I hate Kanye, He’s Awesome

I have to jump on this bandwagon because I’m hearing a lot of opinions in the mental health social media community (that’s a thing now. Dear Lord.) about Kanye’s recent interview with David Letterman. The interview is on Netflix.

They talked about a few things. Clothes, art, and Kanye’s “church”. I don’t–I won’t comment on whatever all that is about.

Whatever.

When they first get into the mental health stuff, Letterman attempts to sum up Kanye’s bipolar diagnosis in an “easy” and “simple” way. He states “the synapses get fatigued and say ‘we’re not carrying this message anymore'”. I won’t ding Letterman for this, nor Kanye for agreeing with it because neither of them have probably ever read a neurology or psychology textbook in their life. But to make it clear, synapses aren’t getting fatigued. If we could tell you what was happening in any mental health condition, they wouldn’t exist anymore.

Kanye gets to a point where he needs to get something off of his chest. He says there’s a moment he experienced in his treatment that needs to be changed and if any of you have read even just one of my many posts, you’ll know that I smiled largely as I guessed what that experience was.

He explains that in the moment of one of his episodes, he feels hyper paranoid about everything, that everyone is an actor, everything is a conspiracy. I’d say that’s pretty similar to what many of us feel. He says, “you feel everyone wants to kill you and they handcuff you and drug you and put you in the bed and they separate you from everyone you know. Something I’m so happy I experienced myself so I can start by changing that moment.”

He’s talking about forced/coercive treatment, but also about the general vibe when you’re hospitalized. The last time I was taken against my will, no family was allowed to visit me until I was transferred to a different hospital an hour away where no one could come visit me anyway. While in the crisis unit, I continuously called my mother asking what the hospital staff were telling her, because they wouldn’t be honest with me and I didn’t trust anyone. I couldn’t. People were possessed and impostors and unreal and I was one of the lucky ones who didn’t feel that also extended to their family.

Kanye very openly, and rightfully so, regards this as “cruel and primitive” and I agree to an extent. Is it smart to have all ten family members crammed in the hospital with you while you’re crippled by voices and dread? Probably not. But if, for whatever reason, you have just one person you can even remotely trust for two halves of a second, blocking that contact with the outside world only pushes you further in your head. As Kanye said: “This is like a sprained brain, like having a sprained ankle. And if someone has a sprained ankle, you’re not going to push on him more.”

Then, the big controversy comes: the meds.

I figured his opinion wouldn’t be very popular.

He said he has been medication free for eight months. Some of the crowd claps. I would have. Wouldn’t you clap for your friend or parent who was able to come off their blood pressure medication? Do they run the risk of raising it with bad eating habits and lack of exercise just as Kanye runs the risk of being carried away by mania while refusing to take care of his mental health in other ways? Can’t your friend’s blood pressure rise again for no clear reason, just as Kanye’s mania can come unprovoked? Doesn’t your friend run the risk of death just as Kanye theoretically would were he to dip into a serious low? If everyone in the world wants to compare mental health to physical health, then compare it that way too.

But, Kanye is very clear he’s not advocating for everyone to go off their meds. How have people missed this? I have the quote right here, verbatim: “When we clap at the idea of not being on medication–my form of mental health I think is like the luxury version of it. There’s people who can’t function without medication. So I’m not advocating–I’m telling you MY specific story.”

It’s the same thing I tell others. All. The. Time. Yes, I’ve gone off and on meds. Yes, there were times the meds were extremely necessary. And there were times they were a detriment. And for ME, my PERSONAL DECISION was that I have always felt better off medication than on. And I needed to choose: be compliant with meds 100% or leave them alone 100%. It was the on again off again that was torturous.

So even with Kanye stating specifically his personal experience, we think we have the right to tell him what’s better for his body, basically stigmatizing our own. I’ve never once told a mental health peer to go off their meds. But I’ve been told thousands of times by peers to go back on meds. That’s like a religious fanatic: don’t tell me about your atheist or Muslim or Jewish views, but let me tell you about the love of Jesus Christ and why you should accept him into your heart because that’s what’s best for you, that’s what will save your soul.

It’s hard to feel accepted with a mental health diagnosis. It’s even harder when your own people are against you.

Letterman then goes on to explain his own experience with medication and the advances in medication targeting specific areas of the brain (which is just misinformation) and says that medication is what helped him see clearer. Kanye, at some point, reflects that it’s great for him that he found a medication with the least amount of side effects that works for him. That’s the only way to respond. That’s the way I often respond.

My point? Why does Letterman get praise for pushing the efficacy of medication he has proven he doesn’t understand the chemistry of, and Kanye get flack for choosing to go through his mental health journey in a different way? Because medication works for you? Because it’s saved your life and you want to save him too? What if he doesn’t need saving?

This ties into so many topics. Coercion, publication bias, and this idea that we know what’s best, that we have the right to force help on someone.

This isn’t a man in a coma who would never want to sign a DNR. This is a man who is conscious, albeit not in your reality. And that makes you uncomfortable–maybe you’ve been there. Maybe you’ve seen how families can fall apart. Whatever it is. But the point is we must eradicate your discomfort by subduing his experience.

This is coming from someone who recognizes this need to help is innate and out of good intention.

This is also coming from someone who recognizes and has experienced the terror and pain that we go through. This is coming from someone who knows first hand that sitting in two week old dirty clothes, ratty hair, no food while listening and believing voices telling me I’m going to die soon, that I won’t be on this earth anymore, fucking sucks. This is coming from someone who absolutely appreciated the moment medication helped bring me from that. This is also coming from someone who recognizes medication isn’t always a life sentence.

This is coming from someone who understands that you can’t talk to your high blood pressure, but you can talk to your voices. I’d say that’s a pretty big wedge in the whole “mental health should be treated like physical health” argument.

But talking–that’s rarely encouraged in traditional psychiatry. A shame. A lot can come from it.

My point? Don’t stigmatize each other. Don’t act like we as a species have all the answers in the world. Don’t act like anyone really understands the mechanisms of any medication. And don’t thwart someone’s individuality because it clashes with your beliefs.

Rants and Rambles

Songs have a beautiful way of expressing things we struggle to speak. Tonight I am listening to The Strumbellas, and I fell in love with their songs “Spirits” and “Shovels and Dirt”. I think each line has something impressive to offer. It’s hard to miss the main line in spirits: “I’ve got guns in my head and they won’t go, spirits in my head and they won’t go”.

And I think “it ain’t worth livin’ if you don’t get hurt” and “I’ve got a head full of darkness and darkness is good” is also two of the most beautifully truthful lines I’ve heard, along with “Well demons pull me side to side again, yeah well I’m scared to sleep and I hate my friends . . .” I never knew it was so easy to sum up psychological pain.

Is darkness good? A lot of my depressions have been bad, the episodes have driven me into self-destruction and put me through a lot of pain, but the beauty that has come out of that pain has been magnificent. I’ve done some of my best writing. I started this blog. I played some of my best on the piano. Without that little bit of darkness, half of me wouldn’t exist. The darkness is me, and it’s a part of me I couldn’t live without.

That being said, I’ll be in the Santa Monica area tomorrow. Sometimes it’s nice to push aside the darkness and have a little fun.

I don’t talk much about my writing projects on here, but most people know I write short stories as well as some poetry that I think is shit. I’ve been to some fiction workshops, and I’m taking yet another fiction class this semester, but I’m shit at communicating with other writers. Maybe if we write back and forth, I can communicate with them, but not many are willing to do that.

So, if there are ever any fellow writers out there who are serious about their writing, and would be willing to give me some thoughtful, constructive criticism on my work in return for a batch of my own thoughtful, constructive criticism on their work, please get in contact with me. I have a few writing projects that I want to push forward, but I need some more reassurance and criticism before I do.

I’m not quite sure what this post is. Remember when I used to do these kinds of vagabond posts where each paragraph is something completely irrelevant to the previous one? I took some Melatonin and I’m hoping it will knock me out soon so I don’t have to torture you all any longer.

Love yourself. You are enough.

And that’s today’s mental truth. Well, tonight’s mental truth. It’s almost tomorrow’s mental truth. I’ll blog about my Santa Monica experience. I’ll be sharing pictures on instagram, you can follow me there @ Written_in_the_photo, and my twitter @Ipenned. I don’t use Twitter much, and I just created a new account, so there’s not much there, but if you’re a big twitter person, you might get a kick out of things I retweet.

Anyway, enough of this shit post. Ali, Out.

Kanye, Toss Me 50 Mill, Let’s Change The World Together

d39146bc8bc845478890583accb3f0bf*Ahem*

I’ve been writing on this blog since July 2015, periodically at best, fragmented at best, turned it into a domain I could own, lost the domain because I couldn’t afford it, and now here I am, back to square one, reintroducing myself to the world of rants, vents, and sarcastic musings.

I realized how good of an outlet this place is, and I miss the interactions between new people, old people, and people in general. Fuck building an empire, fuck pleasing people, and fuck everything, in general. I think that’s a good way to start off this post.

In reading back a lot of my old posts, I laughed at my own jokes, humored myself with my own sarcasm, and cherished my vulnerable moments: essentially it was a huge ego trip. Isn’t that wonderful? How conceited can I sound? I could probably be worse if I tried. But what’s life without having a bit of an inflated self-esteem? What’s life without trying to convince the world you’re a god among men? Kanye knows what I’m talking about, right? No? No one? Okay.

Love Kanye. What he say in his new song, Yikes?

“Shit could get/menacing/frightening/find help/ sometimes / I scare/ myself.”

And

“I can feel the spirits all around me/ I think Prince and Mike is trynna to warn me/ they know they got demons all on me/ devil been trynna make an army/ they been strategizing to harm me/ they don’t know they dealin with a zombie. ”

I resonate with that on a spiritual level. That’s not sarcasm.

And, of course, the most influential line of his musical career:

“Scoopity Whoop.”

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That song took me to higher levels of consciousness. I sat at the computer listening to Lift Yourself, nodding to an average beat, but that next verse? That NEXT VERSE THOUGH? Damn, I just didn’t really realize, I guess. I don’t think I’ll ever find another set of bars that chills my veins like “Poopity Scoop, scoopty whoopty poop”. Or, whatever.

In 2015 I was twenty years old, barely out of the terrible teens, and in 7 days I will be twenty three, still barely out of the terrible teens I guess, and in my own apartment free of the reign of terror that has been my parents’ apartment. I have good memories and bad memories. The good memories are pretty good, the bad memories are pretty bad. Read previous posts for more info. I’ve basically put the last three to four years of my life in a chronological order on this blog.

I remember writing a post about my predictions for the 2016 election, and how if that base head neurosurgeon Ben Carson dropped out of the race, Trump would win. Well, what happened? Without Ben there to cancel out Trump’s stupidity with his own, nothing could stop Trump. Don’t agree with me? No one’s asking you to, but I basically predicted the future, so . . .

Now what I’m trying to predict is when I will find a competent psychiatrist. I’ve sort of come to the conclusion that it’s impossible. I had a good two months with a county-funded psychiatrist who listened to what I said and, for the first time in my life, found a set of medications that worked well with me, but when they kicked me out of the Mental Health building K because I didn’t want to actively kill myself anymore, because I still had a job, I got stuck with a regular county psychiatrist who, when I told her I’d stopped hearing voices, told me I was lying and sent out a prescription for a higher dose of my medication.

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If you’re wondering, I stopped seeing her.

If you’re reading this and are really confused, I’d suggest reading through a couple previous posts. I would also like to remind my audience that not everyone who hears voices hears them all the time, and not everyone who hears voices has/or identifies with schizophrenia–two common misconceptions. And not everyone with schizophrenia hears voices.

The fucking point is, if I tell you I’m not hearing voices, I’m not hearing voices. If I tell you I’m not seeing shit, I’m not seeing shit. If you don’t believe me, go to the back room, take your head out of your ass, and breathe the fresh air of reality, because you’ve been missing from it for too long.

If I don’t want my medication dosage raised, don’t fucking raise it. 

Now, here’s the tricky thing. In leaving that shitty psychiatrist and stopping all my medication, I not only put myself through some serious mental hell, I also lost the ability to find a psychiatrist or therapist at all.

*For global readers, insurance is what the United States scams it’s citizens with to get more money.*

With my propensity to freeze up talking to doctors, psychiatrists, and therapists, I often get help calling for new appointments because the anxiety paralyzes me. So I’ve pushed my family to help me call. We’ve been calling for two months now.

One psychiatrist has gotten back to us, after a week of him leaving voicemails, us leaving voicemails, and both of us missing each other. He asks how old I am, and what’s going on with me. My mother takes the call, and explains what I’ve described, and he suddenly has too many patients.

Liar rubber stamp. Part of a series of stamp concepts.

Every other mental health professional we’ve called and who has called us back and left a voicemail always, always said “I’m sorry, I’ve got too many patients right now” without needing to know any information about me.

This motherfucker said that after he learned what I was going through. What does that make me think? That he can’t take on a challenge. And, if that’s the case, at least have the balls to tell it to my face. Tell me you don’t want to deal with me. Tell me you can’t handle it. If you can’t admit that, fuck you, you’re a coward.

And most importantly, don’t ever waste my fucking time again.

If you’re wondering, most recently I’ve breezed through 5 new diagnoses (not counting the ones I had as a teenager) after seeing 4 psychiatrists and a few therapists since December 2017 (six months total) , and I only found out the most recent one because I sat in my psychiatrist’s seat and read her notes on her computer while she went to go talk to a colleague. If they won’t tell you what they write, read it yourself–a tip for anyone new to the mental health system. Just don’t get caught.

The diagnoses have been: GAD, PTSD, Depression, Bipolar 1, Psychosis NOS from oldest to newest.

Some psychiatrists haven’t agreed with the PTSD–how is that something to refute, anyway? They ruled out schizophrenia and depression with psychotic features. The psychiatrists in the hospital were bent on Bipolar 1 even though I’ve never been manic in my life, the one I saw immediately after my hospitalization wasn’t sure at all what I was dealing with (finally, an honest fucking response). The last one is hell bent on psychosis NOS. They all agree on the depression and the anxiety.

So, what have I learned over these last six months besides the fact that if I’m not actively suicidal and/or psychotic I won’t be taken seriously as a candidate for steam-lined mental health care? Other than, if I’m still working I don’t actually need any real help?

Absolutely nothing.

If I didn’t love my job, I would have quit just to add the dramatics they obviously want.

I welcome myself back into the blogsphere.

Poetry Slammed

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This weekend I am supposed to write a poem.

A poem.

A single. Poem.

My response?

I just wrote it.

“Best Poem About Gaming Ever–oh wait, it’s not about gaming? Whatever, best poem of 2016”–IGN

That quote is literally from IGN, I totally know everyone who works for them.

Not.

nycpofest-logo-transparentI’m also not a poet. I admire portions of poetry, I admire the way poets can string words together in a way that injects emotion and breathes live into something otherwise bogged down with simple definition or boring fact. Somewhere I read in a poetry book that everything in life was a teacher, and we just had to be keen enough with our eye, and with our words, to learn. Poetry then, was a reflection of that learning.

Something like that.

I’ve been wondering what to write my poem on. I’ve never been a simple person. I want to be able to describe something, perhaps an action, but having the meaning separate from the action. I’m pretty sure that’s what a lot of poets do anyway, and I’m just being a technical prick. I can’t really tell. You know why? Because I’m not a poet.

Ask me to bust out some fiction, or a nice comedy reel, I got you on lock. Ask me to be fragile and yet aggressive in some stanza’s and make words feel like liquid gold across the tongue and I’ll probably just slap you all the way back to your momma’s house, because I can’t make words into liquid gold, that is physically impossible. While I’m slapping you, I’ll explain known physics to you, because it’s obvious you lack that knowledge as well.

Like I said, “Technical Prick”. That’s my new title.

I can be excruciatingly literal sometimes. I can also be annoyingly metaphoric sometimes. I believe a strange combination of both attract people to my writing.

I could write a poem about insomnia because it’s 5:17 a.m for me and I have yet to get more than a few minutes of sleep. In this time I’ve managed to print tickets for a Halloween Haunt at Great America tomorrow–err, today. There: someone who is a poet, put that into a poem for me and I’ll give you 1/3 of my grade at the end of the semester. Why 1/3? Because poetry is 1/3 of the class and you will now be doing all my assignments.

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There is much to write about, I just need to let it flow onto paper, regardless of what it sounds like. The more I think about it, the worse the poem is going to sound  I think. Isn’t that usually how it works? Or is it the opposite? Uuuuggggghhhh poooeettrryyyyyy.

Perhaps I’ll write about things that are there and yet not. That’s always a fascinating topic for people who don’t understand it.

Tonight I was not home, tonight I was about my boyfriend’s house. I got there around half past midnight: he has a printer and I do not, and Great America does not send PDF’s to your email like every other e-ticket vendor in the world, they require you print it upon purchase from a different tab in your search engine, so I went to his house. He was doing what he normally does: play video games.

And when I was leaving, which was about a half hour ago,  I noticed my shoes sounded really thick against his wooden floors. I said out loud that I hated my shoes, something I always say, then words came out of my mouth I wouldn’t normally say. I said: “I sound like a dead person walking”.

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He’s used to me saying weird things, and he was tired, so he didn’t say anything. I, however, started freaking out.

You all know me by now as the one with the demons following closely behind me, breathing down my neck and reading my blogs as I type them, and the rest of the universe in front of me, guiding me away from them. Well, the demons were close this evening, young ones.

I had to park two blocks away from his house because there was no parking anywhere near, and his parents cars take up the driveway. Their driveway is shit anyway, I hate it; you back out against a blind corner into two lanes of same-way traffic. It’s a death sentence.

Anyway, I’m walking quickly down the middle of the two lane road because it’s four forty in the morning and silent. I love silence when I want it, I hate silence when my mind is reeling. I feel I can hear every little sound, every little scuttle, every little voice that might happen to roll along in the wind. In my head I’m repeating the line I said in the house and wondering where it came from.

185bno26vplqxjpgI turn behind me for no reason a few cars away from my car and see a man in all black following my exact footpath. He was about a block behind me and had no face or footsteps or shadow and I quickened my pace because I got it in my head he wasn’t human. I got it in my head he was the reason I said what I said, and thought like I thought.

I made it to my car a second later, turned it on, backed out like I needed to get back on the race track, and searched for the man in black but he was gone. He wasn’t down the two side streets. And while I fought myself gallantly over what I believed–“well he could have gone into a house”, “no, he wasn’t human”, ” he could have just been walking and turned down a street and you just couldn’t find him”, “no, he put those words in your mouth, you saw him, you’d never say something like that”, “you’re just tired”–I decided I wasn’t going to fight it. I decided the man was a figment of the demonic force that follows me, indefinitely, whether he existed or not.

Flipping through my songs, I could find nothing to soothe the panic, not until a song, out of my 749 songs on Spotify, started blasting through my speakers:

And I knew the universe had my back, even when it didn’t feel like it. The song stretched until I made it home and when I parked it ended, as if on cue, and here I am now, sitting on my computer waiting for that guy to pop up outside my window.

I’ll write a poem about that.

Clear The Mind

Everyone, once in a while, needs a way to take a break and clear their mind. Some people use art, some people use drugs, some people use math (nerds), and some people like me take their car for a good old fashion wash.

dvg8yjnI’ve never been good at drawing.With my bad luck, the first time I try a substance like methamphetamine or heroin, I’ll probably die, and math only makes me rip my own leg off, swallow it, and shit out a prosthetic of my own leg. That’s a very painful process, as you can imagine.

Therefore, I take two days out of every month to thoroughly give my baby, my car, a good old scrubbing.

Let me explain this process so you can understand why having mindless activities is absolutely pertinent to mental health.

Firstly, I arrive. That’s a big deal because I scope out everyone at the do-it-yourself wash to see if there are any other badasses like me. More often than not, there aren’t.

pimpin

Then I get some coins from the shitty coin machine while praying to a God I’m not entirely sure I believe in that the coin machine doesn’t fuck me over.

I sigh with relief when it does not.

I avoid eye contact with the one drunk/high homeless man who always tries to talk to me in Spanish. The bad thing about being as obsessive with routine as I am, is that other people start to recognize my habits as well.

Then I spray the chrome cleaner on my wheels and let it set for a few minutes before rinsing off my car, scrubbing it with the foam brush, then rinsing it again to make sure every bit of caked on dirt is annihilated.

I have an emotional connection to my computers, to my phones, to my vehicle. When I saw the ad on Craigslist for it all cleaned nicely, parked beside the cliffs against the sunset, I knew it was mine. I bought it two hours later. I care about my car as much as I care about my boyfriend.

When some woman passed my car this evening and touched the hood to keep her balance it felt like some chick had just walked up to my boyfriend and groped his junk. That’s how personal I get.

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Back to the story.

After everything is rinsed, I hurry and start the car and drive it to the drying station where I run around frantically with a five foot microfiber towel wiping away as much water as I can before the towel is drenched. Yes, I run. This is when most people start staring at the red haired chick with the red and blue eyebrows and black and blue eyeliner with blue eyelashes jogging in a circle around her vehicle until the entirety of the car is finished.

Did I mention I’ve dyed my hair and my eyebrows weeks ago? The blue eyelashes are not fake, I tint them with a gel eye shadow because I don’t like the colored mascaras in the stores, they don’t work very well.

I use specialized towels for the windows. I use one towel per two windows. When it comes to the windshield and back window, half of the windshield uses one towel, the other half uses a new one; the same goes for the back window.

screenshot_2015-10-13_at_11-50-38_amAt this point, everyone is staring. (Will she pull a house full of towels from her car? Is she hiding bodies in there? Why is she bumping that music and smoking pot in public? Oh Gosh, oh golly gosh, we gotta get out of here!)

Then I pull out the wax. Yes, my friends, I do not use that stupid “spray on wax” bullshit. What is that even? What. Is. That. It’s shit is what it is. I use the wax that comes in the round container with the sponge and karate kid the fuck out of my car.

My favorite wax is mothers:

149833-carwax-mothers-californiagoldcarnaubacleanerwax05500

I currently use this brand that I can’t pronounce:

1e415357-dd11-41fb-a55c-0a3066be9d67_1-6989b05a8ae4436fc32e1444071ee463

I will be switching back to mother’s after I run out. Meg-whatever-the-fuck doesn’t coat for as long and the coat isn’t as protective as mothers’.

While the waxed sections air dry, I start cleaning out all the trash and thanking the million men who come up and say “wow, you keep your car clean, I like it”. I’ve had drug dealers (I saw him deal) in nice new Mercedes compliment me, I’ve had homeless men compliment me, I’ve had old country-style men compliment me, and I’ve had some guys feel so enamored by my presence that they offer to buy me stuff from the store. No, I do not accept; like I trust a guy I don’t know to hand me a drink, dude, get real. I don’t even trust waiters in restaurants half the time.

After I wipe away the wax and dust all the crevices I spray the tires. While that sets, I vacuum the inside and clean the inner windows and my mirrors.

I do everything in this order every two weeks. I’ve become a regular; all the regular men know me now. It takes anywhere from one and a half to three hours, depending on how dirty everything is, inside and out.

200380683-001I care enormously for my car. It hurts my heart that I don’t have the money to fix the oil leak or the entire suspension. I hate it. It hurts like I’m letting down my best friend.

That being said, I’ve had half of my suspension done; that was 500. I’m hoping to put in another five hundred to fix the back half this month or next. I’m hoping to find the oil leak and fix it myself when I have the time and a manual.

But he’s a power hungry little beast. He keeps up with all the new Hybrids and fancy sporty cars. I drag raced my friend’s 2014 Chrysler a week after her grandparents bought it for her, and won, not that that means anything.

The love someone feels for a child is what I feel for inanimate objects. They are things I can watch grow, they are things that make me happy when I’m sad. And everyone needs something like that in their life.

The best thing about owning your own car is customization. At this point I will announce my latest cheap changes that will be happening before October (that in no way effect my fund to fix the suspension, in case you’re the kind of person who sits here and says ‘uugghh stop spending money on the outside of your car when the inside is shitty’).

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The two emblems on the back are this:

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Around my license plate is this:

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Where my car is labeled “Stratus”, I will be replacing the chrome letters with “Strange”.

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Yes, those are chrome wheels and not plastic rims. BALLIN’.

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Where it says “Dodge” on the left hand corner of the drivers door (and passenger door), I will be putting “Music”.

Yes, this is all legal.

 

This is my way of balancing my sanity: giving my entire day to taking care of something I care tremendously about. Everyone should have a car to wash, a painting to paint, a song to write, something that gives your brain time to relax and remember itself for a moment. It’s amazing how calmed you are afterwards.

Hell Is A Whirlpool

Warning: Partially Nonsensical rant coming. I should make a partially nonsensical page on my blog to separate it from the sensical things. Hmm.

Businessman with worried expression

It’s five in the morning and I just arrived home. Stress is by far my greatest nemesis.

I am someone who thinks very quickly, constantly, naturally. Contrary to what some people believe, that does not make me smart. I don’t know where the notion comes from: oh she’s a quick thinker, she must be Einstein.

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If I were Einstein, I wouldn’t struggle with math as much. And oh boy do I struggle with math. Although I’m one to pay attention to detail, because my head is constantly full to the brim with things to think about (things to do, things I could do, questions about reality, questions about non-reality, things I could make, build, extort, things I could become famous from but probably never will but that doesn’t stop me from obsessing over it, e.t.c), the small parts of math like the addition of a fraction in the middle of an integral for a work function gets thrown out the window.

It’s plagued me since I was in elementary school. It takes me longer to process math than any other subject, and I’ve noticed as I take tests and do homework, my mind gets lost in the sea of other brilliant/not so brilliant/ mildly psychotic thoughts and when I look at my answer and the back of the book and yank my hair out because the answer is wrong, it takes me another half an hour to notice I wrote “1/2” instead of “1/12” or I subtracted where I should have added.

It sounds minor, but it costs me a lot of points on tests constantly. In high school my teacher always shook his head at my tests and said “it’s always the tiny stuff with you.”

And it is. It is the tiny stuff with me. Thanks for pointing it out and never helping me come to a solution for it.

I won’t talk bad about him, he was one of the best teachers I had and the last I heard he fell into a really, really, dark depression after his wife left him.

When stress hits, my thoughts that already go 300 mph hit the speed of sound and all around my brain I have these little sound barrier breaks like this:

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If you know anything about physics or sound, or if you’ve seen one of these guys live or on YouTube, you’ll know you see the plane whizz past and hear the boom just a second or so later.

Imagine one thousand of those things passing over your house in different directions, consistently.

In this metaphor, in case you’re wondering, the physical plane represents one thought, and the boom represents my consciousness of it. I feel I’m always a split second behind my brain. It’s got so many things I want to do, so many things I need to do, so many things I probably should do but aren’t, so many things I probably shouldn’t do and still aren’t, so many real things, so many imaginary things, so many imaginary things that could be real and visa-versa.

I got a brain scan and through some improved technology, they managed to take a picture of the physical thoughts in my head. They were partying:

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As you can imagine, my memory is both shit and brilliant at the same time. To hold all these thoughts and ideas takes an incredibly amount of attention and as a result, my attention suffers. It’s a cruel world.

As you can imagine with my natural state being full of thoughts, with anxiety making my thoughts more obsessive, and stress making them quicker, I can’t sleep for shit.

As you can imagine, with all the above, I can’t relax.

And as a result, I shut down. Physically and mentally.I am currently in the middle of a shut down. Even the smallest thing, like handing a paper to my professor, becomes a monumental task I sit in my room and obsess over and somehow my brain convinces us it’s worse than climbing out of a trench in the middle of a war.

I also talk to myself a lot more often during this period with a tendency to twitch and/or smack myself. It’s not something I can really control, it all just happens, and I look crazy in the store: another reason I hate going places.

I. Am. Tired.

I don’t know why I’m still writing.

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I get a little break from it all with marijuana. I think I’ve said this before, but I don’t smoke often anymore, only when I feel I need to, and often it helps me sit down and realize I need to do one thing at a time and not beat myself up over tiny fucking shit.

It’s funny the progression of everything though. Smoking, I can sense a difference in the way my thoughts are formed; they’re a little more linear, they don’t slam into each other, and often I can go a full stretch of time without feeling overwhelmed by thoughts or suspicions or paranoia or even anxiety.

The anxiety deficit requires more than a few bowls though, which usually results in that very obvious “high” look and sound. If I’m not careful, I fall over the rim of normal marijuana high into the “people are in the bushes, keep watch” marijuana high, and that kind of high is some straight bullshit. That’s not fun, that’s the exact opposite of what I want when I’m high.

That didn’t start happening until two or three years ago. It’s a reason I cut down drastically.

And I can feel the high wear off when the first thought slams into the next. Then I’m thrust back into a whirlpool of hell in my head.

That’s where I sit right now.

My playlist tonight you ask?

That’s not my whole playlist.

But those were the last four songs I listened to.

Going to another Tech Concert in eighteen days, anticipating the new album 12/9/16. What a wonderful way to say farewell to 2016.

In case you were wondering, I’ve been a Tech N9ne fan since I was ten years old; so eleven years ago.

I’ve also been a Korn fan since I was 10 years old. They have a new album dropping October 21st if anyone was wondering.

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In case you’re thinking “Jesus, what kind of ten year old was she?” (the answer is an awesome one), I also listened to the fucking Cheetah Girls, so you know, go figure man.

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Healthy Obsession

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These last few days were some crazy days.

But everyone could use a crazy day every once in a while, right? These are the days that remind us we’re alive, that we can live, that we have the right to have fun and to push ourselves.

A few of you are aware that I had an interview with a place looking to hire for a peer counselor. It went great: I’ll make sure to tell about it in a later post.

vcw_d_sjose_t4_winchestermysteryhouse_christysharp_1280x642None of you are aware that I took my boyfriend with me to one of California’s registered “haunted houses”, the Winchester Mansion, for their infamous “flashlight tour”, and one of the actresses scared the shit out of my boyfriend. And managed to creep me out just as well. I’ll make sure to tell that in a later post.

But this post I want to be about fun.

We all deserve a little fun in our lives. If you’re anything like me, you struggle to get through the day, to get out of bed in the morning, to make food, to eat even. Days are often the same with the same cycle of thoughts in your head and the same old coping mechanisms are used to try and stop them. Sometimes with success, sometimes in vain.

Some of us struggle to be around others, some of us struggle to be by ourselves, some of us struggle in telling what’s physical reality and what’s mental fantasy. But the point is, we all struggle.

So whether you suffer from anxiety, depression, a personality disorder, bipolar, schizophrenia, Autism, Narcolepsy, whatever: you deserve to have a little good time in your life.

Even if you don’t feel like you deserve it (talking to all you depressives out there; don’t worry, I know the struggle, I’m not calling you out without having experience with it) you deserve it.

You deserve to have a moment you can look back on when times are rough that help you remember happiness exists in the world and in your life even when it doesn’t feel like it.

That’s why I’ve reserved one day out of every year for the last 5 years to go here:

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And tonight was that one night:

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Now, you’re probably thinking why would someone with social anxiety disorder ever go that far out of their comfort zone to attend a concert.

And my answer would be another very important question: Do you know Tech N9ne?

 

 

If you don’t know who Tech is, or Strange Music, than I suggest you climb out from underneath that 100 year old rock you’re under.

I’ve been listening to this guy since I was 11 years old, almost ten years now, and I’ve seen Strange Music get off to a slow start and steadily climb it’s way to the top of the independent charts.

I haven’t been there since the beginning, because I would have only been a few years old. And I haven’t been there since Tech started rapping because I wouldn’t have even been born.

But that being said, I am a very dedicated fan because I enjoy the philosophy behind their business, I enjoy their music, I enjoy that they explore deep concepts and mix in a little “club”, metal, or “ghetto” hip hop in with their tracks every once in a while, and I enjoy that they don’t sound like Lil Wayne, Drake, Trey Songz, Fetty Wap, or any other motherfucker who can’t seem to understand what music actually is, any motherfucker who is a puppet for the company that owns them, their songs, and their life.

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I don’t know where all of you live, but around here we have a little radio station called Kdon. And whenever a “rapper” or a hip-hop “artist” comes on, I can’t tell their voice from the person who got played just before them. Everyone sounds the same, looks the same, acts the same. That goes for pop stars too.

So I’ve clung heavily to Strange Music once I was saw the direction music was heading.

Now, some people might call me obsessed. I have two of their emblems on the back of my car, I have their license plate frame that says “Strange Music, Estb. 2000” (I was born in ’95), I have three of their lanyards, I have their mugs, I have their attire, and I have their keychains. I listen to Ces Cru, Krizz Kaliko, Rittz, MAYDAY, Stevie Stone, and Murs, and have heard at least one song from everyone signed to the label, and I’m getting a Tattoo of the labels symbol:

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There is only one person who I don’t agree with being signed, and that’s this little motherfucker right here:

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I never dis Tech for trying new things, but fuck man, this guy does not fit with the label’s sound at all. He sounds like Trey Songz and Fetty Wap had a mutant baby together that looks like Yelawolf: how does that even work?

The point is, some people say I’m obsessed. And I’m fine with that because this is something that soothes me when I’m angry, that hugs me when I’m sad, that hypes me up when I’m excited, that makes me calm when I’m anxious walking through a crowd or talking to a cashier: it helps me through the little things most people on the outside don’t get to see.

When I’m having a particularly bad day and feel like I need something or someone to understand how I’m feeling, I’ll listen to “Low” or “Alone” or “suicide letters”, when I need someone or something to understand my life with my family and health problems and memory loss I’ll listen to “Meant to Happen” or  “Fear” or “Mama Nem” or “Show Me A God”. When I want to let loose, I’ll listen to “Beautiful Music” or ” Hood Go Crazy” or “Einstein”. When I feel like being sly and gangster-like, I’ll whip out “RedRags” or “Bitch Sickness” or “JellySickle” or “Check ya Temperature” or “Questions”.

There is always a song for one of my moods. And that’s hard to accomplish because I have many of them several times a day.

It’s my comfort and in a way Strange Music saved my life. Going to the concert every year also saves my life. It’s one night for me to scream and act ridiculous and, even though I’m thinking about the 799 other people around me (we have a small club, alright?) I try to force myself not to care. I focus on who is on the stage, on the way it feels to hear a song that you’ve laughed, cried, sung, or smiled to right in your face with so much energy and heat and sweat.

I lose my voice and a lot of my stress.

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The show sells out a month before the concert every year. The lines wrap around a block in both directions: one line is for physical tickets, the other line is for VIP and on-Call. There are mosh pits (as a teenager, my first Strange concert I got thrown across the room and into the wall and my other friend and I must say, I picked myself up and told the guy who was helping me I was okay and made up my mind that I would definitely be coming back each year) and drunk people, shirts are coming off, people fuck on the balcony, the artists bring smoke machines, so when people start lighting up joints, the machine will cloud over whoever has the drugs so security can’t find the culprits.

It’s a night to go crazy before we all return to school and work and whatever other responsibilities are out there. For me, it’s a night to go crazy and ignore my anxiety and ignore everything else floating around in my head and just feel the energy in the room, feed off it, and let it, for a moment at least, melt my stress away.

Everyone needs memories like that to help them through the bad times.

If you don’t have anything, I’d suggestion going out and finding something to become healthily obsessed over.

Together we are a powerful force

As one mind, body, and soul

Let no evil enter or attempt to reduce us

Because of the beliefs we hold.

And with this love, combined with our strength

we ward off pain and stress,

Technician I am, Wholeheartedly, 

In life and in death. 

 

 

The Music In My Veins

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I’ve always had a deep connection to rock and roll. It’s unwavering and unbreakable. I’ve been a fan since birth, I like to think, and didn’t discover my hidden passion until I was ten and my mother received a local “battle of the bands” Compact Disc from her job.

I am a devil child. I’m into the metal.

Nothing can kill the metal.

Grunge tried to kill the metal.

They failed as they were thrown to the ground.

NewWave tried to destroy the metal.

But the metal had its way.

No one can destroy the metal.

I bet all of those lyrics are copywritten and I just infringed upon them. Luckily, I’m not anywhere near internet famous enough for Jack Black, Tenacious D, or Epic Records to sue me.

I grew up listening to James Brown, The Temptations, Michael Jackson, The Neville Brothers, Aretha Franklin, Stevie Wonder and e.t.c. So the closest thing I got to “pop” music of the 2000’s was the first “Now That’s What I Call Music” CD (which I still own) and “The Cheetah Girls”.

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My favorite song was something about twirling like a hurricane. I don’t know.

If you’re laughing right now, I don’t blame you. Does anyone even remember The Cheetah Girls?

I didn’t like pop music anyway. My ear just wasn’t tuned for it. I don’t like high pitched voices and a lot of the female singers sung like they were cats with their tails being smashed under a car tire.

I used to hate Sucker Free Sunday on M.T.V (remember when they played music?) and I’d fight with my father on Saturday nights to stay up and watch HeadBangers Ball where I first saw Cradle Of Filth and their “Temptation” video.

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From This Album

Does anyone remember that? As an eleven year old kid, I was pretty disturbed. In a good way. 

“Pulse Of The Maggots” by Slipknot was my favorite as an angry, confused 11 year old.

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I got my dose of classic metal and rock from the music videos they showed before the heavier portion of HeadBangers ball. It’s where I was really introduced to Metallica, Pantera, (I knew about The Rolling Stones, Aerosmith, The Band and all those classics from my parents too) and I just saw metal and rock as a different way to interpret life. Soul music had it’s signature “from the gut, from the soul” type of bellowing songs with trumpets and saxophones and partial orchestras on stage (from my little kid point of view) and if you go back far enough they all had matching outfits and did matching dances and even though they smiled and sung smoothly, often songs were about grief and sadness and depression and struggle and loneliness and those deeper human emotions in general.

I heard the same thing in metal and gravitated towards it. I hear it all music.

My father never agreed with me on the subject. He’s too old school and stuck in the music he grew up with, the stuff he made me grow up with. When he saw me listening to bands like this:

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And this:

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He was very confused, to say the least.

When I say music, I’m NOT, for the love of God, talking about girls who run around in mini skirts in rap videos saying some guy needs to “eat the booty like groceries”. That . . . that’s fucking nasty, first of all. Second of all, there’s no emotion in that. In fact, there’s no humanly connection at all and therefore I get confused. My brain hears it and searches for a reason and a connection and joy or sadness or anything to indicate it’s another human being rapping or singing and . . . it’s just void of all humanity.

There’s emotion in Piano, in orchestra, in opera, in metal, in punk, in grunge, in rap, in improvisation, in every form of music on the planet . . . except something that’s been written for the sake of profit. Like a line about eating ass.

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My first real band obsession came when I heard the album “Freak on A Leash”. Obviously, I’m a youngster, and I wasn’t born yet when Korn came out with their first album. The first song I heard of them was from when their album “See You On The Other Side” was still fresh. But that just fueled my fire. I immediately bought all of their albums.

You can try and mention a metal or rock band I haven’t heard of or listened to at least once, but it would be pretty hard.

Thinking of Meshuggah? That’s a horrible guess, of course I’ve listened to them.

Cannibal Corpse?  You know damn well I used to head bang to that shit.

music-the-universal-languageI sometimes settled for softer songs from 30 seconds to mars and Shinedown, H.I.M and Breaking Benjamin and Taking Back Sunday or Avenged Sevenfold. But the point is I jumped around the entire rock/metal spectrum, just like I do every music genre. Music, arguably, is the most versatile, universal languages. I listen to Rammstein (Klavier, America, and Moscow are three of my favorites) and although I can only get the jist of the songs from my limited understanding of German, it hits a nerve in me that connects me to them. Same with songs I’ve heard from India, the middle east, China, Korea, Spain, Mexico. It connects you to people you’ll probably never know in a way you wouldn’t be able to even if you did meet them.

You know whose music has always had a special place in my heart? Bjork. Very unique.

What many people don’t know, is that when I had the space, when I had the drive and the motivation and the time, I dedicated every waking moment to music. I played the guitar, the bass, the clarinet, the piano, and more than anything I wanted to be a singer.

Lots of children gravitate towards what their parents do, and my father’s title of Vocalist/Dummer in his band appealed much more to me than my mother’s title of “classified clerk” at the local newspaper business.

So I emulated my voice around those musicians I adored and obsessed over. I learned how to manipulate my throat and I learned a lot of new curse words I’d never heard before. It was the greatest time of my life within one of the worst times of my life.

I haven’t had the focus or discipline to keep up my hobbies. And I miss them. Terribly.

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My Soul Is Apparently Very Colorful And Geometric. Math Is Everywhere. Fuck.

What is life without that kind of emotional release? It heals the soul. And the soul takes a lot of hits in this day and age.

My confidence has plummeted as well. I used to be ecstatic about showing off some of my talents, but I’ve become even more reserved and now I’m out of practice. I used to love to show off to my former friends (also metal fans) the different metal vocalists I could imitate and we’d always wanted to start a band.

I’ve never posted a vlog or anything, so I know you all have no reference of what I sound like when I talk. But, despite being of the female variety, my voice is pretty gender neutral. It’s not high pitched (unless I force it to be) and it’s not low pitched. I don’t sound girly or manly. I’m . . . I’m a girly man. Or a manly girl. I’m a unisex. In terms of voice.

So rock music fits my range.

You won’t hear me singing Adele like a perfect little princess. If I did, it would probably sound like some mix of David Draiman (Disturbed) and Maria Brink (In This Moment) with a little dash of that one chick from Otep. And some Linkin Park.

I don’t know what the hell.

The point is, I need to reignite my passions. It’s might be what’s been dragging me down lately. I have no space or freedom in this apartment. I can’t blast music or instruments without a neighbor or my parents complaining.

But the stress is building. When music was my life, my stress never built like this, never to this level. 

I can’t neglect something that runs through my veins just as deep and nutrient rich as my blood.

My state of mind at the moment:

 

 

 

 

E.B.A.H And The World

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The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire. 

The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire. 

The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire.

We don’t need no water, let the motherfucker burn. 

Burn motherfucker, burn. 

If you haven’t heard that song by Bloodhound Gang, what have you really done with your life?

Music is a big part of my life. As I’ve briefly mentioned before, I listen to all types. Taking a world music class introduced me to some of my now favorites like Gamelan music from Indonesia, Classic Chinese, and the Pansori story-telling opera type music from Korea. I believe what attracted me to Gamelan was the class, the organization, and of course the on point timing the musicians intrinsically know. You don’t ever step over the instruments, only around them because stepping over them disrespects the spirits within them. Pansori reminds me much of Native American music which often tells stories of creation and morals, although I believe Pansori runs a lot, lot longer. Classic Chinese music has always interested me, before I had a chance to study it; it’s very high pitched but it’s a type of high pitched that strums a calming nerve in me.

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Here’s a video if you’ve never heard it. I strongly suggest giving it a chance:

What a lot of people in the western world may not know is that our music bars, our F.A.C.E and E.G.B.D.F are not universal. If you’re American you’re probably used to the 4/4 count, and if you’re part of latin and German roots you’re probably also used to 3/4 counts (Waltz). But a lot of classic and culture music from our neighbors over in the East is often improvised, without written bars, without specific counts, and taken only from the 90+ scales they have to memorize and master in order to become a respected musician.

Before I took the class a year and a half ago, I figured I’d never hear anything as complicated as, say, Through The Fire and The Flames by Dragonforce. If you haven’t heard that song, the solos and vocals are wicked and blew my mind when I was 11. While in that class, I learned Western, modern music is rather simplistic compared to the rest of the world that have certain musical traditions to uphold.

Don’t get me wrong, I love classic rock and metal and rap and Rhythm and Blues and Jazz and symphonies and orchestras and operas and choirs and a SELECT FEW Country songs as much as the next person. But I found myself culturally envious of the children across the world who are filled with thousand year old songs by their elders (whether they appreciate it in this day and age or not).

2492451_origI consider myself part of the world culture. I love, and am fascinated by them all, regardless of which gender they think is superior or which dictators they’re forced to bow down to. The culture isn’t corrupt, it’s the people, and therefore I respect their tradition, but not their choices.

Music does wonders for my mental health. I think it can do wonders for a lot of people’s mental health. Our music building at my college has walls dedicated to the psychology of music. It’s not only a good stress reliever but it’s a form of expression, of comfort, and it’s a way to connect with others. It’s a way to enjoy solitude and company. It carries tradition and message and religion and every human emotion, perhaps even the ones you can’t explain.

Many native traditions believe the universe was wrought into creation by a single song. I tend to agree.

Music is everywhere. Our voices can imitate pitch and tone. Your pulse is a beat, your car engine rumbles to a specific count. Math and music intermingle like courting eagles and without those two timing devices, what would our universe be today? Non-existent, most likely. Music is everywhere, if you open your ears to it.

maxresdefault3What bothers me about music as an industry is the introduction of synthetics. I don’t like the way they defile the rawness of the human voice or the way they only do so in pursuit of dollars. I stay away from most pop music because of the reoccurring themes of “omg, we broke up” and the cliche beats made by someone pressing three buttons and feeling accomplished in themselves. I can’t watch music videos anymore because I’m not that into porn. I turn on the radio to a local hip-hop station and find they’ve been dominated by corporation and therefore forced to play the same song ten times in an hour. Not to mention if they did play a different song, I wouldn’t know because all the rappers have the same tone of voice and brag about the cocaine in their car, the gun in their sock, and the bitch on their dick.

That being said, there are people into synthetics who get amazingly creative and I respect them for putting a level of originality into something that can fall dull pretty easily. There are some rappers who spit on a variety of topics and I respect them for defying the stereotype surrounding rap these days.

I don’t mean this to seem like a hate speech on today’s music (although they’re making it pretty easy for me) because everyone’s chosen way to express themselves is up to them.

Oops, I mean up to the record companies. Sorry for that error.

63b9d7_d43f48ba681549446f14aa647ac85da0So as youngster I did gravitate towards the underground scene. I supported local bands and political rappers before I understood politics. I liked Dead Prez and Immortal Technique but I clung to Tech N9ne the hardest for some reason.

Probably because he’s a motherfuckin’ boss.

But that’s beside the point.

I scanned one of our local club’s band list for the next six months and underneath Snoop Dogg and some stupid ass 2 Chainz was Tech on May 14th. His annual trip into our little town.

It’s funny. Besides Snoop Dogg and Ice Cube, I never see that club sold out with a line three blocks down until Tech comes. Maybe I’m bias. But those are the three biggest names to hit us, usually.

I wish he was coming after June 15th (my birthday) so I could hit the bar downstairs and head upstairs. Alas, on may 14th I won’t be close enough to 21 for them to let me sneak in.

largeI like downstairs better anyway. I like being in the front because, hello, you’re right there. Last time one of the rappers who’d already performed was standing right behind my friend and I and I jumped so high when I noticed. He was just laughing and taking some joints from the people beside me. He was chill.

Yes, I do take ear plugs. For sensory reasons and for ear health reasons.

Obviously, I’m hype for this shit. I miss when he used to come twice or three times a year, but I understand Strange Music has expanded since 2002 and honestly, as long as his ass comes once a year I’m satisfied.

A few of my favorite songs? Damn, I’m glad you asked. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Broken Earphones = Hell To Pay

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You know the day will be stressful when you wake up to find one of your earbuds dead.

You all know how important music in my ear at every waking moment is to me. If you don’t know, now you know. I hurt people who yank the earphones out of my ear because they think it’s funny. I hurt them. I’m not kidding.

Alright, I’m kidding a little. But only a little.

So before I even got out of bed, before I brushed my teeth, before I got some orange juice or said good afternoon to my father, I got on Amazon and searched desperately for some decently priced ear buds.

What the fuck is this?

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“I received a discount on this product in exchange for an honest review”.

Firstly, how do you do this?

Secondly, on half of the products I found the only positive reviews were those who were given this “discounted” price. I don’t think half of these people give their “honest review”.

If you’re one of those people who aren’t internet savvy or just don’t pay much attention to the comment section of products, only the “stars” like a yelp addict, I’ll give you a little tip. Read the comments. Don’t just read them to hear the good things or the bad things, read them like every single person is a sociopath with the intent on manipulating you. It sounds extreme but really, it’s the only way you’re going to increase your chances of getting the product that lives up to your standard.

I’m very picky about my products which is why I will spend hours upon hours searching through comment sections. It’s not as if I don’t take into account that every product will have a few defective ones, but there are patterns within the comments that you can find that can alert you to major defects. Like too much treble and little bass, the exact opposite of what I want.

It’s  like those psychology professionals who base their entire treatment off the fancy textbooks they read in college. They don’t read the hypothetical comments section. They don’t have insight to how people’s lives work who have to live with the disorders, they just know what symptoms you should have and what treatments are listed in the computer for them and they make sure you know it too. Then you start obsessing about what you could have think you’re a professional able to shout out a diagnosis to the world. Stop it. Stop.

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Why would you want to diagnosis yourself with something anyway? I’m sorry, I always laugh at this. I’m not trying to be rude if you’re someone who does this, but it’s labeling yourself. Is it to rationalize the stuff you’ve been going through? To justify your behavior? What is it? What’s the point?

I could fit any number of diagnoses based on the basic criteria. Because that’s just it; the criteria is pretty basic. A lot of people experience symptoms of mental disorders in their lives, because holy shit we’re human. If you’re one of those overly sensitive people, you might just be labeling yourself with something you don’t even experience.

BestBuy CloudsIt’s like going into Best Buy and believing everything the little tech people tell you. You have to research the product before you go in their asking them. You might not even know what to ask. When I was browsing for my computer I didn’t know one thing about harddrives or intel cores or AMD cores or anything really. So I spent a good three weeks learning everything I could and when I went into Best Buy to browse the products. The little signs they put on the side of their computers didn’t have half the information I did. They rarely mentioned the core performance and only covered the things that made the computer look good: you know, whether or not it has beats audio or touch screen or social media apps or whatever people get sucked into.

It’s like the SDHC cards for cameras that say “super fast performance” and charge you $99 for a 64 GB card when the $20 64GB card right next to it literally does the same thing. I read the back of the packages. I read them three times. “Super fast performance”? On a card? How fast do you want your pictures transfer on your card? You want it to be on there at the speed of light? You want the picture on the card before you even fucking take the picture? You want the pictures transferred from the card onto the computer before you even put the card into the SD slot in your computer? Because that’s never going to happen. You’re paying $99 dollars for bullshit.

The moment I press the button on my camera is the moment the picture is on the $20 card, give or take a second. The moment I slip it into the slot is the moment my computer imports my picture. They’re crystal clear, perfect, and just the way I took them. I don’t know how much faster or “super performing” it can get.

You’ve got to be really anal to pay 70 more dollars for another seconds worth.

You’ve got to be really arrogant to base your entire treatment as a professional on textbooks only. That’s like purchasing something online based on the amount of stars it has without ever glancing at the comments.

*Disclaimer*: I did the review of these realities because I received them at a discounted price in exchange for my very, very honest and excruciatingly biased opinion.

 

P.S: You know that moment when you’re so excited about using Photoshop and Adobe Illustrator and all those other fancy products to create amazing things for yourself and for others to enjoy and then you realize you have so many amazing ideas but don’t know shit and you open the products and you spend four hours trying to do two things because the only thing you can remember how to do is cut and transfer an image into another image? Then you find out transferring a Illustrator image into Photoshop isn’t as easy as you thought? And you download bridge and it still doesn’t transfer right? And then you realize this is why people take classes for that shit? And then you have to shrug your shoulders because oh well, now you have to each yourself?

Don’t be like me.