Career Shameer

It’s 10:44 in the morning. I got off of work two hours ago. I am sleep deprived from the last few days, and quite irritable. That’s the perfect time to belch out a post. Agreed?

I’m not sure about the rest of you, but my best cognitive realizations and abilities are birthed from pure, elegant exhaustion. I did much better in Calculus at eight thirty in the morning after four hours of sleep than I did in an afternoon class after a solid seven and a half hours of sleep the night before. My brain is backwards and I appreciate that.

However, I am at a rather jarring crossroads in my life right now. After the last three years of being in and out of psychiatric hospitals, on and off psychiatric medications, jumping around from (ignorant) diagnosis to diagnosis, gaining weight, losing weight, gaining weight again, in and out of a four year relationship, it’s left my education in shambles.

Most of you know I currently work as a Peer Support worker at a Peer Respite house and if you didn’t know, now you know. Somewhere on this blog I still have the post I put up about my first day of work there. I’ve been there for 2.5 years by this point, the longest job I’ve ever held. I started when I was 20 years old, a month or two away from my 21st birthday that I don’t remember. In my interview I told them I was a Pre-Med student eager for a career in psychiatry to fight the system.

I am now 23, four months away from my 24th birthday.

I’m not quite sure what happened. I was fully invested in my psychology degree and unscathed by the physics and math required for Med-school. I was a little perturbed about chemistry. I can’t balance an equation to save my fucking life. Another fun fact: put a Calculus equation in front of me, or teach me Linear Algebra and I”ll eat it alive. Put a pre-algebra word problem in front of me and I crumble, I disintegrate. As a writer, you think I’d understand what word problems are asking of me. As someone pretty decent at math, you’d think I’d understand how to calculate what’s being asked of me. Both of your assumptions would be horribly, horribly misled. I’m sure you can, then, deduce how well physics went.

My point in all this rambling is I can’t figure out what I want to study in college anymore. My psychology degree is almost complete and I don’t much care for it anymore. Every psychology class I take I no longer take interest in. Perhaps it’s from 1) living the experience of mental health issues and realizing textbook explanations are pale in comparison, 2) understanding the corruption that lies in the mental health industry/business, and 3) from working in the exact opposite environment that I would be working in were I to pursue my original career choice.

Perhaps it’s my stubbornness. I don’t want to answer to Insurance companies. I don’t want to be solicited or bribed by pharmaceutical salesmen offering me money to push certain drugs. I don’t want to have to deny someone my services because their insurance won’t pay for me because they don’t want medication. I don’t want to make that choice for them, it’s not my business. I don’t want to go into private practice and have to charge 300 dollars an hour and limit myself to an elitist group when we’re all very much aware that the people who need the most help are often struggling with housing, substance use, financial issues, as well as their mental health.

I don’t want to work for a county that would allow me to see that population but underpay me significantly and overload me with cases. I don’t want to only be allowed to see those people for 15 minutes when they need so much more time than that. I don’t want to be considered a doctor that only hands out medication. I don’t do well with rules that are illogical and all of the aforementioned happens to be just that.

And yet I feel that to not pursue this would be abandoning my own people. I feel the difference I wish to make can only begin with legitimizing myself, and unfortunately that requires a college degree in this day and age. But if the passion for the classes isn’t there anymore–where does that leave me? I still have a fiery passion for exposing pharmaceutical companies for what they are, for guiding people through their own mental health journey, for offering other opportunities and healing besides medication and hospitalization, but I just can’t handle sitting through these fucking brainwashing classes and pretend to care about what they’re saying.

So do I start over? Do I accept the psychology degree and switch to a different discipline? Do I follow my original plan, which would require a hard science degree? Do I have the confidence for that? Or will word problems best me? Will I make the same mistake, get the degree, and then not want to pursue the discipline? Will I even be able to get the degree? Or do I say fuck school all together and live the rest of my life check to check, roommate to roommate?

I’ve been off all meds for a couple months now. No antipsychotics, no mood stabilizers, no antidepressants, no sleep medication. I’ve 360’d my diet, and now exercise five days a week for an hour and a half. I’m making a lot of changes and it feels like it’s only natural that my career path do the same.

The real problem is i’d love to have a career in physics and a career in peer support. That just doesn’t seem realistic though. Research during the day, peer during the night? Sounds exhaustive.

What’s helped you choose your career path? Are you still searching for something? Are you at a crossroads too?

Why Writing is Actually the Bane of My Existence.

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

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

<—(How I imagine your face).

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

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

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

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

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

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

See: attention span = shit.

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

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

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


Life Status: Updated

Yes, I will always allude life to the way technology works. Since I last posted, a few updates have been downloaded. Some have been tried out, others uninstalled, and then reinstalled because of the urgent need of them.

Firstly, I said my first “no” to a shift offer. I had a lot of things to do that day and just couldn’t make it, and saying “no” is one of the hardest things to do because I hate making other people feel disappointed. But it had to be done. And I did it. Fantastic. Still feel like an asshole.


I was one point away from a B on my math test. Considering I didn’t get a chance to study at all with the crazy weekend I had last week, I’m impressed. The class average was 49 points out of 70. I’ll also throw this in for perspective: In the history of my math classes, my first test has always been an F. I’m talking 50% and below. That’s after I studied. So it’s obvious having my tests proctored in a separate room, where its quiet, has really made a huge difference. Why did I get points knocked off? I forgot a ()^2 in a formula, fucked up on the first problem because it was a problem review from a class I haven’t taken in a year and a half, and I forgot a 1/2. So note to self: proctoring in a different room doesn’t help the attention span.

I have to read a book that I hate. It’s collected short stories and fuck me, it makes no sense. None of the short stories make any fucking sense. I want to take this book and shove it up the publishers ass. And all the reviews that say this writer makes others gibber, or that she’s the quintessential fiction writer were obviously written by people bribed. Because fuck this book.


Some peers told me I pay way more attention to detail than other people and therefore think I should tone down some things in my writing. I respectfully agreed and disagreed. I believe there are times I take too long to describe something because in my eyes I see every little thing about it. Someone seeing five things happen in twenty seconds in my eyes is seeing fifty things happen in twenty seconds. I’ve always been that way. Catch me on a bad day and I’ll tell you it’s because I have the ability to manipulate and slow down time. Catch me on a day like today and I’ll tell you it’s just a product of how my brain perceives things.

At the same time: Criticism.


Need I say more?

Criticism can be hard to take, particularly on my writing because of how much of myself I put into it. I took an AP english course in high school. My attitude was this upon entering the classroom:


This was my attitude after two weeks:


Because my teacher was not like a high school teacher, she was like a private university professor. She pushed me harder than any teacher had ever pushed me. She picked on me in class, she embarrassed me in class, she laughed at how quiet I was and poked and prodded at me like I was the village idiot. She scribbled across the bottom of one of my papers that it was horrible and what the hell was I thinking? She didn’t say “hell”, but that was the emotion through her words.

I learned how to take criticism from her: No one tells me my writing is fucking horrible and gets away without me showing them otherwise.

At the end of the year she found me grading papers in the English office. I was a teachers aid. The papers I were reading were fucking horrible by the way.

Anyway, she comes in and leans by me and I stare up at her slowly because I’m already expecting a verbal beat down and whenever I see her I’m always ambiguous about how I should react. She asks me if I’ve decided to apply to the honor society at the college I was going to. I told her no. She said I needed to, that I had the grades for it. She told me I was really smart. She said a few others things too, but I can’t remember. I walked away that day very, very confused.

Another life update: I’m now apart of the honor society.


When I entered another English class at my college, the professor I took was an older woman who really liked to talk. I was always first in her class because I wanted to get the shit over with. The college made me take the class and all the books we were reading and the essays we were writing I’d already done in high school. Anyway, one day she came in and said the name of my old high school teacher. She told me she’d been told I was a great student and writer and that I would be a good addition to the class.

Once again, I left really fucking confused.

Until I realized what that high school teacher did for me.Until I realized she was pushing me my senior year of high school because she knew I wasn’t deaf or mute or stupid. She knew I was smarter than I thought I was. Sometimes you don’t know how much someone affects your life until you start living a little more.

The opportunities I’ve been given are astounding. Working at Second Story (which, by the way, was the first peer respite house in the state of California, seventh in the United States) is by far the crowing jewel. It opened when I was 16 years old. I’m only 21 for fucks sake. How many 21 year old’s have this kind of opportunity? How many 21 year old’s with mental health issues get a chance to be around their own people and learn and grow like I do? How many 21 year old’s get a chance to be in their field before they’d even got a piece of paper saying they’re allowed to? Sometimes I feel like I’ve learned more from guests and coworkers in the short time I’ve been here than I’ve learned from my own parents over 21 years. I don’t know how to feel about that.

And to think a month ago I was ready to quit everything: school, working, life in general.

I have to remember whatever stress I feel has the potential to make me stronger.

Rambles . . .


For two days I managed to lift myself from bed and do something productive, so I would say I’m feeling a little better.


That being said, I believe very thoroughly in having a spiritual connection with the universe and respecting the interconnection we all have with each other, with the stars, the planets, and this realm of reality in general. I’ve known I’ve been needing some money apart from the money I’ll be making at my new job, and this week I believe I’ve been saved once again.

Some people pray, some people obsess, some people believe in luck. My mother often goes crazy over the lottery and buys tickets almost every day, no matter how often I tell her the amount she spends way exceeds the amounts she’s ever won. She spreads the colors red and gold through her room for “good luck”, something I personally don’t believe in.

We all know I have different views on reality, I believe I made an entire post on it. We all know that I see signs and symbols in everything: call it ideas of reference, or call it a creative mind, you choose. All I know is that since I was a child this method has worked for me.

the-secret-book-coverI read that one book “The Secret” because my mother is also obsessed with it and it was trash. All those books are trash.

It’s hard to explain a connection I’ve felt since I was a toddler and could think about these kinds of things, but it’s always been there and it’s always been dependable. This sounds odd to a lot of people, talking to the universe and having it listen to you. Makes it sound like I’m hearing things in my head. I’m not.

I predicted where we would live while we were homeless. I felt it in the air and I wrote it down in an essay in school. My teacher loved it. And after I finished writing it, including my explanation of my connection with the universe, everything I’d written came true. I said we would live in the four different regions of this county (there are about six different regions within the overall city we live in) and I listed the order it would happen, and it did. I said once we finished those four specific regions, we would find another apartment. It wouldn’t be  a house, but it would be an apartment, and it would be across town from my high school. Which is where I still live today.

It wasn’t something I guessed, it was something I felt.

I feel I’ve been sending out distress signals and this afternoon I came home to two checks and a third on the way, in addition to the other two I picked up yesterday. So five checks total in two days, a couple worth three hundred, one worth two hundred, another worth four hundred.

I thought my college account only had $300, and when I looked yesterday it had $1500.

I don’t know where the numbers are coming from, or why they’re coming, but they are.

It’s not about being lazy and manipulating the universe to your every whim. It’s not about not having to work for the rest of your life. It’s about understanding that you will always have what you need if you’re connected in life. This money isn’t something I want just to spend frivolously, it’s something I need to save. It’s something I’m putting to use for other people, not just myself. It’s something I want to use to give experiences to people who have always used their money to give me experiences. There are two birthdays coming up, father’s day, a car that needs fixing, and a trip to L.A this summer, so I’ve got my work cut out for me in terms of budgeting.

I withhold from bragging about these kinds of things because that’s not good natured. If I found a hundred dollar bill on the ground I would text my friend and say “look what I got bitch, suck it”. But I know the checks that I have in my hand that happen to come all at once, some of which have been due to me since 2013. If I win this particular writing competition I’m gunning for, well . . . my life will be complete.

I’m gunning for two, actually. One of which won’t alert me if I won or not until September. One will tell me by July 1st, and that would be perfect before I go to Los Angeles.

I’m going to Compton to find Ice Cube. 

universal20studios20hollywoodAnd by Compton to find Ice Cube, I mean Universal Studios. Seems like a social anxiety nightmare, I know, but I’ve never done it and I’ve never been to L.A, and I’ve let my anxiety hold me back from a lot of things. There are some things, like going to amusement parks, where I suck it up the best I can because I know I can have fun if I would just give myself a chance.

Speaking of having fun, the tickets I wanted for a concert this may were sold out because my dumbass forgot to buy them a month ahead like I usually do: my depression stole my annual concert from me. But it’s alright, I spammed their reservation ticket website with four different email addresses, so the next four tickets are going to me. I’ll resell two of them.

If anyone can figure out what the hell this post is about or why I’m even writing it, feel free to comment below. 

Because I’m pretty sure by today’s standard of being completely disconnected with everything except your Insagram, Facebook and Twitter profiles, I must sound crazy.


Acceptance Of The Self

Is morality like etiquette?


I’m not going to answer it, I just wanted to give you a question to think about for the day.

I had an interview at a nursing home this morning for a housekeeper position. These past few months have been rough: I’m fatigued, I’m tired, I’m forgetting more than usual and of course I’m skating through most of the day wondering if I’ve stuck in a dream or not. Today, luckily, has been relatively chill.

But my mentality has taken a toll on me, so when the secretary asked me what position I was applying for, I couldn’t remember the word “housekeeper”. I said “the person who sweeps and mops”.


I laughed at myself harder than I probably should have.

The manager who interviewed me was high as fuck. He could hardly keep his eyes open and when he spoke he slurred his words. He moved fairly quickly however and seemed to keep up well with his staff, so from all the drugs and addiction I’ve grown up around I can safely assume he’s on some kind of pills. His cognition was there, so were the majority of his reflexes, but his speech and eyes and general demeanor were not that of the average sober person.

I had to sign a “we have a right to drug test you” clause in the application.


I suspected Xanax or perhaps a benzo; his position seemed to be high stress as he was constantly running around the facility trying to make sure his staff members weren’t fucking something up.  His desk was a tragedy. Paper all over the place. I didn’t even have room to fill out the paperwork.

It’s odd that much of my social anxiety has sort of taken a back seat for the time being. I still wouldn’t give a speech or go to parties or anything like that comfortably, but in terms of going into stores, doing interviews, working with other people, it’s gotten much easier. I see that as progress. An odd sort of progress because I haven’t really been practicing anything. 

What I struggle with now more than anything is the tendency towards Alexithymia-I can’t distinguish my emotions from each other. They’re all a whirlwind inside of my head and as a result I lash out. These are the days I usually take something or smoke something to level me out, but because I have no more prescriptions available and because I’m still applying to jobs which may drug test me upon hire, I can’t risk it.

So instead I’m standing waist deep in my own personal hell.


I thought today would be okay because I woke up feeling alright. The last week has been a haze. I can’t describe an ounce of how I feel in words. I tried last night, I’ve tried many nights, and being a writer it’s more than frustrating when you can’t put something as simple as emotion into words. So instead I write about how I can’t write about it. That makes sense, right?

So I use music to distract myself from my own thoughts. It’s louder than my brain so it makes it easier for me to focus. As long as there is noise, I can focus. If there isn’t background noise and all I’m alone with is me and my thoughts then I get confused, overwhelmed, and only more tired.

I just spend my day wondering if the tree outside of the library is real or what would happen if it wasn’t. I wonder if I’m real, if you’re real, if the table I’m sitting at is real, and if the hands I see typing on the keyboard belong to me and what if they didn’t? I feel unreal, my actions feel unreal, my words sometimes don’t sound like they’re coming from me, I don’t feel connected to the world, blah, blah, etcetera, etcetera.

I’m not bothered by it, it just takes up a lot of time during the day.

depersonalization_by_danger99-d2lfkldOver the years I’ve learned to accept the derealization, the constant pondering, and my tendency to wonder if an event happened or if I’m still dreaming. I write off the feeling that I’m still dreaming. I wrote off the feeling that the incident in the vault never happened and I imagined it-I’ve already concluded it didn’t happen so there’s no need to continue thinking about it.

I write it all off because of the simple fact that it hasn’t disrupted my life like anxiety and depression has. Sure people think I don’t care about things (I.e, my room is a mess, I mean you can barely walk through it, I rarely do laundry and just salvage old clothes or hand wash in the sink if I absolutely need something) and sometimes they get annoyed because I won’t talk because I’m so deep in my head, I won’t laugh because I honestly don’t know, sometimes I just don’t feel like I can, or if they just meet me they don’t understand why I won’t share facts about myself with them or why I don’t feel like making eye contact or why I barely respond to them at all in some cases.

But in reality (ha, in your definition of reality I should say) none of those things bother me. Depression that makes me suicidal bothers me. Anxiety that prevents me from speaking up in class or asking a question when I need it bothers me. The fact that I can’t be comfortable at any moment outside bothers me.

Do I really need to tell the different between reality, dreams, and fantasy to live my life? Depending on the severity, not necessarily.

Think about it.


If I feel I’m living in a dream or I can’t tell if I’m awake or if what I experience was a dream or not, but I still go on about my day, I still study, I still work, I still function then what difference does it make?

If I’m not sure if my hands are mine but I’m still typing with them, what does it matter?

If I don’t feel like talking with people and still live life content with limited human contact, what does it matter?

I think that’s where people get stuck in the process of overthinking their “problems”. I’ve been comfortable questioning what was real and what wasn’t since I was 6 or 7 years old, I’ve been comfortable with bouncing back and forth between reality and fantasy too. In fact, I’ve never really separated the two. I’ve always seen the world differently. Am I aware that such a thing could snowball into something more “serious”? Sure. Am I going to sit there and act like I have a problem right now? Fuck no. And I think the fact that I’m as comfortable with such things as I am has helped my functionality.

Anyone else who stepped unprepared inside of my brain wouldn’t survive.

To me, what’s in my brain is normality. People who go through life without analyzing the reality of every little thing or people who have never sat at a table, stared at the floor, and had to ask themselves “am I dreaming?” scare me. That’s not normal.

So there’s a reason this blog focuses particularly on depression and anxiety because those are the aspects of myself that I find most troublesome. Not being able to talk to a classmate frustrates me more than the fact that i can’t tell whether or not the incident in the vault at work ever happened. Waking from a dead sleep into a panic attack, slicing or burning myself frustrates me more than my belief that I’m destined to change the world per some otherworldly intervention, or my introverted tendencies.

What do I think of the boss who is obviously abusing his prescription medication? Well, he’s accepted reality is reality and he doesn’t like it. So he medicates. I accept reality isn’t reality, that as a result reality is a fantasy and therefore one in the same. I don’t medicate. 

Curious, eh?

Depression. Period.

depressed young man sitting on the bench


Depression sucks. 

It sucks worse when someone calls it a choice.

If you think that’s what happened to me, you’d be wrong. In fact, my depression isn’t acting up at all right now. Mine comes in waves, strong ones, usually resulting from me screwing myself over, someone else screwing me over, or me just sick of feeling emotionally confused. Otherwise I tend to be rather blank. Not externally, that I fake, but internally yes. And I enjoy that. I enjoy that without feeling joy, because. . .

because I’m blank so . . .

so It’d be kind of hard to feel the joy of it all.

Now anger . .  . that’s a whole separate beast in itself.

cheer-up-smileyAnyway, when I am deeply depressed and wondering if there is a point to anything at all, if there is even a point to fighting it or coping with it or learning to accept it, I hate when people tell me “cheer up” or “stop being so negative” as if I’m choosing to be intensely negative, as if that’s something I strive to do in my daily life. 

Now, let’s pause.

Mostly because this is a touchy subject for those of us with depression. We know we hate people who tell us our depression is a choice. That’s like telling someone with Cancer to stop choosing to have cancer, or someone struggling in active psychosis to stop having psychosis.

But we’re also aware that because depression is something everyone has experienced at least once in their life (not on a clinical level, but on a basic level), it’s hard for them to separate our experiences from their own experiences. We understand that they figure because they can snap out of it, we should be able to snap out of it just as easily. We’re aware that they’re not fully understanding our situation, but they aren’t.

That being said, they do have a point.

*Shields face from angry people*


Just kidding, I’ve honestly never given a shit if people don’t like what I have to say.

I care, but it’s a different kind of care.

Whatever, that’s off topic. The point is there does come a point where we do have a choice. We have a choice to consistently tell ourselves that we don’t have any choices, we’re stuck like this, we’re doomed to live like this and die like this. If you’re telling yourself that, you’re making a choice to do so. And making that choice only further progresses your mindset.

If you don’t believe that, well then I don’t know what to tell you. Because nothing I tell you will convince you otherwise. And it’s not my job to convince you that you have choices in life, that’s something you either need to realize for yourself or never take advantage of. 

While I agree that no one chooses to have depression, I disagree that there aren’t some people who choose to take part in maladaptive thought behavior patterns, even when you’ve exposed those patterns to them. It’s often the case for SOME people (NOT ALL) who take therapy and come out saying it didn’t help them.

Assuming your therapist wasn’t a complete prick, how much effort did you put in?


Did you do the exercises? Did you enact coping mechanisms and discuss which ones work for you and which ones don’t?

Or did you go in expecting them to do the work for you because, well, shit, you just can’t do anything right?

Hey, hey, don’t give me that look, there are people out in the world who act like this. Yes, I struggle with depression and self harm and anxiety and this and that and blah, blah, we could be here all day going through diagnoses and criterion, so I empathize with these people. What I don’t empathize with is their unwillingness to work on themselves. 

What, you expect a magic fairy psychologist to land on your head, tap your hair, zap your brain with some fairy dust that you hope isn’t just cocaine, and “poof!”, you’re all better?

I don’t think so.

If the world worked like that, we’d all be cocaine addicts.


Which I mean, if you think about things practically, at least we wouldn’t have an overcrowding of people on the planet. Life spans would be significantly shorter.

Let’s not knock it before we try it.

Quick fixes. That’s what we’re obsessed with. If you’re not willing to work on yourself or break your back trying to change the way you think, that negative pattern, than I guess you really are up shit creek without a paddle.

Quick fix for the overpopulation issue? Gas half of the population against their will and bury them or launch their bodies into space. That’s a quick fix. Would you condone that?

If you won’t condone that, why do you condone pressuring yourself to find a quick cure for your issues? Remember, if you can’t will a world in which everyone would follow what you do, in which your actions become normality without contradiction, you’re acting unethically, and this applies to yourself and to others.

In other words, if everyone in the entire world tried to fix themselves with quick fix magic, well, it wouldn’t work because 1) magic doesn’t exist and 2) neither do the quick fixes, everyone would be searching for something that doesn’t exist. So there’s your contradiction.

It’s important to see that while you may not have put yourself in this situation deliberately, you are in this situation and therefore you’ve got to manage it. That’s that age-old argument you had with your parents and siblings when you were a kid. Your brother left his dirty dish on the table and your parents tell you to clean it and you say “I didn’t put there!”

So what? You live in the household, you can pitch in every now and then. You can take control and manage something that you didn’t ask for.

It’s such a simple concept that’s so hard to enact in ourselves. That I also empathize with. You get so used to being in one mindset that even when people point out the faults to you, you find reasons for why their wrong and end up keeping yourself in that same cycle.

Mean Trick

Depression makes you feel as if you’re out of control of how you feel and what you feel. It’s playing a trick on you, a mean one. You may not have had a choice in developing depression, but you have a choice in whether you want to live according to it’s rules or not.




Somewhere In The Universe An Alien Is Missing His Arms



Tonight has been interesting, as always.

When haven’t I had an interesting night?

Is that an advantage or a disadvantage?

It’s kind of like . . .

It’s like me trying to make up a metaphor and failing miserably.

It’s like me trying to use my failing of a metaphor as a metaphor and also failing miserably at that.

I went to bed at 9pm but told my brain this:

“Brain. Look. You said you were going to work on your paper today and you didn’t do shit, so now you need to get up early tomorrow and start.”

Brain said, “Fuuuuuucckkkkkkkk duuuuuude.”

I said, “You brought this horror upon yourself.”

Brain shut up and fell asleep peacefully for once and then woke me at 12:30am.

I stared at my phone and told brain, “I said early tomorrow you stupid fuck, not early, early tomorrow.”

Brain did that stupid sinister laugh he always does when he royally fucks me.

Now it’s 1am and I’m sitting back at my desk ready to start this essay but instead procrastinating and blogging because my brain kept chanting “blog, blog, blog, BLOG, BLOG, BLOG, BLOGBLOGBLOGBLOGBLOG!!!!!” until I did it.


So now I’m doing it.

He’s been cracking up all night lately. He’s off his anger high and now he’s back on his bubbly high, which I’m not going to fight against, but I must say it makes me very distractible. Not my usual distractible where I sit on forums and lurk for fifteen hours straight either. No, this is the distractible that would let me click on cute kitten videos on YouTube until I ended up on alien conspiracies and wake up out of an internet induced psychotic loop ready for some food.

Then I’d be compelled to click on the “Five worst video games in history” link on the side bar that was “recommended for me” during my alien conspiracy video and when I end up look up Rogue Warrior and consider buying it just so I could laugh at it’s crudeness.

If you’ve never heard of Rogue Warrior, YouTube that shit. Do it. If you like stupidity. It never fails. Its where I go when I feel down.

Not that I feel down.

You can go to Rogue Warrior whenever. He fulfills all your dreams.

Still better than Drake’s new album.

Kickin’ ass and takin’ names.

The “ooh, ah, ah, ah, ooh” is what makes the track.

10/10 Best troll game motherfuckers–IGN

Lyke If u cry evry tyme.

I mean shit, the stupidity is so astounding and so purposeful and so crude that I can’t help but lose my shit over these credits every time.

What is the point of it? What is the point of any of that. I cuss, but not at that level, not for the sake of it. Someone needs to pile some soap in a cannon and blow it in his mouth.

What am I talking about, man.

Speaking of aliens, I was laughing my ass off tonight. Err, last night. An eyelash fell in my eye and then it came to me: Alien Arms.

That was the phrase.

I said it out loud because it came so naturally that I couldn’t not say it. Then, as I was rubbing my eye, I imagined them falling in my eye and just . . . just sit there for a moment and imagine green little arms bent at the elbow falling from the ceiling into your eye. I mean, come on.





I was laughing so hard I couldn’t say what I was trying to say to my mother who is used to my weirdness by now and just waited until I got over it. I tried explaining the hilarity within alien arms in your eyes but she didn’t get it. No one ever gets it.
If my photoshop trial hadn’t ended, I’d make a photo of what I saw in my head and then maybe people would get it.

It’s not that funny anymore. But it was funny in the moment. My sentences were fucking up all over the place tonight and I’m damn hungry for another burrito.

Oh look, another post that has absolutely nothing to do with anxiety or depression or anything.


Is that a good thing? Probably. I need to “expand my horizons” you know?

Maybe focusing on my problems causes more problems. It’s good to let your mind roam sometimes.

Mine roams all the time but you get my point.

It’s like At&t phone service anywhere but in the store.

Ha. That was a diss. Get it?

Metropcs for life.




Well I mean I’m in my room, alone, at night, with a bright ass computer and a bright ass room light, I don’t have much to be anxious over right now besides the fact that I’ve yet to start my essay and that I have to read it out loud in class as usual and that I better not forget my motherfucking water bottle again because have you ever tried reading an 8-10 page paper word for word to a small group of people where every time you quoted something in the paper you have to say “quote, end quote”?

I was taught to integrate quotes into my own words and apparently no one else was taught that, so I’m having to say quote, end quote a lot more than other fucking people.


My grade is secure in this class. I’m not even trippin’ on anything.

In fact I’m looking beyond that. I’m looking beyond the holidays. I’m looking for the days I can snuggle in my blankets and sleep for days and days and days and not answer my phone and not give a shit and just chill for two months.

Did I mention how stressful holidays are for me? I hate gift giving.

Oh don’t look at me like that you overly-sensitive fuckers.

I don’t hate the act of gift giving, I just hate the fact that it’s expected. I don’t form connections with people easily. Now I have to give them gifts or risk being seen as even more of an asshole than they already see me? Shit man. Shit.


Whatever. It’s a gift. Just don’t throw it away in front of me and eventually I’ll stop assuming you did. At least by mid-January I’ll be done giving a fuck what you thought about it.

“Gee, no wonder you don’t make connections easy, you just called us all overly-sensitive fuckers. You do that all the time?”

Yes. Yes I do.


Feel free to ask me questions like that. I don’t really care. You can ask the most offensive, open ended, piece of shit question you can think of and I’ll answer you with the first thing that pops in my head. That’s the best way to answer stupid questions.

Remember how I said I have to feign a lot of emotion? Well I do. I call idiots fucking idiots all the time. What does that have to do with faking emotion? I’m not sure.

And I’m not talking about the not smart people, because they can always learn, I’m talking about the people who have clearly never exercise common sense and clearly never will. Those stupid people.

I don’t even know who I’m referencing there.


Oh, it has to do with feigning emotion because a lot of the time I don’t care if I hurt someone’s feelings.

Which is weird, considering my anxiety. I’m very careful with my words. But when people deserve a good lashing I don’t care if they think I’m being too harsh on them. If they would have used common sense I wouldn’t have to roll over them.

But that’s just me right now. I’ll be someone else tomorrow who cares a little more, don’t worry.

Or at least I’ll be someone else eventually. I’ll be nice again at some point, don’t even trip dawg, don’t even trip.

Anyone down for a throwback Thursday? On a Wednesday?

It’s Thursday for someone.

Okay not a huge throwback, just a song that popped up on my radio that I remember listening to in Junior high. Or high school. One of them. I don’t remember school very well, probably because I hated it.

Who doesn’t know this song.

Or this one:

My anthems as a child.

Time to write an essay.

I wish I could insert songs in my essays.

No, I’m not going to use a google docs presentation. I fucking hate google docs. I hate it! Plus I hate the word presentation. Do not ever recommend me to do a presentation.