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Strontium starbursts speckled the waves rolling in from beneath the sunken sun. Our show was ending. Time felt wrinkled like the Pyrenees as we trudged through the sand on the way back to the car. Empty Corona bottles were littered around and I could almost taste the beer as I slipped the worn key into the lock and paused to take a long look at the summer horizon. An autumn breeze flirted with my shirt, texturing my skin with goosebumps. No one spoke on the ride back except the engine grumbling, punctuated by the occasional tock-tock from when the turn signal was on. I stopped on the shoulder by the top of an escarpment to appreciate the supermoon blazing against civil twilight. It was swollen up like a tick full of blood. I muttered "syzygy" to my passengers, but they were all asleep.

Oh well, our little secret.

Originally Posted by CFC --

"I would see it as a blessing if I were you, and stop using it. Those who really enjoy it can easily become addicted and then ultimately a lot more depressed."
...

What's sad is that you can still become addicted even if you find it puts you in a depressed mood, even if the anxiety/paranoia/negative side effects overwhelm the positive high.

I know from experience. When I'm planning on using meth I get so excited and anticipate the high being so fantastic, but after I binge for several days I inevitably lay there sleepless reflecting on my experience, feeling rough. I feel guilty as hell that I gave in. Why? It always underwhelms...

But somehow, after I haven't used for a week or so I begin to crave it again intensely and life seems incomplete somehow. Lots of euphoric recall.

Of course then comes a time I decide that using a little meth is now acceptable, and the cycle begins again.

Let this be the last. Please?

My feelings about life can be summed up in a Sublime song. There's a reason why my soul is unsound -

It's you
It's that shit stuck under my shoe
It's that smell inside the van
It's my bed sheet covered with sand
Sitting through a shitty band
Getting dog shit on my hands
Getting hassled by the man

Waking up to an alarm
Sticking needles in your arm
Picking up trash on a freeway
Feeling depressed everyday
Leaving without making a sound
Picking my dog up at the pound
Living in a tweaker pad
Getting yelled at by my dad

Saying I'm happy when I'm not
Finding roaches in the pot
All these things I do
They're waiting for you.

I really need to work on my negativity, it's spreads like a disease. It's hard to find the positives however, i'm hooked on benzo's at ridiculous doses. Typically, i can take up to 20mg a day. I don't think it helps with my anxiety anymore, it just numbs everything. I'd rather be numb than in pain and without them i feel hopeless and struggle with suicidal thoughts. Weekly.

I've been abusing drugs for well over a decade so how am i expect to function like everyone else my age when i haven't given my chance to grow up. I feel like a teenager in a man's body. I'm 33, living at home and unemployed. Everything feels like a struggle to change and i don't know where to start. I don't know if i have the strength to go through WD, what would be the point anyway? The world is a horrible place, people look out for themselves, offer help with hidden agendas, i just don't know who to trust.

I was offered treatment in Thailand but i don't have two grand lying about. Nothing in life is free eh. I can't think straight.

Oh, i do have nieces and since they're so young they don't understand the world and their innocence makes me smile. I'd dearly miss them. I feel like a burden on my parents so perhaps if i left this world they may find some peace. Who wants to witness someone they love suffer and they don't know what to do anymore.

On a positive note, i'm exercising because sleeping is difficult. i'm looking/researching herbs as natural alternatives to the poison the pharma companies dish out to keep themselves in their ivory towers.

I see the world through cold, dead eyes and i look through people when i walk past them. I don't want to acknowledge that they are there or see negative judgement on their faces. Hah, that's my narcissism talking. People don't see me, they're too busy with their own lives. I want what others have but it feels out of reach.

Warning - teenage angst ahead - I hate this world and what it's become, a hate a society that only gives little thought to those with mental health issues. You might not see it but it's there. I think i'm just been consumed by hate.

The feeling hits me like a shock of electricity through my legs and back and I am 9 again in my room playing playstation with Kyle. My parents are at work for the next few hours and we both know we will not be disturbed. He has been having sex with me almost daily for the last 3 years. He slowly puts his hand on my thigh then starts to unbutton my jeans.

It started out innocently enough when I was 6. He would tell me I couldn't play his video games unless I sat in his lap. So I did. Then it progressed to him putting his hand in my pocket and rubbing my penis. At some point later he would push me against the bed and dry hump me with our clothes on for what seemed like hours at a time. By the time I was 8 the clothes had come off. I can still remember the feeling of his warm penis rubbing against my back while he fondled my tiny penis.

The first time I ever cummed was in the hallway of my old house laying on Kyles stomach facing the ceiling. He told me that he was going to do something that felt good so that I would start getting something out of the experience. He was right it did feel good. Thinking about it now I just want to throw up. I can still remember how he smelled the sickly odor of teen sweat mixed with cum.

Sometimes he would make me choose what he was going to do to me that day. Did I want it in the ass or did I want my dick sucked? I usually chose the ass so I didn't have to look at him while it happened. After awhile I became a master of disassociation I could completely take myself out of the situation while it was happening. I don't remember where I would go but anywhere was better then there.

The worst memories are from around the time I was 9 or 10 and started hitting puberty. We would place bets on games of playstation. If he won I would get butt fucked for a certain amount of time. If I won we would play football or basketball outside. I usually lost. But this one time still haunts me to this day. I was about to win in a racing game but I purposely wrecked to let him win. I had begun to enjoy him violating me. I was his afternoon sex slave. From the time I got off the school bus until my parents got home 4 hours later I was his and we both knew it.

Why didn't I tell? that's the 64 thousand dollar question that haunts me to this day. I think at first I didn't realize how big of a deal it was. I didn't really have any other friends and I thought it was really cool that this high school kid wanted to hang out with little old nerdy me. Then once I hit puberty I was at first fascinated by the feelings I was having. As that slowly wore off the manipulation started. He told me that no one would believe me and even if I did they would think I was just as bad because I waited so long to say anything. They would know my darkest secret which was that I enjoyed it on some base level even though I knew it was wrong. The final threat was that he would do worse things to me like cut my penis off or even kill me. I told my friend on the school bus one day what was happening and word got back to kyle that I did he came to my house held me down and violently molested me for what seemed like hours. After that I just went into my shell and shut up.

My family moved out of that town when I was 11 and I never saw Kyle again. I tried to forget the entire thing happened but looking back I was completely broken. Even after all these years I still feel broken.

I had a dream last night everything was fine. I was sitting on a grass hill in the sun. All my worries had turned to figurines on a shelf. I had a purpose and it was being fulfilled. She was there by my side so where my friends who got left behind. We set in a circle and talked about now. Everything was beautiful and the band hadn't even come on yet.

I caught the reflection of her face in the glass of the door she opened into the world, out of my life as I sat at the small cafe table with my emptied cappuccino cup and the unopened sugar packet on the saucer next to the clean mocha spoon. I remember how hard it was to keep it together at that moment sitting in that cafe surrounded by random faces. Then I steeled myself, fighting the sting of unwept tears; stood up and walked out of that place, rolling up my collar against gusts of wind that blew threw my heart like the blast wave of an atom bomb.

The cafe went out of business not long after that, but sometimes the streets still take me back to there and I sit on the curb outside the abandoned shops and drink, waiting for someone to come and drive me home.

I did manage to get this April's show fully cast and with some really amazing talent....

Despite getting stabbed in the back so fucking hard I could butter a sandwich....

Maybe I'm just being paranoid. Let's you decide, yes?

There are three characters in this stabbery. The first...let's call him...Chris because I hate that name. Chris hosts a somewhat lame monthly show in Deep Left Boonieville. The first time I performed locally, it was at the show Chris hosts - no cover, by the way, and no pay for the talent. No biggie. Now...that's where I met Jack. Jack hosts a rather major comedy show about monthly in CenterTown and somewhat took me under his wing. He was even designing my flyers and was in my first show in January.

My January show was at a location in Deep Right Boonieville...totally new, unheard of and raw for comedy. The January show went well enough that even though our show was a midweek, the owner scheduled me for an April Saturday show. Wo. Big Deal!!

My February show included Chris and a pretty big name from a neighboring state...we will call him...Mike because I hate that damn name too. Mike is talented enough to make a living just being a comic. I mentioned this somewhat in my last post. He invited me to perform at his venue in March but many-a-shit happened, preventing me from honoring that commitment....haven't heard from him since.

I go about scrambling to put together my April 8 show....when I see there's another comedy show at MY location in Deep Right Boonieville. In APRIL.

But get this.....the show is hosted by Chris....with Mike headlining? Mike lives in another fucking state. He has no idea about a podunk club in a teeny village...but how would Chris know about this place when his normal spot is about 40 minutes away??? Oh, I know...my prick flyer guy, Jack. I confronted him and he did all that classic lying shit, "What? Why would you ask me that? That's a weird question to ask...what do you mean? You should talk to the venue. Wait, you talked to Chris?? What did he say?????"

I can't think why he would betray me like that unless he's pissed a woman is now promoting comedy, or he's threatened because he thinks I have a chance or ...I'm baffled. This spot is tiny and truly in the middle of nowhere. It's not even big enough to hold more than...40? 50 max?

I dunno. I just want a good show. But do I want to fight for this location or just let these twerps have it? That's another thing...when I mentioned to Jack just letting go of the venue, he got all worked up and said I'd had it first and I needed to fight for it...does he want a Jell-O fight or something? Bitch I don't do damn Jell-O fights but I will whip some damn ass, Jell-O or no. Better yet, I'll beat your ass with the damn box. Fuck you, I'm not a child and I don't play childish games. My comedy is some serious shit, yo.

Have you ever given up all your stuff? What's it like? My mom was/is a hoarder, though not quite to the sad-enough-for-TV extreme, and I always swore I would never be like that, and by and large I've managed to avoid it, but my life is still full of stuff and I feel the weight of it digging deeper into my shoulders all the time.

My car needs tools, my kitchen needs cutlery; gotta have a closet full of cleaning supplies of course, and then there's all the computer shit I have. Some people just have a laptop on their desk, I have enough computer stuff that closets are literally filled with PCBs, cables and copper blocks.

The kitchen and cleaning stuff doesn't really bother me, I mean that's stuff I need and use constantly. What bothers me is a lot of the car and computer stuff. There's so much there I don't really need but it's stuff I've done as a hobby so there's so much equipment left that represents unfinished or unstarted projects.

In a different life or a different time I would have finished all those projects but the more of them that I do get around to finishing, the more I wonder if it was worth all that effort invested in some project that then has to be maintained. Worst of all, finishing projects makes it even harder to think about liquidating that stuff down the line because so much blood, sweat and tears have gone into creating something unique, something of which no replica exists anywhere else in this crazy world.

It's really a shame but I've been dragging on for a while and finally I really get that there's no reconciling possession of stuff with the freedom from stuff that I strongly desire. So this spring I am going to finally start on something I should have started years ago. I am going to liquidate my stuff down to the absolute bare minimum, and when I am left with only what I need to work and a bowl to eat from and a bed to sleep in and a pot to piss in... then maybe I will finally have that taste of freedom I've been thirsting for.

Now it'll say I have a blog post mua ha ha ha haaaaaa

That is all.

I was drug free until 20, not counting like five parties where I had alcohol. I was a manager at McDonald's
at the time. A lot of well-known stoner dumbasses worked there, and one day I wondered if the weed made them
stupid or if it was the other way around. So I researched drugs on the internet and came across cough syrup.
I realized that it was easy to get, so I tried some, and was blown away. I had burning euphoria in my head
and a trip for my mind. The first time I blacked out for like 10 minutes and when I came to I had to reintroduce
myself to my body, for I didn't recognize it. Time seemed to slow down, where an hour seemed like four hours,
and music was amazing. I was sold on the whole experience instantly, and suddenly the stoner dumbasses didn't
seem as dumbass before. They were in on a big secret with me now. The world of drugs.

I've decided to give up caffeine and nicotine as well as the harder drugs. nicotine is day 2, but caffeine i still have a stash left to drink. not going to throw it out. but not going to buy more coffee nor nicotine.

i need to increase my emotional awareness for victory. i think. i need to know who i am better. that was one of the original reasons i began with drugs. i wanted to see who i'd be on drugs. and for a long time, that was the same person but happier. eventually i found myself stealing cough syrup to get high while homeless. was there a different path that could have happened?

what is the source of my social anxiety? why do i have such a hard time communicationg and bonding with others that I come off silent and unfriendly? i was raped and molested and abused, but so were many successful people. i recall thinking to myself as a child, that because i moved so often, i would give up trying to make friends with others, because they would just be lost. and basically like a switch happened and i stopped making friends with people, aside from a few abberations later on.

i'm so deathly lonely that i binge to bring my mind off it. i found that most people make all their friends by highschool and aren't interested in adding more post highschool. street people are different, since they didn't go to highschool. they stick to their definition of 'oldschool.' but street people are different everywhere, i believe, as i only know the streets of yakima, wa.

i'm a liar. it began when my dad was choking me because i said i didn't love him, because i didn't know what love was, i was 3 years old. i told him i loved him and he stopped choking me. from that point on, i lied to everyone. i lied that i was happy, that i was okay. i lied to myself that i wasn't lonely. i had to be okay, because if i didn't, it caused a huge problem with my parents, and they would hurt me, and after they stopped the physical abuse, they would guilt trip me.

that's why i can live off them today, guilt-free. except i feel guilt. but i shouldn't. they killed me. over and over again. ripping emotional pain that i would blackout from. i hate them so badly. i want to be away from them. but it makes the most sense to live with them.

but that's just my intrinsic emotional response. in fact, today, i'm grateful for my parents, as some people kick their kids out at 18. if that happened to me, i wouldn't succeed. i'd fail. by most definitions of both. there's little place for hate in normal life. i'm trying to live a normal life now.

the worst part is that they don't even remember abusing me. they think i'm off and that it's my own fault. fuckers! bastards! but its petty to worry about their opinion, but why do i have to be one of those that are constantly ameloriating their innate emotional response. why does my natural emotional state have to be wrong all the time? but that's a whiner's attitude. many people are off emotionally and are successful.

i need to find my calm again. i lost it from mdpv. i used to have preternatural calmness. but mdpv abuse lost it. i can find it again. my calm. in my calm, my emotional state is stable and non-combative. in my calm, the urges and hungers i have are transient and manageable. if i only realized that i needed/wanted to go to college while i still had my calm. but i never knew what i wanted until i crashed broke and broken. i got rid of everything i owned, and from there was a clear state formed. what did i want if i had nothing? no video games, no drugs to distract me. no free food stamps even. what did i want?

i reccomend to everyone to lose everything and have nothing. lose all your posessions at least once in your life, else how can you be sure you know what you're about? it's all distractions. peel away every layer of comfort and fun. when you have nothing, what do you long for?

i longed for drugs, and a shower, and clean clothes. aside from drugs, a shower and clean clothes doesn't seem like much, but it requires like 800 dollars a month to have a shower and clean clothes (you need a place for you clothes and you need a shower to shower). and that requires a good job.

i'm a curious person. i can remember that now. i'm also a superior-than-thou person. most people don't need to lose everything to realize they want the 'essentials' of life. why did I? because i couldn't imagine life without them. not that even. because i didn't trust my imagination. and i was right not to. it was worse than i imagined.

i learned that i would steal before going without. one of the most surprising parts of my life is to realize i'm a thief. and now i try to suppress it. no more stealing. why? because it's not fair, and i want to play fairly. i used to think stealing was fair. sometimes i still do. but stealing isn't fair, because other people don't steal, unless you're on the street where everyone steals from each other.

you're my new friend, blog. you're my new friend. it takes away the loneliness to write here.

I managed to professionally One Girl One Tub this week for myself. (If you do not get this reference, do yourself a huge favor and remain blissfully ignorant. If you're the have-to-know type, you've been warned and I am absolved.)

I may or may have not mentioned a comedy thing in which I dabble. I don't want to elaborate too much more but there was a show in February and a pretty established comic was a part. Apparently, I left some sort of impression (only fat angel babies know how because that show was just a train wreck) with the headliner because he invited me to perform at his venue the following month! He teases me about being just as sexy at his show as I was at this one and then say I could wear a burlap sac and Chewbacca mask and not only would I be sexy, I'd be funny.

WHAT. No, but...WHAT.

Of course, I say yes!!

Then he cuts me because he accidentally double booked another comic. No biggie.

THEN he tells me to come ANYWAY because it will force the venue to increase his budget!

I'm excited (read: fucking pants-shitting terrified).

The day comes, the venue is 1.5 hours from my home. I say bye to my kids, my son gives me a hug and vomits all over me. ARE. YOU. FUCKING. KIIKIKIKIKIKIKDDDDDDING. ME. RIIIIIIGGGGHT NAAAAAAAO!??!?!?!

Who is writing my life script, Larry Fucking David, that prick??

I clench my thumb so as not to join him and haul my barfed ass to the loo. I shed my new Trump colored outfit for my more natural mocha color and then rip about three layers of that off. Shockingly, hair and makeup remained untouched, although I probably smell like an inverted 5th grader.

I put on the backup outfit, glance at the phone and figure if we go 85 and don't hit any old ladies (fuck the young ones; they're rubbery), we may still make it.

Off we go after an AIR KISS to my son letting him know I'm not mad and nothing is his fault. Sha, as if.

We catch air when we hit the highway ramp but since we aren't the Dukes Of Fucking Hazzard, we lose a fuckton of it upon landing.

A ....A MUDDAFUGGERING FLAT TIRE?!?! I WILL WALK ARE YOU KIDDING WHY DO YOU HATE ME JUST THROW UP ON ME AGAIN.

With trembling hands, I text the guy to let him know about this teeeenyweeenie setback and how I may, heh...actually be an hour late and I'm sorry but we are on the road (I'll send a pic?) and should we come?

...

...



...



"Don't bother."



FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU-


And then, I was supposed to go to a show to scout for talent but instead I had a multimillion dollar panic attack and couldn't even leave my fucking bedroom and was in hysterics. Why? Because I'd planned my outfit (helps me feel in control) and forgot I'd lost another 5 fucking pounds so it looked grisly and there was nothing I could do to repair it.

The April show will have 1 fucking comic. AWESOME.

Your Vagina Grows It's OWN Dick...

(Graphic...so...you've been warned...)

Since it's February and the stench of St. Valentine's carcass still putrefies the air, I thought this tale might be an appropriate one.

Plus I wanted to get it off my taint.

Scientists say there are 279 brazillionteen nerve endings in the vagina.

I have about...fifteen: ten broke, 2 are not speaking to each other and 3 seem to be wandering around lost...

Their reaction to being touched or licked is usually, um...startled, followed by creeped out until one of them vaguely remembers these are Authorized Interactions and attempts to locate the documentation and how-to manuals...

Since there are no genuinely viable nerve endings, I thought I'd spruce up the place and get some jewelry. That way, if it didn't increase sensitivity, at least it would be pretty…I got a hood piercing. So lovely. So stupid.

Raise your hand if you know what a "skin tab" is. Put your hand down, silly. I can't see you. For those of you lucky ducks who have no idea, go eat a chocolate or listen to your favorite song or something. They are also known as "skin tags" and also, "holy fuck, what is this grody shit thingie?"

Basically, it's a gross tiny flap of unnecessary skin just growing wherever the fuck it sees fit, like on the back of your arm, or your eyelid…or, say, the top of your hood piercing, like a teeny cock.

….and I still can't feel a damn thing. So now, I have a piercing, a dead vagina, and an itty bitty dick. And nowhere to put the AAA batteries.

Anyone know how you normally get rid of these tabs? You just take a hair from your head and tie it as tight as you can around the base. It cuts off the flow of circulation, the tab dries up and falls off. Gone in 1-2-3. No big deal right?

WRONG - itchiest fucking thing in the goddamn world! It felt like a bullet ant fireball disco party in my clithole.

If my vag had a face, I woulda punched it. Suddenly, there's nerve endings. An entire East Coast electric company of fucking nerve endings and they're all taking a shower with a toaster.

After 4 days of something I can only mildly describe as 70,000 mosquito bites, shaving rash, new hair growing back, crotch critter, twat ripping agony, the damn thing finally falls off.

And then everything goes right back to dead.

Awesome.


St. Valentine is a hateful tunt.

Well I wonder what im talking about with a headline like that, death of course, see I live to write or type and I reckon a blog with little breaks w
Ould be the one. You ser anyone who has read my posts on here know im not mentally stable, but im not stupid, not a day goes by when the word suicide doesnt come into my brain , I havd clinical depression though not acyually diagnosed which is a lot of bullcrap . Some guy sitting there getting paid a fortune to say ok ur depressed heres a antidepredsant good luck. Bloody bollocks to that I dont need some freaky weirdo stranger to tell me im ill , I know this already , my last episide was a severe hallucination when I thought the girl on the tv was talking to me and giving me orders, I really did,so if thats not mad what is. Not a day goes by when im not plotting my own death. Im 44 from glasgow in scotland,basicaly lost it all by choosing drugs. At the time I was only a teenager and glasgow was hit with what was called an epidemic of temazepsm(gel) and I say gel as the inside of these caps were some sort of potent gel , very injectable but dangerous and many deaths in and around glasgow,luckily I didnt inject I was totally against it but orally me and my friends back then used to take handfuls mixed with alcohol and basically this made u very agressive and we used to fight other glasgow gangs using machetti, swords, any weapon apart from guns to attack other gangs and vice versa it was every teenagers goal to join a local gang and battle after school, also another pill I noticed to be very common were diazepam(valium), mum,s little helper,and because these temazepam were banned from the nhs market we were left with these tabs,not as strong but still a good buzz if u took enough,i was so addicted to these at a young age ,i could,nt and did,nt want to stop taking them, ( to be cont).

The other day, I gradually woke up. I became aware that before me was a city under an alien starscape.

It was built on the end of a rugged peninsula that extended into a large a lake. It was compact like an ancient city. Its skyline was of towers, domed buildings, temples, and palaces.

A large, orange moon gave the city and the mountains around it a reddish color. Moonlight reflected off the golden roofs of some of the buildings. The surf breaking against the cliffs below the city shined in the light. A second moon, smaller and dimmer than the first, was silvery blue. It was much higher in the sky. A tower taller than the others rose from a hilltop near where the peninsula connected with the mainland.

On the opposite shore of the lake, perhaps thirty miles away from the city, mountains reached to the stars. In the distance, all around, were huge mountains. They too shone a faint red in the moonlight.

Then, I noticed something strange, and I looked at the larger moon again. It was not high, maybe 30 degrees altitude, and it was in front of twin mountain spires. That is a weird optical illusion.

If I study the scene long enough, I will remember it, and then I can try to draw it when I wake. If I relax, I can go deeper into dream sleep and merge into this world.

I relaxed. Ground solidified under where I lay. Around me, grass moved in a breeze. I heard surf breaking far away. The stars were bright despite the light of two moons. Neither were full. I know all of the constellations of the earth sky, but I did not recognise any star formations in this sky. Instead of the Milky Way being overhead, a dense, globular galaxy occupied a third of the sky.

Then my girlfriend, who had been sleeping beside me, touched me. I awoke fully, and the dream faded. It was 6 am, and she was getting up for work. I could stay in bed another hour while she spent that hour in the bathroom doing female things. Then I would have to get up for work too. After she climbed out of bed and left the room, I tried to go back to sleep and find the dream again. I could hear the shower followed by an electric hair dryer. It was too late. I got up to start my day in an ordinary world. I made coffee and started making breakfast for us.

I read the Hobbit in 5th grade. I half believed the author, a linguist who had translated Norse sagas, had discovered a manuscript and that it came from another world. It was the first book I read that made me want to write my own story, so I started writing a quasi-medieval fantasy novel. It had a plot outline, characters, and some scenes.

I didn’t know what I was doing. I felt like the world was against me. I lived in a TV household that had no sympathy for anything creative. Creativity was queer. I didn’t have privacy. I wrote everything in code, like someone who is being watched. I wrote in a 30 letter alphabet I had made up. It looked vaguely like Sanskrit. Some of the letters were from languages books were written in that I had seen in dreams.

I stopped writing when I went to college. I had an engineering scholarship and needed good grades to keep my funding. I didn’t have time to write. After college, I never went back to that fantasy novel. By then I had realised that like 1000s of other novels inspired by that author, my story was derivative of Tolkien and Nordic mythology, and I was no longer enthusiastic about it.

In France, there is none of this 70-80_hours_a_week_in_the_lab/office_or_you’re_fired like in the US. The work-week is 35 hours. Since coming here, I’ve had time to have a more balanced life. I’m doing yoga every day again and running. I’ve also been doing things that interest me mentally including writing.

I’ve been working on a science fiction novel. I only get to spend a little time on it each day, but after a couple of years, I’ve made progress. So far, I have an outline, and most most chapters are filled in sketchy rough draft form. Some professional authors finish two or three novels a year, so I feel like I’m going too slow.

Good stories transport the reader to another world. The Hobbit did that. Sadly, most books fail to do that. The worst kind is the postmodernist novel which plagues bookstores today. These books are written in the form of the “disembodied voice.” They are dialogue only, and by definition, they reject the novel as an art form and do away with plot, setting, and beauty. Those are the things a story needs to have to be enjoyable, and since postmodernist novels lack that, they are unreadable. I’m thinking specifically of Gravity’s Rainbow, and I’m sorry I wasted four hours on it recently.

My background is neuroscience, and I mix that into my story, giving it some hard science and psychology. For atmosphere, I write while I sit in scenic and visually stimulating places, and I try to verbally sketch what I see into the story. I listen to conversations, trying to capture the flow of speech without bogging down the story with chatter. I don’t fill it with 500 pages of fart jokes or boast about the sexual prowess of the main character. I’m thinking of Gravity Rainbow again.

Plot is the hardest part. I’m not sitting here writing some L. Ron Hubbard (invented Scientology) Space Opera (science fiction version of television Soap Opera). He got rich, but one should not stoop so low for money.

Science fiction is about made-up events and has no basis in reality, otherwise it would be called general fiction. At the same time, it has to be realistic enough for the reader to visualise it and to be transported into its world.

Hemingway gave the famous advice, “write what you know,” meaning write only what you have experienced. That advice creates a problem for science fiction authors. I’m not very imaginative, so writing a story about impossible scenes is hard.

One approach is to dream each scene in realistic detail and then write about it when I wake up. That’s what I was trying to do last night, and it only started right before it was time to get up. Morphine drastically increases dream time and adds elements of realism such as depth, complexity, and detail.

Since my story is based on events that occurred in dreams and out of body experiences, the plot depends on phenomena that occurs in those states: hallucinations, teleportation, people who are not who they appear to be, telepathy, artificial universes, shifting realities. Futuristic technology produces some of those phenomena in the lives of the characters, and capitalists have figured out how to exploit these technologies and wreak havoc on the lives of the populace.

It is set it in a futuristic version of California based on the present where everything is for sale and disposable, life is cheap, people are fake, the president is a former game show host (I wrote it two years before it came true), and most people have to sell their organs for cheap plastic replacements in order to survive.



I believe I will be able to finish a novel by the end of the year and hopefully have it published. I want to get out of science. I’m not happy with my work situation.

I met my girlfriend at Invalides the other day. We went to the Rodin museum. I sketched a few of the sculptures in the sculpture garden. Rodin’s later art is not representational. It lacks surface detail. It’s coarse. The museum was full of these lumpy, molten golems frozen in theatrical poses. Despite its crudeness, it provokes a reaction and captures things through its gestures, expressions, and movement. Like modern art and postmodernist literature, I don’t find it to be beautiful. It does not elevate the soul. So, yes, it communicates something, but it is ugly, and I would not want it hanging on my wall where I’d have to look at it every day.

Afterwards, we walked through the Arrondissement Saint-Germaine, and I took photos of some of historic buildings. Later we stopped at a line at a boulangerie (bakery) to buy snacks. Ahead of us was a French mother with a toddler. They were dressed relatively elegant the way Parisians often dress. The toddler would point to a cake in the display case and ask his mother a question. She would whisper a response. This went on, and I observed buildings and other people without focusing on anybody or anything in particular. The line advanced slowly. I was surprised to see that Laetitia was practically drooling. She had been gazing at the little kid the whole time.

Women stare at little kids without causing a panic, but if a man looks at a small child, he will provoke a hostile reaction risk arrest.

This blog is where I write the worst things I can think of. They’re the things you can’t say in public. Sometimes, I write about good things, but often, I just need to vent. I do that here because it helps keep from being negative in real life.

How can two people witness the same event yet have completely conceptions of what really happened? Two people who witness the same crime often tell different narratives to the police. Regarding current events, all of the United States is that way, and the viewpoint is split along the party lines.

On a winter afternoon, I left work at the Institut and walked up a hill to the south. The wind funneling between the buildings and over the streets was strong and chilled me at first, but I warmed up as I walked. Overall, it was refreshing. I passed the Odéon Theatre, the Sénat (parliament), and then walked through the sprawling Jardins de Luxembourg. The sun was low in the sky, hanging just above the Observatory of Paris. Despite the cold, the huge park was just as crowded as it is in the summer. People were reading, painting, picnicking, strolling , talking, sitting, and playing pétanque.

I arrived at the café Les Clocheries des Lilas where I write sometimes. At most cafés and other less formal restaurants in Paris, one can order a cup of coffee and sit for hours without being bothered by the waiters. Thousands of people write all day at cafés, only ordering a single cup of coffee. It is a custom in Paris. Many books have been written this way, and some of the world’s greatest thinkers wrote at the same places I go: Sartre, Hemingway, Crowley, Burroughs. I find that motivating.

Later, my girlfriend Laetitia would join me here. It was early enough to have time to write before she arrived. I picked a table outside on the terrace and under a heater where I could watch the sunset. It overlooks a large, busy town square. An endless stream of people walked by. I ordered a cup of coffee and wrote for a long time - I bring writing material with me wherever I go.

I sipped my now cold coffee. The sun had dropped below the skyline and the bronze statue of the General Michel Ney outside the restaurant had taken a blue cast as the lighting shifted into a crepuscular palette.

Laetitia arrived. She wore a black dress, black coat, green scarf, heels.

In the Middle Ages, the people known as Gypsies or Roma migrated out of India and arrived in Europe. Just as they were when they arrived, they remain Europe’s largest and poorest minority. For a millennium, most of them have not yet integrated into the society of their host countries. According to many, this is because they face discrimination across Europe.

I suspect it is more than discrimination that has kept the Gypsies poor for more than 1000 years. I hope all the Gypsies will eventually live normal lives. Many have. Roma don’t look unusual or different physically, and one would not know they are Roma/Gypsy unless they told you or unless they wore traditional clothing. I'm only talking about street people in this blog. I don’t want to rant about ethnic groups with incompatible values immigrating to the West but only to provide some context for what happens next.

When one has spent countless days walking past and observing the same people going about their lives every day, some patterns and trends become obvious. Street Gypsies, or unsettled Roma as the EU officially calls them, are interesting to watch. Sadly, it’s their bad behavior that makes them interesting.

Professional beggars have turned the art of evoking sympathy from strangers into a business. Giving money to a professional beggar relieves the acute need, but it perpetuates the life condition. It encourages them to return. France, like most of Western Europe, has a publicly funded social safety net that distributes food, money, education, and housing to the needy, especially when they have children. Nobody starves here. Also, but not related, fat beggars always rub me the wrong way.

Almost immediately after Laetitia settled into a chair beside me, a chubby Gypsy beggar woman pushing a baby wheelchair stopped in front of us and asked for money. She was twenty something years old, had greasy hair, and wore a soiled track suit. We ignored her at first. She asked two more times in a grating voice, a little louder and more nails-on-a-chalkboard obnoxious each time. For emphasis, on the third time she asked for money from us, the beggar’s hand reached down to the baby. The dirty blanket covering its face partially fell away as the woman’s groping fingers found the baby’s mouth. The whole time, she looked pleadingly at Laetitia, asking for money again and again.

“Please miss a little money for my baby,” she said, and while she recited her line, her strong fingers pinched the baby’s lips hard.

Timed to punctuate her sentence, the baby let off a pitiful cry pain trailed by a burst of faint sobs. The crying sounded like the baby could barely summon the energy to make a sound. The “mother” either didn’t know or didn’t care that the blanket that had been hiding what her hand was doing had fallen away and that I could see everything.

“Give me your money,” the Gypsy whined yet again. She pulled another face, a little more nuanced and sadder than before..

Laetitia was looking at her, moved. She focused her pleas on Laetitia.

“Please miss my baby is hungry I’m hungry money money money,” she said, her voice still sadder now that she had Laetitia’s full attention.

She pinched the baby’s lips again, harder this time, and the baby let out an urgent but exhausted cry of pain that spluttered and died off with fatigue. For a moment, I wondered whether it was exhausted because it was tired from being pinched and made to cry all day or because the “mother” was starving it too.

Last year, I photographed this baby with an injured mouth, “Madonna with Child.”
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Intervening is not likely to have a positive outcome. There are reports that when the police are called, the Gypsy perpetrators (and the majority of “Madonna with Child” scammers are Gypsies) disappear into the crowd before the police can arrive. Some who tried to intervene reported that they were quickly surrounded by a gang of the Gypsy men, beggar masters, who own the beggars. They usually make threats and demand money, and if the police arrived, they tell lies. Thus informed, I didn’t say anything. If I were to try to restrain her or defend the baby, I would be the only one who gets in trouble, accused of a hate crime. When caught, the Gypsies usually don’t carry ID and are hard for the police to identify. Without a solid case against them, they are released. I wouldn’t be able to prove anything anyway in a “he said she said” scenario.

Laetitia whispered to me, “ she looks desperate, and that poor baby sounds so sad. Maybe we should give them something.“

The "mother” had been watching us like a predator, and her eyes glinted when she realized her mark was about to give her money.

I said, “didn’t you see what she did to the baby?”

Laetitia ignored my question and handed the beggar woman a couple of euros accompanied by a smile.

Then I noticed that a chair was blocking Laetitia’s line of sight to the baby, and she hadn’t seen her sleight of hand. Laetitia only saw an oppressed mother comforting a suffering baby. Without seeing the physical torture that took place, she did not hear that the pain in the cries was the result of being tortured 3 feet away from her.

Peer pressure is a weakness that can be manipulated by the clever. Encouraged by Laetitia’s handout, the Gypsy “mother” turned to me and dramatically and expectantly pleaded for more money. I put the word mother in quotes because police (including Scotland Yard) report that criminal gangs rent trafficked and drugged/vodka’d babies by the day to beggars. Beggars’ babies sleep all day and rarely stir, hence the alledged use of soporific drugs to make them manageable. Codeine is a cheap over-the-counter drug, and a rented baby can dance for less than 3 dollars a day. Codeine and other opiates are convenient because they cause constipation and retention of urine, thus eliminating the need to get up and change diapers during a day-long begging shift.

She turned directly at me asked for money. She had still not noticed that the blanket had fallen away and that I could she was doing with her hand. She pinched the baby’s lips two more times, and each resulted in the same tired squawk followed by run-down cries. By now she had been here for a couple of minutes. Like a stray dog you feed once out of pity, she knew where to get a handout and neither telling her “no” nor ignoring her would make her go away quickly. Laetitia looked at me, trying to will me into feeding the demon. Beggars target couples, and with her expert manipulation of peer pressure, I realised it didn’t matter that I knew what she had done, and she doubtless knew this. A waiter came around, aware that she was bothering us, and the Gypsy turned and quickly walked away, pushing the baby wheelchair in front of her.

As I watched her leaving, I realized it would always be this way with Laetitia. She believes everyone grew up in the same upper class household she grew up in, and that everyone is humane. Her views are the product of her family and her caste. Her mind is confined by her upbringing. Her perspective of the world does not change when exposed to a different reality that, although it is in front of her, only needs a willingness of the observer to shift her point of view to be recognized.

Laetitia prefers a joke, a happy anecdote about the wonderful world, and a cheerful disposition. Over time, I’ve found myself not expressing how I really feel, my wishes, or pointing things out to her. Instead, I will add them to my collection of blog entries titled Tales of Misogyny.

This is about the only site I visit on even a weekly basis, but my thoughts need some outlet. I might only talk about one or two things here, but I'm not going to force out some kind of memoir, autobiography, story-of-my-life bullshit here.

What does it say about me that my username on most websites is gothimspun? Got. Him. Spun. On other sites I've been the ice princess or the ice queen, but over time for personal reasons that one has negative connotations to me now.

I'll only make an effort to listen to my favorite music, browse my favorite sites, even to bother checking my Facebook or email much if I'm high. Well, I am always high on something, the only times I've been sober were 60 days spent in jail.

I'd estimate my attempt at rehab lasted 10 days max before relapse. & even this is utter bullshit because though I had quit the daily opiates I was still constantly stoned off my ass, taking dxm, benadryl, etc. I'd not even last one day now.

When I tried before opiates were my only constant companion, but the last few years passed in a haze of daily opiate, benzo, and amphetamine use. My 3 compadres, my comfort food, they seemed as necessary as oxygen to survive...

And somehow still they have managed to hide most their bad side away from me, like a new boyfriend who's not yet sure enough about his status to show his uglier side. That trio still holds its appeal to me...

But one down for good now, I think. Please? I've been off Klonipin since early in June 2016. It was hell, still is, still think of them nearly every day even though in a few months it will be a year without my benzos.

And I'm now going to a suboxone doctor. Still fucking things up a whole lot. Getting fucked up, sometimes stoned or spun out... My teeth need tons of work, once I get that done this week (if I can find my insurance card, that is, fuck) I'm gonna have a less hellish times cutting out opiates when I don't have constant throbbing pain.

That is what I get for smoking so much meth, and you reap what you sow. I'm reaping, baby. I'm also trying hard, to slow this lifestyle to a stop.

My youngest son will be 6 months old on March 7, he needs me. That's the plan. If everything continues in this positive direction for me, around his 1st birthday he'll live with me again, full-time.

#workingonit

my last blogging was when i moved to seattle... i've been here four years now.

I just fucking can’t.

Gas-lighting is the trendy new word for fucking up someone’s brain in a monstrous abusive way and is most often applied in romantic situations. I’ve been gaslit, I guess but the only time it has ever stood out was not with love but with ….oh, fuck, it still hurts…my daughter.

We can call her Kainat…gorgeous, brilliant, passionate, strong willed. She got most of that from me; I was Amazonian by force. I had to be - no one else was picking up a damn thing I dropped. (It dawns on me, it’s not arrogant to say she got that from me; her father was a prick who fucked off long before she could have learned a damn thing from him. To that end, shit, she got ALL of that from me. Even the gorgeous. You don’t like my brand of gorgeous? I don’t give a shit; I’m not selling it to you. Go find your own.)

When she hit her teens, she was a sweet southern Belle (having been born in the peach state) and as manipulative as a Jell-O cock sock. She told me I had memory problems so it made sense I didn’t remember how abusive I was to her…or how much I drank…or all the drugs (THAT one was the hardest for me since, at that time, the only drug in my life was weed and I didn’t really like it).

When…Amaya, her younger sister (just nine years old) was sexually assaulted, Kainat decided definitively her sister was lying (who the FUCK chooses a pervophile over family? Kainat had known this dried shit for three weeks!!) and conveniently chose THAT moment to tell me SHE herself had been raped in KINDERGARTEN. By a high school senior.

I am a certified rape crisis counselor. She could have told me she was raped by a submarine filled with gay unicorns with non-functional plaid wings and a love of kombucha and I would have to believe her. But I would not believe the fucking unicorns, fuckitdawl. Even BEFORE my training, I knew what the fuck rape looked like. I *HAVE* been raped. Repeatedly. Since childhood. I know what the fuck a survivor looks like and I DAMN sure know what a child survivor looks like… she didn’t over or under sexualize. Her demeanor, language and carriage remained identical. Most noticibly, she had never been in pain. A raped kindergartener…in no pain. Raped by a high school senior. RAPED BY A HIGH SCHOOL SENIOR. RAPED. BY. A. HIGH. SCHOOL. SENIOR.

It was everything in my power not to scream "LIAAAARRRR" in her face. Not to want to strangle her for being so ugly around what was happening to her sister. Kainat was convinced the BabyLeech was innocent…until they caught him about a month later and he confessed to everything. Further, his sentence was extended twice as a result of…"inappropriate behavior" while incarcerated. I don’t even know what the fuck that means but the first time I heard it, I reenacted The Exorcist.

Now…now, Gods save me….Amaya is doing this stupid goth/emo bullshit. Fine. I’ll buy you all the Black Veil Princess or Ebony Scaled Gloom or whatever the fuck these bands are call shit you want. I won’t say it’s a phase. You want guitar lessons? BOOM. I ask one thing in return, ONE. Please, no zeros in class or on report cards. As a freshman, she took that request and wiped her ass with it.

Hookaay…this year, she is grinding! Great grades…well…good…not bad grades. I’m very proud and I tell her but she has her ear filter set to bullshit so all she hears is when I tell her to clean the garbage or put her dishes in the sink because even though I’m Brown I’m not the maid.

Today, my boy Magic Mike (my son, Lucian) gets hiccups before bed so I send him to the kitchen for water and there’s Amaya and my tenant yelling at him to go to bed. He panics (ADHD) and just stutters, "I… I’m drinking water…?" I run in to save the kid and Amaya says, "well, why didn’t he just SAY that?"

I respond, "Like all the times you just SAY when he asks you stuff?"
Amaya: he didn’t have to ignore me. I don’t ignore him.
Me: You…HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA, what? Are you…you was serious about dat?
Her: …
Me: Wait, really?
Her: ok, fine, I’m an awful sister, you happy?
Me: I didn’t say that. I just was surprised to hear you say you don’t ignore him.
Her: He ignores me too, ya know.
Me: I didn’t say anything about that either. I was just taken off guard by you saying you didn’t.
Her: … I never said I don’t ignore….
Me: …
She stops.
I go kiss her goodnight and tell her I’m going to bed. I make it half way done the hall when she mutters something.
Me: Excuse me? (I say this very gently, I’m out of wire hangers.)
Her: Nothing.
Me: If it was important enough to say, it’s important enough to be heard.
Her: It doesn’t matter. Forget it.
Me: *rock eyebrow*
Her: FINE. I got an A on my bio test and it raised my whole grade but it doesn’t matter. It’s no big deal.

Folks, I lost my shit. I am constantly telling this girl she’s worth it, she’s smart, she’s talented, she’s better than just looks, she’s got a brilliant mind and she’s gonna bullshit me with this "it’s no big deal" horseshittery? So later she can fling it in my face that she’s busting her ass and all I do is yell at her and never notice her successes?

I lost it. I just screamed, "WHY IS IT NO BIG DEAL??" I turned and ran into my room and just screamed "WHYYYY" because I was so fucking hurt…I just can’t be tricked into thinking I’m the worst mom ever again….as much as I love them and as much as I’m hurting…If I *am* the worst…

I’ll leave.

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