I hope the whole goddamn world explodes

Fuck you bitch at Coliseum

She called me to see if I still wanted to do outpatient, even though I left a message before Christmas. She said Medicare wouldn't transport me there, and I asked if I could attend while living in a homeless shelter. She said no--that I would need a case manager for that.

Long story short, she started giving me the abrupt "uh-huhs" which made me want to reach through the phone and slap her ass.

I want euthanasia.

There are no long-term treatment facilities (that I'm aware of) for people suffering from bpd unless you are rich or have good insurance (I only have Medicare and Medicaid). I just got out of my 8th hospitalization a couple weeks ago. I have decided that it is improbable that I will ever get help, and I am tired of suffering. I beg for death every day. I have no future. Most of my friends are dead. The ones left don't have anything to do with me. I have a toxic relationship with my entire family. I can't get a job. I can't enjoy television, video games, or anything. I was okay when I was in the psych hospital, but that's just a temporary fix. I want it to be over. People have gotten legal euthanasia in Europe for similar conditions (I have schizoaffective, PTSD, ADHD, and fibromyalgia in addition to BPD). I don't think it's fair that I have to suffer. The only reason I haven't already ended my suffering is because I'm scared. But if I had trained professionals help me, I wouldn't be.

Fuck it

I told a guy I met in my last psych hospital--the only person who ever tries to talk to me--that my suicide note would be here if I decide to do it. I have noticed he hasn't checked my blog yet. No one has.

Right now the best option seems to be ordering a helium tank when I get paid. I have no desire to keep living in this world any longer than I have to, but I'm scared of cutting my wrists (I doubt it would even work, and it would suck), but at least now I have something to look forward to.

I'm not going to bother with going to another hospital or try to call any of the stupid hotlines again. They don't work. They don't help. I just want out. That is my final decision.

Living vs Dying

The only reason I have to live is the hope that somehow my suffering will end. I think this hope may be futile.

If there is a god (and I have had experiences and have reasons to believe there may be), it doesn't seem much concerned with my well-being. Maybe there is some sort of nefarious plan to punish those who worship the beast, but what's the point? It seems kind of sick and twisted.

So I don't have any sort of god to hope in. I haven't found much faith in people, either. None of my old friends want anything to do with me. Even my mom won't answer the phone (not that it would help--my relationship with my family is extremely toxic).

Honestly I would just like to join my loved ones wherever they may be. At least they probably aren't suffering. Even non-existence is preferable to this.

If I could just get a job, at least that would be a distraction. But no one will hire me. I would go be homeless somewhere, but I don't know if there's anyplace I'd fit in. The homeless people in Venice Beach weren't very accepting of me last time I was there.

website that never was

I built a web site, but I don't have any server space other than locally, so fuck it.

For the past several months I've been living in a virtual nightmare. I went to two more psychiatric hospitals and have been everywhere from LA to Indiana to PA and back to GA. I don't even want to go into it, other than say that if there were an easy and painless way to die, I would absolutely do it.

wow

i started to read through my journal, and there are so many gaps that i doubt most of it would make much sense to anyone but me. aaron, if you're reading this, i'm sorry. and please don't call the cops if you think i need to be committed. i've been committed several times, and here i am.

the legacy of a turd

i called the suicide hotline the other day. the girl was nice, but she said she had to take other calls after a few minutes. i guess it's because i told her i probably wasn't going to kill myself since the last time i tried, it was terrifying. i mean, i did just take a shitload of trazadone, which probably couldn't kill me, but i didn't know that, and i definitely felt like i was doing. i've felt like i was doing other times, too, and it sucked. if i were actually going to kill myself, i don't know what to do. i've read the reviews on almost everything, and everything seems pretty shittie. but it's dumb, because i'm sure the suffering i've gone through trying to find a way to die is incredibly more painful than actually killing myself would be. so maybe i subconsciously want to live because i have hope or something--maybe one of the worst evils. i don't know. words are bullshit. i'm probably wrong about almost everything bullshit pseudo-philosophical thing i say.

my mom doesn't like me. i don't blame her. i secretly recorded a conversation with her the other day for whatever reason, but i haven't let anyone listen to it. but here it is: https://soundcloud.com/user-751791878/mom

i wish i could just go back in her womb and lose all of my thoughts and self-awareness or whatever and just be there forever, though.

but everytime i think that, i remember the time when she was yelling at me and telling me i had to "get in here" while pointing to her vagina. it obviously stunned me, and when i asked her to clarify, she said i had to "get in the light". i don't know what that was all about, and i don't know how i could ever figure it out, because i can't ask her since the last time i tried to ask her i ended up getting kicked out.

i know i'm fucked up. maybe someone should kill me. i'm sure if everyone read this, there would be some who would try.

i can't think of a reason to live, to be honest, other than maybe getting a prescription of opiates or going visit the few people who still like me for short periods of time or something. i don't know. i envy heterosexual people who can have families and things and "normal" lives. it would be so nice to have a normal brain. alas.

i think i'm going to try to stop letting myself think about the existence of god/gods, even though it would be nice if there were some sort of being that could have witnessed my life and my thoughts and have sympathy for me or fix me or beat the fuck out of me until i get it right or something. idk.

i hope no one else has suffered as much as i have mentally. or if anyone is, i wish i could find them and do whatever i can to help them. i wish i could do something to help anyone, but no one ever asks for my help. this world is just so fucked up.

oh yeah, i called my last post nigger because i felt like saying a bad word. nothing more, nothing less. not sure why i'm worried about people thinking i'm racist or feel the need to explain it. ok, maybe i am a little racist--but only towards black men (not women) who are homophobic assholes. i don't know if that counts as racist, though. again, words are stupid.

nigger

I don’t know what to write. I highly doubt anyone would read it, anyway. And even if they did read it, I highly doubt it would make them want to have anything to do with me in any sort of positive way, which is what I would like.

Truth is, I’m not really sure what the truth is.

I’m sitting at the Huddle House. I’ve had so many good times here. It’s been a while, though.

That was back when I had friends that wanted to hang out with me regularly.

This is stupid. I would be completely fine if I just dropped dead right now. If only.

Being a 37 year old balding faggot with bad teeth, schizophrenia, borderline personality disorder, no job or car, and living with his parents who hate him sucks. I’m sure it could somehow be worse, though. I could be fat, I guess.

I want some goddamn drugs. For real. Or someone to hang out with—someone I want to hang out with that wants to hang out with me. Or a guy to cuddle with that I want to cuddle with and who wants to cuddle with me. Or both would be amazing. If only.

I went to the doctor the other day. She sent in a referral to a psychologist and pain clinic for me. They said to call back the middle of next week if I still haven’t heard anything. We’ll see.

fuck you reddit

here's a rant i made on reddit the other day. pretty much everyone said i needed professional help. no fucking shit.

---

I've had a very, very strange life. I've moved all around the country for the past 20 years. I've had great jobs in the Air Force, CDC, several start-ups. In 2011, though, things started getting strange. I'm not sure if everything or anything that happened fits into this possible puzzle I'm trying to solve, but if you're interested, I'll tell you.

What I'm really trying to figure out is what has happened since around my 33rd birthday (April 20, 2015), the day I was hospitalized for having really intense visions and being terrified. Unfortunately, some of the visions came true.

One was that "they" (whoever they are) were trying to build some sort of Zion in my hometown (Cochran, GA). I thought it had something to do with Bill Gates, who was the employee of my childhood doctor, Ed Roberts, who invented the personal computer--also, according to his step-son, a friend of mine, he worked at Area 51. And another friend of mine said he told her he was working on something "bigger than the internet" before he died. I also had a vision that it had something to do with the freemasons. Both sides of my family were into it, and my grandma was the Worthy Matron of the Order of the Eastern Star. I found an old pitcher and basin that belonged to her (I think I recall someone telling me they got it on a trip to California--possibly for something masonic, idk), and stamped on the bottom is "Calif 666". I also had a vision that I was somehow quantumly connected to a giant diamond.

A year later, my mom's cousin told me that her son was working on thousands of acres of land here that Bill Gates and some other billionaire bought here to be their "bug out spot". Then, in 2016, I was over at a friend's house (she just moved back to town--when I was a teenager she gave me a tattoo of a flame on my stomach. She also asked me if I wanted to help this musician with a song called "God damn love" (I'm a songwriter), and when I said I didn't know if I was comfortable with that, she said that I would one day or something). Anyway, I was over there one day, and this guy was ther who called himself "Trinity". He had a masonic ring on, and he pulled out his tablet pc, and it had the Order of the Eastern Star logo on it (upside down pentagram with "fatal" written around it). I told him my grandma was the Worthy Matron, and he took me to a back room. He told me I was a star, and that there were other stars in Warner Robins. He said my parents must have paid a high price for me. He pulled out a dollar bill and pointed to the all-seeing eye. He said something about "Heaven, Hell, Earth; Father, Son, Holy Ghost". I asked him if he could tell me more, and he said no, that he'd have to show me. But it freaked me out. Then he gave me a skeleton key with a diamond star attached to it. My mom took it from me. I told my aunt about it, whose husband is a mason, and a while later, she said the masons got a newsletter saying to disregard any rumors about a skeleton key.

I started getting this amazing resonance feeling in my body (it's hard to explain, but I never felt it before) that resonated with certain things I heard or thought. The first time I remember getting it was when I reading the Bible. I got the resonance feeling that I was the reincarnation of King David. I also got it that my next door neighbor's son was Jonathan, I think. He was straight, but one night I was thinking about him and getting the resonance feeling, and the next day he told me that at the same time he had a vision of me giving him a blowjob.

I got the resonance feeling about several things, including that Jesus died because he loved people and he was trying to spread Kaballah. In the Bible, John said that the "Spirit of Truth" would come to you and only speak what it heard, which sounded like what was happening to me. Also it says that you can test a spirit to see if it's from God if it says that Jesus came in the flesh, which it did. But the resonance identified itself as the Shekinah, Sakina, Shakti, and serpent in the Garden of Eden. Once I was listening to a yogi joking about how many Hindu gods they were. He said they stopped at 3 million because they lost creativity. For some reason whales popped in my head, and I got the resonance feeling. When I googled how many whales there were, it said that there were 3 million whales before 1900 (it doesn't give you that automatic answer now, though). Also once I was in a psych ward, and the word "brahmin" popped in my head, and I got the resonance feeling that this doctor was one. I asked him, and he looked really surprise and nervous and nodded his head "yes" rapidly, but he told me we needed to concentrate on me.

I also got the resonance feeing that Tori Amos was somehow talking about me in the song "Hey Jupiter" (Hey Jupiter, nothing's been the same, so are you gay, are you blue, thought we both could use a friend to run to). I'm gay and blue. My AOL screenname was theboyisblue, and this old black man who hangs out at the gas station and doesn't seem to age told me I play the "blue note". Incidentally, the other day I saw him there, and I was suffering so much, and he asked about my best friend, and I told him he was murdered. I was talking about how I was ready to leave this world, and he said "it's just like one, two, three". Well, Tori has another song with the lyrics, "the camera is rolling, it's easy, like one, two, three", which I had associated with death. Tori also has other songs that refer to my dad's name (Bobby), in a way that seems like him, "Mrs. C" (my mom's name is Connie, in a way that seems like her, and "Bill and Ben". She also came out with a song recently called "Benjamin", which sounds like it's describing me in very specific ways, and she says "tell me where, tell me when, I'll meet you", and that she was in my (?) army. I got the resonance feeling htat she was Lilith, also. She's best friends with Neil Gaiman, who wrote American Gods. I had a friend who was friends with Neil. I tried to write Tori and Neil, but I never got a response. Oh, and about Jupiter, I found out afterwards that Isaac Asimov hypothisized that the core of Jupiter was a giant diamond. And Jupiter is called the "King David" planet in Judaism. They think that when something happens to Jupiter, it happens to Israel. Well, I almost died from mycoplasma pneumonia when it was impacted back in the 90s. Also, the number of my name in Hebrew is 541, which is the same as "Israel" and is a Star of David number.

Regarding numerology, I found that if you perform the equation (number of letters * product of letters)/(number of words * product of words) on the Hebrew of Genesis 1:1 (In the beginning..), you get pi to 5 accurate digits. If you perform the same equation on the Greek of John 1:1 (In the beginning)..) you get e to 5 accurate digits (euler's number--the other mathematical constant of the universe). If you concactenate and square the sums, you get alpha, the fine structure constant in physics. Interestingly, Carl Jung, the psychologist, was into Kaballah and somehow hypothesized alpha.

When I looked up the number of my dad's name in e, I found that the preceding digits of its position (399) are 31014, the zip code of my hometown. The preceding digits of my number is the zip code of San Jose, the capital of Silicon Valley (I always worked in IT--I don't know if it's a sign that I should get a job there or what).

Anyway, on August 14, 2016 I was visiting the same friend, and when I got home (my mom said I'd only been home for a few minutes), I laid down in bed. I closed my eyes (I wasn't tired), and I felt like I saw the end of the world. I don't remember what I saw, I was just left with the feeling. When I opened my eyes, hovering above the end of my bed were two metallic looking rings perpendicular to each other, intertwined kind of. I was in shock--couldn't scream or anything. I had never seen anything like this in my life (never had a visual hallucination other than once I saw an orb of light). The next day, the first recommended video of YouTube was about the NWO. In it there was an old etching of Ezekiel's vision of the wheel within the wheel, which looked like what I saw. I googled the date to see if anything interesting had happened, and apparently someone put a cube on the Georgia Guidestones the year before that had the numbers 8 14 20 16.

Oh yeah, so once I was in a hotel room and begging God to give me a sign or something because I felt so bad and so alone. The phone immediately rang, and when I asked who it was, they said "God". It was my friend Franco, though. So for a bit I thought Franco might actually be God somehow, which I was fine with. Anyway, shortly after, I was very emotionally reading the Psalms, and I had my first and only "auditory hallucination" out of nowhere. It was like my eardrums were actually vibrating like someone was there talking. It was Franco's voice, and it said in a very silly faggy kind of way, "Ohhhh you just sold your soul to the devil."

Oh, and this guy from Saudi Arabia randomly messaged me on Facebook and sent a picture of a friend of mine in Berlin who used to live here and said "This is your mother, she is very nice". I told her about it on Facebook (in a joking way), and she immediately called me and told me I should come to Berlin (but she didn't mention her being my mom). I'm pretty sure my mom is my real mom, though, but that's still fucking weird. Oh, also my mom's maiden name is Young, which is weird because of the whole virgin birth thing, since the actual word was "alma", which means young woman. Can all this be a coincidence? What the fuck is going on? Am I just insane? I don't really know if I feel like taking part in some cosmological drama. Should I just try to ignore it and move on? I also experience synchronicites all the time--like other peoples' conversations will answer my thoughts without them knowing. And I've had several that I should quit smoking, but I still haven't. Oh, and during the eclipse I was invited to this pagan sanctuary, and a LOT of weird fukcing shit happened then related to that and other stuff, but I'm tired of typing. If you want to know more, just ask.

fuck it

i started writing my memoirs the other day, but i don't feel like doing that anymore. god i am so fucked up. anyway, here is the train wreck:

----

Fuck it. I don’t care about being sued. As my dad says, “You can’t squeeze blood out of a turnip.” And I don’t care about going to prison, if that’s a thing, so I’m just going to write without censoring myself. I don’t know why I have the urge to do this. Maybe it’s because I want people to like me. It would be interesting to see who would after reading this.

I’ve been diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder. I have several single-nucleotide polymorphisms for schizophrenia predisposition according to my DNA test, so my thoughts tend to be pretty disorganized to other people, although they follow fairly logical routes in my own mind. Unfortunately no one that I know (in human form, at least) can read my thoughts. I don’t know if I should write this in the style of how I think or in the style that society or language or whatever has conditioned us to appreciate. I think I’ll try the former.

Ahem. I was born April 20, 1982 at a hospital in Warner Robins, Georgia. I share the same birthday as Hitler and the day before Queen Elizabeth’s, even though she celebrates her birthday later in the year for some stupid reason. According to western astrology, it’s considered the Cusp of Power. But, of course, there is a good chance that astrology is either bullshit or a phenomenon that manifests itself due to mass belief. I don’t know the word, and I’m going to attempt to write this without Googling things. According to the Book of Revelation (or the Hallucinations of John, as I like to think of it when I’m in certain moods), people won’t be able to buy or sell without the mark of the beast of its name or its number. The mark is in their right hand or between their eyes. In Hebrew, the number six is the letter vav, which becomes the letter W in English, hence WWW=666. In that case, most people—at least in this country—already have the mark in their hand (smartphones), and I’m not sure if it’s popular anymore, but augmented reality devices like Google Glass were at least a thing at one point. Also John claims that a “star” called Wormwood will fall from heaven and poison a third of the waters. It’s interesting that the word Chernobyl can be translated to the Greek word that was translated to Wormwood. Point being, I’m making an excuse for being too stubborn to Google, mainly.

So I have a feeling if you’re the kind of person who is opposed to the possibility that there may be some truth in Biblical prophecy, you’re probably getting annoyed by now. So I’ll change the subject for a little while, at least.

I have so much to say and can’t decide where to begin. I’ve always had a difficulty with choosing, and most of the things I do are on spontaneous whims. Anyway, back to the day I was born. I was born two days after Jacob Polsky, who I considered my best and only friend until high school. I would spend the night at his house, and we’d play video games and jump on the trampoline—normal stuff. One time we went with our dads to the mountains and stayed in a relatively swanky cabin. I’m not sure what the year was, but I do remember there being a National Geographic magazine in the bathroom with a close-up picture of a woman eating a piece of sushi with black varnished chopsticks, if you want to look it up. The magazine could’ve been old, though.

I do remember it was around the time I started growing pubic hair, because Jacob had made me take off all my clothes and run around the cabin naked for some reason. He liked dominating me, I guess. Then later that night, when he was asleep on the couch, I tried to peek inside his boxers because I was curious. I don’t know if he knew what I had done, but shortly after that he stopped having anything to do with me. That’s when people started calling me queer. Actually, that must have been after fifth grade, because my best friend Randall who was murdered started going to school here then, and apparently I tripped him and called him a queer, but I don’t remember. I don’t doubt it, though. I remember going on the LGBT message boards on AOL and telling everyone they were going to Hell. But secretly I knew I liked boys. I always wanted to be a girl, too. I remember my mom would let me put on her makeup and jewelry when my dad wasn’t home. And I remember once I was spending the night with Jacob, and he wanted to pretend that our pillows were Madonna and we were making out with her (this was around the time she had the pointy bra), and while we were doing it, I was pretending that the pillow was him. I also remember finding my dad’s Playboy under their dresser and jacking off to a picture of Dennis Rodman with his junk covered by a basketball. Good times, I guess.

On the other hand, I remember being “in love” with Traci Nobles. Her mom and my mom were best friends, and we used to vacation at Cher and Greg Allman’s old house in Hilton Head. I have vague memories of writing her name on my wall, and I have pictures of her and me then. I looked so happy. I must have been pretty young, because my hair was still pretty red. I miss Traci. We hadn’t talked in years, but then we met up a couple times in Augusta. She sent me a naked picture of Anthony Weiner. They had been talking. About a year later, the scandal happened, and I guess it affected her pretty negatively. I remember talking to her before she went on The Today Show or some bullshit, freaking out because she didn’t know what to say. I can’t remember what I told her, but I was proud of how she handled the interview, even though they were obviously trying to spin it and force her into some kind of victimized female role. She said, “It is what it is.” What a simple but therapeutic statement.

Later on, for some reason people like Karl Lagerfeld wanted to befriend her. And Hugh Hefner wanted her to be in Playboy. I don’t remember if it was him or someone else that tried to get her to write a memoir about the event, which I thought was ridiculous so I told her she shouldn’t do it. She asked me if I would leak something to the New York Post about what happened, but my mom told me not to. I never found out what it was.

Fuck, I have too many memories that may be of historical import or have some sort of entertainment value, but it’s difficult to decide what to write about. And I’m afraid if I actually do write in train-of-thought, no one will be able to understand what the fuck is going on.

My grandma’s vagina. That’s a thought. I loved my grandma. She was my favorite person in the world. I used to hop over the fence and run across the field to her house almost every day—especially when my parents were being mean. She used to sing while she was cooking. Salmon patties, rice, and English peas. That was one of her suppers. I hate English peas. But the biscuits. Oh my god, so good. Sometimes we’d have them for dessert with butter and syrup. Memories of lying on her bosom (strange word) watching the Golden Girls. I remember her wearing a dark blue mu mu with light blue trimming. I think I have a picture of her in that somewhere. And rubbing her feet. And sleeping with her. All good memories.

But then one day when we were going to church, she put on two different kinds of shoes. And she drove her car into the ditch. That was around the time she found out she had brain cancer. We stopped going to church around the time her hair started falling out. She got a wig, and it looked pretty nice. But eventually she wasn’t my grandma anymore. She was this...thing...like something from a horror movie. Shriveled and speechless. I went to see her on her hospital bed in her bedroom, and she was trying to drink through a straw, and there were food particles all in it. And she had her hand down her pants, and I could see her pubic hair. That memory just won’t go away. I hate it. I hate it. I miss her so much. I don’t want to think of all this fucked up shit, but I do. I still have my Snuggles, though. She gave him to me in 1986. She died in 1993. Everything went downhill from there. Now I’m crying.

Okay, I went outside and had a cigarette. I feel better. The frogs and cicadas and crickets, I guess, are making all kinds of music. I may have had a few signs from the universe or Time or God or whatever being controls synchronicities—or interprets random events as synchronicites, like my fucked up brain—that I should quit smoking, but I still haven’t. I don’t know if it’s because I’m so addicted or because it’s a protest to whomever’s in charge. The first sign I remember was when I was obsessing over the Mosaic law. I had a strong feeling that the rule about passing your seed through the fire to Moloch had something to do with me. I asked my mom about it—if she knew something about it. I’m pretty sure we got into a heated argument, which usually happens when we discuss anything religious.

I remember thinking about the time I flipped my 1994 Buick LeSabre with Lilly, Hal, and Colleen on a dirt road when Colleen told me to speed up. Bon Jovi was playing on the tape when we landed, and I’m still a little superstitious about listening to him while I’m in a car. I thought we had died, even though we didn’t have any scratches (except for Colleen, who had glass from the windshield in her that she was picking out for years). We walked to some lady’s trailer, and she gave us some water. I had so much dirt in my mouth. I called my parents, and my dad seemed ready to kick my ass, but fortunately the cops came in time to diffuse the situation.

I told my parents and the cops that I swerved to avoid hitting a cat. They took us to the hospital, and my mom gave me a Benson & Hedges cigarette. She had a pack in her purse. She denies it to this day, but I am extremely confident that it happened. She claims she never smoked, but I’m thinking maybe she had a pack from when she was hanging out with Ms. Vicky, Traci’s mom, who smoked, and she just doesn’t remember—either that, or it’s part of some ridiculous conspiracy. Anyway, shortly after that I had the feeling about Moloch and cigarettes, I went to Dollar General, and as I was sitting in my car smoking, this guy comes up to me and asks me for a cigarette and then tells me his name is Moloch. What the fuck?

So my mom told me I could write a book, but I couldn’t talk about my family for some reason. But I don’t want to censor myself, so I hope she never reads this, or if she does, I hope she’ll forgive me. One time she called the cops on me because she found an old LiveJournal entry of mine where I said I wished she would try to kill herself again so she would get help. Actually I think I may have probably said something about wishing she would die, too. But the cops didn’t do anything. I don’t want my mom to die currently, but sometimes I do. Sometimes I want the whole world to explode. Sometimes I just want to die of a heroin overdose—or I did, at least, until Sean, this neat punk guy I was screwing and cuddling in Pennsylvania told me it was as bad as drowning.

And sometimes I question whether or not she’s my real mom. I do have fond memories of her rocking me in the recliner until my legs were hanging off. I wish I were a baby again so she could just hold me. She did let me lay my head in her lap last year before the cops came to pick me up and take me to a psych ward. She made me a grilled cheese sandwich, too, and the cops were going to let me finish it before they took me, but I couldn’t eat it. I miss my mommy when she was my mommy.

Ok, I guess I need to explain why sometimes I have questioned whether or not she’s my real mother. But meanwhile, it’s five minutes til four a.m., and I think I’m going to stop typing for tonight. Since I have no idea how to organize this, I’ll just call this chapter “Day One”. I’m eating a delicious white chocolate and macadamia nut cookie, even though one of my many broken teeth hurt. I’m considering waking my mom up to get a Neurontin, but I don’t want her to get mad, and maybe I can sleep without it. You know, I have online journals going back til 2001, although the newest one is set to private because I’ve become a shittie person, I guess, and I didn’t necessarily want the world to know. In most of the entries I’m venting about some bullshit. So that’s why I’m writing this. I mean, there’s still a lot of bullshit, probably, depending on your perspective. But it’s the Truth to me. Interestingly, the Roman goddess of truth was depicted holding a mirror. I’m not entirely sure about reality, and maybe you will understand why if you keep reading, assuming that there will be someone other than me at some point in spacetime that actually reads this.

Okay, damnit, It’s 5 a.m. I was lying in bed and thinking about how my cousin told me that David’s sin was pride after I told her that I thought I may be his reincarnation. I feel like I have too much pride, but I don’t know what to do about it. I feel like a piece of shit most of the time. Am I proud about that? I don’t understand it. But a while back I looked up Veritas on Wikipedia because when I was a kid I started a newsletter called Veritas (never actually wrote anything—just the title). There was a picture of the Roman goddess of truth, and I swear she was holding a mirror. But just now, I looked up pride, and it has a picture of the personification of Pride holding a mirror. I just want to stop existing. This reality is so fucking twisted. Or maybe it’s just me. I don’t really know.

I took a shower and feel a little bit better. I guess I just have to accept that for whatever reason I am a terrible person. I got a bowl of Lays potato chips. I like the saltiness, even though they hurt my mouth. My mom’s cousin Jim grew potatoes on his farm, and apparently due to copyright or trademark or whatever it’s called when you genetically engineer shit, he has to destroy all the ones they don’t buy. Jim had a brother who died in the 90s from AIDS. I only remember him coming to my grandma’s once for some holiday, I guess. He was with a girl who now, looking back, seemed very much like a butch lesbian. I wonder what he was like.

Well, I’m down to my last cigarette, and I’m still not sleepy. My tooth is hurting. It’s annoying, although I’m pretty used to it at this point. Oh, I had this crazy hypothesis once that lying causes your teeth to deteriorate, hence the saying “lying through your teeth”. It made sense, since George Washington is famous for his false teeth and how he supposedly “cannot tell a lie”. Well, that’s obviously bullshit, because anyone can tell a lie. I’m honestly trying not to, though, in this book, at least. I mean, of course I’ve told countless lies in my life. I wonder if there are some things that I lied about so much that now I believe are true. If you tell what you think is the truth but it’s actually false, is that still considered a lie? I don’t know. I bet there’s some Greco-Roman god for that, though.

Speaking of gods, I should probably explain the whole King David thing. Maybe I’ll save that for Day Two. That story also encompasses the reason I thought my mother wasn’t my real mother, so two birds, one stone. Fuck, I don’t like that saying. I don’t like killing birds, even though it kind of makes me a hypocrite because I eat chicken. But I don’t want to kill one. And I have a problem eating things I’ve seen alive before—or even if I’ve seen their relatives, like the time I lived on a cattle ranch on a reservation in South Dakota. Also I’ve wondered if the fact that I refused to pull the trigger to finish off the quail that my dad shot in the field when I was a kid is the reason that I’m gay. Thanks, St. Paul.

Okay, I’m going to force myself to stop typing for tonight. I’m almost at 3,000 words, which The Blessed Google says is the appropriate amount for a chapter. So there.

the sound of unidentified organisms in trees

I’m sitting at the Huddle House in Cochran. I can’t get a WiFi connection, so I don’t remember when I last posted, or what I posted.

I’ve been back in town for a couple weeks. Amanda picked me up at the airport in Savannah. The flight from Allentown was only like $60. Good deal. Amanda is awesome. We grew up together, and were always in the same classes, but we never hung out or anything except at my birthday party in middle school, where my pony peanut stepped on her foot. We got in trouble on a Gifted field trip to Washington, D.C. for attempting to steal lighters from some store. Before that I was pretty much a perfect kid. Oh well. C’est la vie.

Anyway, Kasey Thornton is my waitress. I am happy about that. She has been clean for months. I should hang out with her. I went to her mom’s house to see her the other day, and Kasey was sitting on the front porch. I guess at the time I was just wanting to smoke some meth with her mom (and hang out with her—she’s pretty cool), so I only stayed for a minute. I felt guilty afterwards for not hanging out, so I’m glad I came to the Huddle House tonight.

I kinda wish Colleen would hang out with me. I miss old times. It just hasn’t been the same since Randall was murdered.

Blah blah blah.

I went to Cassey’s open mic night tonight at some Italian restaurant in Swainsboro. I was reluctant to play, but I did anyway. I got some claps, but I think they were just being polite. Maybe I should put hooks in my songs like that guy at Short Mountain said that I should so I can make money. I don’t really care about money, though, except maybe to get my teeth fixed. Oh yeah, Kasey’s dad makes dentures. My mom wants me to talk to him.

I went outside to smoke a cigarette, and Quinton showed up. He was friends with my Uncle Johnny who died last year. He’s living in his old shop now. He invited me to come hang out with him. The last time I saw him, I was in psychosis, I guess, and I thought he was Kurt Cobain (they look a lot alike), so I went back to his house with him. He is so beautiful. I would love to cuddle with him, but I don’t know if I would be punished by some god or something. Who knows. Who knows anything, really. I think I’m going to go home now and watch something on Netflix to get my mind off of everything. There’s so much more that I should probably write—maybe I will later.

You're Gonna Hear me Roar

I went to some sort of album release party at this 18+ gay night at a club in Hollywood many, many years ago, and she didn't show.

This song is catch and evokes the feels, though. It's hard to get anyone to hear you roar these days, though.

But I feel like roaring. I may regret it, but oh well.

I'm not entirely sure...

Ok, this song... I was lightning before the thunder. They really know how to evoke the feels, don't they?

Goddamnit.

Anyway, I'm going to attempt to make this public again. As some sort of possibly self-destructive art project that may change existence for the better or the worse, depending on the perspective of the observer.

I don't care anymore.

When I figure out what I should roar about, or even if I want to roar at all, especially on this medium which probably is the beast of Revelation, here's some thoughts from my head for the past 18 years. Enjoy if you want.  Just remember ...


Fuck, now I'm thinking making this public is a stupid idea. Fuck fuck fuck fuck.

Maybe I should only give certain people the link. My mom found my journal once and called the cops on me. They didn't do anything, though.

Ok, I'll send it to a select few and let them tell me what they think.

Nevermind. I don't want to force anyone to read it. I'm just going to post it publicly. Wait no. Ugh moral dilemma. GOD HUMANS FUCKING SUCK. I'M FUCKED UP. YOU"RE FUCKED UP. WE"RE ALL FUCKED UP. fuck it. damnit.

MAYBE I NEED JESUS.

we are all made of greed.

i think maybe i only really usually write in this blog when i'm in a mood where i just don't give a fuck what literally anyone thinks. maybe i should stop caring what people think. then what's the point of making this public?

OH, because this: THIS IS A WARNING.

Nevermind, I got distracted by trying to find a lighter, and then another damn good Imagine Dragons song came on. This is it, the apocalypse.

Anyway, keep reading my blog if you want to know some secrets of the universe or some bullshit or both.

She Punched Out a Star and Got Some Glitter on Her Hand

    I want some goddamn heroin. Or a vagina. Of my own. I mean, in place of my penis. But only if I had perfect teeth. In my mouth, I mean. And hair. On my head. On top of my head. 

This is going nowhere.

It’s strange how my mind is only blank when I actually try to use it. Maybe if I could smoke a cigarette while I type. It always helped while playing pool. I’ll never be able to write a book.

ramblin man

well, i was going to listen to ramblin man while i wrote this because some assfuck told me i rambled when i posted something on facebook earlier. i deleted it because he's probably right.

in my head it all makes sense, though.

like, i decided to listen to nevermind (the album) by nirvana. now i'm thinking of irc and the 90s, but before that i was thinking about how i just had an awesome but disappointing conversation with dan bern on facebook, one of my old favorite musicians who wrote a song about god's responses when asked if he could be spent in time to alter past events like saving kurt cobain from suicide.

my old roommate yva in new york told me kurt would've probably made out with me at a party. i don't think she knew him very well, but she was in a band with his supposed best friend, krist novoselic, who she hates apparently because she thinks he's a racist, which coincidentally is the same reason she's a fucking cunt to me. oh, and she thinks i'm misogynistic because i referred to her as a cunt. fyi, if you piss me off enough, i'm probably going to refer to you as whatever the worst thing i think thank of is to call you, and if you have a vagina (or are a feminine male), would be 'cunt'. not if you're trans though. when alexis arquette pissed me off, i just called her 'robert.' anyway, this is becoming celebrity gossip. i can't remember if i've ever mentioned any of this on my blog. i always forgot to write about shit because i write so rarely.

celebrity gossip. i guess people like that. i don't really have much first-hand juice, since the only other famous people i've ever hung out with were clementine ford (cybil shepherd's daughter), jonathan caouette (writer/director of tarnation)... god both of them suck. well jonathan is okay, i guess, even though he conveniently never mentioned that he had a significant other until i got to his birthday party. and clementine called me a drama queen, which is funny because at least my drama has never been in a tabloid. anyway.

oh, i met mary waranov and some other warhol superstars at my friend robert's party (holly woodlawn's archivist). i mentioned about getting some coke, and they all said they hadn't done any since the 70s. nice ladies, though.

and i got kicked out of rage in west hollywood with colleen and joss stone for smoking weed. i don't know why colleen isn't trying to communicate with me. i mean she hung out with me for a few days when josh died. her aunt was the emt that took me to greenleaf when i was 1013d a few weeks ago after my dad beat the fuck out of me blah blah blah i don't feel like going into it.

fuck my finger hurts.

i quit.

insanity

I'm listening to Alexander Scriabin's Symphony No. 2 in C-minor. They say he was a messianic megalomaniac towards the end due to Syphilis. I can relate.

It's not that great, but I don't know what to listen to. 

I just turned it off. Fuck it.

Anyway, this laptop keyboard is designed terrible, and I have a broken pinky finger, so typing isn't that much of a thrill right now. But there are some things I need to get off my chest.

Where to begin?

Well, since I last wrote, I checked myself into Turning Point rehab. That was an adventure. I was there for a few days, and I met this gorgeous poet named Joe Gant. He was a linux geek and a Buddhist. We conversed non-stop for a few days. Our arms touched for half an hour while in a group meeting. I fell in love, quickly. But he was straight--of course. One night I was upset over some family issues and venting, and I caught him writing in his journal about me--calling me a drama queen. I got upset and told the nurse I was feeling suicidal so they would give me an Ativan. They ended up 1013ing me again (Georgia's involuntary commitment law) and putting in me in a psych ward. I tried to leave when I found out, but they ended up tackling me to the crowd and choking me out, scratching the fuck out of my arm. By-standers said I head butted one of the techs pretty good, though.

The psych ward was okay. It was co-ed, which was nice. I met a very intelligent woman from Tampa named Bethany. She's curious about existence, too. She thinks her name in Hebrew means house of ill-repute, which I find funny.

Anyway, there are a lot of details that I should mention about what else happened there, but I don't feel like typing very much right now. I did meet this other guy who I thought was my soul mate because we have the same middle name, are obsessed with Tori Amos, and have the same possible mental disorders (schizoaffective and borderline personality). But I think I was mistaken.

My parents let me move back in with them. Everything was okay for a week or two, but then my dad ended up beating the shit out of me when I told him I'd kill him if he touched me, basically, and they 1013d me back to Greenleaf again. 

---

I was interrupted to go eat mussels for dinner. They were good. Kate's mom made them. I came up to Allentown, PA about a week ago to stay with them for a bit. I have no idea where I'm going to go after this or what I'm going to do, though.

Anyway, there's so much more I should write about, but it's too uncomfortable to type for very long right now. Maybe later.

blahdiddyblah

i ran away. i'm in st mary's. now i'm just smoking a lot of pot for a living. it makes me complacent. my mind is a million places at once, though. it can be scary but overall very therapeutic, i think.

there is a dog in my lap. her name is nelly. she is a little ball of love.

i am surrounded by friends but still kind of lonely.

Runaway Train

i want to run away. super bad. i think i might do that. maybe go up to indiana and stay with ashley for a while. my parents will freak, but whatever. i'm 36 years old. i hate AA so much. i'm not an alcoholic. i'm just... i dunno, bored.

that's me in the corner. that's me in the spot light, losing my religion.

i feel like i'm going to lose my religion. both proverbially and literally.

oh yeah, that was the next song on my playlist.

i want drugs. or a change.

Smalltown Boy

Dear Paul,

I'm going to try to be as honest as possible.

I finally found a few crumbs of weed to smoke. I played that song you told me about and finally cried like a baby. I feel a little better, even though I can't stop crying. I've been trying to figure out how to kill myself ever since I woke up, but I'm scared that I'll just suffer even more if I do. If I were a sadistic god attempting to design a perfect hell, this would be it. At least with the lake of fire you would probably just get used to burning. I guess at least in this reality we have "hope". I'm not sure if that's a good or a bad thing, as obviously many others have questioned historically.

There we go. I stopped crying. Now my body just hurts again.

The last thing my mother said to me was that I should kill myself. Well, technically she said, "If that's what you want to do, then do it."

With the intent of being absolutely truthful, I just checked my phone to make sure I didn't have any missed texts from her. Nope. I sent her a message about an hour ago to ask her if she would withdraw $200 from my account (she's my payee for SSDI) and leave it downstairs so I can buy a new tire and leave tomorrow. Many times in the past when they've kicked me out or we've gotten in fights, she refuses to give me any of my money. She tells me she's going to call Social Security and tell them I'll have to find someone else to be my payee, which would mean that I wouldn't have access to my money for a while (who knows how long it would take). I have no reason to believe she won't pull that card this time. Although once when they kicked me out, she would leave $20 of my money under their doormat if I needed it.

Anyway, now Frankie Goes to Hollywood's "Relax" is playing. As if. I wish I could relax. I wish I could go to Hollywood. I would love to have vegan cupcakes. It's been too long.

Fuck. That song was getting on my nerves. Then I spent a long time lost in memories remembering the music I was listening to the time I had to literally run away from home after I escaped through my bedroom window when my dad had kicked down my door and had a shotgun at the end of my bed. I think he was originally going to kill me but then he said he was going to kill himself. I don't remember. It's a blur. I just remember running down the road to my aunt's house, barefoot, freaking out. She took me to my sister's house to stay, and I think she brought up the gay thing, thinking that was the cause of all the problems, and when I used the word "fuck" she tried to tell me I was possessed by demons. I was like 16. Actually, she told me the same thing last year, but this time in a much nicer way.

I'm getting tired of typing. I'm listening to Tori Amos. I'm pretty sure I was listening to her that night when I was crying myself to sleep. Definitely Merman. Also the last instrumental track on one of Sarah McLachlan's album.

Let me get to the point without telling you my life story (well, at least my new point that I just came up with):

*welp, I never finished writing this, but I'll publish it anyway---wrote it originally sometime before I went to rehab*

offline

1/20/2019 10:45am

Well, I moved into the recovery house. So far it's okay. Sundays are super boring though because there's nothing to do.

Oh yeah, I relapsed. That's why I'm here. Daniel, Aaron, and I (two super cool guys I met in rehab) got a hotel room together after a failed attempt at living at this church lady's house (fleas and cat urine everywhere--I fell through a hole in the floor, too). But the neighbor at the hotel was a crack dealer, so yeah. That happened.

My new roommates are pretty cool. Russell used to be in several famous bands including Molly Hatchett. He got his start through Garth Brooks and James Brown. Pretty neat.

My car got towed. I have to pay $85 to get it out. That kind of sucks. But oh well, c'est la vie.

I'm so fucking bored right now. I wish I had my own tv or my desktop computer so I could play a good game, but all I have is my shittie laptop with no Internet. I guess I need to get more creative. I'd play my guitar, but I don't want to annoy anyone, and it's too cold to play outside. This winter has been ridiculously bipolar. The past week has been phenomenal weather, but of course the weekend comes and it's cold as fuck outside.

Maybe these neurontin will kick in so I'll care less.

So Tonight That I Might See

a lot has happened since i last posted.

i did some bad meth or flaca and went psycho and threatened to kill my mother because i didn't think she was really my mom because she cut me off of the pain pills she was giving me. of course there are other reasons i thought she wasn't my mom, like the guy from saudi arabia who told me tina was my mother. and then tina told me i should come live with her in berlin. i don't know. but i eventually calmed down and realized the only place i wanted to be was back in a womb. so i layed my head in my mother's lap and cried until the cops came and took me away.

i spent 28 days in rehab and met a lot of amazing people. there are a lot of interesting details, but i don't feel like typing too much right now. my friend rachel that i met there (she's older than my mom and really cool) and i are talking about writing a tv show based on our experiences in rehab and our lives before and after.

anyway, i got out january first.

i'm supposed to go to outpatient therapy every day, but i haven't for the past two. instead i've stayed home, smoked weed and crack, and thought a lot about god.

life is strange.

i'm going to try to complete this program so i can take a road trip across country with my new friend daniel. my dad traded his gun for a camper van after josh died to console me i think.

i miss a lot of people.