So Funny I Forgot To Laugh


That moment you mean to type “terms in anatomy” and instead accurately spell “terms in humanomy”.

I mean, technically I’m not wrong.

Then again there could be beaver anatomy or chinchilla anatomy or dinosaur anatomy–it’s not just all about us.

Be that as it may, I think I should coin the term “humanomy” to mean “the study of human anatomy” before some Ph.D out there decides to take all the credit. Us Undergrads can get wildly creative, as you can see.

*Fun Fact* If you google “humanomy”, you get a human anatomy book in Spanish on amazon. It’s 23 dollars if anyone is interested.

book humanomy.PNG

People wanted me to take human anatomy at my college, but I went in those labs a year ago, I saw those dead bodies with the white sheet on their face pulled so tight you can still make out the indent of their eyes, the tent pitched by their eroded nose, and the thin sliver between their upper and bottom lips. I’ve seen a girl, with the help of her trusty man-side kick, shove their hands into an abdominal cavity, and hoist up the intestines into a vertical angle until we could see the ridges of the spine. I saw the green spotted cirrhosis of the liver and some woman shoved a human heart in my face.

The thing is bigger than I thought.

Sights like those make me feel my organs, and I don’t like that.

I could handle the smell and I didn’t run out of the room like some people–a rather natural reaction to being crammed in a freezer lab with several dead bodies inches away from your supple, living flesh. You almost expect them to reach out and shake your hand and say “hey, nice day today, eh?”

But nope. They dead.

Instead, I looked around and wondered how many serial killers were being created that day.


I should clarify: I stood there in the middle of a freezer with dead bodies, grinning to myself and thinking about serial killers. I’m not creepy at all.

I’ve been a little off this morning. Hence the serial killer stuff.

Because I’ve been drinking more water and getting a little bit of exercise, my energy level has been exceptional, and last night I couldn’t sleep. My class is at 8 a.m. I tossed and turned until 2:30 worrying about the fact that I couldn’t sleep and that worry made me worry farther about my worry.


It’s the conceited, mangled cousin of Meta-cognition.

Whenever I have trouble falling asleep I have trouble distinguishing my dreams from reality. Several times I saw a person standing in my room at the foot of my bed with blonde hair, distorted, pulling at her/his hair and face and skin and silently screaming. Spiders crowded in the corner and there were conversations I had with no one in particular, conversations I can’t remember fully.

I woke at 6:30, the time I wanted to, and felt perplexed by the voices I heard in the other room but figured I was dreaming again.

When I woke up a few minutes later I learned my father had yet another seizure (or set of seizures) and his blood pressure was 252/190.

If you’re not medical savvy or have never paid attention to your check ups in the doctor offices, you might not know what a normal level is. A normal level is 120/80.

He hasn’t been drinking.

We’ve been giving him his blood pressure medication; my mother gives him the night pill because he forgets they’re for his blood pressure and ends up poppin’ them like sleeping pills.

The morning pills are harder to regulate. But he usually remembers to take them.

I theorized he had another one of his “temporal” or partial seizures (whichever, it hasn’t even been officially diagnosed yet) that blossomed into a Grand Mal.

The doctors at the hospital, according to my mother, said seizures can also be caused by fatally high levels of blood pressure.

But there’s no way to tell if the blood pressure came before the seizures, or if the seizures came before the blood pressure, so to automatically assume either is rather irresponsible. It’s a correlational situation and all of us in the research, psychology and statistical world should know those can be relatively unreliable.


They’ve admitted him. Honestly, I think it’s time he see both a neurologist and a cardiologist and get some liver tests done. It’s been 8-10 years since he had a mild heart attack and the doctors said he had congestive heart failure; he’s done nothing, since, in terms of heart health. He’s been an alcoholic or over thirty years, there’s no way all that acetaldehyde hasn’t taken it’s toll.

When you drink alcohol (in regards to those who drink a lot or are addicted), a liver enzyme called alcohol dehydrogenase spurts into action. Yes, your liver specializes for these types of incidents. Respect your body.

But when it metabolizes, acetaldehyde, a naturally occurring biochemical Satan, births itself into existence. The alcohol isn’t what fucks you up, it’s all these metabolite dudes actively racing around your system like deranged toddlers on a sugar high.

Luckily your liver has an enzyme that breaks down that, too.


Fuck giving respect to celebrities for being stuck up little hoes, it’s time to turn that energy into yourself. Your body does more for you than you could even imagine. 

Active acetaldehyde breaks down tissues. It’s a toxin. It’s usually what causes a lot of liver and tissue complications associated with alcoholism.

As you can see, this pharmacology class is paying off.

I don’t necessarily agree with all of this professors approaches to how he views his counseling field, or his view on addiction, but I think that’s the glory of learning.

If you boil life down into broth in your stainless steel pot, you’d see it’s just made up of perceptions and beliefs. They guide you, whether you acknowledge it or not. So, if you’re also inclined in the slightest to Ethics, or you just have some common sense, you would reason that taking and believing words from someone’s mouth just to believe it, just because they say it, just because they’re credible, is essentially letting them and their values, their morals, and their ethical standing, dictate how you make decisions in your life.

Therefore I take what I can learn about the physical body and brain from this class and I move on. I listen to ideas and I take them as just that: ideas. Ideas that someone came up with that may or may not be worth following. I’ll find out for myself.

When my father’s doctor says “it’s weird, your liver test came up with a hepatitis virus but it’s not showing up in your system” my first inclination is not relief, but skepticism. Perhaps its the beginning stages. Perhaps something wonky is going on with your tests. Perhaps he’s beginning that long path down the road of hepatitis and eventually cirrhosis if he doesn’t get his act together.

That’s one thing I’ll never agree on that my professor said:

“There are plenty resources in this town, it’s amazing how we’ve grown”.


That’s straight up bullshit. If you have great insurance and a great employer and make decent amounts of money, your resources are great. If you’re on county medicaid and your unemployed and depressed and an addict and get run around the system, you have two things working against you: socioeconomic status and personal motivation.

If he doesn’t want to take personal responsibility for his actions, that’s one thing. Being dragged through the mud over and over again is another.

At least the ones with the good insurance and tentative doctors have a chance to be properly educated and motivated a little.

Poverty effects the mind just as much as it does the finances.

Rant END.


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.



Entertain Yourself


I come to you live from some obscure little beach town in California that I’m not going to say the name of because I learned from an early age when AOL was your Xfinity high speed connection that you should never mention where you live on the internet, certainly not your address, because killers and kidnappers are just as often online as they are your neighbor, and maybe one of them will get obsessed with the luminescence of your writing and decide to track you down and force you to be a writing slave in their basement, chucking out short story after blog post after manuscript until your hand develops carpal tunnel at the mere touch of a pencil tip because fuck computers, he wants you to do it the old way, the right way–with the daily news.

I come to you live with the daily news, essentially.

No news, really. I . . .

I’m just coming to you live I guess.

Who wrote this script? Diane . . . Diane! I’m not saying this shit it make me sound like an idiot!

Alright, alright, I’m done.

My Actual Keyboard. She’s Gorgeous.

My juices are flowing, my fingers are itching for some of that keyboard cocaine, and this is what I get for trying to sleep early.

After sleeping 4-5 hours these last few nights, one could imagine I’m reasonably tired. And I am. So yesterday, after another five hours of sleep, I decided I would stay up all day and move around all day just to tire this old freight train of a body out.


I literally exhale black smoke, too. It’s the essence of my soul.

I’m done, I’m done, ignore me.

I passed out at 8:30-9 p.m. A new record!

Only to wake up at 1:40 a.m

*Cue canned “sad crowd” noises*

I dreamed about living in a fictional place called “New India” where I had to hide my identity because I was wanted. I lived with a white couple who ran a clothing store in a plaza. We lived in the store. The whole plot of the dream revolved around me putting on proper New India dress and blending into the public. I also asked the man to go back to my house in America and get my Chromebook charger because, shit, I’d forgotten it.

Now I ask you, dear reader, who has graced this blog post page for some reason I’m sure you’re regretting by now, why do I even try?

“Hurr Durr, duh, you try because you need to sleep”.


Dear reader, you would be of wondrous help if my I.Q were 20. Alas, it is not (I’m pretty sure), and I am cursed with a general level of cleverness and intelligence that sometimes gets me into more trouble than I’d care to admit. The awesome thing about that is I never get caught.

I’m not a secret serial killer, but I could be if I wanted to. If I had no moral compass and simply rode the waves of my aggression, could you imagine the bloodshed?

Anyone can kill, of course. But only certain types of people can be good at it. Just like anyone can talk, but only certain people are really good at it. Like Hitler.

I tell people they should be happy I’m awkward in social situations. If I wasn’t, I’d be really good in them and you never know what could happen.

You all know I love you right? I love all of you for reading this ridiculous shit day after day, night after night, and finding humor in the torturous nights I’m awake from sunset to sunrise using sarcasm as my greatest coping mechanism in every ounce of this life.

Sure, I can’t sleep and I feel like ripping my hair out and chocking a crow with it, but–

What the fuck? That flew out of my fingers before it was an actual thought. I don’t choke animals. I love animals. They keep me better company than humans most of the time.

Anyway, I’m generally happy at the moment, despite the circumstance. In fact, I’m riding a pretty nice wave of satisfaction. It’s quiet, I have my Iheart radio, and my technology, and even though being alone can curse me with some hardcore health anxiety, tonight I’m not going to let that stop me from enjoying this peace. I feel well rested. My eyes don’t, and my body definitely doesn’t, but my brain does and that’s all I care about.

One of my favorite songs just blasted on Iheart. My night is now complete.

lsd-484533423-resizedThe point is, no matter how annoyed I am with what my brain throws at me–which is weird when you think about it, spending night after night impeding yourself–I love all these quirks. Think how boring my life would be if my parents didn’t think I was on drugs? Think how boring my life would be if I didn’t act like I was on drugs? If I didn’t stay out until 5 in the morning and come home and pass out on my bed for four hours and wake up in a rage?

How boring would life be without my rage? I love my rage. It’s a moment of release.

Shit, Iheart is on FIRE right now son, Daaaaaaaamn!!

Where was I? Rage. I like anger. I like arguing. Contrary to what you may think, I don’t go around starting arguments or tripping innocent people smaller than me on the sidewalk just to start a fight. I’m just saying in the moment I don’t mind the adrenaline rush and the momentary feeling of dominance.

I used to think I was a control freak when I was a child. But I have no urge to control anyone or force them into anything. I just don’t like them trying to control me or force me into anything. We’re all fine and good as long as someone doesn’t try and trample me. Kind of explains why I fight to get to the top of everything, because my definition of someone trying to control me is probably warped and much different than yours.

There’s an educational, empathetic reason I want an M.D and there’s a primal reason I want an M.D.


No matter what field I’d study, I’d get my Ph.D in it for the partial satisfaction of knowing there is no greater degree.

Obviously a little piece of paper signifies nothing more than the years you went to school and the so-called training you received. It doesn’t reflect your true intelligence or any of that bullshit. The dumbest people can have Ph.D’s. 

So can the smartest.

I knew a girl in high school who sometimes outperformed me in A.P English because she was a quick poetry interpreter. She was good in Chemistry and physics and literally everything you threw in front of her.

So she was good at reading books and having people tell her what to think and how to do a problem. But my God, she was the dumbest motherfucker I ever met in my life. Even her friends made fun of her for being so book-smart and so . . . dumb in literally every other area of life. Anyone can memorize the meaning of Renaissance English words, anyone can learn Physics and Chemistry, and Microbiology, but if you can’t put that knowledge to creative use, than how smart are you really? Instead of standing on the shoulders of giants you’re just kissing their ass and stepping in their footprints. 

Have you ever tried whisper-singing German lyrics to a song while reading and typing in English? It’s fun as shit.

See, I entertain myself. That’s why I love me.

Another Late Night Ramble


I want to write a post but yawns of epic proportions keep thwarting me.

It’s 3:32 a.m.

“I thought you were going to start sleeping earlier?”

Shut up; who are you? My mother?

I don’t need your handouts! I’m an ADULT.


*Crawls into bed with favorite blankie and curls in fetal position*

Anyway, I slept earlier once and then fell back into this devilish pattern of sleeping at sunrise and waking near sunset. I wonder how much this is not helping my mental health.

My insomnia is odder than I am, I think. I’m tired, but I can’t seem to keep my eyes closed for more than a few seconds.

I need the light on and my fan on (for white noise effect), my heater on (for heating purposes) and some kind of noise in the background for the relief of . . . something?

I used to leave my television on all night so when our cable got cut November 2014 I freaked. I pulled out the trusty PS3, popped in an old sponge bob DVD from when I was a child, and played that shit on repeat for months so I could sleep properly. I’m pretty sure if I ever hear his stupid fucking laugh again, I’m going to puke instantly.


I memorized the whole DVD. Then I had to put in a different one. Eventually I got sick of it and started playing YouTube on my phone at night. That’s when the addiction started.

Now I’ll be on my phone, on my Chromebook, PS4 and on my Desktop all once enjoying the silent company of technology. It relaxes me.

Car rides also relax me. Even if I don’t know you and you give me a ride, if the ride is longer than twenty minutes you can expect me to start dozing off. So there, anyone who wants to kidnap me, that’s the secret.

5078063387_47b3b75e8b_bVacuums however, I fucking hate. They sound like mini-dragons from hell to my ears. To this day in order to vacuum my floor I’ve got to put in earphones to muffle the sound or else my nerves pop off firecrackers.

Remember how I told you when I was six or so, I used to lay in the middle of the door and talk to the cars? Maybe I didn’t tell you. I don’t know.

If you don’t know, now you know.

In my head they had personalities and the body of the car was their expression. I spent hours doing it. I mean hours. My parents would get pissed because I was laying in the middle of the walkway smiling at nothing, saying nothing, and being a general weird ass.

Kids have imaginations and mine sometimes indulged in itself for longer than they liked. It still does. You should have seen me in Walgreens the other day, standing in line staring up at the ceiling completely lost in about four other worlds. The cashier had to yell and wave his hands in front of my face to get me to see he was open. Thank God there was only one other witness.

Anyway, that’s the connection I have with technology. I feel as if they’re real people. They keep me good company too, less-stressful company because they don’t care about the rude jokes and remarks I make and they don’t care if I like or watch something weird or laugh at something disgusting. They have to put up with it because they’re inanimate motherfuckers.

I feel like I see the world differently than the majority of people.


Like I legitimately think colors look differently to me, people look differently, everything. I stopped and stared at rain drops making patterns in the apartment complex pool for about five minutes tonight because it’s just beautiful to me. I regretted not bringing my camera; I’d sneak over the piece of shit wooden fence and get some close-ups.

It’s a ghetto ass pool. No one is going to give two shits.

But instead I just stared. I love patterns, remember? I stared and I enjoyed it. I star gaze a lot too. That’s much more common though.

I never quite feel like I’m present. That’s probably why I feel like I experience things differently.

It’s not a dissociation–although I used to experience that frequently–it’s more like my head is just someplace else. My brain detaches from my body and floats off into space and I have to keep leaping in my space boots to catch up to it before it goes too far.

I think myself out of this world.

Sometimes it’s all too much. Sometimes I space out. I do it on purpose because I can feel it pressuring the back of my eyes. If some place is too loud and there are too many people and too many colors or I’m just generally anxious, I zone out. I don’t know how else to explain it.


Blacking out without losing consciousness.

It’s not an uncommon thing, obviously. You know that feeling you get in class when you’re bored out of your fucking mind and you just stare off into the wall not thinking about anything or where you are or the shit load of homework you didn’t do over the weekend? I go into that zone. On purpose, and not because I’m bored.

People think it’s because I’m not enjoying myself while I’m out or because I’m not happy or whatever and they snap their fingers in front of my face and ask if I’m okay and I’m pulled back into this reality like worm from the ground by a crafty bird. And it sucks. I don’t like being interrupted.

That’s like taking food from a dog. It’s just fucked up man. 

Those space out moments are what keep my sanity in tact.

Sometimes I think I’m dreaming and I have to touch things to bring myself back into reality. That gets weird in public too. But it’s easier to hide around “Friends”. I don’t like thinking about that because it’s a major trigger for me. Now, as I type this, my hands don’t look like mine anymore–there’s nothing physically wrong with them, they just don’t look like mine.

It’s happens every time I ask myself if I’m dreaming.

I don’t know man. I’m tired. I’m going to sleep.

4:47 am. It’s better than dawn.

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.

Annabelle Has No Chill


I’m freezing my balls off.

It’s cold enough that I could care less that I don’t have balls.

As you may know, I don’t sleep very well, and I sleep even less well in the cold. If I’m not sleeping half the day away I’m not sleeping at all, and even when I’m tired I have a hell of a time getting my brain to shut off. I think too much about the day, about the next day, about the next week, the next month, the next three years, and God forbid I start thinking about immortality because then I’m off into la-la land until the sun rises.

As whiny as this sounds, I’m not complaining; I appreciate my brain for all of its quirks. The fact that I’m constantly thinking makes me hunger for challenges and my hunger for challenges is how I’m able to get my school work done (we’re talking in the absence of heavy depression here; obviously I haven’t got any school work done or else I’d still be going to school five days a week).

I used to be the kid who crumbled when I got stumped on a problem. I was so used to things in school coming easily to me that when I came across difficult problems I fell apart. If I was told I was wrong I’d start crying. I still get humiliated and angry with myself if I’m critiqued but I’ve taught myself what it means when people say “mistakes are how you learn”.

Let’s be honest–someone can tell you that bullshit all they want but that’s not going to make you believe it. You have to show yourself that you learn from the mistake to prove that you actually learn from it.

Anyway, if I’m stumped by a math question now I’ll spend all night thinking about it, going through trial and error, seeing what way theoretically works for my theoretical answer about my physical object (Ugh) unto the point I dream about it.


I’m not even lying. I started having dreams about solutions to my math homework, woke up the next morning, scribbled the problems in the shower on the steam on the door and mirror and aced the shit out of my test. That’s how my brain works. It keeps me up all night, it overreacts, it spends most of it’s time in solitude and detests being interrupted in that solitude . . . but it keeps me entertained. Good or bad.

Now, what does this have to do with anything?

Partly, it has to do with the fact that the more time I spend out of the school the more humble I’m becoming. I see that I need to take this slow. I see that my brain works a little different than the “average” person and I need to work accordingly; there’s no point in trying to paddle up river in rapids. I see that my struggles also give me advantages and I should be thankful for them regardless of the obstacles.

My brain is a little different. It’s not wrong, it’s not sick, it’s just different. And it likes it that way.

That being said, the other reason I have trouble sleeping in my bed is that it’s two twin size twenty year old mattresses stacked on top of each other on the floor. The bottom mattress is from a camper that’s on the back of my dad’s GMC from the 50’s. It’s smaller than the top one because I’m too paranoid one of the springs from it will pierce me in the heart while I’m sleeping. It’s an old mattress, it’s full of old springs, my paranoia is justified. Stop looking at me like that.

The other mattress has developed a serious case of the cave-ins. The middle part sinks in and I flip it every few months so I don’t wake up every  night with aching hips.

When I’m able to spend the night at my boyfriend’s house, the first thing I coo over in his bed. It’s got a sturdy (well, kind of) wooden frame and a mattress that’s wider than my wing span and I can curl underneath his four blankets and imagine I’m on a cloud. Until he yanks a pillow from underneath my head while I’m sleeping. He does that, unbeknownst to him, because he’s also sleeping. He puts them on his face. It’s hilariously cute.

consuming-demons-500x275But being the anxious freak I am, I often tell him I’m leaving at two or three in the morning because, in addition to my other insomnia issues, it’s harder to sleep in rooms that aren’t mine. He can fall asleep in five to seven minutes–I counted last night–and it takes me at least two and a half hours. During those two and a half hours my usual routine consists of me laughing like a donkey at YouTube videos until my phone dies. Then I just stare in the darkness and hope some demon doesn’t choke me while I sleep.

He turns off all his lights. I hate the dark. I’ve probably never mentioned the fact that I leave my lights on all night. I’ve tried turning them off and I panic. Yes, I’m an adult who cannot for the life of her feel comfortable in the darkness of her own bedroom.

Last night I actually got to sleep and stayed asleep. Unfortunately, a week or so ago he showed me a video about the supposed real “Annabelle” doll (NOT the one in the movie) some dude keeps locked up in a glass case at a museum. Apparently if you touch that shit, other shit happens and shit. You know, things that could be explained by coincidences but are so suspicious that coincidence sounds ridiculous. Priest touching it and getting in car crashes in his brand new car, or little kids tapping the class and getting slashed with cuts across his chest. Whatever.


Point is, I had a dream the doll from the movie “Annabelle” came to life, grew to about six feet with pointed teeth and red eyes and demonic tendencies attacked me and some group of people who were also in my house. After a lot of fighting and curses and all that, we finally got her to the ground and after having a rather pleasant conversation on just . . . life . . . she said “alright, fuck it; no seriously, fuck this shit, I’m out” and shrunk and returned to being a doll.

I don’t know what to think.

I haven’t had a string of nightmares in a while, so I’m assuming this was brought on by my usual anxiety that accompanies sleeping in someone else’s house. We’ve been together a year; it’s not as if this house or his family are strangers to me. But holy fuck does it take me a long time to get used to people. I’m pretty sure they think I’m insane.

At any rate, I used to wake up hyperventilating and staring into the dark like “where the fuck am I” and then I’d realize where and I’d slap my face on my pillow (unless it’d already been snatched) and fall back asleep. It would happen three or four times a night. I’ve had panic attacks there and waking up to the sound of dishes, cars, a dog barking, and a lot of fast Spanish in the other rooms can be hard to get used to.

I hate noises. I can’t stand when people breathe too loud or snore or clank a fork against a plate or smack while they’re chewing–anything that could ultimately crescendo. Anything sharp and sudden. In my room I have a fan I use as a constant dull hum which I use to block out noises outside and noises in the other areas of the apartment.

I’d rather wake up to all that than a screaming hip any day.