Writer’s Block

Do you all remember a time when I would bust out posts every day, sometimes twice a day, sometimes thrice a day? That time ended many months ago, and this writer’s block has continued something fierce. Every once in a while I come on and see how everyone is doing, what’s going on their life and where they are heading and I wonder why I just can’t kick my ass in gear and write.

I’m a writer for God’s sake, that’s what I do.

So, as I sit in class right now, it got me thinking about my writer’s block, others writer’s block, and how people just push through it. So that’s what I’m trying to do, for the sake of the cathartic process, and for the sake of my writing future.

Because I am such a broken human being unique individual with a variation of experiences, I decided to do something for myself and attend an outpatient group. This group meets three days a week, for three hours each day, and I’m on the evening schedule. We learn a lot about coping skills, about forming and maintaining healthy relationships, as well as being open and honest about what’s going on in our head. Some people have substance use issues partnered with their mental health, others don’t.

I’m not sure what I’m learning from it. I know that it gets me out of the house and prevents me from isolating, which is good for me, and I know it’s good for me because I absolutely hate doing it. And I seem to hate doing anything that’s good for me. Ever get that feeling?

Meanwhile, the outside world is falling apart and we’re all sitting around twiddling our thumbs like:


When we should be doing something like this:


Kanye West is trapped in a perpetual state of “mania”, or at least he’s addicted to the “manic” behavior, Trump is still president, sexual assault victims are coming forward and getting pushed back down, people are putting guns to their heads, overdosing, throwing themselves off bridges and the ages are getting younger and younger, there’s rarely anything positive on the news (in America), everyone kind of flipped the bird to school shootings, cops are still shouting “break yourself fool!”, cocking their gun sideways, and blowing seven holes in innocent people like they work for the crips, and meanwhile I’m sitting here on this computer documenting it all, processing it, and thinking back to similar times.

I think maybe, just maybe, we’re all stuck in a pretty serious delusion about our lives: That we can continue moving forward with all of this baggage on our back. Nothing is being discussed, and when a discussion does arise, it turns into nothing more than the internet being divided on the subject for a couple days. Racism is a hot topic, until a school shooting happens. We’re all crying for the students until a cop shoots another unarmed white, black, yellow, blue, brown, rainbow man/woman. As we writhe from the shock, Trump says something outlandish and/or stupid (mostly stupid), and all cameras point to him. They’re so busy photographing his orange face and blonde toupee that they miss the guy standing on the bridge behind them, tears streaming down his face.

There’s no soft way to put things: we’re living in a society in which things are swept under the rug.

I guess it’s nice that you and your friend on Facebook have these deep philosophical conversations over messenger that ultimately ends with one of you quoting words you don’t understand by some unnamed author, hoping that the way you’ve carried yourself and your political stance will help you sound like an intellectual.

And it doesn’t help that when something serious on social media is trending, it doesn’t get taken serious and its fifteen minutes of fame go by in five. This is my argument against May Mental Health Awareness month. There’s nothing impressive about a month of people saying nice things to each other and being supportive when that mindset falls apart in June.

At this point, I’m ranting, because if there’s one thing we all understand about writer’s block, is that you can’t pull the right fucking words out of your head even if your life depended on it. Something has them stopped up like hair in a drain, and I don’t have a long enough whatcha-ma-call-em to dig the mess out. The only solution is to pour corrosive bleach down the hole and let it set. So, I’m pouring bleach on my brain and waiting for the magic to happen.

What will happen to this blog? I’m not entirely sure. I don’t want to get rid of it, I want to help it blossom into what it once was. I want to communicate to real people about real topics and still promote mental wellness. I want to commit to writing at least once a day to gain back old followers and shake hands with new ones. I want to be part of the solution, not the problem, in my own life and in relation to the rest of the world. I want a lot of things, as you can see, and I’m not quite sure what that means.

And that’s today’s Mental Truth.


Tell ’em

What are some of the strangest reactions you’ve had when you’ve told someone your mental health story?

Do you tell people your story? I know plenty who do not, and for good reason: we’re not exactly the most understood people out there.

But see, I like shocking people. I like making them uncomfortable, watching them squirm. And so I often tell my story to strangers, especially if they approach me on the street trying to hit on me. How do I do it? Well, here’s the way it usually goes.

“Hi, I’m Dave, can I ask your name?”

“Hi Dave, I’m Alishia, nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too. What are you up to today? Any plans for tonight?”

“No real plans, just some relaxation. It’s my day off today.”

“Oh yeah? Where do you work?”

*Insert Cheshire Cat smile in my head*

“I work at a peer respite house.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“Well, you see we support people who are apart of the county mental health system.”

“That sounds nice. Did you go to school for that?”

“You have to have lived mental health experiences. We do get trained, but we also have to have lived with some mental health challenges ourselves.”

And if that doesn’t make them uncomfortable, if they don’t glance away or squirm or do any of the body language symbols that means I’ve got them by the neck I mention my psychosis. That usually gets them.

What are the benefits and disadvantages to doing this? I don’t see many disadvantages. I of course wouldn’t do this in a professional setting were I applying for some big time job that isn’t mental health related, I’m aware most people have some serious misconceptions of who someone with mental health issues is. But I do it to people I meet or people I’m meeting because I’m not someone who sees my mental health as a disadvantage or something to hide. I see it as something to embrace, something to be fully, wholly comfortable with.

I don’t run down the street screaming I’m crazy, even if that’s what it sounds like. But if the topic comes up in conversation, I casually mention my struggles, and if people struggle with accepting them, that’s not really my problem.

How did I become comfortable with this? I wasn’t in high school. I didn’t like telling people I had anxiety around people because I thought it was a weakness and I didn’t want to expose my weakness for people to play target practice with. I didn’t start getting comfortable until I turned twenty and was forced to tell my boss at the amusement park I was working at so that I could get accommodations. The way he responded was very understanding, and I regret leaving that job without really giving any proper notice.

Sometimes all it takes is one moment in time.

Sometimes all it takes is a little risk.

People will react badly. And if you already know that, you’re already 10 steps ahead of everyone else. And that’s today’s Mental Truth.

Why Writing is Actually the Bane of My Existence.

What a shit title, you must be thinking. And you’d be right, that is a shit title, but I refuse to change it because it is my shit title and I own my shit titles. If I could see you, I’d stick my tongue out at you.

5227758-a-disgusted-girl-giving-a-bratty-expression-toward-the-cameraa-bratty-valley-girl-expressing-towardYou also may be wondering, like smart-asses always wonder, “why are you writing if it’s the bane of your existence?”

<—(How I imagine your face).

Simply because the bane of my existence also happens to be the thing I enjoy the most. Because I, apparently, enjoy suffering. Think about it. If you don’t suffer, you don’t really grow. And if I didn’t suffer as a writer, I wouldn’t grow as a writer. And we all know a stunted writer isn’t really a writer at all, but rather someone who writes.

It’s the bane of my existence because I can never keep things consistent. That was not meant to rhyme, but it did. What I mean is that I’ll take a hiatus for a while, kick myself for taking that hiatus, struggle coming from that hiatus, and then finally breaking through the clouds and pouring my heart into what I do. However, there’s always that looming cloud reminding me: you’re going to fall again. Hey, hey, guess what? *Initiate plummeting to death sounds*

Take this blog, for example. I had a lot of things going for me on this blog. I had consistent readers, consistent followers, I had a nice little fan base and things were moving along quite swimmingly. And then I went crazy and had to take a hiatus and lost all of it. Well, most of it. I lost the rights to the domain because I couldn’t afford it any longer, and I lost consistent readers because who the hell is going to wait almost a year for someone to stop being crazy so they can start writing again? People’s attention spans are NOT that long anymore. Including my own. I can barely pay attention to myself.

My fiction writing suffered. I stop writing short stories, I stopped jotting down ideas for short stories, and what initiated was a complete breakdown of the self. Writing is the bane of my existence because if I don’t do it, I’m at a complete loss. It’s like heroin. Warm, foreboding, deadly, and addicting. I use negative connotations to describe writing because, as you can see, I have a love-hate relationship with it.

not_funWriting isn’t all fun and games, people. Jesus. You can’t just slap down words in any old order you want and call it a piece. I mean, it’s not like I haven’t been doing that for the last 3 years on this blog at all. I totally calculate each word that spears through my fingers.

On a side note, I just bought Schrodinger’s “What Is Life” book, because I barely learned about it yesterday and cannot believe I’ve never heard of it. It should be a good read.

See: attention span = shit.

And that’s another bane of my existence: reading. I love it. I mean, I really love it. I read The World According to Garp in one sitting because I was so enthralled by the story I couldn’t put it down. After that, I picked up a second book and read well into the night. I love reading. But it’s always been hard for me to focus on something like a book, unless it snatches my imagination like The World According to Garp, or I’m on some medication like Effexor that makes me highly focused.

But writing. Oh-ho, fuck writing. I love it, but fuck it. And who’s to say you can’t love what you hate? There’s got to be a reason you hate it, right? Maybe you hate it because you love it. Maybe you hate it because it brings out a side in you that you can never project otherwise. Maybe you hate it because you’re just in a spiteful mood, but really you love it. I don’t know your life, man.

That is why you should embrace what you hate. Embrace your enemies. Embrace that one teacher in school who always picked on you. Mine made me a better writer, even when she called mine shit. Embrace what infuriates you the most, and you may learn the reason it infuriates you is something deep within yourself, something you’ve been ignoring.  And that’s today’s mental truth.


10 Questions For Cannibals


Don’t you love the power of irony?

Just this last week I was wondering where all my dreams had gone.

Stop thinking so melodramatically, I’m talking about my literal dreams. Those moving pictures behind your eyelids when you fall into (on an average scale) 8 hours of necessary unconsciousness.

Tonight they’ve flooded every crevice and crease in my brain to the point unconsciousness becomes rather unbearable.

As I’m sure you’ve noticed if you read my posts, I display several parts of myself on this website, my sarcastic and at times harshly opinionated dominant self which is, probably, the one my brain most frequents for the purpose of keeping up a personable persona. It’s the sarcastic humor that gets people.

I switch back and forth frequently depending on the situations, as I’m sure all of us do. How else could we as humans function as humans in the system we’ve created?

Tonight I’m not feeling as sarcastic or opinionated. 


I awoke yesterday afternoon at 2pm after sleeping at 7am, went to eat with my boyfriend at 6:30 p.m, came home around 8:30 p.m and started falling asleep shortly after.

Every second I closed my eyes and fell into a sudden slumber, moving pictures appeared at lightening speeds. I only remember one: a spiral of white string descending into a black hole. It jerked me from my sleep.

Multiply that by twenty five and that’s how often I’ve woken up between the last five hours.

The dreams are unending. This has only happened a few times in my life and as much as I love dreaming, I despise it. They’re vivid and loud and convoluted, short lived and obnoxious. I’m one to always remember my dreams and the messages they carry, but when they fly unhinged from an assembly line, I can’t latch onto them or control them and, much like my thoughts, they clog up the breathing spaces in my brain and each time I awake with less hope of a peaceful sleep.


To deal with this situation, I call upon a part of myself seldom seen outside of my academic world. This is the part of me which swallows experiences and knowledge like a neglected dog does True Blue. They scarf down the food so quickly vets give it to them in small increments so they don’t harm their starved digestive system. That’s how I must receive education. If not, my brain will explode.

That’s a fact.

As I’ve said before, I’m a very intense person. Everything I do must be done to perfection (which is obviously unobtainable) and therefore I’m constantly striving to perfect what I’ve already perfected. It comes in handy in academia because I’m not bored easily. There’s always something I can fix, something I can learn, something I can use. Sometimes I push too hard and do too many things at once which only overwhelms my brain. Much like those dreams.

This is what I get for trying to get to sleep early. Unending torment.


Not really torment.

Just insomnia. 

Although . . .

eh, it might as well be considered torment.

Then comes the hunger. The need for fresh human blood, warm and soothing down the back of my throat, the want for soft, stringy flesh stuck between my teeth, melting from the acidity of my saliva alone on the tip of my tongue . . .

I mean food. 

I get really hungry at night. I know it’s not good to eat at night or before you go to bed (or is that a myth?) but sometimes I can’t help it.

Had a bowl of ice cream and a cookie.

I could have at least ate healthy.

I have a frozen arm in the freezer I was saving for later.

They’re fun to gnaw on like a turkey leg.


Do you think serial killers or cannibals have anonymous, carefree blogs like us? You think if they could bounce their IP address around the world like a seasoned hacker they could freely express their desires and actions without the threat of police intervention? Would it have the same therapeutic effect for them as it has for many of us? Or would it give them an excuse to test the system, test the people, and test themselves? See how grotesque they could get to impress their followers like the majority of other humans?

Think of the invaluable insight we’d have on the way they think. It’s all fine and dandy to classify the ones you catch into similar categories.

But what about the ones you don’t? What if they’re reading this blog right now?

10 Questions for Cannibals :

  1. What do humans taste like?
  2. Do you really crave flesh or is it about complete and utter domination?
  3. Which is better: cooked arm or raw arm? Have any seasoning tips for me? Do you use A1 steak sauce or Worcestershire sauce?
  4. Could you eat someone you care about? Or do they have to be completely irrelevant?
  5. Would you kill yourself if you had to become a Vegan?
  6. Would you eat a Vegan?
  7. Do you find cannibal jokes offensive or are you the one laughing the hardest because you understand it better than anyone else?

    This Is A Bad Joke
  8. Do you have other fantasies that don’t involve devouring flesh?
  9. Do you recommend everyone try human flesh at least once in their life? Is it “Bucket List” worthy or “forgotten to-do list” worthy?
  10. How long have you known you were destined to eat human flesh over antibiotic infused cows? I mean really, eating a human with all the things we get injected in our bodies? Cannibalism in 2016 makes eating a cow fed chicken liver instead of grass healthier compared to what we pile in our bodies.

Those are honest questions. Assuming I don’t get a sensitive cannibal, they shouldn’t be that offensive.

10 Questions for Serial Killers: 

  1. Have you ever provided a cannibal a body in exchange for payment? Seems like a legit business opportunity.2072047_business-handshake-general-hire-appointment-700x450
  2. How did you like elementary school? Is that where your fantasies of killing developed? All the little snot-nosed rug-rats making fun of you for your big ears or pointed nose?
  3. What first raced through your veins after your first kill?
  4. Do you pick your victims by a physical characteristic or do you just place marks on those who get in your way?
  5. How would you define happiness? Sadness?
  6.  If you’ve ever dismembered a body, why? Were you curious? Is it because you never got a chance to study medicine or is it because you got a chance to study medicine?
  7. How intelligent do you consider yourself? How intelligent do you consider other people? What is intelligence? data-for-business-intelligence-1024x959
  8. Do you prefer to get to know a person before you steal their life for a greater satisfaction or do you prefer to ignore their existence and see them only as a physical thing created solely for your mental release?
  9. Why have you never been caught?
  10. What makes you laugh?

Those are also honest questions. I have a lot more but considering the fact that there probably aren’t a lot of cannibals or serial killers reading this, I decided to cut it off at 10.

If you knew someone was a cannibal or a killer, but you also knew what made them laugh and what makes their brain tick, could you be their friend if they never ate or killed you? If you weren’t their “type”?

Personally, I’m interested in everyone and anyone. As long as I don’t get a knife in my chest and my fingers in a frying pan as a garnish for a Caesar Salad.

This post took an interesting turn. This is why I love my brain and this part of me. We always have the most interesting conversations.

It’s 4:30 a.m.





My nickname should be Serial Killer because I murdered the shit out of those applications!

No one?

Alright. It’s all good. Go laugh at someone else, someone funnier and richer and willing to stand on a stage at the risk of humiliation, it’s not like I’m going to hack your I.P address and GPS track your computer and find your house and light it on fire and laugh at it or anything.

I won’t, I promise; empty sarcastic threats are my specialty.

Even if I did find your address, I’d probably just steal your dog.

I’d leave a note too, saying “sorry I stole your dog; I left an Iguana in it’s place. His name is Dave. He hates people. Have fun!”

I did murder those applications though.


What applications? What are you talking about? What’s going on!??!?! WHAT IS LIFE?!?!?!?

Let Me Put Some Kush Up in It

Job applications ya’ll. They annoying.

But I be murdering ’em left and right trying to get me some income so I can stop being the broke ass I’ve always been. I’m clicking on “apply” to every single position that isn’t Cashier or sales floor representative or sales associate or anything that has me dealing with people’s problems all day long.

I know I can handle a few people, maybe team members who I have to see and interact with every day, people like that. But if you expect me to handle bitchy customers for six to eight hours a day and still go home sane, than you’ve got the wrong person.

I’m not even considering restaurants. Could you imagine me as a server? One of two things will happen:

  1. The people will be so intimidating I’ll have the same breakdown I had at my last retail job and just quit coming–the anxiety would keep me up all night and once this next semester starts up again I can’t have these kinds of distractions. I refuse to let my mental health hold me back from what I want to do with my life any longer. That includes working.
  2. I’m going to get so pissed off my face is going to go beet red even though it’s brown and a bitches head is going to get cut off.

I mean, it is what it is.

I have a mouth and I have anger issues. If you tickle that little spot–err, okay, that gigantic spot–my anxiety will literally poof out of existence. I might not even remember what I say, or even do. I’ll have a rage attack. Don’t underestimate girls man, we can go 0-100 real quick.


At least, I can.

So I’m looking for jobs that either having me driving or in the backroom or stocking the floor or cleaning–anything with a limited amount of exposure to the public.

It’s interesting the situations where my anxiety seems to extinguish itself. In an argument the anger will prevail. The throbbing in my throat and chest is no longer fueled by fear but by pure adrenaline, angry adrenaline, and it honestly feels pretty good. I probably don’t get enough of my other emotions, that’s my theory. It’s nice to let it all out every once in a while. But how and where–that’s what I need to work on.

If I see someone getting assaulted or, when I was school bullied, I’ll be the first to step in or call the police or put myself in a situation a lot of other people tell me not to.

One night my boyfriend and I were walking out of CVS drug store and a man was shouting at the top of his lungs at some woman in a white car. There’s always security around this story because it’s open 24/7 but this time they were no where in sight. The four homeless men stood by the wall watching and customers were just strutting past hoping they wouldn’t be noticed.

An argument is personal but I didn’t get a good feeling from it. So I stood and watched. The man tried to yank open her car door and when he couldn’t he tried reaching through the window to grab her or punch her; it all happened so fast I couldn’t tell. She screamed for him to get away and I already had my phone out and backed towards the end of her car ready to read the license plate number to the police. My boyfriend kept telling me to come on but I know what it’s like to be attacked–how am I supposed to walk away from that? 

The man ran around the other side of her car and hopped in. Yes, they knew each other, this wasn’t some random robbery or something. They were screaming at each other louder now, loud enough for people to glance over but figure it was unnecessary to put themselves at jeopardy.

I hate the bystander effect. Never been a big fan.



I’m not going to get myself in their business. I was, however, waiting for true physical confrontation–a reason to call the authorities. He tried yanking something from her, it might have been the car wheel, and I called to my boyfriend that I was about to call the police if he hit her. I Basically shouted it. Both people glanced up and the woman stared at me first. The man stared at me second and I glared and I dared him to say some shit because I’m not scared of cowards.

Sounds like I was putting myself in danger, but I wasn’t. There was enough space between us and enough people around to where neither of them would try anything stupid. She started up the car and sped off. Sure, maybe they went and argued some place else. Maybe she tossed him out her car on the freeway. Maybe he shot her. I couldn’t ever know, but I know at that moment I wasn’t going to stand there and watch someone get assaulted.

They were probably drug addicts, there’s a lot of them in that area, but a person is a person.

I wished I could have had reason to call the authorities. I really wish I did; I would have felt much better. My boyfriend told me I shouldn’t get involved but I grew up around that kind of violence. I’m obviously not going to sit around while it happens right in front of my face, not if I have a small window to intervene.

7388786858851959_cpqabkvz_cThose are the moments I’m not really anxious, but the skills I’ve learned through anxiety come in handy. The ability to assess the danger level of a situation, the ability to skim through a million bad options that could happen in a matter of seconds and assess whether it’s worth it or not.

I’m not saying I’m super man here, but shit, if you’re with me in a tough situation you’ll swear up and down I’m the calmest person you’ve met. By the time you realize what’s going on, I’ll have thought of every possibility that could go wrong and every type of solution for those possibilities. I’m always primed and ready for disaster.

I think that would make me a valuable asset to a workforce. If something horrid happens I’m not going to be the one at the desk breathing heavy, distressed, ripping my hair out or the one kicking walls and getting blinded by panic. I’ll be the one zipping through a million solutions I already on reserve, and I’ll keep zipping through them until one of them works.

Those of us with mental health issues are valuable members of society, society just doesn’t know that yet. And I have to admit, many of us who struggle like that don’t even know it yet. But we are. We see the world in an entirely different light. We can come up with ideas and solutions and options unique from the average person.

We’re applied artists and good workers and intelligence people; we’re college students and Ph.D’s and writers and comedians and actors and band geeks. We make up a substantial part of the population and we have an insight on the world no one else does. Be proud of that. 


But also be proud of the fact that you’re not that different from everyone else. We all struggle with something, whether it’s mental health, physical health, emotional health, money, housing, whatever; we all struggle. We’re not very different from each other and I think the more we divide ourselves up into categories, the more stigma is perpetuated–not just for mental health but for all sorts of other issues.

We focus on our differences rather than our similarities. How does that make sense?

That’s why, a while back, I bashed the #StopTheStigma twitter sensations with their cardboard signs and medications. We’re different, but we’re not that different. Not so different that we should separate ourselves from the rest of the population. We all struggle. I think that’s what people fail to notice, that mental health issues cause a struggle.

We’re all so used to feeling our own struggle that we invalidate other’s struggles. I’ve done it before. We’ve all done it.

That’s the real problem here. Fuck not understanding the disorders, fuck not understanding the brain or classical conditioning, fuck Political Correctness like the difference between having a disorder or being a disorder, fuck having a disorder vs a disease vs an illness. This runs deeper than that. 

You don’t have to identify with my anxiety or have lived with anxiety to understand how hard it is to simply struggle. You should intrinsically know that tight knot in your stomach and negative thoughts and how hard it is to get out of bed some days. Because we all do it over different things. Because we’re all humans.

I think. Except maybe Ben Carson. I think he’s an alien Ya’ll.

The point is, I’d be a good worker so fucking call me back already. Shit.

If titling this post #GiveMeSomeWorkDamnit actually gets me work, I will take back all the bullshit I talk about # campaigns.

Thug Life And The Holidays


Note to self:

Don’t go to sleep at 8pm; you’ll wake up at 12 am.

And lay in bed staring at the ceiling until your eyes bleed.

Or you get hungry enough and crawl out to the kitchen sniffing for food.

Which is exactly what I did.

And I’m still hungry, damnit.

Holiday’s are stressful. Have I said this already? Have I made it perfectly clear yet that I love winter and simultaneously hate the season of it? The “holiday spirit?” Because I hate it.

Oh, I haven’t said it enough?


I sound like a horrible person right now, a partially loony insomniac sipping Orange Juice and water at 4:06 am staring at an empty blog page wondering why she’s a partially loony insomniac sipping Orange Juice and water at 4:06 am.

Then she stares into the orange goodness in the flower cup and wonders about the validity of her existence, the reality of her existence, and then figures none of it matters if Iheart Radio plays the shitty song it’s currently playing.

I switched it. For God’s sake my ears were on the ledge ready to jump screaming “I never wanted to go out this way!”

What the fuck was I talking about?


Does anyone who reads these things follow my rambles half the time? Because I don’t.

The holidays, that’s right, how could I forget that bullshit. Out of all the things in the world, how could I forget that.

Like I said, it’s stressful. There are people giving you gifts who expect the same in return even when you haven’t had the seven years needed to connect with them, and drivers on the street don’t give two shits about their lives if they can’t get to Toys R Us before they close so they can get their daughter a collection of overrated Monster High dolls and their son an overrated collection of WWE action figures (that are really just dolls) so their entire family can perpetuate gender stereotypes and then wonders why their daughter is scared to speak up in class and does horrible on math tests and wonders why their son doesn’t have any friends because, little do they know, he has to hide the fact that he prefers to sit in a garden and sniff flowers than be with the other boys shoving and tackling each other on the concrete.

Are you happy with yourselves?

You don’t get your mail until 9 pm. 

Traffic becomes the bane of your existence.

Everything is green. I hate green. That is my least favorite color.

Red is my second least favorite color.

Parties are my least favorite thing.

People are my second least favorite thing. 

Chocolate, however, is one of my favorite things. I get a lot of that during chocolate-food-meltingthe Holidays, it’s what keeps my brain from exploding and my tongue from mouthing off to people it shouldn’t. Who could let scornful words fly from their tongue if their tongue is slathered in creamy, cocoa goodness?

A serial murderer, that’s who.

And that’s not me.

Although, the money’s probably good if you’re working for someone. I heard Kidneys sell really well on the Black Market. But you didn’t hear it from me. 

I’m a very sensitive person, you guys. Stress is in the air during holidays, I can’t take it. I can’t take all the expectation and societal responsibility and people smiling at you saying happy holidays when you know damn well if it was any other week they could give two shits about you.

18k2f6fh7cxz8jpgI always stress out about the gifts I’ve chosen. I never have very much money, so obviously I’m not presenting a new car to anyone, but I try and do the best I can with what I have. I know it’s the thought that counts, or whatever people say, but then you wonder if anyone even gives a real shit about that. How do you know they’re not using your gift to wipe their ass with? And that’s why you never see it hanging in their house or sitting on their table when you come over? And that’s why their pipes are always clogged? Because that’s how shitty your gifts are? Or what if they just shove it in the closet and that’s why they want you to call them before you come over, so they can set it somewhere obvious in the house for when you arrive?

I’m a sensitive person. 

Today in Big Five there weren’t many people but the feeling–it was overwhelming for me. I heard the woman ringing up the customers and saying “thank you, happy holidays” every five seconds and the workers who kept rushing past me and talking and chatting about random things and helping customers find products and the old dude next to use buying the air soft gun that he wanted to look like the real nine millimeter that he had at home and the two associates that sold their products like pros hoping to hook, line, and sinker him on some 129 dollar gun. I heard each one of their conversations individually and they were all screaming in my ears.

I heard each of their voices individually, I should say, but as a whole they coweringwere meshed together, one big clusterfuck of conversation and people were walking to close to me, standing too close to me–I don’t like that–and even though everyone was lost in their own little world it felt like they were all talking so loudly about nothing just to overwhelm my senses, just to make me out to be the outcast. Their actions were purposeful, I felt it, and as I stood there like a deer in the face of a rifle, I spaced out to avoid it all.

I’m sensitive to sensory overload. I don’t like loud noises of any kind. I hate cars on the street and motorcycles and vacuums. I don’t like yelling or loud laughing or bangs and although I like looking at fireworks their sound physics put my nerves on edge. I don’t like voices or banging of kitchen dishes or loud televisions. If the noise isn’t consistent, like an alarm beep, or if the noise isn’t music, than it puts me on edge. It’s why I walk around with ear phones in my ear–it mutes a lot of that shit. It mutes conversation and cars and loud noises and things that would make me more nervous than I already am.

When I don’t have music, which is rare and usually a mistake, I have a little space in my mind I go to in these kinds of situations where time no longer passes in the linear fashion we’re all used to thinking about it in. In fact, time there doesn’t exist, only nothingness, and the nothingness isn’t really nothingness, it’s just a black divide, a place that separates me from my physical self which is trapped in the realm of physical life. I no longer hear the conversations or read the words on the packages nor do I pay attention to my own thoughts. I, for a moment, float elsewhere until I’m prompted back into reality by whoever is with me.

Did I mention I struggle immensely with going into public establishments by myself? Well, that’s why.

I also haven’t mentioned that I experience both depersonalization and dissociation. They’ve never bothered me personally. Sometimes I get creeped out when I start having to ask myself if I’m in reality, but it never lasts longer than a few seconds or a minute. Rarely longer than that.

Once I blacked out and wandered into the middle of the street in front of on coming traffic. My high school friends were running after me screaming my name apparently and I made it to the other side untouched and woke up like what’s wrong? They gave me this look:


I was confused at first then searched my memory: I remembered walking up the hill with everyone, listening to my music and their conversations but keeping quiet because that’s what I needed after a long day. I stood at the corner with them. Then everything went black, like I was asleep. Then I opened my eyes and I was on the other side of the street. I laughed my ass off.

Anyway, today the Dollar Store was worse. There were more people but it wasn’t the numbers that bothered me, it was the feeling. Everyone was stressed. It’s like a bubble expanding, waiting to burst. Everyone was moving quickly and talking quickly and I hate that. Their feelings transferred into my feelings and I was stressed and getting smothered by the bubble they didn’t seem aware of.

I also confirmed the dollar store is run by the mafia. An old, white haired dude with bags under his eyes and a face shaped like Marlon Brando and dressed in a black button up shirt with black pants and a golden cross dangling between the two un-buttoned buttons near his collar walked slowly up and down the aisle next to the cash registers listening to his employees spew their “Happy Holiday” bullshit they probably wouldn’t say to you if his gaze wasn’t screaming “horse head in your bed” at them.

He smiled at me and nodded and I nodded and smiled back and I think I’m a gangster now.


Is that how it works?

The guy in line in front of us bought maybe eleven or twelve items and was staring around wide eyed with a “GOOGLE” beanie on and a meth-look in his eyes and gave the cashier a hundred dollar bill.

A hundred dollar bill. In the dollar store.

Who the fuck . . .?


Anyway, Holidays. NOT my favorite time of year. I don’t like expectation, I don’t like doing things for others because I never know if I’m doing it right. I saw a thing about people with anxiety and the fact that we often spend a ridiculous amount of time wondering if we’re doing the right thing rather than doing anything at all. And it’s true.

That’s going to be my hardest obstacle, being a perfectionist and all.

I’m sure everyone appreciates what I can do but I never feel like I do enough or do enough of it right.

I can’t act “normal”, you know? Does anyone appreciate abnormality anymore? 

Maybe I was out too much this weekend.

Back into my room I retreat. Safe and sound.

I Will Never Have A Career In Graphic Art . . . Obviously

There are two things I will never understand in this world.

  1. Stupid people
  2. Really stupid people

Now, I don’t usually sit here and waste my time talking about your average stupid person, mostly because they’re average and tend to pop up anywhere you go. You know, like that one person who stops to talk with their friend in the middle of the walkway and doesn’t care to move to the side to let the fifty people behind her pass. Or that one person who sits in the middle of the staircase and talks on their phone. They’re you’re average stupid–I’m sure we’ve all been guilty of doing something of that nature a few times in our lives. So we’re all stupid, if that makes this post feel any less . . .offensive.

But then there are the people who are a special kind of stupid. They live under rocks and poke their head out every once in a while just to lock eyes on their prey. When they find them, (the prey is usually me) they smirk to themselves, spend all night laying out the blue prints of their evil plan, and put up all their traps while I’m still tossing and turning in my unsound sleep. When I wake up, I can smell their pheromones. It’s a pungent scent, something like . . . rotting eggplant someone tried to spritz with Brittney Spears perfume.

And the next thing you know, I’m pulling out into the street and some crazy lady speeding down my residential street slams on her brakes and gives me an evil look. I back up accordingly. I give the car next to me an evil look. Do you know why I give the car next to me an evil look? I give the car next to me an evil look because his stupid ass is parked in the red zone.

Well, here’s the thing about my driveway. If you park in the red zone, the street is not visible.

People these days are driving Tesla’s and Priuses, how the fuck am I supposed to hear if a car is coming?

This is better done with a visual, hold up.

First picture tale of car red zone

Stop laughing at my fucking drawing skills.

Now, as you can see, there is a really obvious red zone. People are not supposed to park in the red zone. I gave up believing this is for emergency services (I’ve called them enough to know they just pull in the parking lot) and started believing this is for the safety of people pulling out of the lot, because if even one car parks in that zone, you cannot see any traffic coming towards you. Now unless they’re stuck in the fifties and driving a clunker, you’re also not going to hear them. So let me now give you my view of this situation:

front of car

No matter how far you inch out, you will not see around this big fucker. This is not a one time thing, this is something that happens every other morning. I understand there is not a lot of parking in this neighborhood. The spaces in my apartment complex are paid for, so the people who paid for them get special spots. The rest of us Hunger-Game it out until we get a free spot, hence why I often park next to a spider infested bush in front of the street. Sometimes I have to park a block away and walk my ass. But at least I’m not a lazy asshole and park in literally the only spot, THE ONLY SPOT, on the ENTIRE STREET where you’re not supposed to.

not amused

They usually live across the street. They take their junk out of their backyard and put it on our yard, they park their cars on our side of the street, and they blast their fucking party music all night long. There’s something wrong with that apartment complex. They’re all whacked out on coke or something.

I have no tolerance for inconsiderate behavior. These people are lucky I haven’t seen their car yet. Because the moment they park in that red zone again and almost cause an accident is a moment they get a very distressed, sarcastic, and quite possibly offensive note from me warning the next time they do so I’ll alert the police. Or take a hammer to their fenders and a knife to their tires. At least I’m nice enough to give a warning.

I’m not one to have the police solve my problems for me, but I am one to have stupid people fined for their stupidity. It’s better than getting sent to jail for vandalism.

On five hours of sleep, I can’t handle this shit.

I skipped chem lab today for two reasons: 1)I’m tired as fuck; 2) My lab partner isn’t going to be there and I don’t want to be a loner! I hate merging into new groups, I hate it, I hate it, and I refuse to do it. I don’t care if it’s a maladaptive behavior to avoid what makes me anxious, I don’t have the energy to put up with that level of anxiety today.

It makes me anxious that half of the time I have to fight with these posts to even get them to show up under the tags I tag them with.

It makes me anxious that I have to fight with Microsoft/Xbox to get my ten dollars back for a game I bought on this PC that won’t open in the full version (only the trial version) even after I bought it. Now come on Bill Gates; how many billions of dollars do you have? Give me my fucking ten dollars back. Don’t make me take this to the supreme court, because I’m just crazy enough to do that.

This is why I’ve been a PlayStationer since I was six years old and first held a controller and shot little green and tan army men. PlayStation is Love; PlayStation is Life. Xbox is worthless.

Sorry, if you’re all into Xbox live and all that stupid shit. Sure, I’m pissed I have to pay 50 dollars for a PlayStation plus subscription in order to play online whenever I get a PlayStation 4, but it’s still better than Xbox. A donkey taking a shit on my burger made of ground rotted human flesh is better than Xbox. I think you get my drift.

Also their controller is dumb.

I will say I’m more for PC than Mac, but more inclined to buy Intel than AMD . . .as I sit on a PC with the latest AMD processor. Whatever. There’s not a computer in the world worth the amount of money apple demands. I paid less for my fucking car. That’s not a joke. I got a used car for less than I could get an Apple computer. Let that sink in. Just let it sink in.

For the record, my car runs great and isn’t a junker. I paid $1600. Best Buy wants $2000 for a Mac.

That is all.

P.S I swear to God if this post doesn’t post under the tags I gave it, I’m going to explode some hookers.