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.

Reaching Contentment

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Where are you in your journey?

I feel like I spent a lot of time confused. If any of you are reading from the past, you’ll remember all the posts I made while I was in classes, about annoying girls flipping their hair right in my face and Calculus tests and writing workshops. You might even remember that I started dropping classes like flies. Now I’m trying to work on getting back into my classes so I can finish this puny fucking degree.

I’ve always liked school, and I’ve always been rather smart. There were some things I had to work at harder than others, but a lot of that was chalked up to my anxiety and inability to raise my hand and ask for clarification when I needed it–everyone needs clarification sometimes, I don’t care how smart you are. And if you are unable to get that small little aide, you start falling behind. And that’s exactly what I did. That’s exactly what I’m still doing.

Where am I in my journey–I’m not quite sure. I still feel a little lost and a little confused, but I feel like the directions are becoming clearer. I feel like I’m not longer standing at a fifty pronged fork in the road, I feel like I’ve narrowed it down to about 4 prongs.

I will be attending some classes again this semester, but I feel more ready for them, more so than I have in the last couple years. It’s going to feel a little strange being back in the classroom and as I watch my cat jump atop the fridge to get atop the kitchen cabinets, I realize that I have to do the same thing she does: calculate how far I can really leap, and what my limits are. I can’t just be jumping aimlessly. I need to jump with a purpose. That’s the only way to keep what little motivation I have left steady.

Life is such a great learning experience, I’ve learned to appreciate so much over the last three years. I’ve learned to appreciate myself most of all, and the shit I’ve put up with.

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I think what has made this experience one of the best experiences is that I’ve really learned how to feel my feelings. I was talking the other day with someone about how content I was, and how that feeling has been harder to learn to accept than the negative emotions. I don’t know what to do with myself when I’m content. I don’t have to fight with my brain, I don’t have to practice breathing because I’m not anxious, I’m not hearing voices or seeing demons, I’m not suicidal, I’m just kind of sitting in my house content with where I am in the moment. And that’s a new feeling. As with all new feelings, they take some time getting used to.

My intention was to pinpoint ways to become content like this, but I’m not sure if I can put it into steps or even words. I’m still expanding my support force, both with peers and in the professional world, and I’ve dropped a lot of pride. I’m still morally against taking psychiatric medication, but I came to the realization that as a temporary tool they can be useful. I’ve decided to give it a year or two, see how much progress I can make, see what skills I can learn to curb my experiences, and re-evaluate at that point. It felt like a defeat. It will always feel like a defeat.

My cat is scratching to the beat of Chop Suey by System of a Down. THAT was hilarious.

I think I introduced my cat to everyone 2 years ago when I got her, and I said I’d named her Andromeda. That was a lie. I have since named her Jazz. She likes Jazz music and is wild like Jazz can be, and smooth and calm like Jazz can be. Therefore, her name is Jazz and it will forever be Jazz. Here is Jazz now:

 

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She’s gotten much bigger
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This was her 2 years ago

Now she lays on her back and watches Television. ‘MERICAN Cat.

My posts are going to be haphazard like this until I get back into my writing groove. There is a groove, believe it or not, that writers get into. Some people are content with spewing the first thought from their head, and that is their groove. I do most of my deep thinking when I’m writing, so a lot of these thoughts are carefully calculated in my head as I type. Nothing is too spontaneous. I edit and edit and edit and take what I say very seriously, even when I’m joking about Ben Carson lying about his times at Yale. Carson could never be a good manipulator of the masses, he lies too blatantly. You have to lie subtly, with the intent to make the lie sound real. Nothing he said sounded real. I think he needs to operate on his own brain.

I will forever rip him, Trump, and Alex Gorskey a new one at any chance I get. One day I hope at least one of them will read some of the things I’ve said about them. I will be content on my death bed if that is the case.

Throwing Shade.

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Nightmare Time Rant

*INFORMAL RANT*

Hello blogsphere, it’s been . . . some time. Don’t know how long exactly. Has Trump done anything radical since I’ve been gone? Aliens made physical contact yet? Anyone see a totally rad movie they just feel like ranting about in the comments? Feel free to fill me in on the ways of your reality in the comments below.

My kitten is licking my blanket for no reason, and I am tipsy. So maybe she’s a little tipsy too. Or she doesn’t exist and never has and I’ve just been sucked into an alternative reality where I own a kitten.

Some portion of me has decided to start a journal of all things, but not really a journal. It’s more like pieces of paper I scribble out non-cohesive thoughts on, so that I can go along my day with as much composure as I can. I’ve called it my manifesto. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s a testament to humanity or something, I can’t come up with good words right now.

Classes are classes, work is amazing and stressful as always, and I can’t trust any motherfucker. I can’t. I don’t know how to bring myself to learn how to do that. I’m overwhelmed and am having problems grounding myself, as usual.

But, motherfuckers, I finished my fucking homework. Score fucking one. Five fucking stars. WHERE’S THE LAMB SAUCE.

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Fuck me. This is what I’m reduced to: reciting stale meme’s on a blog about mental health. The whole situation is fucking mental. Fuck the health part, it’s just MENTAL.

On second thought, don’t fucking mention Trump in the goddamn comments. I don’t wanna hear it. I hear it CONSTANTLY. Look, it’s very simple. You don’t like an executive order he puts out, don’t listen to it. Very simple. What’s he going to do, cut off everyone’s heads? Chill the fuck out. We have this weird sense that we’re powerless to a title. We’re not. People break the law all the time. Just do that.

Look at me, solving the nations problems and shit. I can solve the NATION’S problems, but not my own. Go figure.

I’ve missed you all, I have. This is, by far, the most open, social contact I have. At least when I write I make a LITTLE bit of sense. When I talk I don’t think I do.

My kitten is hunting a fly. KILL IT. FUCKING KILL IT. MURDER IT. RIP ITS FUCKING LEGS OFF.

I just want to die. I don’t want my physical body to die, just this mental part. It should die. I just want it gone already.

She’s sticking her face in my cup. Why. Why kitty. What the fuck is wrong with you.

The extremes are too extreme for me, I think. I need to learn how to properly attend to emotions, and I don’t know how to do that, so the next best option is to either slit vertically or

Dude.

When I was in the hospital, I had gashes and bruises all over myself. I hit them with my sweater, but I eventually had to take it off because it got hot as fuck. They weren’t deep enough to kill me in the moment, but they were deep enough to show I was having some serious, emotional, internal conflict. The nurse fucking called them SCRATCHES. What a way to INVALIDATE. A SCRATCH would imply something from my kitten. No, these were gashes. Not scratches you entitled fucking cunt.

Maybe she needed her glasses.

I probably should NOT be typing right now. Can you tell? I’ll probly sleep soon.

And the shit part is, I can’t even explain these things properly. I don’t know what’s with that. You should KNOW How you feel. That should be a number one priority of your brain: to understand it’s feelings. Instead, I just get more confusion, confusion, confusion.

I dedicate this song to the demon which lives within, and the cowardly ones that follow me around:

2016 Evaluated

I feel as though I haven’t done a random post in a while and as such have decided tonight shall be the night to put a bit of personal spice back into this internet journal someone coined a “blog”. Although it is not the last day of December, I’d like to reflect on this past year and tentatively avoid political ground for obvious reasons.

There have been a lot of changes this 2016 year. Marijuana was finally legalized in California (there’s goes my promise of political absence, I’m so sorry), in my town Porn producers are now required to provide and enforce their actors and actresses wear adequate protection, i.e condoms. Stores now advertise “Gluten Free” tomatoes.

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January of this year, I acquired a 9-5 that wasn’t 9-5, but all different scheduled hours. The first job I had since 2013. It required gigabytes upon gigabytes of organic brain memory to run monetary procedures for an amusement park. I got a chance to hold and carry a suitcase of twenty thousand dollars to the top floor and across the street with a security guard puffing behind me.

That job ended a few months later.

I experienced a psychiatric hospital for the first time. Curiously enough, that was the same time I experienced a boiling rage ravenous enough to turn all surrounding towns into imitations of Pompeii. Hmm. Odd.

Jack In The Box food poisoned me for ten days; my first experience with that sickness. A panic attack sent me to the E.R that swiftly prompted the doctors and nurses to interrogate me about suspected meth use. No evidence of meth use was found. Hmm. Also odd.

I learned that it’s best to let stupid people be stupid, and fight the urge to constantly reveal their stupidity to them, as stupid people are rarely capable of comprehending their own stupidity.

ips-logo-reduced1In May, I did a training in Intentional Peer Support. It taught me how to communicate in a way that focused on the other person’s thoughts and experiences rather than my own, particularly in confrontation. It taught me how to listen rather than blurt facts or potential solutions as I usually do. It taught me to listen to what people’s voices said rather than get blind sighted by a label like schizophrenia and ignore the person entirely.

In June, I started my peer counselor position at Second Story peer respite. I went in not expecting anything too grand and within a day saw many grand things. I saw healing in process: physical, mental, spiritual healing. I saw community. I saw hope. After growing up in a house with a warped definition of the word “respect”, I finally saw real respect. I saw trust and honesty. It startled me and I didn’t know how to respond. In fact, I got quite anxious and even laughed a few times in my head at the kindness.

I also saw the beginnings of a mental health revolution. I saw an opposition to the ideals of the Medical Model that weren’t extremist points of view.  I remain with that position to this date: the longest job I’ve ever held. I will be eternally grateful to them and it’s a shame my behavior and mannerisms aren’t as emotionally expressive as my writing.

in a few days, I’ll have an article published on Thought Catalog. Wondrous. 

I got a kitten. She’s hilarious. She grips onto things with her front paws and manically kicks at them with her back feet. When surprised or unsure, she emits a noise like a bird call. I got her from a shelter. When she saw me, she ran and slammed into the glass of her kennel, then proceeded to run around, jump, and slam into all of the walls. She wakes me with purrs, meows, and a tail under my nose. She also prefers to sleep like this:

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Everyone always says people change year by year and I didn’t believe it until 2016. I feel the changes and I see them.

I’ve always known I wasn’t alone. I’d just never been exposed to the reality of it, and the moment I was surrounded by people who had been through a manic experience and lived their life, by people who heard voices and lived their life, by people who did take and di not take anti-psychotics and still lived their life, by people who had been through horrible traumas in infancy and childhood to the point they developed different personalities and still lived their life, the moment I saw them with jobs and cars and families and a life, the moment we could all share a space and talk about something other than our mental health, I felt a switch.

There was no more anger. There was less sadness, less loneliness. My youth attracted a couple guys attempting to hit on me and that was a little overwhelming but we remained friends. I didn’t talk a lot, I still struggled with the conventions of interaction, but the fear of interaction was gone. And that I’d never felt before.

So I will say, regardless of the outcome of elections, this year has been revolutionary for me. In fact, this year has only birthed a greater fire within me. My career will never be based around psychiatry like I thought it would be.

My career will be based around people, as hard as it is for me to understand them sometimes. My career will be based around peers, around you all, and around me. Around our growth together, not our fight with pharmaceutical companies, not our fight against stigma, in fact, not our fight at all but rather our transformation. Our development into reminding ourselves that our recovery from what we experience in life can’t be done in the hands of others: we have to take control of it.

We have a saying where I work: Nothing About Us, Without Us. That to me speaks more volumes than anything I’ve heard from my psychiatrist.

P.S: then again, my psychiatrist isn’t the greatest. 

Thoughts #2

We’re losing all the icons man, Prince dead at 57, wasn’t expecting to wake up to that this morning. Soon we’re going to be left with Nicki Minaj and Taylor Swift and Skrillex as our icons, and the majority of the kids of the next generation aren’t going to know the satisfaction of playing a real instrument or experience true talent beyond someone pressing the space bar on a laptop or flicking the auto-tune button in a studio.

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I’ve been thinking a lot about this kind of stuff lately, the fragility of human beings. Not in a nihilistic or depressive sense, I’ve just been thinking about it.

It’s one reason I do admire my philosophy professor.  She’s very open about the way she thinks and believes in the reality we observe every day without paying any mind.

The password on her computer is over twenty characters, supposedly to keep out hackers, students, or hacking students or student hackers. Perhaps even colleagues, I don’t know. When she screws up on a key, we have to wait another five minutes for her to type it out. That’s how long it is.

I too share the paranoia of hackers–and it’s well justified these days. If I had a dollar for every time Nigeria and China hacked one of my damn Gmail accounts, I’d have enough to fund the L.A trip I’m taking this summer. 

She doesn’t like being video taped or recorded in any sense. Because my college is small, and the professors are surfers and pot heads even if they don’t identify as them and are usually chill about being recorded, I’ve never came across a professor who loathes it as much as this woman. She allows students to do so only if they’ve given her early notice and even then she lets you know how much she hates it.

One kid tried to sneak in a phone video and I thought heads were going to be chopped off. He’d slouched in his chair with his Iphone 6+ (yeah, the 5.7 inch one) and the camera light on facing her as she went on one of her infamous energetic rants. She caught sight of the light out of the corner of her eye and fell silent abruptly, pointed at the dumbass and said “Are you recording me?”

He shifted in his seat and lowered the camera a bit. She repeated herself and the room went cold.

Every fight I’d conquered in BloodBorne flashed behind my eyes at this moment. I was hoping we’d be bathing in student entrails.

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He said, “Well, It’s just because I think you’re so great. It’s a compliment.”

She didn’t buy his excuse, shuffled on over to his side of the room, leaned over the balcony in the front of the lecture hall as close to him as she could possibly get, smiled, and calmly informed him she would snatch his phone and smash it to pieces on the concrete, she’d done it many times before and wouldn’t be afraid to do it again.

The best part about all of this was the student had really white skin, so his entire self turned into a beet. 

I too hate being video taped. Perhaps not to that extent, it’s pictures that bother me the most. I’ve had my share of moments I’ve threw someone’s phone to the ground because they wouldn’t get it out of my face.

does-time-exist-blabberpoShe’s just as forgetful as I am, in terms of the things people called “important”. You know, like time. And dates. She’s never late, but she always forgets which times our class is at, what time it ends, and what days they’re on, even this late in the semester. She’s had this problem since she was a child, she said, because she doesn’t believe time exists, nor does she believe reality exists. That was the introductory sentence to our class. She wouldn’t explain why, much to my dismay, and if I didn’t have social anxiety I would be in her office hours asking her her theory and justification to see if it overlaps with mine. Because I tend to believe the same.

If there’s a yell or a shout or a loud noise somewhere, or even someone’s phone ringing, she always pauses in the middle of the lecture, stares at us for a moment, and asks us if we heard that. We all say yes and she continues. I laughed the first time that happened because it’s true, you can never quite know how real something is when you don’t believe in this reality. I think everyone else thinks it’s just some weird quirk of hers, and I think she plays it up for entertainment purposes in terms of class, but I understand the logic behind it, that’s the most entertaining part for me.

She goes on tangents too, that’s the best part. Sometimes they’re relevant, sometimes they’re irrelevant, and sometimes they’re just plain nonsensical but in a relevant way if that makes sense.

But attending her lectures and moving on in life always gets me thinking about how much we don’t know, and how much we think we know. It gets me thinking about how centered we are on ourselves as a species and how strange it is we’ve developed so many different ideals and cultures and languages and how much stranger it is that we become so self-centered we feel we have a right to tell someone else their behavior is abnormal.

I just think it’s all weird.

To be quite honest, I’m bored, that’s my problem.

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I’m bored with people who think money is valuable for anything other than survival, I’m bored with working, I’m bored with our “education”, I’m bored with standards, I’m bored with rules, I’m bored with “normality”. Maybe it’s just my twenties talking, just as my teens spoke well in the language of nihilism.

But this boredom isn’t like “Oh i’m bored with rules so let me go steal a car and stab someone in the eye”.

This boredom is like “Why am I not allowed to steal a car and stab someone in the eye? Why is that bad? I’m confused“.

This boredom is like “why do people waste their time with this petty reality? What gives them the confidence that this reality is reality? I haven’t seen any proof to convince me anything existing in this moment actually exists.

This boredom is like “What allows us to plan for a future we’re not guaranteed? Why do our brains just casually skip over the fact that we could all drop dead right now? I bet it’s hiding something from us. What prevents me from dropping dead this second?”

This boredom is like “Where are the fucking aliens? I’m bored of humans.” 

This boredom is like “I can’t even ‘go against the grain’ without being clumped into a whole other group ‘going against the grain’ so am I really going against the grain?”

Humanity bores me, basically. Jobs and family and material things and enjoyment and sadness and everything is labeled as significant without any proof of any of them being significant. I’m bored with that. Life gets much more interesting if I try and construct it through the eyes of someone who sees no significance in anything, but only sits back and observes the chaos.

 

Rant or Something Of The Sort

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I cannot CHILL.

Nope.

Nothing.

Nada.

Looked for some chill under my bed . . . wait, it’s two mattresses on the floor, no I didn’t. I looked in my CLOSET for some chill and it was missing.

I searched my laundry hamper thinking maybe I threw it in the dryer and it shrunk, but I burst from my pile of clothes empty handed.

I ate a couple cookies hoping maybe the chill was in the chocolate chips but I think that made it worse.

Maybe it’s the stress. This usually happens. I must have been ignoring something. Maybe I’ve been ignoring all the school stress and work stress and mucking my subconscious up with it to the point where my subconscious has no other choice but to hurl it back up through my system in the form of anxiety, hyperactivity, energy, and that patented “panic” feeling.

alex-gregory-oversensitive-car-alarm-new-yorker-cartoonAlthough last night was much worse. I started noticing my heart beat (that’s how it always starts) And when I tried to lay down I kept waking up to it beating in my ears. My head was spinning, my thoughts were racing, and I could barely focus an ounce on the computer screen when I tried to use YouTube,  my faithful savior, to calm me down. I went through the motions of wondering if this was it, if I was going to die, I went through the motions of wondering about things so quickly I can’t even remember what they were about, and then I remember the Ativan. I remember how well the placebo effect worked with those useless things, so I scrounged around in the bottom of my satchel to find a measly half a milligram.

While my heart rate has calmed down, I still feel my blood racing through my veins (that’s what it feels like, a million ants or centipedes crawling underneath my skin) and my leg is still bouncing like I’m on a drum set smashing double bass for a black metal band, and my thoughts are all over the place. You know, the kind of thoughts that sort of bounce off your skull like your brain is a trampoline. But instead of waiting their turn, they all get on the toy together and jump around screeching. Because that’s what your brain is to them, a toy.

My left hand keeps tapping at the opal stone on my necklace (it’s really pretty and shiny, it’s one my boyfriend gave to me) and it’s another way to relieve tension if I can’t keep both of my hands busy I suppose. If I don’t tap the necklace I’ll have to find something near by to grab like a knife or a pen to just tap on my desk or I’ll just tap repetitively on my collarbone. I like the gentle thudding sound it makes in my head. It’s so repetitive.

5-more-minutesBecause I didn’t sleep until 5 A.m yesterday, and was too lazy to get up at nine, I missed my afternoon class. Luckily it’s philosophy and the class was just a review. The test is Thursday but let’s be honest you all, how the fuck do you study for philosophy? Just keep the views of the philosophers in your head so when you answer a question about them, you can just reason it out. That’s how I get through all my philosophy. It’s not rocket science.

Tomorrow . . . err, today, is my math class. It’s at 8 a.m and I still can’t get to sleep. It’s 1:02 now. I usually have to get up at 6:30 to be ready to leave by 7:20 so I can get there ten minutes early and find a comfortable seat away from everyone.

My head is pounding and my brain will not turn off tonight. Nope, not tonight.

Night time always evokes anxiety in me. I like the silence, but I don’t like the lack of company. I think perhaps I could get to sleep, like I said my heart rate has calmed, but now it’s all about the brain. It’s all about the thinking and the feeling like I HAVE to do something.

I could clean (least likely). I could ride my bike in the freezing fucking cold. I could do yoga. I could stay on this computer all night (most likely) messing around on this website, going on forums, and multitasking all around. My eyes feel tired, my brain doesn’t (yet) and I feel as if I’ll be taking a quick nap through chapter eleven in calc tomorrow.

I’m hoping I can lay in bed and let my body do what it does naturally: pass out.

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But that probably wont happen. And I’ll probably be late to class again tomorrow.

It’s interesting how you can feel your brain moving so quickly but not have it think about anything really. There’s no substance to the thoughts, they just pass and I see them and I reach out to shake their hand and they pretend to have never met me.

Things about school, things about work, things about theories and cognition and the universe, and how stupid IQ’s are.

But at the same time, my brain is blank. It has thoughts with no volume, like a pool with the theory of being filled but never experiencing a drop of water.

Even though my eyes hurt and I want to lay down, I don’t feel like there’s a point, not with how fidgety my body is, not with how actively inactive my brain is.

Then again, it’s almost three in the morning and I need to be up in three hours.

I should probably lay down.

Tomorrow is going to suck.

Liebster Awarrdddd

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I haven’t done one of these things in a while, but tonight seems like a lax night and these awards can be fun, so I figured eh, it’ll give me something creative to write about. So thanks to Youarenotaloneinthisworld for the nomination. Check out the link to her blog if you haven’t visited her already, she’s fantabulous!

As far as other nominations go, I love all my followers and suck at making decisions. I usually spend way too much time stressing out over who to pick for these things and therefore I say if you want to participate, go ahead, particularly if you follow me. I nominate thee.

Yes, you.

You reading this right now.

You’re nominated.

Anywhoo, down to business.

  1. How is your day going so far? Fantabulous. Extraordinary. Not that extraordinary, I lied. It’s also over, so I guess you could take that to the bank and cash it. I woke up, took a shower (that’s an accomplishment), embarrassed myself at the college “Wellness Center” known to the rest of the world as a Gym, found out I’m more unfit than a doughnut, and made some plans to increase my endurance before I start working on my strength. Then I ate a salad. Fantabulous. fantabulous-1001346
  2. Where’s your happy place? Man lives in a sunlit world of what he believes to be . . . reality. But there is unseen by most an underworld that is just as real, but not as brightly lit: a dark side. That’s my happy place. Which is counter-intuitive, but that’s not for you to worry about. In my happy place I’m as twisted as I want to be, as curious and assertive as I want to be. That’s what keeps me from developing homicidal tendencies. 
  3. Any blogs you’d recommend to follow? I’m horrible at making decisions and can’t single anyone out. For that reason, there’s a randomly generated list of lovelies on my main page from mostly followers, but also people who just click the like button. I’d recommend you scroll through them, they’re all just as fantabulous as I am. 
  4. How many animals do you have; what are they? I have my alter egos. They are mostly active at night, like some other pets, and eat off the floor because I don’t want them making a weird animal mess at the table. They sleep in cages in which I lock with two padlocks and an electrically charged door. Sometimes they get crafty and slip a long finger through the cracks in the cage, hence the electricity, and I had to chop the fingertip off of one for that very reason. He doesn’t like me anymore. Other than that, I have no animals unfortunately. I’d love to get a Chinchilla. baby-chinchilla
  5. What country do you live in? ‘MERICA. BURGERS AND FRIED CHICKEN AND BIG TRUCKS. merica_b5b23b318d7bd630e59c71d520c17632
  6. Favorite childhood memory? Not quite sure. Luckily I don’t have a gun to my head. I have satisfactory memories and unsatisfactory memories, but none of them out do any of the others.
  7. When is your birthday and how old are you turning? My birthday is on June 15th and I’ll be turning 21. It’s all downhill from here. 
  8. Quick, what’s behind you?! *Swings two Katanas and swivels on my heels. Surveys damage.* No one and nothing now. twd_gp_301_0507_0278
  9. Do you believe in life on other planets? What kind of life? Microscopic? Intelligent? Ethereal? Something in between it all? Something I can’t even imagine? I believe my imagination, as quirky as it is, isn’t expanded enough to fathom what could be out there. But yes, it’s all out there. Everything and nothing. 
  10. Favorite Hobby? Writing. And Katana swinging.
  11. Biggest Fear?  Disappointing myself. 

I know I’ve been nominated for a few others over the last few months and I apologize that I did not get to them, I either forgot or just didn’t feel like doing it. But as always, thanks to everyone who nominates me for things, I appreciate it. If you want to answer these questions, I’d say it’s a good way to make a blog post whether you’re doing it for an award or not. If you don’t want to answer the same questions I did, here are some more:

  1. What’s the meaning of life?
  2. What’s your most memorable memory?
  3. Favorite vacation?
  4. If humans weren’t on Earth, what would be different?
  5. Most embarrassing encounter with a stranger?
  6. How curious about the world are you?
  7. What’s the point of blogging?
  8. What’s your best and worst coping mechanism for when you’re stressed?
  9. If given the chance, would you travel to space?
  10. Your greatest personal victory?
  11. Immortality: hell yeah or hell naw?

10 Questions For Cannibals

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Don’t you love the power of irony?

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

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

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

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

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

Tonight I’m not feeling as sarcastic or opinionated. 

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

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

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

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

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

That’s a fact.

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

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

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Not really torment.

Just insomnia. 

Although . . .

eh, it might as well be considered torment.

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

I mean food. 

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

Had a bowl of ice cream and a cookie.

I could have at least ate healthy.

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

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

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

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

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

10 Questions for Cannibals :

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

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

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

10 Questions for Serial Killers: 

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

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

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

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

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

It’s 4:30 a.m.

 

 

Medical Meth Card

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One of my greatest pet peeves in life is deceit.

I hate liars. Mostly those who deceive a whole population on a global scale or a regional scale for the purpose of gaining more green. It bothers me that people are so uncomfortable with being human that they see necessity in pulling wool over the eyes of their own kind.

We know it happens every day. We know anti-aging commercials lie about the fact that collagen in their product doesn’t tighten wrinkles (collagen only works when injected, it can’t be absorbed). We know companies take photographs of someone like Jennifer Lawrence and feels she doesn’t fit their standard of femininity, so they use the shaving tool in Photoshop to take inches off her arms and hips and thighs for her to appear closer to an image of a Victoria Secret model. She knows they do it. Most people I’ve met know they do it. They know they do it.

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But we ignore that. Let’s, instead, claim mental disorders are on the rise. Let’s not take into consideration the frame rate of cartoons and the multi-tasking ability of phones we give our nine year old, let’s get mad that our children aren’t learning the math and reading they should while in school (who wants to do homework when there are computers and phones and internet and T.V at home?) and therefore we’ll take away recess and shorten lunch in elementary schools and watch the kids squirm and have outbursts and be disruptive in class. Let’s ignore everything I just said and only pay attention to the kids squirming and being disruptive in class part so we can instead say they have ADHD and include them in our diagnostic statistics and toss some pills at their parents.

ADHD is on the rise with kid’s tablets and nine year olds with Iphones; Recess is on the decline and so is discipline. Correlation, perhaps?

Takes quite a lot of credibility away from those who actually do suffer ADHD.

I missed a post yesterday and there is an important reason. It has got me contemplating more on what we get told and what we believe.

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On my previous post I spoke about seeing the positives in negatives and I do that often when I feel a wave of depression making attempts to swallow me. It’s a coping mechanism I’ve developed since starting that blog that sometimes stops me from falling too deep in a hole.

However, it did not come to rescue as I had hoped. My entire body has been aching for weeks because of this. It twisted from a depression into a rage and I felt the need to either punch some more holes in my door or my wall or start a fight with someone. Instead, I ranted in a long post about my twisted relationship with my rage of which many rarely see. I described my rage as the following:

There’s a part of me I haven’t given much attention, the part that sleeps soundly in the darkest, forgotten area of my mind beneath the chains and padlocks I’ve encased him in, the part of me which can wake at the sound of a pin drop, eyes raging, mouth frothing with malicious intention dripping from his glaring incisors now visible because of the vicious baring of his teeth. He’s been with me for as long as I can remember and yet I’ve ignored him the most.

I’ve spent my life building a ruse over him. I’ve spent my life being a perfectionist so at rare moments he could have permission to ravage my mind and control my body. He’s manipulative, domineering, and power hungry, conflicted over his own existence, and comes out most often in characters I’ve created in my writing, unbeknownst to me until I step away and come back months later.

I trashed the post because I struggled over whether or not it was something I wanted on the internet.

I do struggle with anger. A lot of it. More than people see or understand because I am a good liar; I let that beast out only when I’m 100% encased in solitude.

That being said, I could not feel myself calming to a rational level so I broke out my trusty high school friend from back in the day: her name is Mary Jane.

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Marijuana. Pot. Weed. Whatever you want to call it.

I’m a very intense person, so when I do things, I do them fully. I spent the evening I posted “The Promiseland” high and the following morning high. I didn’t stop until 7am, when I finally passed out.  I spent the majority of today high, as well.

And there’s a lot of controversy over the effects of marijuana. The government doesn’t want you to know the medicinal benefits until they can make a profit from it: hence the legalization of it that’s now wide-spread. Addicts want to lace it with Angel Dust (PCP) and ruin its integrity. Is Mary Jane just another high or is there a point to it?

I do not appreciate people who lie to doctors to get the rights to medical marijuana. I do not appreciate doctors who give two shits about who they’re providing recommendations for. 

I have friends with medical marijuana cards for no reason. They’re mentally and physically healthy. They went into a doctor, said they had anxiety or depression, said Marijuana helps, and got a card. That’s an insult, a fucking disgrace to those of us who suffer for real. 

I prefer to leave medical marijuana to those suffering from M.S or recovering from chemotherapy and cancer treatments.

Marijuana did take my aches away. It quelled my rage and chased away what little sliver of depression was hiding behind my anger.

pot-smoking-600x400Yes, I was a textbook classic “stoner” in high school. I smoked before classes, in between classes, ditched classes to do it, after school, late evening, and before I went to bed. However, since starting college I’d quit. I’ve smoked maybe five times over the last three years, including these last two days.

I don’t blaze my mind away anymore, but I do continue until a decent level of calm washes through me. I woke up yesterday afternoon with more energy than I’ve had in months.

Is this me advocating marijuana recreational use? Not entirely. Is it me bashing it? Certainly not. This is me saying at that particular moment on that particular day, marijuana wasn’t a narcotic to get me high and away from my troubles. It was a plant with properties known to stimulate dopamine and other neurotransmitters, something to give me a little push away from my depression and lack of energy and physical pain and boiling rage.

But as I said, I wasn’t blazing my mind out like I used to. I used very lightly, eloquently even, if I do say so myself, until I felt my brain wasn’t stressed, until the tension melted from my shoulders and I could take a moment to breathe in nothingness.

mythbusters-weedThere are a lot of misconceptions about this plant. They scare you away from it as a child because they’ve labeled it as a “gateway drug”. They do to marijuana what they do with sex education: twist your mind up about how you shouldn’t do it because it’s “bad”, but then never fully explain the positives of being safe.

That’s changed over the years in sex education in most places. Most. Most isn’t good enough.

But there are benefits of proper cannabis usage. If administered twenty minutes into an Ischemic Stroke (read here), it can dramatically reduce the amount of brain damage. There are some strains being studied that may be helpful in treating psychosis in particular people (a counter-attack to the idea that if you smoke Marijuana you’ll become psychotic or develop Schizophrenia). You can read a little about it here.

Those are two of many things I learned in a very informative biological psychology class I took a year back.

Moderation and proper usage is everything in life.

Will I be doing more today? No. Not until I have a bubbling rage and depression attack as I had the other day. That could be weeks, months . . . another year, perhaps.

Will smoking help your active psychosis? Probably not and for God’s sake do not try it just because you read this. Will smoking prevent you from having a stroke? No one could know that.

bb1760941759467a6dec1dc30793aaaaIs smoking marijuana because your friends do it a proper usage of a highly medicinal plant? No. Is smoking marijuana as a way to escape your life day after day, night after night, a proper usage? NO. Is getting high because it’s “fun” proper usage? Not in my opinion.

People used to live with the land and off the land rather than on the land, and this plant is one of many humans have used for countless numbers of years in countless numbers of ways to help heal their ailments. If I were Marijuana, I’d be offended that they group me into the class of “illegal drug” next to something people made from Sudafed Tablets, fucking battery acid and drain cleaner.

You’ll never catch me doing Meth to help with my mental health or physical health.

I’d like to walk into a doctor’s office and say “doc, I have low energy and high depression; Meth usually helps. Can I get a medical meth card, please?”

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Entertain Yourself

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

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

No news, really. I . . .

I’m just coming to you live I guess.

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

Alright, alright, I’m done.

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My Actual Keyboard. She’s Gorgeous.

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

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

 

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

I’m done, I’m done, ignore me.

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

Only to wake up at 1:40 a.m

*Cue canned “sad crowd” noises*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So can the smartest.

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

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

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

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