Something involving hanging things from the ceiling like in some avant garde art installation in a hip museum.

Either that, or getting a monitor big enough that I could still see everything clearly despite it being the length of my legs away now.

Given the current state of my vision, it would practically have to be one of those enormous screens they have in sports arenas.

Still, it could be done. Solutions are possible. And who knows, maybe I will have one of my rare but spectacular super clever ideas that makes it all work perfectly.

My others stop today, besides going to the bank and finally cashing those checks, was a stop in with Ray at Coastal Sleep so he could give me the bits n’ pieces to upgrade my old CPAP machine with a brand new hose and a nose-only mask.

Humorous : the business part of the nose-only mask fits over my nose like a clown nose. Not what I was expecting. But I am determined to adjust to it and make it adjust to me until we reach some pleasing equilibrium.

I want to breathe in my sleep. Is that so wrong?

More after the break.

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Hello darkness my old friend

First, the obligatory link :

Corny intro aside, I’ve been in a bad state emotionally lately.

The tidal waves of despair are back, but I don’t take them, seriously. They are nothing but meaningless fluctuations in mindless brain chemicals and I am content to let them wash over me and through me without content or conflict.

Well, that’s the idea, anyhow. I’m working on it.

The important thing is that I don’t give a shit. It’s not important. It’s just bullshit.

More troubling is this creeping anxiety that is stalking me. It really gives me a feeling of being hounded by a nameless dread in my own mind. Like the second I let my guard down, a demon is going to get me.

And that makes a fella kinda tense.

And I want to stop running and, as Nietzsche said, “reach out a hand to the ghost that haunts me”^[1]. But that doesn’t seem to be in the cards.

I can’t get off this crazy ride until it’s over, it seems. Can’t stop dancing until the music stops and we can all go home.

But who knows. Maybe at the right moment, I will suddenly turn to face that pesky demon directly and let it have it will all my suppressed fragments of id and echoes of emotions past and all the other random scraps of soiled documents in my mind in one enormous primal SCREAM that blasts the goddamn thing into bits.

One gigantic heavy metal howl that scares the birds out of the trees so badly it looks like the trees spit them out. One that makes your teeth vibrate in your mouth and your jewelry ring like a struck bell in sympathy and the dust of a hundred years puffs out of long forgotten cracks and crevices to fall like snow upon your furnishings.

The kind of sound that pierces so deep into the soul that it makes complete sociopaths wonder what they did wrong and opens a wellspring of joy in the hearts of misers and cuts one clear safe path through the walls of shadows oppressing the depressed.

The coast is clear. Run for it!

Or maybe just the act of giving myself pretext and permission to let my hot n’ fervid creativity run wild with imagistic madness for a while will do the trick.

I should try being a poet.

It seems to come naturally to me.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.