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I‘m still getting this out of my system. I will rant here rather than inflict it on anybody in real life. I will never speak about it. This is only a private rant, and it is offensive. Don’t bother reading it.
Mail order brides are popular among American men, and the reason isn't always because the man is a loser. Aelyssa was my last American girlfriend. Despite being American, I've given up on American Women.
Aelyssa’s family made a strong first impression on me, and I got a vasectomy right after I met them. They had been nice to me, and I felt guilty for not liking them. Eventually, she told me about her other boyfriends, and I understood why they liked me. Her first boyfriend was Mexican. They don’t like Mexicans. She never told them about him.
Her boyfriend before me was a good catch. They planned to marry. She was eager to introduce him to her family. She told them all of the important things: they graduated from the same university, he had continued his studies to earn a Master’s degree in English Literature. He had a good job, traveled overseas, was kind, polite, and physically fit. They were excited about meeting him.
She brought him home and introduced him. In person, they found him to be unacceptable. They disowned her - she hadn’t told her parents that he was black.
A few days later, her father called for a family meeting. They all gathered around the TV, on sofas and in Lay-Z Boy chairs. He stood before them, his back to the TV.
Pointing at her he said, "You are not my daughter."
He made a production of cutting her out of his Will and displayed the new document that made it official. Then she was told not to bring him near the family again. Her family agreed. They made racist jokes whenever they saw her. Her half-brothers and the Bubbas concluded she wanted to marry him because she likes “big black dicks in her.” Those who could read gossiped on Facebook.
She had told him, “Love me, Love my family,” but for him, there was no love in return. Her family caused too many problems for their relationship, and it fell apart after several years. I was her first boyfriend who was not black or Mexican. I made such a strong first impression on them that they put her back in the Will.
Low standards is the American Standard
Why did I stay with Aelyssa? A lot of it stems from my childhood. Also, I felt lonely. I went for years at a time without so much as a date, or even sighting an available woman I was attracted to who would not look at me in disgust. It’s “slim pickins’” in America.
70% of Americans are obese. It is shocking. It needlessly shrinks the pool of available women. I was fat for a little while, but I did something about it. I work hard to stay fit.
I can easily think of 20 good excuses to justify why I should be fat: bad genes, medication, fondness of opiates, injuries, stress, job, poverty, endocrine problems, no time to exercise, I can’t exercise because my weiner chafes painfully when I run, I like soda, food servings are too large, I am surrounded by high calorie food, irresistible advertisements force me to eat high calorie food, thanks to my education at under-funded public schools I am too dumb to control my weight, Fat Acceptance, I was sexually abused, bad body image, low self-esteem, depressed, the health risks associated with obesity are all lies and a form of ‘fat shaming’, the diet industry is colluding to keep me fat to make money off me, it’s nobody’s business. Seeing a fat person working out impresses me more than all of the excuses.
It is a choice and is one of the few things about the body one can completely control, except for the unlucky 1% who have a genuine medical reason that cannot be overcome. All it requires self-discipline, planning, and maybe some introspection.
Why should anybody change their lifestyle and date somebody with a weight problem? You can love somebody for their personality, but if there is no physical attraction, not even a hand-full of Viagra can put romance into such a relationship. Obesity is a lifestyle choice, and both people need to have the same lifestyle for a relationship to work.
As for the single American Women who have children, my vasectomy says enough.
Without having money or coming from a better family background myself, somebody like Aelyssa is the best one can do. America is anti-intellectual and materialistic. Idiocracy is prophetic. I have a PhD, and education is a turn-off (loser geek). The exception is going to an impressive Ivy League university, but without a family pedigree (I was born White Trash, and I’m not going to lie about it), that won’t help.
Having an IQ higher than 100 counts against you in America. Women hate men who are smarter than they are. It’s a lot easier to get a dumb guy to do whatever she wants. I prefer women who are smarter than me. Sadly, I’ve only had one girlfriend who was smarter than me, but she did not respect my boundaries. Her IQ was 170. Fewer than 1 in 30,000 people have an IQ that high. My IQ is only 160.
I’m good at math and have some education in economics - could have gone into any line of work. I chose to do something that doesn’t pay much materially. I was PreMed, but most of the (American) PreMed students were dicks. I could not work with such people so I did not go to med school. (In contrast, French doctors are very nice, unassuming, and not nearly so materialistic or entitled as their American counterparts. I know dozens here, and some have been my girlfriends.)
After the age of 30, income is the main thing most American women look for whether or not they admit it. I never display wealth like a Rolex watch or flashy clothes.
I’ve been shot down, insulted, and abused 100s of times while trying to meet American women in cities and small towns across the USA. I have never tried to pick up women, so this wasn’t the result of crude pickup lines at bars. It was this way for years without a single non-fake phone number or date. It is impossible to have so much as a cup of coffee with an American Women. Unless you drive the right car. I should be thankful for the bad luck and that none of those creatures ever got me to marry her or had a pregnancy.
Europe is the opposite for meeting women. I wear the same clothes (second-hand clothing), look the same (homeless version of van Gogh), take the same drugs (high-functioning junkie), have the same level of physical fitness (running/yoga/mountain climbing), have the same income (academic scientist), ride the same vehicle (bike), and have mostly the same hobbies. It took a while to get over my aversion to meeting women, but I realized that it is only Americanized women who are unpleasant. The women here are prettier, better educated, healthier, smarter, nicer, dress better, don’t have the Tramp Stamp. I can usually go home with a real phone number if I go out, but in the US, I was lucky to get a phone number once every five years. And she always had a personality that made her un-marriageable.
Euro Disney
For as big and culturally permeating an Institution that Disney is, it doesn’t teach anything. The stories don’t have any morals. For example, what does Snow White offer in the way of a life lesson? The message I get is that all a girl has to do in life is to be pretty and lie on her back and then her soul mate, Prince Charming, will find her and take her away to his castle and where he will fulfill her every wish forever after. American Women grew up on Snow White. The divorce rate in the US is 70%.
When invited to Aelyssa’s family vacation to Disneyland, I declined. If she insisted, I would say I had to work, or it’s 115 degrees in Anaheim, California - what are you thinking?! These kinds of trips were not my thing: the screeching of toddlers, the pushing and jostling of over-stimulated 10 year olds in an hour long line, and all the other nonsense compounded by Aelyssa’s family. So instead I volunteered to stay home and watch their dogs and cats. I went on a job interview where the boss who interviewed me offered me a free day at Disneyland. I refused, so it wasn’t only about avoiding her family.
Euro Disney, renamed Disney Paris, is the opposite of how I picture the American Disney. It is practically deserted, and there are more adults than children. It is quiet and relaxing. The weather is cool. That is how Heidi described it.
Heidi and I met at a party and started seeing each other about a year ago. She’s a tall, blond Swedish expat. She works at Disney and gives VIP tours to celebrities, royalty, politicians, etc. She deals with people like the musicians Michael Jackson before he died and Bono the singer from the band U2 and actors like Tom Hanks.
Heidi was nice enough to invite me on a tour. She would lead me through the park, take me to the front of the lines with her VIP pass, show me the secret places like the secret restaurant or the secret hotel in the castle. It would be free of course since she works there.
Actually, she has asked several times and i can no longer put it off: None of the old excuses would work. 1) Euro Disney is only 30 minutes away. 2) It’s not crowded, not even on weekends. 3) The climate here is not hot. 4) European children are better behaved than American children. 5) It would be just me and Heidi and none of teh problems and drama with large groups.
Euro Disney is an amusement park built by a movie studio. The whole park is populated by street performers dressed as characters from its most popular movies. The rides and displays are like movie sets, and riding them should be an immersive experience. Such a place is an escape into a fantasy world. So are some of the things I have been doing here: art house films, opera, museums all have escapist characteristcs. I like films, some tv shows, and even cartoon. Maybe I would like the trip.
I thanked her and we made a date.
Mail order brides are popular among American men, and the reason isn't always because the man is a loser. Aelyssa was my last American girlfriend. Despite being American, I've given up on American Women.
Aelyssa’s family made a strong first impression on me, and I got a vasectomy right after I met them. They had been nice to me, and I felt guilty for not liking them. Eventually, she told me about her other boyfriends, and I understood why they liked me. Her first boyfriend was Mexican. They don’t like Mexicans. She never told them about him.
Her boyfriend before me was a good catch. They planned to marry. She was eager to introduce him to her family. She told them all of the important things: they graduated from the same university, he had continued his studies to earn a Master’s degree in English Literature. He had a good job, traveled overseas, was kind, polite, and physically fit. They were excited about meeting him.
She brought him home and introduced him. In person, they found him to be unacceptable. They disowned her - she hadn’t told her parents that he was black.
A few days later, her father called for a family meeting. They all gathered around the TV, on sofas and in Lay-Z Boy chairs. He stood before them, his back to the TV.
Pointing at her he said, "You are not my daughter."
He made a production of cutting her out of his Will and displayed the new document that made it official. Then she was told not to bring him near the family again. Her family agreed. They made racist jokes whenever they saw her. Her half-brothers and the Bubbas concluded she wanted to marry him because she likes “big black dicks in her.” Those who could read gossiped on Facebook.
She had told him, “Love me, Love my family,” but for him, there was no love in return. Her family caused too many problems for their relationship, and it fell apart after several years. I was her first boyfriend who was not black or Mexican. I made such a strong first impression on them that they put her back in the Will.
Low standards is the American Standard
Why did I stay with Aelyssa? A lot of it stems from my childhood. Also, I felt lonely. I went for years at a time without so much as a date, or even sighting an available woman I was attracted to who would not look at me in disgust. It’s “slim pickins’” in America.
70% of Americans are obese. It is shocking. It needlessly shrinks the pool of available women. I was fat for a little while, but I did something about it. I work hard to stay fit.
I can easily think of 20 good excuses to justify why I should be fat: bad genes, medication, fondness of opiates, injuries, stress, job, poverty, endocrine problems, no time to exercise, I can’t exercise because my weiner chafes painfully when I run, I like soda, food servings are too large, I am surrounded by high calorie food, irresistible advertisements force me to eat high calorie food, thanks to my education at under-funded public schools I am too dumb to control my weight, Fat Acceptance, I was sexually abused, bad body image, low self-esteem, depressed, the health risks associated with obesity are all lies and a form of ‘fat shaming’, the diet industry is colluding to keep me fat to make money off me, it’s nobody’s business. Seeing a fat person working out impresses me more than all of the excuses.
It is a choice and is one of the few things about the body one can completely control, except for the unlucky 1% who have a genuine medical reason that cannot be overcome. All it requires self-discipline, planning, and maybe some introspection.
Why should anybody change their lifestyle and date somebody with a weight problem? You can love somebody for their personality, but if there is no physical attraction, not even a hand-full of Viagra can put romance into such a relationship. Obesity is a lifestyle choice, and both people need to have the same lifestyle for a relationship to work.
As for the single American Women who have children, my vasectomy says enough.
Without having money or coming from a better family background myself, somebody like Aelyssa is the best one can do. America is anti-intellectual and materialistic. Idiocracy is prophetic. I have a PhD, and education is a turn-off (loser geek). The exception is going to an impressive Ivy League university, but without a family pedigree (I was born White Trash, and I’m not going to lie about it), that won’t help.
Having an IQ higher than 100 counts against you in America. Women hate men who are smarter than they are. It’s a lot easier to get a dumb guy to do whatever she wants. I prefer women who are smarter than me. Sadly, I’ve only had one girlfriend who was smarter than me, but she did not respect my boundaries. Her IQ was 170. Fewer than 1 in 30,000 people have an IQ that high. My IQ is only 160.
I’m good at math and have some education in economics - could have gone into any line of work. I chose to do something that doesn’t pay much materially. I was PreMed, but most of the (American) PreMed students were dicks. I could not work with such people so I did not go to med school. (In contrast, French doctors are very nice, unassuming, and not nearly so materialistic or entitled as their American counterparts. I know dozens here, and some have been my girlfriends.)
After the age of 30, income is the main thing most American women look for whether or not they admit it. I never display wealth like a Rolex watch or flashy clothes.
I’ve been shot down, insulted, and abused 100s of times while trying to meet American women in cities and small towns across the USA. I have never tried to pick up women, so this wasn’t the result of crude pickup lines at bars. It was this way for years without a single non-fake phone number or date. It is impossible to have so much as a cup of coffee with an American Women. Unless you drive the right car. I should be thankful for the bad luck and that none of those creatures ever got me to marry her or had a pregnancy.
Europe is the opposite for meeting women. I wear the same clothes (second-hand clothing), look the same (homeless version of van Gogh), take the same drugs (high-functioning junkie), have the same level of physical fitness (running/yoga/mountain climbing), have the same income (academic scientist), ride the same vehicle (bike), and have mostly the same hobbies. It took a while to get over my aversion to meeting women, but I realized that it is only Americanized women who are unpleasant. The women here are prettier, better educated, healthier, smarter, nicer, dress better, don’t have the Tramp Stamp. I can usually go home with a real phone number if I go out, but in the US, I was lucky to get a phone number once every five years. And she always had a personality that made her un-marriageable.
Euro Disney
For as big and culturally permeating an Institution that Disney is, it doesn’t teach anything. The stories don’t have any morals. For example, what does Snow White offer in the way of a life lesson? The message I get is that all a girl has to do in life is to be pretty and lie on her back and then her soul mate, Prince Charming, will find her and take her away to his castle and where he will fulfill her every wish forever after. American Women grew up on Snow White. The divorce rate in the US is 70%.
When invited to Aelyssa’s family vacation to Disneyland, I declined. If she insisted, I would say I had to work, or it’s 115 degrees in Anaheim, California - what are you thinking?! These kinds of trips were not my thing: the screeching of toddlers, the pushing and jostling of over-stimulated 10 year olds in an hour long line, and all the other nonsense compounded by Aelyssa’s family. So instead I volunteered to stay home and watch their dogs and cats. I went on a job interview where the boss who interviewed me offered me a free day at Disneyland. I refused, so it wasn’t only about avoiding her family.
Euro Disney, renamed Disney Paris, is the opposite of how I picture the American Disney. It is practically deserted, and there are more adults than children. It is quiet and relaxing. The weather is cool. That is how Heidi described it.
Heidi and I met at a party and started seeing each other about a year ago. She’s a tall, blond Swedish expat. She works at Disney and gives VIP tours to celebrities, royalty, politicians, etc. She deals with people like the musicians Michael Jackson before he died and Bono the singer from the band U2 and actors like Tom Hanks.
Heidi was nice enough to invite me on a tour. She would lead me through the park, take me to the front of the lines with her VIP pass, show me the secret places like the secret restaurant or the secret hotel in the castle. It would be free of course since she works there.
Actually, she has asked several times and i can no longer put it off: None of the old excuses would work. 1) Euro Disney is only 30 minutes away. 2) It’s not crowded, not even on weekends. 3) The climate here is not hot. 4) European children are better behaved than American children. 5) It would be just me and Heidi and none of teh problems and drama with large groups.
Euro Disney is an amusement park built by a movie studio. The whole park is populated by street performers dressed as characters from its most popular movies. The rides and displays are like movie sets, and riding them should be an immersive experience. Such a place is an escape into a fantasy world. So are some of the things I have been doing here: art house films, opera, museums all have escapist characteristcs. I like films, some tv shows, and even cartoon. Maybe I would like the trip.
I thanked her and we made a date.
Ive decided to catch a bus to Portland Oregon. I will have around 400 dollars cash maybe the same on a credit card. I don't know a soul in that whole part of the country. But I talked to the methadone clinic out there today and after the first month I should be able to get on state insurance and end up with free methadone. They also have a good social safety net from what I understand. I'm really excited and I am really scared. I am lucky that my grandma would get me a ticket back her if it all goes to hell.
I've been eating a shitload of benzos recently but I'm going to start smoking pot again since it doesn't matter anymore what theses backward ass thinking folks in alabama have to say. My grandma is the only family who knows about my plan. Im going to tell my mom about this two before I leave so she doesn't have time to sabatoge my plan. I'm a 27 year old man in an extremely co-dependent relationship with mY mother. But not anymore I'm going to sink or swim. My adult life starts today.
Watch out Portland.
Live love do drugs
I've been eating a shitload of benzos recently but I'm going to start smoking pot again since it doesn't matter anymore what theses backward ass thinking folks in alabama have to say. My grandma is the only family who knows about my plan. Im going to tell my mom about this two before I leave so she doesn't have time to sabatoge my plan. I'm a 27 year old man in an extremely co-dependent relationship with mY mother. But not anymore I'm going to sink or swim. My adult life starts today.
Watch out Portland.
Live love do drugs
I've been wanting to write about my experiences as a (semi) former user. Now I believe is the time. Here we go...
I started with hydrocodone. I remember I used to sneak out of my bedroom window at my parents house at 17 and run down the street to my friends car. I have severe depression, so this is my way of feeling alive and having a sense of adventure. Originally the late night rendezvous were innocent, but one day my friend offered my a white oval pill. I put it in my hand and asked what it was, "Lortab, it will make you feel better; try it!." Out of desperation of being sad and wanting to look cool, I did it. I fell in love on the spot. We drove to the Walmart down the street and went inside, I was barefoot because I wasn't planning on going anywhere, but I went inside the store anyway. I specifically remember getting yelled at by someone who worked there, so I grabbed some shoes off the rack and slid them on.
I kept it pretty casual, my use, for about 2.5 years. I only used hydrocodone and only needed about 20mg to feel high (man those were the days.) One day I stumbled across someone we will call Jake (Not real name obviously.) Jake had about a similar experience with hydrocodone as I had at the time. I remember one day at work saying how nice it would be to have a Vicodin. He smiled and said, "can you find any?" I could. We'll call this day 1.
Down the rabbit hole we both went. The months flew by and eventually we were using not just hydrocodone, but oxy (blues specifically) and hydromorphone. We railed those little pills as much and as fast as we could. Tolerance grew, tensions rose, money was running out faster than it could be replaced...we broke up...
That sobered me up. I decided to finally go back to treatment for the first time since childhood and it has helped a great deal...I still occasionally use when I have the money, but I keep that fact pretty hidden from my friends. I've become ashamed, but also accepting of my past at the same time. I don't remember much of my early 20's because I was so busy nodding out and I'll always regret that and the money that was wasted, but I am in a much better place now. I hope 'Jake' is too...
I started with hydrocodone. I remember I used to sneak out of my bedroom window at my parents house at 17 and run down the street to my friends car. I have severe depression, so this is my way of feeling alive and having a sense of adventure. Originally the late night rendezvous were innocent, but one day my friend offered my a white oval pill. I put it in my hand and asked what it was, "Lortab, it will make you feel better; try it!." Out of desperation of being sad and wanting to look cool, I did it. I fell in love on the spot. We drove to the Walmart down the street and went inside, I was barefoot because I wasn't planning on going anywhere, but I went inside the store anyway. I specifically remember getting yelled at by someone who worked there, so I grabbed some shoes off the rack and slid them on.
I kept it pretty casual, my use, for about 2.5 years. I only used hydrocodone and only needed about 20mg to feel high (man those were the days.) One day I stumbled across someone we will call Jake (Not real name obviously.) Jake had about a similar experience with hydrocodone as I had at the time. I remember one day at work saying how nice it would be to have a Vicodin. He smiled and said, "can you find any?" I could. We'll call this day 1.
Down the rabbit hole we both went. The months flew by and eventually we were using not just hydrocodone, but oxy (blues specifically) and hydromorphone. We railed those little pills as much and as fast as we could. Tolerance grew, tensions rose, money was running out faster than it could be replaced...we broke up...
That sobered me up. I decided to finally go back to treatment for the first time since childhood and it has helped a great deal...I still occasionally use when I have the money, but I keep that fact pretty hidden from my friends. I've become ashamed, but also accepting of my past at the same time. I don't remember much of my early 20's because I was so busy nodding out and I'll always regret that and the money that was wasted, but I am in a much better place now. I hope 'Jake' is too...
I really do not see the point in seeking guidance regarding mental health when the motive is simply to hopefully somehow become what society considers to be a normal and productive member of society. Society is so messed up in itself, so why would anyone want to fit in or become a part of it? We are what we are. If the way we choose to live our lives does not directly effect others in a negative way, then where is the harm? When they effect others negatively in an indirect way of course.
In my experience and from what I have gathered from others, a person can only truly change if he or she truly wants to. After all of the pain and suffering I have caused myself and others, I still do not truly want to change. I want things to change but can not find it in myself to do so. I want what has already proven itself to be impossible. As good of a person as I would like to think I am, In actually reality I am an empty shell of a human being. Selfish may be an understatement.
They say everyone has damage. Everyone carries some kind of pain with them, many more then others. I know who I am and desperately want to be that person, but many things hold me back that I am not willing to give up. And this is because I cannot be myself without them. See the contradictions here are quite clear. This to me seems proof that I have not a clue or what it is I actually am besides just another random character in the natural phenomenon that is existence. A tool used by those with more power in society.
I want to be free, I have got to be me, but what if being me is wrong? I am lost you see.
In my experience and from what I have gathered from others, a person can only truly change if he or she truly wants to. After all of the pain and suffering I have caused myself and others, I still do not truly want to change. I want things to change but can not find it in myself to do so. I want what has already proven itself to be impossible. As good of a person as I would like to think I am, In actually reality I am an empty shell of a human being. Selfish may be an understatement.
They say everyone has damage. Everyone carries some kind of pain with them, many more then others. I know who I am and desperately want to be that person, but many things hold me back that I am not willing to give up. And this is because I cannot be myself without them. See the contradictions here are quite clear. This to me seems proof that I have not a clue or what it is I actually am besides just another random character in the natural phenomenon that is existence. A tool used by those with more power in society.
I want to be free, I have got to be me, but what if being me is wrong? I am lost you see.
In the summer, nearly the whole country is on vacation. Most Parisiens leave for the month and travel. Some stay because the city is quiet and calm. It feels deserted. I almost traveled but was stricken by migraines every time I planned to go.
Last night was kind of a fustercluck. Laëtitia and I have been planning to go to le Maxim’s together on a date. We have been seeing each other regularly for the last few weeks.
Daniella and I have been seeing each other for several months, but we only see each other once or twice a month. Daniella and I have not even spoken since before I met Laëtitia. I assumed Daniella had forgotten about me. Daniella and I have gone together to Maxim’s several times before.
At the last minute, Daniella asked me to take her to Maxim’s. I told her three times that I am busy that night. Daniella finally said she is going to the club anyway. This club is popular.
This week, there is a heatwave. My flat was 100 degrees, and I have been hugging ice packs to try to cool down. Yesterday when I finally went outside, I picked up a box of neomorphine tablets from the pharmacy for my migraine, and went to le Maxim’s club. It was early, and nobody was there. Laëtitia would arrive two hours later.
Maxim’s is one of the most famous restaurants and clubs in Paris. It opened in 1893 and is decorated in the style of Art Nouveau and has a Belle Epoch ambiance. The colors are warm, and there is a lot of woodwork carved in arabesques with floral and woodland motifs. Huge mirrors and paintings cover the walls. Many of the seats are covered in red velvet.
I went back outside to a park on the tip of the island and walked along a path under the trees. The park was crowded with people talking, musicians, lovers, stoners, gypsies, drunks, and pushers. I found an empty bench looking across the river.
I pulled out my notebook and began working on my novel. I’ve been writing this thing for 4 years now, and I work on it every chance I get. It was very hot outside. I was soaked with sweat, but at least it was cooler here by the river. I wrote for a few minutes and started worrying about my migraine which was building. I already had the migraine aura with some visual disturbances that looked like they belonged in a Medieval religious painting. I popped some neomorphine tablets out of their blister packs and swallowed a handful with a swig of tepid tea from a thermos. I made a little picnic and ate a madellien. Several honey bees found me, buzzed around, and kept landing on my hands while I typed.
I wrote for an hour, ignoring the bees crawling on my hands while I typed on my folding keyboard. Just then, some rats ran out over my feet squeaking furiously. It was too hot for shoes - I was wearing sandals, and their little paws tickled my feet. They had come out of the bushes behind me. I went back to typing, and suddenly Odette was standing in front of me.
I have never written about Odette because I didn't think I would see her again. Odette is tall, thin, and athletic. Only in America does ‘athletic’ mean ‘thick, beer-swilling, rugby player looking girl’ when used to describe a girl. In France, it means she is tall, thin, has toned muscles, and graceful. An athletic French girl looks like a tall ballet dancer or track and field runner. She has long black hair. She is from Normandy and is Jewish which is uncommon in Paris. Normandy is in France, of course, and I am wary of French women.
I stood and kissed her cheeks. “Hello Odette, you look beautiful. How are you? It’s been a long time”
“We need to talk,” Odette said. “You are going to Maxim's and so am I. We will be seeing each other at the book club too.”
She sat beside me. I don’t know how she knew this or even that I was at the park, and I did not want to ask. I suspect she has some psychic ability and hides it. She had never been to the club or even this park.
Odette and I met at a book club and spent a lot of time together last January. After our sixth outing, I had considered her a friend and was starting to have a crush on her. I was planning to ask her to do something romantic and make a pass at her. It took a while because things had ended with another girl a couple weeks earlier, and I felt shell shocked.
Had she not abruptly sent me a barrage of angry text messages that evening in January, I would have. She called me a cad and said I had been rude to her. I had never made any advances at her and thought we were becoming close friends. I told her I thought I had been very nice to her and asked her what I had done wrong. Why was she upset? She responded by saying that I should know and that I’m the nastiest person she has ever seen and that I should know what I did. I told her I was sorry for doing it, even though I had no idea what it was. Please tell me. She responded by blocking my phone number and messages from my email address. I had not had heard from her since then.
The honey bees buzzing around her made her nervous, and I shooed them away from her. Just then, yet another girl, Tatyana, a Russian expat who works at the fashion house Chanel, strolled past our bench. Tatyana was dressed like she was going to the club as well. I ducked behind Odette. Tatyana did not see me. Odette noticed me ducking, and I said that was Tatyana and I met her at the club a few months ago.
Odette and I talked for another hour. Couples were dancing the waltz on the opposite bank of the river to old fashioned accordion music. I was afraid to talk about what happened with Odette six months ago. She is French, and I knew I had violated some kind of protocol, but had no idea what. I did not want to upset her. Instead, we talked about what we had been reading. I have avoided the book club since January and there was a lot to catch up.
Eventually we went into the club but together. The line was long. I was wearing sandals because it was too hot for shoes or boots. I was worried the doorman wouldn’t let me in because they were against the dress code. We bought drinks, and I saw my date Laëtitia who was watching me and Odette. By the expression on her face, I suspected Laëtitia had seen me and Odette come in and order drinks together. I started to sweat.
I have never been the object of the attention of more than one woman and consider myself lucky when even one shows any interest.
I introduced Laëtitia and Odette. The three of us talked together for another hour. Odette and Laëtitia realized they had been born in the same village in Normandy. They had seen many of the same things growing up and had probably seen each other as children. They exchanged phone numbers.
Laëtitia excused herself, and Odette pulled me away to the back of the room. She can be persuasive. Laëtitia came back from the toilet, but she had a sticky a Brazilian jiu jitsu dude named Daniel trailing her.
Daniella (who had asked me to go to the club with her yesterday after I had already committed to Laëtitia) finally arrived. I had already told her I was going with somebody else so I wasn’t worried.
I introduced Daniella to Laëtitia (my date), Daniel (the Brazilian who was behaving as though he believed Laëtitia was his date), and Odette (who realized I was with Laëtitia but still kept trying to get me to sneak away with her).
For the first time, I was thankful for the Brazilian. His frat boy antics deflected all of the negative attention I was afraid I had attracted. Three women I had been or am currently involved with were drinking and talking to each other. Two had exchanged phone numbers. As long as nobody suspected there was ever any overlap (there wasn’t), things should be OK.
He had been putting his moves on Laëtitia for the last fifteen minutes. He kept trying to push and stand between us. He told us about his morning sun salutation yoga exercises and meditation. He bragged that he had been asked to write a screenplay to make a documentary. He added that he had never written a screenplay before and did not have a background in either film or writing. He just didn’t know what to do, and nobody would help him write; yet he had magically been gifted with a request from a producer to write a screenplay. I told him that was wonderful. Being asked to write is the hard part. Many people in the US want to be a screenwriter because of Hollywood. They continually write, and submit unsolicited screenplays to film producers, but nobody reads them or even wants them. He sort of won the lottery with that meaning I didn’t believe him.
Tatyana, who had also been at the park, eventually bumped into us, and I introduced her. She was a model, but the Brazilian with the one-track mind would not even look at her. I was trying to help him, but he had already wasted the whole evening.
Laëtitia and I shared a glass of wine. We finished, and she set it on the table with only one swallow left. The Brazilian pounced on it and finished it. Although Laëtitia was giving him hints that she was not interested and that she was with me, he was persistent. It looked to Daniella and everybody else who could see them that Daniel and Laëtitia were a couple.
Maybe because Daniel saw me enter with Odette and then talk to Daniella, he thought he had a chance with Laëtitia. This is why I rarely go to clubs and don’t like to take dates that I actually care about to clubs.
There were no more surprises. Daniella, the old girlfriend, was cool and eventually wandered away. Odette abruptly became sick and rushed out of the club. Daniel thought he saw somebody he knew and would be right back.
It was very late, and Laëtitia and I rushed out. We went to the park where Odette found me earlier. We talked behind the trees for a few hours while hundreds of rats scuttled and squeaked in the leaves under the bushes.
Last night was kind of a fustercluck. Laëtitia and I have been planning to go to le Maxim’s together on a date. We have been seeing each other regularly for the last few weeks.
Daniella and I have been seeing each other for several months, but we only see each other once or twice a month. Daniella and I have not even spoken since before I met Laëtitia. I assumed Daniella had forgotten about me. Daniella and I have gone together to Maxim’s several times before.
At the last minute, Daniella asked me to take her to Maxim’s. I told her three times that I am busy that night. Daniella finally said she is going to the club anyway. This club is popular.
This week, there is a heatwave. My flat was 100 degrees, and I have been hugging ice packs to try to cool down. Yesterday when I finally went outside, I picked up a box of neomorphine tablets from the pharmacy for my migraine, and went to le Maxim’s club. It was early, and nobody was there. Laëtitia would arrive two hours later.
Maxim’s is one of the most famous restaurants and clubs in Paris. It opened in 1893 and is decorated in the style of Art Nouveau and has a Belle Epoch ambiance. The colors are warm, and there is a lot of woodwork carved in arabesques with floral and woodland motifs. Huge mirrors and paintings cover the walls. Many of the seats are covered in red velvet.
I went back outside to a park on the tip of the island and walked along a path under the trees. The park was crowded with people talking, musicians, lovers, stoners, gypsies, drunks, and pushers. I found an empty bench looking across the river.
I pulled out my notebook and began working on my novel. I’ve been writing this thing for 4 years now, and I work on it every chance I get. It was very hot outside. I was soaked with sweat, but at least it was cooler here by the river. I wrote for a few minutes and started worrying about my migraine which was building. I already had the migraine aura with some visual disturbances that looked like they belonged in a Medieval religious painting. I popped some neomorphine tablets out of their blister packs and swallowed a handful with a swig of tepid tea from a thermos. I made a little picnic and ate a madellien. Several honey bees found me, buzzed around, and kept landing on my hands while I typed.
I wrote for an hour, ignoring the bees crawling on my hands while I typed on my folding keyboard. Just then, some rats ran out over my feet squeaking furiously. It was too hot for shoes - I was wearing sandals, and their little paws tickled my feet. They had come out of the bushes behind me. I went back to typing, and suddenly Odette was standing in front of me.
I have never written about Odette because I didn't think I would see her again. Odette is tall, thin, and athletic. Only in America does ‘athletic’ mean ‘thick, beer-swilling, rugby player looking girl’ when used to describe a girl. In France, it means she is tall, thin, has toned muscles, and graceful. An athletic French girl looks like a tall ballet dancer or track and field runner. She has long black hair. She is from Normandy and is Jewish which is uncommon in Paris. Normandy is in France, of course, and I am wary of French women.
I stood and kissed her cheeks. “Hello Odette, you look beautiful. How are you? It’s been a long time”
“We need to talk,” Odette said. “You are going to Maxim's and so am I. We will be seeing each other at the book club too.”
She sat beside me. I don’t know how she knew this or even that I was at the park, and I did not want to ask. I suspect she has some psychic ability and hides it. She had never been to the club or even this park.
Odette and I met at a book club and spent a lot of time together last January. After our sixth outing, I had considered her a friend and was starting to have a crush on her. I was planning to ask her to do something romantic and make a pass at her. It took a while because things had ended with another girl a couple weeks earlier, and I felt shell shocked.
Had she not abruptly sent me a barrage of angry text messages that evening in January, I would have. She called me a cad and said I had been rude to her. I had never made any advances at her and thought we were becoming close friends. I told her I thought I had been very nice to her and asked her what I had done wrong. Why was she upset? She responded by saying that I should know and that I’m the nastiest person she has ever seen and that I should know what I did. I told her I was sorry for doing it, even though I had no idea what it was. Please tell me. She responded by blocking my phone number and messages from my email address. I had not had heard from her since then.
The honey bees buzzing around her made her nervous, and I shooed them away from her. Just then, yet another girl, Tatyana, a Russian expat who works at the fashion house Chanel, strolled past our bench. Tatyana was dressed like she was going to the club as well. I ducked behind Odette. Tatyana did not see me. Odette noticed me ducking, and I said that was Tatyana and I met her at the club a few months ago.
Odette and I talked for another hour. Couples were dancing the waltz on the opposite bank of the river to old fashioned accordion music. I was afraid to talk about what happened with Odette six months ago. She is French, and I knew I had violated some kind of protocol, but had no idea what. I did not want to upset her. Instead, we talked about what we had been reading. I have avoided the book club since January and there was a lot to catch up.
Eventually we went into the club but together. The line was long. I was wearing sandals because it was too hot for shoes or boots. I was worried the doorman wouldn’t let me in because they were against the dress code. We bought drinks, and I saw my date Laëtitia who was watching me and Odette. By the expression on her face, I suspected Laëtitia had seen me and Odette come in and order drinks together. I started to sweat.
I have never been the object of the attention of more than one woman and consider myself lucky when even one shows any interest.
I introduced Laëtitia and Odette. The three of us talked together for another hour. Odette and Laëtitia realized they had been born in the same village in Normandy. They had seen many of the same things growing up and had probably seen each other as children. They exchanged phone numbers.
Laëtitia excused herself, and Odette pulled me away to the back of the room. She can be persuasive. Laëtitia came back from the toilet, but she had a sticky a Brazilian jiu jitsu dude named Daniel trailing her.
Daniella (who had asked me to go to the club with her yesterday after I had already committed to Laëtitia) finally arrived. I had already told her I was going with somebody else so I wasn’t worried.
I introduced Daniella to Laëtitia (my date), Daniel (the Brazilian who was behaving as though he believed Laëtitia was his date), and Odette (who realized I was with Laëtitia but still kept trying to get me to sneak away with her).
For the first time, I was thankful for the Brazilian. His frat boy antics deflected all of the negative attention I was afraid I had attracted. Three women I had been or am currently involved with were drinking and talking to each other. Two had exchanged phone numbers. As long as nobody suspected there was ever any overlap (there wasn’t), things should be OK.
He had been putting his moves on Laëtitia for the last fifteen minutes. He kept trying to push and stand between us. He told us about his morning sun salutation yoga exercises and meditation. He bragged that he had been asked to write a screenplay to make a documentary. He added that he had never written a screenplay before and did not have a background in either film or writing. He just didn’t know what to do, and nobody would help him write; yet he had magically been gifted with a request from a producer to write a screenplay. I told him that was wonderful. Being asked to write is the hard part. Many people in the US want to be a screenwriter because of Hollywood. They continually write, and submit unsolicited screenplays to film producers, but nobody reads them or even wants them. He sort of won the lottery with that meaning I didn’t believe him.
Tatyana, who had also been at the park, eventually bumped into us, and I introduced her. She was a model, but the Brazilian with the one-track mind would not even look at her. I was trying to help him, but he had already wasted the whole evening.
Laëtitia and I shared a glass of wine. We finished, and she set it on the table with only one swallow left. The Brazilian pounced on it and finished it. Although Laëtitia was giving him hints that she was not interested and that she was with me, he was persistent. It looked to Daniella and everybody else who could see them that Daniel and Laëtitia were a couple.
Maybe because Daniel saw me enter with Odette and then talk to Daniella, he thought he had a chance with Laëtitia. This is why I rarely go to clubs and don’t like to take dates that I actually care about to clubs.
There were no more surprises. Daniella, the old girlfriend, was cool and eventually wandered away. Odette abruptly became sick and rushed out of the club. Daniel thought he saw somebody he knew and would be right back.
It was very late, and Laëtitia and I rushed out. We went to the park where Odette found me earlier. We talked behind the trees for a few hours while hundreds of rats scuttled and squeaked in the leaves under the bushes.
“I’m tired of hearing about your whores Robin.
p.s. you need to get your stuff out of my apartment or I’m going to throw it all out. And you need to get your cat.”
This was part of an e-mail sent to me by my last American girlfriend Aelyssa. Given that she is in San Francisco, and I am in Europe, there isn't much I can do.
Weeks before that, she told me to check my storage space. My rent check was accidentally delivered to her sister, and she forwarded it to them.
The whole time I have been in France, we have stayed in touch with no fights. We sort of kept each other updated with what we are doing. Before I came here, it was she who broke up with me. She let me leave some of my belongings in her apartment, and she has been watching my two cats Mister Bradley and Walter Kitteh.
She had already moved on romantically and started seeing other people. I assumed it was safe to ask her for dating advice which I did a few times, but only in a very general way. I don’t know what made her turn.
Family trip
Aelyssa loves Disney. She likes the amusement parks, the films, the Disney-themed merchandise, and even the Disney-branded food. Each year, her family goes to the sprawling Disneyland amusement park near Los Angeles, California. This family event is like a summer version of a Christmas gathering, but it’s bigger. Aelyssa, her parents, her sister and her sister’s boyfriend_at_the_time with her sister’s toddler Colton, aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, nephews, a few of her half-sisters, and half-brothers including the two Bubbas (Bubba W. Jones and Bubba C. Jones) attend.
Trump City, California
Most of this is to vent. I don’t complain about her family to her, but I need to complain somewhere. The people I’m complaining about chose to be the way they are despite being surrounded by good examples of how not to be that way and having plenty of chances to stop it.
1Bubba
I’ve mentioned the Bubbas before. Their names really are Bubba, and they are brothers. They are her half-brothers by her father Archie and a mother from a previous marriage. I was disgusted with the behavior of one of the Bubbas and shocked that she stays in contact with him.
One of her half brothers, I will refer to him as 1Bubba, made the front page of the local paper soon after Aelyssa and I moved in together.
One summer, 1Bubba was caring for a house where he lives in the Central Valley region of California while the owners were on vacation. It was a typical hot summer day in Fresno, California with a temperature around 120 degrees.There was a severe drought too. Because of the drought and water shortage, watering lawns was forbidden. Every plant including the trees, shrubs, weeds, and every blade of grass was dry tinder and would explode into flames upon contact with the tiniest spark. A tossed cigarette, a backfiring muffler, or a bullet ricocheting off a rock are all sufficient to spark a wildfire.
1Bubba has lived in that hot and dry region all his life. He has seen many droughts and wildfires. One day when 1Bubba went to check on his neighbor’s house, on his way out, he threw his cigarette in the bushes next to the house and drove away in his pickup truck. Predictably, the bushes burst into flames as soon as he was out of sight. The fire spread and burned down the house and some of the surrounding scrub land. Luckily, the fire department put it out before it burned more than a few acres.
Aunt Nidia and Uncle Bob
Aelyssa’s Aunt Nidia and Uncle Bob go on these trips too. Aunt Nidia, her Mother’s sister, is very warm and kindly. She reads. She has social skills, but her Uncle Bob is distant. Of everyone who goes to the vacation with Aelyssa’s family, Uncle Bob and Aunt Nidia are the only ones with an education except for Aelyssa and her sister. Both have not only completed high school but have been to college. Uncle Bob graduated from a university in Walla Walla, Washington with a degree in math and another in education, the same as Aunt Nidia. Uncle Bob likes to point that out whenever there is a family gathering. They now both teach school in the Central Valley in California and are near retirement age.
Uncle Bob is pedantic. He has a frowning little Hitler/cop mustache, weighs 350 pounds, and smells like sour cheese. He starts arguments, insults everyone at the family gatherings, and indirectly tells the rest of the family that he is better than them. Midway through any function, he starts tapping his watch and elbows Aunt Nidia and tells her it’s time to go.
Aelyssa, her sister, and parents have always complained about his behaviour since I met them. Aelyssa goes further and refers to him as a “Change Jangler.” They have observed that he puts one hand in his pockets and moves it around in a way that causes his pocket change to jangle loudly. As if it is not enough that his hand movements are disturbing, he “jangles his change” while leering at Aelyssa, her sister, or any other female old enough to have gone through puberty who happens to be within sight.
Aelyssa’s grandparents hated Uncle Bob so much that they cut their daughter Aunt Nidia out of their will when she married Uncle Bob. Before and after any family even that he attends, Aelyssa’s own parents grumble about him and threaten to never invite him to a family function or dinner after the last one. This happens several times a year. They keep inviting him because in their words, it is the “Christian thing to do.” They love Aunt Nidia, and want to see her, but they must invite both to maintain contact with her.
Uncle Bob’s hobby is playing with toy trains and programming computers in his basement. Of the entire clan, besides Aelyssa, he and Nidia are the only ones who read and who ever have read a book. That is only a slight exaggeration. Actually, her father read a few Louis Lamour Westerns novels when she was little, but he gave up reading long ago.
I like math and reading, and sometimes I write scientific software for work. I thought we might have something in common. Despite his off-putting outward appearance and bad reputation, I tried to connect with him. When first met him, I said I was a biologist without going into any detail. Simply saying “biologist” is less likely to sound pompous. He asked for details, so I explained that I’m a biophysicist and I research ion channels. I was studying the molecules that were responsible for night blindness. He looked confused and then became aggressive and seemed angry. The next day, he emailed Aelyssa and told her he had tried to find some papers I published on the subject, but could not find them. He wanted Aelyssa to ask me for them. I showed her where they were in Pubmed, the national medical research database and had her send him links. He wasn’t able to figure out how to click on the hyperlinks. They are also visible with a Google search using the same keywords. It went back and forth like this, for a couple of weeks but he never found them. He accused me of lying. Eventually Aelyssa emailed a few to him.
I felt like he was my mother accusing me of putting viruses on her computer after I had repaired her computer and put a firewall and antivirus software on it 20 years ago. I never spoke to him after that.
Uncle Zeek
I met Uncle Zeek once before his accident, but he doesn’t travel to family functions any more. Zeek is in his sixties and retired. He lives in the country somewhere in the Central Valley. Like 1Bubba, Zeek is famous because of a fire emergency he caused. Like many country people, he disposes of his trash by burning it. One day, he decided to burn his old Lay-Z Boy reclining chair. It would not catch fire so he poured gasoline on it, soaking it with gas from a jerrycan. He had spilled gas everywhere including all over his jeans. He walked away carrying the dripping jerry can with him; and set down the can at his feet. He then tossed a lit match on the chair. It burst into flame. As any twelve year old boy in his Pyromaniac stage would predict, the flame followed the trail of drips of gas to the can at Uncle Zeek’s feet. The can caught fire, and so did he. Specifically, his legs, groin, and his penis were burnt to a crisp. With third degree burns covering 70 percent of his body. He nearly died and spent several months in a hospital.
After the accident, I don’t know what I felt. Yes, he’s an old man. He will probably be in pain and bedridden for the rest of his life. How much sympathy does a knucklehead deserve? At some point, the empathy runs out. What I’m really sorry about is that he already had 6 kids by the time he burned off his testicles. Each of those six kids have their own children and, sadly, grandchildren. Most dropped out of school, few have jobs, none went to college, and some are in and out of jail. How stupid do you have to be to remove yourself from the gene pool this way? If he had roasted those nuts before he bred, he would have qualified for a Darwin Award.
p.s. you need to get your stuff out of my apartment or I’m going to throw it all out. And you need to get your cat.”
This was part of an e-mail sent to me by my last American girlfriend Aelyssa. Given that she is in San Francisco, and I am in Europe, there isn't much I can do.
Weeks before that, she told me to check my storage space. My rent check was accidentally delivered to her sister, and she forwarded it to them.
The whole time I have been in France, we have stayed in touch with no fights. We sort of kept each other updated with what we are doing. Before I came here, it was she who broke up with me. She let me leave some of my belongings in her apartment, and she has been watching my two cats Mister Bradley and Walter Kitteh.
She had already moved on romantically and started seeing other people. I assumed it was safe to ask her for dating advice which I did a few times, but only in a very general way. I don’t know what made her turn.
Family trip
Aelyssa loves Disney. She likes the amusement parks, the films, the Disney-themed merchandise, and even the Disney-branded food. Each year, her family goes to the sprawling Disneyland amusement park near Los Angeles, California. This family event is like a summer version of a Christmas gathering, but it’s bigger. Aelyssa, her parents, her sister and her sister’s boyfriend_at_the_time with her sister’s toddler Colton, aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, nephews, a few of her half-sisters, and half-brothers including the two Bubbas (Bubba W. Jones and Bubba C. Jones) attend.
Trump City, California
Most of this is to vent. I don’t complain about her family to her, but I need to complain somewhere. The people I’m complaining about chose to be the way they are despite being surrounded by good examples of how not to be that way and having plenty of chances to stop it.
1Bubba
I’ve mentioned the Bubbas before. Their names really are Bubba, and they are brothers. They are her half-brothers by her father Archie and a mother from a previous marriage. I was disgusted with the behavior of one of the Bubbas and shocked that she stays in contact with him.
One of her half brothers, I will refer to him as 1Bubba, made the front page of the local paper soon after Aelyssa and I moved in together.
One summer, 1Bubba was caring for a house where he lives in the Central Valley region of California while the owners were on vacation. It was a typical hot summer day in Fresno, California with a temperature around 120 degrees.There was a severe drought too. Because of the drought and water shortage, watering lawns was forbidden. Every plant including the trees, shrubs, weeds, and every blade of grass was dry tinder and would explode into flames upon contact with the tiniest spark. A tossed cigarette, a backfiring muffler, or a bullet ricocheting off a rock are all sufficient to spark a wildfire.
1Bubba has lived in that hot and dry region all his life. He has seen many droughts and wildfires. One day when 1Bubba went to check on his neighbor’s house, on his way out, he threw his cigarette in the bushes next to the house and drove away in his pickup truck. Predictably, the bushes burst into flames as soon as he was out of sight. The fire spread and burned down the house and some of the surrounding scrub land. Luckily, the fire department put it out before it burned more than a few acres.
Aunt Nidia and Uncle Bob
Aelyssa’s Aunt Nidia and Uncle Bob go on these trips too. Aunt Nidia, her Mother’s sister, is very warm and kindly. She reads. She has social skills, but her Uncle Bob is distant. Of everyone who goes to the vacation with Aelyssa’s family, Uncle Bob and Aunt Nidia are the only ones with an education except for Aelyssa and her sister. Both have not only completed high school but have been to college. Uncle Bob graduated from a university in Walla Walla, Washington with a degree in math and another in education, the same as Aunt Nidia. Uncle Bob likes to point that out whenever there is a family gathering. They now both teach school in the Central Valley in California and are near retirement age.
Uncle Bob is pedantic. He has a frowning little Hitler/cop mustache, weighs 350 pounds, and smells like sour cheese. He starts arguments, insults everyone at the family gatherings, and indirectly tells the rest of the family that he is better than them. Midway through any function, he starts tapping his watch and elbows Aunt Nidia and tells her it’s time to go.
Aelyssa, her sister, and parents have always complained about his behaviour since I met them. Aelyssa goes further and refers to him as a “Change Jangler.” They have observed that he puts one hand in his pockets and moves it around in a way that causes his pocket change to jangle loudly. As if it is not enough that his hand movements are disturbing, he “jangles his change” while leering at Aelyssa, her sister, or any other female old enough to have gone through puberty who happens to be within sight.
Aelyssa’s grandparents hated Uncle Bob so much that they cut their daughter Aunt Nidia out of their will when she married Uncle Bob. Before and after any family even that he attends, Aelyssa’s own parents grumble about him and threaten to never invite him to a family function or dinner after the last one. This happens several times a year. They keep inviting him because in their words, it is the “Christian thing to do.” They love Aunt Nidia, and want to see her, but they must invite both to maintain contact with her.
Uncle Bob’s hobby is playing with toy trains and programming computers in his basement. Of the entire clan, besides Aelyssa, he and Nidia are the only ones who read and who ever have read a book. That is only a slight exaggeration. Actually, her father read a few Louis Lamour Westerns novels when she was little, but he gave up reading long ago.
I like math and reading, and sometimes I write scientific software for work. I thought we might have something in common. Despite his off-putting outward appearance and bad reputation, I tried to connect with him. When first met him, I said I was a biologist without going into any detail. Simply saying “biologist” is less likely to sound pompous. He asked for details, so I explained that I’m a biophysicist and I research ion channels. I was studying the molecules that were responsible for night blindness. He looked confused and then became aggressive and seemed angry. The next day, he emailed Aelyssa and told her he had tried to find some papers I published on the subject, but could not find them. He wanted Aelyssa to ask me for them. I showed her where they were in Pubmed, the national medical research database and had her send him links. He wasn’t able to figure out how to click on the hyperlinks. They are also visible with a Google search using the same keywords. It went back and forth like this, for a couple of weeks but he never found them. He accused me of lying. Eventually Aelyssa emailed a few to him.
I felt like he was my mother accusing me of putting viruses on her computer after I had repaired her computer and put a firewall and antivirus software on it 20 years ago. I never spoke to him after that.
Uncle Zeek
I met Uncle Zeek once before his accident, but he doesn’t travel to family functions any more. Zeek is in his sixties and retired. He lives in the country somewhere in the Central Valley. Like 1Bubba, Zeek is famous because of a fire emergency he caused. Like many country people, he disposes of his trash by burning it. One day, he decided to burn his old Lay-Z Boy reclining chair. It would not catch fire so he poured gasoline on it, soaking it with gas from a jerrycan. He had spilled gas everywhere including all over his jeans. He walked away carrying the dripping jerry can with him; and set down the can at his feet. He then tossed a lit match on the chair. It burst into flame. As any twelve year old boy in his Pyromaniac stage would predict, the flame followed the trail of drips of gas to the can at Uncle Zeek’s feet. The can caught fire, and so did he. Specifically, his legs, groin, and his penis were burnt to a crisp. With third degree burns covering 70 percent of his body. He nearly died and spent several months in a hospital.
After the accident, I don’t know what I felt. Yes, he’s an old man. He will probably be in pain and bedridden for the rest of his life. How much sympathy does a knucklehead deserve? At some point, the empathy runs out. What I’m really sorry about is that he already had 6 kids by the time he burned off his testicles. Each of those six kids have their own children and, sadly, grandchildren. Most dropped out of school, few have jobs, none went to college, and some are in and out of jail. How stupid do you have to be to remove yourself from the gene pool this way? If he had roasted those nuts before he bred, he would have qualified for a Darwin Award.
So as probably no one knows because who on Earth would keep tabs on me but my life has proceeded to change rapidly over the last year and a half. It found me sober off dope eventually off methadone and my long term g/f of almost 5 years decided to be friends. Now none of that really changed anything surprisingly getting clean has allowed me to pay bills and make positive changes and the decision to break up has found both of us with more individuality which is great.
The discontent comes from my living situation. As I approach 30 i still live with my parents and work the same dead end job as before my heroin addiction. The hilarity in it all is the fact that my former g/f was always the depressed one before we met and definitely during our addiction. I was ever hopeful things would get better... our roles have literally reversed. She use to be the one saying theres no point in doing anything and how she just wanted to change everything, those are now my feelings.
It has literally gotten to the point where i can not stand being home with my family. Everything they do annoys the shit out of me and makes me feel like i never grew up. I know what everyones going to say "why dont you move out" well this is the problem with that... i have literally replaced dope with amateur chemistry and am very concerned if i dont get my own house, not apartment, i can not do chemistry for a large number of reasons and will do what i did before discovering that outlet which was drink myself into a stupor every night. It also doesnt help that i have no one to move in with since from a technical stand point i have maybe one friend other then my ex.
I have drawn up a budget and decided to dramatically cut back any substance i do intake to try to save 60-70% of my weeks pay... but i know that wont really help. I am faced with a crazy amount of debt and moving out requires more money then i make. I have helped my ex in every aspect of her life even getting her a job so now shes a completely different person and its almost like i did exactly what i wished i could on some of those really dark days, remove her pain replace it with my happiness and deal with how she felt myself. Now that has happened and i feel like i am stuck. And before everyone goes "Actively work on fixing it" i am like i said i have drawn up a better budget and everything i just dont see it helping much at all, yeah ill have more free money but my monthly outgoing expenses for bills and living costs already take up 1/3 of my monthly take home... if i moved out id have like 100 dollars a week after everything.
I just cant find a way out of this and have this sinking feeling im really just a (almost) 30 year former drug addict who lives with his parents, dropped out of college, works a dead end job and doesnt have any friends. I dont see the point in even talking to girls for the above reasons like yeah sure im smart and gifted but like i said to my ex "after the whole first part who the hell would even care that i was smart and did go to school for chemistry, to anyone who actually asks i am really just a loser who claims to be good at some academic that no one understands... its never made me friends or gotten me laid in the past" And its hard because for once i love being me i do as there is nothing i cant accomplish but at the same time im experiencing so much discontent because of who i am. I have literally never felt so conflicted and even though i have done everything i can to enact changes i almost dont see the point.
I guess i am posing this because i am tired of ranting to my ex and having her tell me i am a great person and shouldnt feel this way. I literally know that i do some really amazing things and people always tell me "i didnt know it was possible for someone to do that" but for some reason for all the compliments i get none of them make me happy its like it all just gets thrown onto a pile of "stuff i should feel good about but cant because i have a bad self view" I dont know i know people are worse off then me too but its really really having negative effects like i dont want to eat and cant sleep at night because its so bothersome.
I hope to have it figured out in 7 months, before im 30
The discontent comes from my living situation. As I approach 30 i still live with my parents and work the same dead end job as before my heroin addiction. The hilarity in it all is the fact that my former g/f was always the depressed one before we met and definitely during our addiction. I was ever hopeful things would get better... our roles have literally reversed. She use to be the one saying theres no point in doing anything and how she just wanted to change everything, those are now my feelings.
It has literally gotten to the point where i can not stand being home with my family. Everything they do annoys the shit out of me and makes me feel like i never grew up. I know what everyones going to say "why dont you move out" well this is the problem with that... i have literally replaced dope with amateur chemistry and am very concerned if i dont get my own house, not apartment, i can not do chemistry for a large number of reasons and will do what i did before discovering that outlet which was drink myself into a stupor every night. It also doesnt help that i have no one to move in with since from a technical stand point i have maybe one friend other then my ex.
I have drawn up a budget and decided to dramatically cut back any substance i do intake to try to save 60-70% of my weeks pay... but i know that wont really help. I am faced with a crazy amount of debt and moving out requires more money then i make. I have helped my ex in every aspect of her life even getting her a job so now shes a completely different person and its almost like i did exactly what i wished i could on some of those really dark days, remove her pain replace it with my happiness and deal with how she felt myself. Now that has happened and i feel like i am stuck. And before everyone goes "Actively work on fixing it" i am like i said i have drawn up a better budget and everything i just dont see it helping much at all, yeah ill have more free money but my monthly outgoing expenses for bills and living costs already take up 1/3 of my monthly take home... if i moved out id have like 100 dollars a week after everything.
I just cant find a way out of this and have this sinking feeling im really just a (almost) 30 year former drug addict who lives with his parents, dropped out of college, works a dead end job and doesnt have any friends. I dont see the point in even talking to girls for the above reasons like yeah sure im smart and gifted but like i said to my ex "after the whole first part who the hell would even care that i was smart and did go to school for chemistry, to anyone who actually asks i am really just a loser who claims to be good at some academic that no one understands... its never made me friends or gotten me laid in the past" And its hard because for once i love being me i do as there is nothing i cant accomplish but at the same time im experiencing so much discontent because of who i am. I have literally never felt so conflicted and even though i have done everything i can to enact changes i almost dont see the point.
I guess i am posing this because i am tired of ranting to my ex and having her tell me i am a great person and shouldnt feel this way. I literally know that i do some really amazing things and people always tell me "i didnt know it was possible for someone to do that" but for some reason for all the compliments i get none of them make me happy its like it all just gets thrown onto a pile of "stuff i should feel good about but cant because i have a bad self view" I dont know i know people are worse off then me too but its really really having negative effects like i dont want to eat and cant sleep at night because its so bothersome.
I hope to have it figured out in 7 months, before im 30
I've been clean a full week now. Not going to lie, it's a bitch! I just want to fight everyone and want to get violent and fight. It's not like me at all. I'm not having any cravings and i had no disaire to spend my cash on dope. I did watch interventions and felt all wormy when the blood went into the needle and she shot up. Besides that I'm a okay, thinking about calling my old sponsor and taking the offer in the rehab he can get me into. That is About it for now.
You do not realize some of the things you grew up with were abnormal until you look at them from somebody else's perspective. I thought my parents’ behaviour was normal until I left home. Only by being away from it and by talking to other people do I realize a few things were bizarre.
I recently became friends with Maiz. She is from “Albania.” For the purpose of privacy, it’s not really Albania, and Maiz and Ras Kabir are not their real names. Today, Maiz and I went for a walk at the Tuileries and had tea. We talked about our childhoods and bad romances. We both have some things in common - both of us had some bad experiences in each area. Recalling part of my childhood, I told her about something I had never talked about with anyone and that I had not realized was unusual.
The house was three stories high with four identical walls. The drab walls were corroded with black splotches and streaked with rusty drippings from the broken gutters. Where it came out of the wall, the sink drain added its own stain. The glass window panes resembled scum on water. Some windows were patched with plastic and cardboard.
The walls went up to the eaves with no molding or ornaments except for a collapsing balcony on the back wall. The white paint had mostly peeled off the gray boards. Three of the walls had a dirt-encrusted entrance surrounded by old furniture, heaps of firewood, rumpled boxes, stacks of newspapers, broken kitchen appliances, abandoned toys, and battered sports equipment. Several bent TV antennas were perched on the roof. This hovel spilled out poverty and misery through every orifice.
The back of the house was hanging drunkenly over a cesspit that was as deep as the house was high. Where a foundation should have been, the floor joists were held up by boards that had been sunk into the pond of sewage. Pipes hung under the house suspended several feet above the bottom of the pit. Some of the pipes ran from the house into an embankment on one side of the pit. Others were broken and dripped filth into the pond.
One time I had to pee late in the night. Nights are dark in the country. At that house, there were no streetlights outside and no night lights inside. I did not dare turn on any light. I would get in trouble if my parents knew I was awake this late.
My parents' bedroom was directly across from mine, and they never closed their bedroom door at night, not even during their nightly fights or quasi-rapes. Their light was off but they were swearing at each other. Their voices were muffled so they must have been in bed.
Down the hall, a door opened to the back upstairs porch, the one that was falling into the pit. So I opened that door and crept onto the balcony. I was greeted by the smell of the cesspit. The floor shook as I took each step, even though I was stepping as lightly as I knew how. I walked on tip-toe or toe-to-heel thinking I would tread lighter. I did not dare make a loud enough noise for my parents to hear. The floor was slick with dew that night, and it angled down toward the pit thirty feet below. I was barefoot. A rotting wooden railing ran around the porch. Boards were missing from both the railing and the porch in places. If I started to slide toward the edge, the railing would not be strong enough to stop me from falling.
I was not allowed to use the toilet in the house, and it was too risky to walk down the creaky stairs and urinate outside. So I made a game out of it pissing off the balcony. I peed as far into the pit I could direct my stream of urine. During the day, when the family pig Hillary Hog aka the First Lady was wallowing down there, I'd try to piss on her. She would squeal with delight and churn up the mud as she investigated the sudden shower. But she was asleep in the barn now. I finished and was about to go back in the house.
Suddenly, there was yelling and footsteps. The hallway light went on. I watched through a crack in the door. My father ran into the hallway naked. He always slept naked. He turned the corner and the side of his head was bleeding. His ear was dangling to his shoulder by a strip of skin. He ran outside, still naked, and drove away in his pickup truck. My mother never left their bedroom or made a sound. I crept back to my room, closed the door, and gave no sign that I saw anything.
The next day, my mother refused to speak, which was not unusual. She went weeks at a time without speaking. When I asked where his father was, she remained silent. Two days later, my mother had still not spoken, but the old man came home. His head was wrapped in bandages. He settled comfortably in his Lay-Z-Boy reclining chair, turned on the television, lit a mentholated Newport cigarette, and spoke only a few sentences: my mother had ripped off his ear, which I had already assumed. He had driven nearly an hour to the nearest hospital. Once there, pop singer Michael Jackson’s plastic surgeon had sewn his ear back on. They continued living together the same as before as though nothing had happened. He never talked about it again except to say one thing, and he said it whenever got a chance: he had plastic surgery and it had been performed by pop singer Michael Jackson’s plastic surgeon.
This entry is autobiographical, but I would like to turn it into a short story if that is possible. The ending is too abrupt and doesnùt make sense for it to be a short story. But when it happened; my mother ripping off my father's ear seemed as normal as getting up in the morning and eating breakfast. What could I add or change to make it work?
I recently became friends with Maiz. She is from “Albania.” For the purpose of privacy, it’s not really Albania, and Maiz and Ras Kabir are not their real names. Today, Maiz and I went for a walk at the Tuileries and had tea. We talked about our childhoods and bad romances. We both have some things in common - both of us had some bad experiences in each area. Recalling part of my childhood, I told her about something I had never talked about with anyone and that I had not realized was unusual.
The house was three stories high with four identical walls. The drab walls were corroded with black splotches and streaked with rusty drippings from the broken gutters. Where it came out of the wall, the sink drain added its own stain. The glass window panes resembled scum on water. Some windows were patched with plastic and cardboard.
The walls went up to the eaves with no molding or ornaments except for a collapsing balcony on the back wall. The white paint had mostly peeled off the gray boards. Three of the walls had a dirt-encrusted entrance surrounded by old furniture, heaps of firewood, rumpled boxes, stacks of newspapers, broken kitchen appliances, abandoned toys, and battered sports equipment. Several bent TV antennas were perched on the roof. This hovel spilled out poverty and misery through every orifice.
The back of the house was hanging drunkenly over a cesspit that was as deep as the house was high. Where a foundation should have been, the floor joists were held up by boards that had been sunk into the pond of sewage. Pipes hung under the house suspended several feet above the bottom of the pit. Some of the pipes ran from the house into an embankment on one side of the pit. Others were broken and dripped filth into the pond.
One time I had to pee late in the night. Nights are dark in the country. At that house, there were no streetlights outside and no night lights inside. I did not dare turn on any light. I would get in trouble if my parents knew I was awake this late.
My parents' bedroom was directly across from mine, and they never closed their bedroom door at night, not even during their nightly fights or quasi-rapes. Their light was off but they were swearing at each other. Their voices were muffled so they must have been in bed.
Down the hall, a door opened to the back upstairs porch, the one that was falling into the pit. So I opened that door and crept onto the balcony. I was greeted by the smell of the cesspit. The floor shook as I took each step, even though I was stepping as lightly as I knew how. I walked on tip-toe or toe-to-heel thinking I would tread lighter. I did not dare make a loud enough noise for my parents to hear. The floor was slick with dew that night, and it angled down toward the pit thirty feet below. I was barefoot. A rotting wooden railing ran around the porch. Boards were missing from both the railing and the porch in places. If I started to slide toward the edge, the railing would not be strong enough to stop me from falling.
I was not allowed to use the toilet in the house, and it was too risky to walk down the creaky stairs and urinate outside. So I made a game out of it pissing off the balcony. I peed as far into the pit I could direct my stream of urine. During the day, when the family pig Hillary Hog aka the First Lady was wallowing down there, I'd try to piss on her. She would squeal with delight and churn up the mud as she investigated the sudden shower. But she was asleep in the barn now. I finished and was about to go back in the house.
Suddenly, there was yelling and footsteps. The hallway light went on. I watched through a crack in the door. My father ran into the hallway naked. He always slept naked. He turned the corner and the side of his head was bleeding. His ear was dangling to his shoulder by a strip of skin. He ran outside, still naked, and drove away in his pickup truck. My mother never left their bedroom or made a sound. I crept back to my room, closed the door, and gave no sign that I saw anything.
The next day, my mother refused to speak, which was not unusual. She went weeks at a time without speaking. When I asked where his father was, she remained silent. Two days later, my mother had still not spoken, but the old man came home. His head was wrapped in bandages. He settled comfortably in his Lay-Z-Boy reclining chair, turned on the television, lit a mentholated Newport cigarette, and spoke only a few sentences: my mother had ripped off his ear, which I had already assumed. He had driven nearly an hour to the nearest hospital. Once there, pop singer Michael Jackson’s plastic surgeon had sewn his ear back on. They continued living together the same as before as though nothing had happened. He never talked about it again except to say one thing, and he said it whenever got a chance: he had plastic surgery and it had been performed by pop singer Michael Jackson’s plastic surgeon.
This entry is autobiographical, but I would like to turn it into a short story if that is possible. The ending is too abrupt and doesnùt make sense for it to be a short story. But when it happened; my mother ripping off my father's ear seemed as normal as getting up in the morning and eating breakfast. What could I add or change to make it work?
Today was the first sunny day after a month of rain. Dry weather was important. The famous horse races known as the Prix de Diane aux Longines were going to take place today. The Prix de Diane is famous not only for horses but for the high fashion and hats. Dressing up is mandatory. Maiz, the woman I recently met at the Ritz, was taking me to Chantilly to see them.
She picked me up in her car outside my flat in mid morning and drove to the race track about an hour north of the city. On the car ride she was nervous. Her husband works at an embassy, and the embassy hosts many big social events attended, no doubt, by the same class of people who would be at the Prix de Diane. This is a public event, and she was bound to be recognized. She is from the Middle East, and violent forms of sharia law are practiced in parts of her country. For adultery, especially when the woman is a Muslim but the man is not, stoning to death is sometimes administered to both adulterers. Maiz was not my secret lover, but I did not know what people would think if they saw us together.
We arrived at Chantilly and walked around in the village. Maiz is beautiful and exotic if that word is acceptable. She was tall in her high heels. She wore something that a runway model might wear. She carried a Louis Vuitton handbag. It was not counterfeit. Her outfit, diamonds, and accessories cost more than most people earn in a year. At the same time, she was distant and emotionally closed. The same as when I went to the Ritz, I wore the second hand sport coat, dress pants, and motorcycle boots since I don’t have shoes.
The Prix de Diane takes place on the grounds of the château de Chantilly. At strategic places at the site, big screens were erected showing the races. There is fashion show complete with a catwalk, lights, and a DJ. Next to the track, there was a fair known as Village de Diane aux Longines.
In 37 C.E. the Emperor Caligula forced (Lucius Cassius) Longines, a Roman noble and commissioner, to divorce his sister Drusilla. He then forced her to marry the Roman noble Marcus Lepidus for political reasons. Marcus Lepidus eventually fell out of favor with the Emperor Caligula, and Caligula eventually had Lepidus executed. Drusilla was exiled. These events were featured in the 1979 erotic historical drama Caligula directed and produced by Bob Guccione of Penthouse Magazine. Although the film is considered to be pornographic because of its non-simulated sexual content, I never found it to be arousing. Not only were penises everywhere, but all of the actresses were sporting the tumbleweed bushes of the 1970s. Once the juices started flowing, they looked like glazed donuts.
The watchmaker Longines was sponsoring the race. While a lot of deep-fried doughy pastries were being sold at the food stands today, thankfully, nobody was selling glazed donuts. We sat at a table outside where we could see the horses, and a waiter brought us tea and madeleines. There was lots of eye contact, and I noticed that her makeup looked strange on the left side of her face. The makeup was covering a bruise.
We talked and meandered some more around the racetrack and fashion show. Eventually she said her marriage was in trouble. The infidelity is only part of it. There is abuse. Theirs is an arranged marriage, and if there ever had been any romance, it died a long time ago. It is a sexless marriage, and they sleep in separate rooms. She has her own life and her husband his. They live like roommates.
She talked about leaving him. Unlike many women from Arab countries, she could support herself and would not have to move in with her parents. She is from nobility and has money and options of her own. Even better, she is a lawyer had a career before she came to Paris. She could easily go back to work anywhere in the world she chose to live.
She stays with him. If there is a divorce, she would not be protected by the more egalitarian Western laws. He has diplomatic immunity and the divorce would therefore be handled by the legal system of their home country. Also, leaving him would create a scandal for both of their families. It would ruin her husband's career. Diplomatic immunity makes it difficult to handle cases of domestic violence.
By the end of the day, nobody made a sign of recognizing her, and I realized she didn't care if they did. We drove back to Paris. We had supper at a Vietnamese restaurant. She looked better. She was relaxed, confident, and connected emotionally. She dropped me off outside my flat.
She picked me up in her car outside my flat in mid morning and drove to the race track about an hour north of the city. On the car ride she was nervous. Her husband works at an embassy, and the embassy hosts many big social events attended, no doubt, by the same class of people who would be at the Prix de Diane. This is a public event, and she was bound to be recognized. She is from the Middle East, and violent forms of sharia law are practiced in parts of her country. For adultery, especially when the woman is a Muslim but the man is not, stoning to death is sometimes administered to both adulterers. Maiz was not my secret lover, but I did not know what people would think if they saw us together.
We arrived at Chantilly and walked around in the village. Maiz is beautiful and exotic if that word is acceptable. She was tall in her high heels. She wore something that a runway model might wear. She carried a Louis Vuitton handbag. It was not counterfeit. Her outfit, diamonds, and accessories cost more than most people earn in a year. At the same time, she was distant and emotionally closed. The same as when I went to the Ritz, I wore the second hand sport coat, dress pants, and motorcycle boots since I don’t have shoes.
The Prix de Diane takes place on the grounds of the château de Chantilly. At strategic places at the site, big screens were erected showing the races. There is fashion show complete with a catwalk, lights, and a DJ. Next to the track, there was a fair known as Village de Diane aux Longines.
In 37 C.E. the Emperor Caligula forced (Lucius Cassius) Longines, a Roman noble and commissioner, to divorce his sister Drusilla. He then forced her to marry the Roman noble Marcus Lepidus for political reasons. Marcus Lepidus eventually fell out of favor with the Emperor Caligula, and Caligula eventually had Lepidus executed. Drusilla was exiled. These events were featured in the 1979 erotic historical drama Caligula directed and produced by Bob Guccione of Penthouse Magazine. Although the film is considered to be pornographic because of its non-simulated sexual content, I never found it to be arousing. Not only were penises everywhere, but all of the actresses were sporting the tumbleweed bushes of the 1970s. Once the juices started flowing, they looked like glazed donuts.
The watchmaker Longines was sponsoring the race. While a lot of deep-fried doughy pastries were being sold at the food stands today, thankfully, nobody was selling glazed donuts. We sat at a table outside where we could see the horses, and a waiter brought us tea and madeleines. There was lots of eye contact, and I noticed that her makeup looked strange on the left side of her face. The makeup was covering a bruise.
We talked and meandered some more around the racetrack and fashion show. Eventually she said her marriage was in trouble. The infidelity is only part of it. There is abuse. Theirs is an arranged marriage, and if there ever had been any romance, it died a long time ago. It is a sexless marriage, and they sleep in separate rooms. She has her own life and her husband his. They live like roommates.
She talked about leaving him. Unlike many women from Arab countries, she could support herself and would not have to move in with her parents. She is from nobility and has money and options of her own. Even better, she is a lawyer had a career before she came to Paris. She could easily go back to work anywhere in the world she chose to live.
She stays with him. If there is a divorce, she would not be protected by the more egalitarian Western laws. He has diplomatic immunity and the divorce would therefore be handled by the legal system of their home country. Also, leaving him would create a scandal for both of their families. It would ruin her husband's career. Diplomatic immunity makes it difficult to handle cases of domestic violence.
By the end of the day, nobody made a sign of recognizing her, and I realized she didn't care if they did. We drove back to Paris. We had supper at a Vietnamese restaurant. She looked better. She was relaxed, confident, and connected emotionally. She dropped me off outside my flat.
Cool dry sunlight beat down on the city and the foothills that surrounded it. Houses with big yards and lots of trees in the yellows and golds of Fall extended down the hill to the main highway and river. On a big hill and across the river the afternoon light brought out the red bricks of the campus buildings of the University (the U) where I had just been hired. Beyond the hill, snowcapped mountains pushed against the sky. I had just moved into the house I was renting, and I was sitting on the deck in the back yard studying for a project for my new job. My seat was a bench made from a thick plank set on a pair of thick rounds of wood I had pulled out of a wood pile in the back yard.
This is a photo of what was originally my neighbor’s cat, Mr. Bradley (Cat). It was taken on a sunny day in November a few years ago. The expression on his face is strange, and I only realized later that it was because he was high.
My next door neighbor was a philosophy professor at the U. I was a biophysicist in the Pharmacology Department, and he was, obviously since he was a philosopher, in the Philosophy Department. The Professor was fond of marijuana, but enjoyment of a stigmatized and an at the time illegal plant caused some conflict in his house. His wife would not let him smoke inside on account of the arrival of their baby, Beebop.
Behind their house was a ramshackle garage. The white paint was starting to peel to reveal gray wood beneath, the back end of it had rotted and begun to collapse, and many of the windows were patched with cardboard and plastic. It was it in full view of my own back porch. You can see one end of it in the left part of the photo.
By the end of the second day I lived there, I was familiar with the Professor’s routine. Whenever he was home, every hour or so beginning in the morning, he would get up from his desk in his study overlooking my backyard and where he was writing a book about the philosopher Bertrand Russell. His house is the building on the right, and the window is the window of his study: He would walk out of the basement through the door which is the open door you can see in the photo. Then he would go into the garage and close the sliding door to the garage. Soon, clouds of smoke and the strong smell of marijuana were escaping through the cracks around the garage door and wafting toward my seat on the deck. It went on like this all day until around 1 am.
Mr. Bradley Cat did not like Baby Beebop and left the house often, probably just to get away from her. He followed the Professor into the garage and stayed in there while he smoked.
In the only book I read by Russell, Russell often mentioned a famous British philosopher referring to him only as ‘Mister Bradley,’ but without giving any background on who he was, at least not that I could find in my cursory reading of Russell. The professor would have been familiar with this book and would have read about the brilliant Mr. Bradley. So, one day the Professor got high and decided his cat had a philosophical demeanor and looked like a “Bradley.” Thus Mister Bradley (cat) was named after a British philosopher that the Professor read that Bertrand Russell had liked.
The second day I lived there and just after one of these smoking sessions the garage door opened and Mr. Bradley Cat left the garage. Mr Bradley (cat) immediately spotted me sitting on the back porch and trotted up to me. He squinted up at me in the glare of the morning sun and circled my chair, looking for an invitation to jump up on my lap. That was strange behavior because Mr. Bradley and I did not know each other, and in fact we had never even met. I ignored him, but he was persistent and finally he tried to jump on my lap. He fell to the floor at the last second when he noticed the huge book on my lap.
He had an annoyed expression that seemed to say: Why would somebody be holding a book when they could be holding a cat? That’s when I took the photo.
Mrs. Itchy’s Breakfast Bagel
One side effect of opiate pain killers is itchy skin. I don’t remember if I was scratching an opiate itch or if she was scratching her fleas when I first saw her, but the name fit.
Above is Mrs. Itchy. Four of her large black nipples are visible, identifying her gender to be female. One time when she was sitting upright I counted a total of 8 full-sized nipples and another tiny one that was only half-formed.
Mrs. Itchy was the matriarch of a large tree squirrel clan. Every brooding season, she would bring a litter of 5 or 6 scratchy little babies into my backyard and up onto the deck to beg. The kitchen window opened directly onto the deck and my gf Aelyssa left them nuts on a plate outside the window. I fed them sometimes when I was sitting on the deck.
One time, she accidentally bit my finger while trying to grab a broken almond. It hurt bad, but she held on. I could not jerk my hand away. Blood filled her mouth and spilled down her chin. This must have gone on for a minute before she finally realized my finger wasn't squirrel food. When she let go, it felt like somebody had smashed the tip of my finger with a hammer. Blood was spurting to the rhythm of my heart beat.
Here is Mrs. Itchy just before she bit my finger with those big yellow teeth:
Squirrels don’t seem to excite cats the way an escaped paraqueet does. Mrs. Itchy seemed to know this and had no fear of Mr. Bradley and often passed within inches of him. Mr. Bradley (Cat) never attacked.
------------------------
Except for the time I lived off the grid, I have never been a morning person. I prefer to sleep through as much of the morning as I can. I am more tired than when i went to bed, even after 8 - 10 hours of sleep. All I can do is shuffle around. I cannot speak or be spoken to. Getting out of bed too early is dangerous - I get plantaritis when I step too suddenly on the cold floor. If I try to exercise in the morning, I suffer pulled muscles. I get severe cramps in my calves if I run, and I get searing spasms of pain in whatever muscle I was exercising if I lifted weights. My injuries are so bad that I have had to put off exercise for weeks afterwards.
I think the problem is the hour that I get up. I can go to bed any time between 8 and 4 am, but when I get up at 8 am, I feel awful until 2 or 3 in the afternoon, no matter how much or how little I sleep. However, if I stay in bed until 10 or 11, i can deal with the day. If it is the weekend, I need to sleep until noon.
Despite that, on work mornings, we woke up together and ate together. But one of our problems was that she demanded I wake up early on the weekends too. She was not working, but I was. She was already 2 years into a long vacation, but I had worked the whole time and I needed the weekend to recover from the stress of the work week. I had already explained perhaps 100 times (once for each weekend we lived together) to her that I needed to sleep late on the weekends.
It was this way on a warm Sunday morning late in the Spring. We had left the kitchen window open for fresh air. We often ate in the kitchen on the small table under the window. We could see down the hill and across a river and the main highway and over to the U that was built on the next hill. By 6 am, Aelyssa had already made breakfast. She had set the kitchen table. She served me a toast and spread it with homemade raspberry jam. She poured a cup of coffee for me and left it at my setting beside the bagel on the table under the kitchen window.
One ought never shout indoors. The house is a quiet refuge from the racket of the outside world. Unless there is a fire, nothing is worth shouting about. When someone in the house wants to communicate, they need to go into the same room and speak quietly and calmly.
Aelyssa shared some behaviors with Archie Bunker from the popular TV series All in the Family. One shared trait that the reader might have figured out is that she was the dictator of the house, just like Archie. Archie commanded like a king and bullied and browbeat everyone until they did what he wanted. Also like Archie, she shouted in the house.
At exactly 6.30am Sunday morning, I was awoken from a dead sleep by shouting: “GET UP RIGHT NOW!!!!”
She was in the kitchen, and I was in bed with the covers pulled over my head to keep the cats from licking my face because they hated it when I slept later than they slept. It was Sunday, and I needed to sleep.
“Mrs. Itchy is eating your breakfast: get up!!! Your squirrel is stealing your toast!!” seh said.
More shouting: “Mrs. Itchy drop it!! Get out of bed and get your toast away from that squirrel.“
I got up and shuffled into the kitchen. Aelyssa was still carrying on.
“Mrs. Itchy (Squirrel) stole your breakfast. I guess you don’t get to eat.”
“I thought she was afraid of you. What happened?” I said.
“I went outside for a minute to talk to Mrs. Crabtree,” she said.
Mrs. Crabtree was our other next door neighbor. She did not like squirrels or cats. She chased both species away whenever they wandered into her yard.
“Then Mrs. Itchy was on the table with your toast in her mouth. I tried to get it back, but she ran out the window.”
“How do you know it was Mrs. Itchy?”
“She’s right there,” she pointed out the window.
Sitting upright on the fence was a skinny squirrell with a toast with raspberry jam was hanging of its mouth. She was close enough to make out 2 columns of black nipples. There was a big notch in the bottom outside edge of her left ear. It was Mrs. Itchy.
This is a photo of what was originally my neighbor’s cat, Mr. Bradley (Cat). It was taken on a sunny day in November a few years ago. The expression on his face is strange, and I only realized later that it was because he was high.
My next door neighbor was a philosophy professor at the U. I was a biophysicist in the Pharmacology Department, and he was, obviously since he was a philosopher, in the Philosophy Department. The Professor was fond of marijuana, but enjoyment of a stigmatized and an at the time illegal plant caused some conflict in his house. His wife would not let him smoke inside on account of the arrival of their baby, Beebop.
Behind their house was a ramshackle garage. The white paint was starting to peel to reveal gray wood beneath, the back end of it had rotted and begun to collapse, and many of the windows were patched with cardboard and plastic. It was it in full view of my own back porch. You can see one end of it in the left part of the photo.
By the end of the second day I lived there, I was familiar with the Professor’s routine. Whenever he was home, every hour or so beginning in the morning, he would get up from his desk in his study overlooking my backyard and where he was writing a book about the philosopher Bertrand Russell. His house is the building on the right, and the window is the window of his study: He would walk out of the basement through the door which is the open door you can see in the photo. Then he would go into the garage and close the sliding door to the garage. Soon, clouds of smoke and the strong smell of marijuana were escaping through the cracks around the garage door and wafting toward my seat on the deck. It went on like this all day until around 1 am.
Mr. Bradley Cat did not like Baby Beebop and left the house often, probably just to get away from her. He followed the Professor into the garage and stayed in there while he smoked.
In the only book I read by Russell, Russell often mentioned a famous British philosopher referring to him only as ‘Mister Bradley,’ but without giving any background on who he was, at least not that I could find in my cursory reading of Russell. The professor would have been familiar with this book and would have read about the brilliant Mr. Bradley. So, one day the Professor got high and decided his cat had a philosophical demeanor and looked like a “Bradley.” Thus Mister Bradley (cat) was named after a British philosopher that the Professor read that Bertrand Russell had liked.
The second day I lived there and just after one of these smoking sessions the garage door opened and Mr. Bradley Cat left the garage. Mr Bradley (cat) immediately spotted me sitting on the back porch and trotted up to me. He squinted up at me in the glare of the morning sun and circled my chair, looking for an invitation to jump up on my lap. That was strange behavior because Mr. Bradley and I did not know each other, and in fact we had never even met. I ignored him, but he was persistent and finally he tried to jump on my lap. He fell to the floor at the last second when he noticed the huge book on my lap.
He had an annoyed expression that seemed to say: Why would somebody be holding a book when they could be holding a cat? That’s when I took the photo.
Mrs. Itchy’s Breakfast Bagel
One side effect of opiate pain killers is itchy skin. I don’t remember if I was scratching an opiate itch or if she was scratching her fleas when I first saw her, but the name fit.
Above is Mrs. Itchy. Four of her large black nipples are visible, identifying her gender to be female. One time when she was sitting upright I counted a total of 8 full-sized nipples and another tiny one that was only half-formed.
Mrs. Itchy was the matriarch of a large tree squirrel clan. Every brooding season, she would bring a litter of 5 or 6 scratchy little babies into my backyard and up onto the deck to beg. The kitchen window opened directly onto the deck and my gf Aelyssa left them nuts on a plate outside the window. I fed them sometimes when I was sitting on the deck.
One time, she accidentally bit my finger while trying to grab a broken almond. It hurt bad, but she held on. I could not jerk my hand away. Blood filled her mouth and spilled down her chin. This must have gone on for a minute before she finally realized my finger wasn't squirrel food. When she let go, it felt like somebody had smashed the tip of my finger with a hammer. Blood was spurting to the rhythm of my heart beat.
Here is Mrs. Itchy just before she bit my finger with those big yellow teeth:
Squirrels don’t seem to excite cats the way an escaped paraqueet does. Mrs. Itchy seemed to know this and had no fear of Mr. Bradley and often passed within inches of him. Mr. Bradley (Cat) never attacked.
------------------------
Except for the time I lived off the grid, I have never been a morning person. I prefer to sleep through as much of the morning as I can. I am more tired than when i went to bed, even after 8 - 10 hours of sleep. All I can do is shuffle around. I cannot speak or be spoken to. Getting out of bed too early is dangerous - I get plantaritis when I step too suddenly on the cold floor. If I try to exercise in the morning, I suffer pulled muscles. I get severe cramps in my calves if I run, and I get searing spasms of pain in whatever muscle I was exercising if I lifted weights. My injuries are so bad that I have had to put off exercise for weeks afterwards.
I think the problem is the hour that I get up. I can go to bed any time between 8 and 4 am, but when I get up at 8 am, I feel awful until 2 or 3 in the afternoon, no matter how much or how little I sleep. However, if I stay in bed until 10 or 11, i can deal with the day. If it is the weekend, I need to sleep until noon.
Despite that, on work mornings, we woke up together and ate together. But one of our problems was that she demanded I wake up early on the weekends too. She was not working, but I was. She was already 2 years into a long vacation, but I had worked the whole time and I needed the weekend to recover from the stress of the work week. I had already explained perhaps 100 times (once for each weekend we lived together) to her that I needed to sleep late on the weekends.
It was this way on a warm Sunday morning late in the Spring. We had left the kitchen window open for fresh air. We often ate in the kitchen on the small table under the window. We could see down the hill and across a river and the main highway and over to the U that was built on the next hill. By 6 am, Aelyssa had already made breakfast. She had set the kitchen table. She served me a toast and spread it with homemade raspberry jam. She poured a cup of coffee for me and left it at my setting beside the bagel on the table under the kitchen window.
One ought never shout indoors. The house is a quiet refuge from the racket of the outside world. Unless there is a fire, nothing is worth shouting about. When someone in the house wants to communicate, they need to go into the same room and speak quietly and calmly.
Aelyssa shared some behaviors with Archie Bunker from the popular TV series All in the Family. One shared trait that the reader might have figured out is that she was the dictator of the house, just like Archie. Archie commanded like a king and bullied and browbeat everyone until they did what he wanted. Also like Archie, she shouted in the house.
At exactly 6.30am Sunday morning, I was awoken from a dead sleep by shouting: “GET UP RIGHT NOW!!!!”
She was in the kitchen, and I was in bed with the covers pulled over my head to keep the cats from licking my face because they hated it when I slept later than they slept. It was Sunday, and I needed to sleep.
“Mrs. Itchy is eating your breakfast: get up!!! Your squirrel is stealing your toast!!” seh said.
More shouting: “Mrs. Itchy drop it!! Get out of bed and get your toast away from that squirrel.“
I got up and shuffled into the kitchen. Aelyssa was still carrying on.
“Mrs. Itchy (Squirrel) stole your breakfast. I guess you don’t get to eat.”
“I thought she was afraid of you. What happened?” I said.
“I went outside for a minute to talk to Mrs. Crabtree,” she said.
Mrs. Crabtree was our other next door neighbor. She did not like squirrels or cats. She chased both species away whenever they wandered into her yard.
“Then Mrs. Itchy was on the table with your toast in her mouth. I tried to get it back, but she ran out the window.”
“How do you know it was Mrs. Itchy?”
“She’s right there,” she pointed out the window.
Sitting upright on the fence was a skinny squirrell with a toast with raspberry jam was hanging of its mouth. She was close enough to make out 2 columns of black nipples. There was a big notch in the bottom outside edge of her left ear. It was Mrs. Itchy.
I moved to the house by the U late in the Fall of 201x, and within a few weeks, it would be cold. It was my habit to I sit in the backyard and read after work. I usually ate snacks out there while I read. My snacks were almonds and dates.
The Professor was one next door neighbor as I already mentioned, and Mrs. Crabtree was my other next door neighbor. She was retired and had been widowed several years earlier. She liked to see what her neighbors were doing.
One day soon after establishing my habit of reading in the backyard, I noticed a squirrel watching me from the top of a tree in Mrs. Crabtree’s backyard. The squirrel stayed in the tree that day, but he appeared the next day and the next, always watching me and Mr. Bradley Cat from the treetop. I suspected that he could see when I was eating, and he perked up when I ate the almonds. Still, he never came into my yard. That evening after I finished reading, I left a few nuts on the plank bench where I had been sitting, and I went inside. The next day, the nuts were gone. I left food for him a few more times, and eventually, he was sitting on the fence begging and eating while I was there.
Soon, he would climb up my leg and take the food out of the bag or out of my hand. He could smell it. I hid it in my shirt pocket and he climbed my shirt and dug it out of the pocket. This went on every day for a few months, and by winter, he was plump. He alway came alone.
Below is Itchy Squirrel
He visited almost every day, and I noticed that he had some quirky behaviours. This photo reminds me of a couple of them. One is that he would stand upright on his hind legs and scratch his nuts. It is why I start called him “Itchy.” He even answered to his name. I would go outside and call him, “Itchy Ithcy Ithcy Itchy Itchy come here Itchy Itchy Itchy”, and within a few minutes, he appeared.
After a couple of months, another squirrel had taken to watching me from Mrs. Crabtree’s treetop. She was very shy and skinny and did to dare come into my yard.
That winter was cold and it stayed below 10° F for a few weeks. I had the feeling that the only reason Itchy was healthy is because I fed him every day. On one cold day late in the winter, I looked out of the kitchen window and saw that the new squirrel had come and was eating the seeds and nuts I left on the rail for her. She was scrawny and very fearful. She was shaking too. The skin on her face was bare from her nose to her ears like all her fur and been ripped out or fell out. She had scabs and cuts all over her face. Her nose was bloody, and one ear was torn.
Mr. Itchy was perched in Mrs. Crabtree’s treetop silently watching her eat. He did not come to eat which was odd. The skinny squirrel finished eating and climbed up the tree where Itchy was watching. He immediately jumped on her and attacked her. It was a bad fight. She ran away chittering, jumping from tree to power line and ran across the street, jumped into another tree, and disappeared. Itchy ran after her. I heard their angry chittering from across the street for several more minutes.
Since then, I often saw her and Itchy together in the trees with a litter of babies and realized they were a family. She was Itchy’s (Squirrel) wife and the matriarch of the squirrel family.
Aelyssa saw how sickly she was and made some special squirrel food. It was a pine cone covered in peanut butter, rolled into seeds and nuts, and baked. Mrs. Itchy and her pups/kittens/squirrel babies began eating the pine cone food in the backyard every day, and by early Spring, she had put on weight. Although always nervous, she became brave enough to eat when I was there. Itchy himself watched her from the tree and never ate when she was here. Sometimes, he attacked her when she finished eating.
The Professor was one next door neighbor as I already mentioned, and Mrs. Crabtree was my other next door neighbor. She was retired and had been widowed several years earlier. She liked to see what her neighbors were doing.
One day soon after establishing my habit of reading in the backyard, I noticed a squirrel watching me from the top of a tree in Mrs. Crabtree’s backyard. The squirrel stayed in the tree that day, but he appeared the next day and the next, always watching me and Mr. Bradley Cat from the treetop. I suspected that he could see when I was eating, and he perked up when I ate the almonds. Still, he never came into my yard. That evening after I finished reading, I left a few nuts on the plank bench where I had been sitting, and I went inside. The next day, the nuts were gone. I left food for him a few more times, and eventually, he was sitting on the fence begging and eating while I was there.
Soon, he would climb up my leg and take the food out of the bag or out of my hand. He could smell it. I hid it in my shirt pocket and he climbed my shirt and dug it out of the pocket. This went on every day for a few months, and by winter, he was plump. He alway came alone.
Below is Itchy Squirrel
He visited almost every day, and I noticed that he had some quirky behaviours. This photo reminds me of a couple of them. One is that he would stand upright on his hind legs and scratch his nuts. It is why I start called him “Itchy.” He even answered to his name. I would go outside and call him, “Itchy Ithcy Ithcy Itchy Itchy come here Itchy Itchy Itchy”, and within a few minutes, he appeared.
After a couple of months, another squirrel had taken to watching me from Mrs. Crabtree’s treetop. She was very shy and skinny and did to dare come into my yard.
That winter was cold and it stayed below 10° F for a few weeks. I had the feeling that the only reason Itchy was healthy is because I fed him every day. On one cold day late in the winter, I looked out of the kitchen window and saw that the new squirrel had come and was eating the seeds and nuts I left on the rail for her. She was scrawny and very fearful. She was shaking too. The skin on her face was bare from her nose to her ears like all her fur and been ripped out or fell out. She had scabs and cuts all over her face. Her nose was bloody, and one ear was torn.
Mr. Itchy was perched in Mrs. Crabtree’s treetop silently watching her eat. He did not come to eat which was odd. The skinny squirrel finished eating and climbed up the tree where Itchy was watching. He immediately jumped on her and attacked her. It was a bad fight. She ran away chittering, jumping from tree to power line and ran across the street, jumped into another tree, and disappeared. Itchy ran after her. I heard their angry chittering from across the street for several more minutes.
Since then, I often saw her and Itchy together in the trees with a litter of babies and realized they were a family. She was Itchy’s (Squirrel) wife and the matriarch of the squirrel family.
Aelyssa saw how sickly she was and made some special squirrel food. It was a pine cone covered in peanut butter, rolled into seeds and nuts, and baked. Mrs. Itchy and her pups/kittens/squirrel babies began eating the pine cone food in the backyard every day, and by early Spring, she had put on weight. Although always nervous, she became brave enough to eat when I was there. Itchy himself watched her from the tree and never ate when she was here. Sometimes, he attacked her when she finished eating.
This has been stalking me for years, I knew eventually I would have to confront it, but I've procrastinated and prevaricated to myself as long as I could. So many times I have lived and relived this moment in my imagination, some how I thought it would be different, peaceful. Life has brutalized me and I accept that, but somehow I thought you would be spared. How cruel fate can be, sadistically torturous, nobody is unscathed, there are no exemptions for good behaviour. Justice is a fairytale we tell ourselves to sleep at night. There is none for me, not tonight, not tomorrow.
Time is a psychotic mistress keeping me bound and awake, slowly making me relive it, opening my eyes wider with each iteration, new details flood in with each passing wave. She laughs at my naïveté, whispering truths I've manage to neglect until now. I will never be the same, my life will never be comfortable again, I have been taught difficult lessons, and they are seared into my conscious memory. There is no escape, distractions cannot overwhelm the ever present reality, physics and physiology are bound together undeniably, there is no aging gracefully.
There is no dignity in death. There is no peace, the longer we survive the more ravaged our bodies and minds become until our intellect is less than a fetus, and yet we persist, witnessed in our own feces, struggling to hold on to that life force against the logic of the inevitable. Until our last breath leaves us, we will cling to our primal energy in a hopeless situation, gasping confused, hoping, unaware as our loved ones are destroyed in our transition to oblivion.
Time is a psychotic mistress keeping me bound and awake, slowly making me relive it, opening my eyes wider with each iteration, new details flood in with each passing wave. She laughs at my naïveté, whispering truths I've manage to neglect until now. I will never be the same, my life will never be comfortable again, I have been taught difficult lessons, and they are seared into my conscious memory. There is no escape, distractions cannot overwhelm the ever present reality, physics and physiology are bound together undeniably, there is no aging gracefully.
There is no dignity in death. There is no peace, the longer we survive the more ravaged our bodies and minds become until our intellect is less than a fetus, and yet we persist, witnessed in our own feces, struggling to hold on to that life force against the logic of the inevitable. Until our last breath leaves us, we will cling to our primal energy in a hopeless situation, gasping confused, hoping, unaware as our loved ones are destroyed in our transition to oblivion.
One of my hobbies is writing, but I have writer’s block and haven’t written anything in months. I’ve read that doing something creative other than writing can cure writer’s block. So I decided to try painting.
Anastasia is an artist from Kazakhstan. I met her at an art show in Paris last Fall. She moved here several years ago and opened a small studio and art gallery on l’Île Saint-Louis. I asked Anastasia to teach me to paint, and I was happy that she agreed. But first she tested me. She had me draw some birds. She was not impressed and said I need to learn to draw before I can paint.
These are the birds I drew for her at a park during my first lesson in March (crows):
Since March, she gave me lessons and had me keep a sketchbook. I drew this in June:
I’ve painted a few things too but only in watercolor. I prefer watercolor. Oil paint stinks, egg tempera is messy and requires a huge investment in equipment for making the paint, raw pigments, and lots of eggs which I would rather eat than use to make paint. I’m only willing to work with the more natural media so acrylic is out.
I read Marcel Proust in college, and ever since then, I wanted to go on a Proustian literary tour and visit the places he described. Proust once said, “at the Ritz, nobody pushes you.” Thusly, the Ritz Hotel was on my list. I went with Anastasia. There is a dress code. Anastasia wore a dress. I wore a suit jacket and motorcycle boots since I don’t have shoes. Once comfortably settled in plush armchairs in the company of rare books and warm woodwork, we chatted and indulged in the memorable delights of madeleines and tea.
A madeleine is a small, plump cake molded in the shape of the fluted valve (shell) of a scallop. It is a little bit drier than a sponge cake and melts in your mouth. The rich, buttery flavor is brought to life with the zest of lemon. You eat it with tea.
The first time I went out with Anastasia was an afternoon on a péniche on the Seine last Fall. The way she looked into my eyes was disarming, but that is another story. We had madeleines and tea on the boat that day.
Anastasia said it would be good practice to sketch the room. We began sketching in pencil. There was another couple next to us having tea, but we did not sketch them. They were elegantly dressed but not flashy. The man wore a fitted designer suit with gold cufflinks and other details, and the woman wore a dress and gold and jewels. They looked like they had just come from or were about to go to a fancy event. I thought they were Mediterranian or Southern French because of their tans and dark hair. The woman looked over at us sketching and remarked that I look remarkably like Van Gogh and asked if I’m his reincarnation. I showed her my bad sketch of birds so she didn’t think that any more.
They had moved to Paris about a year ago from the Middle East when the man, husband Ras Kabir, was appointed to some high position in the embassy of his home country here in Paris. The woman, his wife Maiz, came here with him. I won’t name it for purposes of privacy.
They were also eating madeleines. I took another bite of mine, and Maiz asked about the American presidential election. I told them everything about it is depressing, and I will not go back to the US if Trump is elected and probably not if Bill Clinton’s wife gets it because she is just as bad but in different ways. Bill Clinton’s wife the calculating murderess versus Trump the impulsive murderer who kills in a fit of rage. That’s how I really feel about those two scumbags, and I don’t hide it.). I only understand politics on a superficial level so I didn’t say much more than that. They talked some about Islam and Trump’s attitude toward Muslims in the US and US and British history of invasion and current American military operations in Muslim countries.
Americans love Rumi, and Maiz must have realized that. She mentioned that she likes to read Rumi’s poems. She reads him in the original language and likes the English translations too. Afterwards, all of us exchanged phone numbers and promised to have tea together again.
I didn’t expect to speak to them again, especially since their country is unstable and I had called the rulers of my home country psychopathic murderers, but a few weeks later, Maiz invited me to coffee. We met at Shakespeare and Co, an English language bookstore and coffee shop across the river facing Notre Dame. She mentioned that her husband had gone overseas on business and invited me to the horse races at the famous Hippodrome in the village of Chantilly the next day for the most famous racing event of the year, the Prix de Diane aux Longines.
Anastasia is an artist from Kazakhstan. I met her at an art show in Paris last Fall. She moved here several years ago and opened a small studio and art gallery on l’Île Saint-Louis. I asked Anastasia to teach me to paint, and I was happy that she agreed. But first she tested me. She had me draw some birds. She was not impressed and said I need to learn to draw before I can paint.
These are the birds I drew for her at a park during my first lesson in March (crows):
Since March, she gave me lessons and had me keep a sketchbook. I drew this in June:
I’ve painted a few things too but only in watercolor. I prefer watercolor. Oil paint stinks, egg tempera is messy and requires a huge investment in equipment for making the paint, raw pigments, and lots of eggs which I would rather eat than use to make paint. I’m only willing to work with the more natural media so acrylic is out.
I read Marcel Proust in college, and ever since then, I wanted to go on a Proustian literary tour and visit the places he described. Proust once said, “at the Ritz, nobody pushes you.” Thusly, the Ritz Hotel was on my list. I went with Anastasia. There is a dress code. Anastasia wore a dress. I wore a suit jacket and motorcycle boots since I don’t have shoes. Once comfortably settled in plush armchairs in the company of rare books and warm woodwork, we chatted and indulged in the memorable delights of madeleines and tea.
A madeleine is a small, plump cake molded in the shape of the fluted valve (shell) of a scallop. It is a little bit drier than a sponge cake and melts in your mouth. The rich, buttery flavor is brought to life with the zest of lemon. You eat it with tea.
The first time I went out with Anastasia was an afternoon on a péniche on the Seine last Fall. The way she looked into my eyes was disarming, but that is another story. We had madeleines and tea on the boat that day.
Anastasia said it would be good practice to sketch the room. We began sketching in pencil. There was another couple next to us having tea, but we did not sketch them. They were elegantly dressed but not flashy. The man wore a fitted designer suit with gold cufflinks and other details, and the woman wore a dress and gold and jewels. They looked like they had just come from or were about to go to a fancy event. I thought they were Mediterranian or Southern French because of their tans and dark hair. The woman looked over at us sketching and remarked that I look remarkably like Van Gogh and asked if I’m his reincarnation. I showed her my bad sketch of birds so she didn’t think that any more.
They had moved to Paris about a year ago from the Middle East when the man, husband Ras Kabir, was appointed to some high position in the embassy of his home country here in Paris. The woman, his wife Maiz, came here with him. I won’t name it for purposes of privacy.
They were also eating madeleines. I took another bite of mine, and Maiz asked about the American presidential election. I told them everything about it is depressing, and I will not go back to the US if Trump is elected and probably not if Bill Clinton’s wife gets it because she is just as bad but in different ways. Bill Clinton’s wife the calculating murderess versus Trump the impulsive murderer who kills in a fit of rage. That’s how I really feel about those two scumbags, and I don’t hide it.). I only understand politics on a superficial level so I didn’t say much more than that. They talked some about Islam and Trump’s attitude toward Muslims in the US and US and British history of invasion and current American military operations in Muslim countries.
Americans love Rumi, and Maiz must have realized that. She mentioned that she likes to read Rumi’s poems. She reads him in the original language and likes the English translations too. Afterwards, all of us exchanged phone numbers and promised to have tea together again.
I didn’t expect to speak to them again, especially since their country is unstable and I had called the rulers of my home country psychopathic murderers, but a few weeks later, Maiz invited me to coffee. We met at Shakespeare and Co, an English language bookstore and coffee shop across the river facing Notre Dame. She mentioned that her husband had gone overseas on business and invited me to the horse races at the famous Hippodrome in the village of Chantilly the next day for the most famous racing event of the year, the Prix de Diane aux Longines.
Right now I'm in my room gakked out of my mind. I've been in here for awhile now, because I'm afraid to come out and talk to people. Being social right now would be awkward and a huge mistake. I'm feeling good and the paranoia isn't bad at all. The problem I'm facing is my huge bug eyes and my pupil is huge too. I'm afraid, that someone may call the law on me i can't handle that right now.
So, besides that I'm pretty swell. So, check this story out. My dude i fuck with always having shity dope. None is ever worth a damn in my opinion. I got some cash and called up dude. He kept saying it's flame and what not. I blew it off like yeah right, you always say that. So, i get the shit and bust it down. Two okay shots, took the first around 9 at night yesterday. The rush from it about crippled me, i was feeling okay. I got into something and next thing i know it's 12 in the afternoon the next day. I took my last shot at 12 and still am going strong.
Anyways, my first blog I've ever made. I'm hoping it's done right. I'm out for now!
So, besides that I'm pretty swell. So, check this story out. My dude i fuck with always having shity dope. None is ever worth a damn in my opinion. I got some cash and called up dude. He kept saying it's flame and what not. I blew it off like yeah right, you always say that. So, i get the shit and bust it down. Two okay shots, took the first around 9 at night yesterday. The rush from it about crippled me, i was feeling okay. I got into something and next thing i know it's 12 in the afternoon the next day. I took my last shot at 12 and still am going strong.
Anyways, my first blog I've ever made. I'm hoping it's done right. I'm out for now!
I’m often surprised how friendly and open people are here. Maybe it is the Mediterranean culture. Here, you can tell people you are a scientist and they want to talk about science. Mention the last book you read and they talk about literature. Then somebody invites you over for dinner instead of shunning you.
With the exception of college campus life, the only way to have a social life in a lot of places seems to be to flash money or to watch football as a social activity. I would tell people that I am a research scientist (long hours, mentally demanding, low pay) or talk about a book I read and people would comment that they thought I was homeless. The only person anybody wanted to be friends with was Hedge Fund Guy, the Professional Athlete, or the Banker. The most common topic of conversation is last night’s professional sports game.
They ask: “What sports do you like?”
I say, “I love sports. I love running and mountain climbing and volleyball in the backyard or on the beach with friends.”
Response: “Yeah I used to [run, ride a bicycle, swim, ski, etc] in college, but I don’t have time any more. I got a job, [or if they are older than 30, they got married, had kids, got fat, got divorced, pay alimony, hurt their back or knees, etc] and now I don’t have time any more. What’s your favorite team? How about those Giants?”
-“I don’t have a TV and don’t watch sports, but I like the Brooklyn Dodgers.”
When I was a kid, I had a neighbor, “Paul,” who used to play baseball for the Brooklyn Dodgers. He played second base and some other positions. I used to go to the park and find him, and he’d tell me baseball stories. He was from another generation that didn’t have all of the barriers and hoops to jump through that many YUPPIES of our time require before they associate with you.
I didn’t watch TV or read about professional sports and the topic never came up when talking to Paul so I had no idea the Brooklyn Dodgers had left Brooklyn.
-Somebody then said the Brooklyn Dodgers had moved and are no longer in Brooklyn.
-Well, I don’t keep up with sports.
-Then they say: but you say you like sports but you don’t watch sports? How can you say you like sports?
-Why would i sit around watching somebody else have all the fun when I could be outside having fun too?
By this point in the conversation, I am ignoring them, and I am thinking about what I want to do tomorrow or the book I’m reading. Maybe they have told me the new home of the Brooklyn Dodgers, but it never registered. Within a few minutes, I have erased from my memory most of what we talked about. I have forgotten their name and face. That was the US, and I have left that place.
Before I came here, I had spent the year in a cabin mostly off the grid in the desert. I was alone except for the company of my pet cats Mr. Bradley Cat and Walter Kitten, and I prefered it that way. Besides my hobby of telepathy, I have been out of practice of communicating with and being around other people.
Not long after moving here, I started trying to be social to make friends. My French is still horrible, so I tend to go where English is spoken. English is the most common language among non-French residents whether they are from Asia, the Americas, the Middle East, or from other parts of Europe.
For a social activity, I now run with a jogging club. It had to be a club where people speak English sometimes. Anything meeting this requirement is usually made of expats. A large proportion of the members of the jogging club work at embassies, NGOs, and other international organisations - the jogging club is very international. Besides myself, there is one other American.
It’s a typical Sunday morning run kind of club. We usually move at an easy jog for an hour, do some cool-down stretches, then finish by having lunch or drinks at a café.
One reason I like this group is that they are very educated and well-rounded. Many have witnessed historical events, have advanced degrees in the arts and humanities, archeology, and history. Some of them are from the oil or finance industries too which don’t interest me any more than talking to other neuroscientists.
My co-workers at the Institut and Sorbonne are also very educated, but they are all neuroscientists. Except for one or two, seeing them outside of work makes me feel like I am still at work. I don’t like to talk about work when I’m not at work.
With the exception of college campus life, the only way to have a social life in a lot of places seems to be to flash money or to watch football as a social activity. I would tell people that I am a research scientist (long hours, mentally demanding, low pay) or talk about a book I read and people would comment that they thought I was homeless. The only person anybody wanted to be friends with was Hedge Fund Guy, the Professional Athlete, or the Banker. The most common topic of conversation is last night’s professional sports game.
They ask: “What sports do you like?”
I say, “I love sports. I love running and mountain climbing and volleyball in the backyard or on the beach with friends.”
Response: “Yeah I used to [run, ride a bicycle, swim, ski, etc] in college, but I don’t have time any more. I got a job, [or if they are older than 30, they got married, had kids, got fat, got divorced, pay alimony, hurt their back or knees, etc] and now I don’t have time any more. What’s your favorite team? How about those Giants?”
-“I don’t have a TV and don’t watch sports, but I like the Brooklyn Dodgers.”
When I was a kid, I had a neighbor, “Paul,” who used to play baseball for the Brooklyn Dodgers. He played second base and some other positions. I used to go to the park and find him, and he’d tell me baseball stories. He was from another generation that didn’t have all of the barriers and hoops to jump through that many YUPPIES of our time require before they associate with you.
I didn’t watch TV or read about professional sports and the topic never came up when talking to Paul so I had no idea the Brooklyn Dodgers had left Brooklyn.
-Somebody then said the Brooklyn Dodgers had moved and are no longer in Brooklyn.
-Well, I don’t keep up with sports.
-Then they say: but you say you like sports but you don’t watch sports? How can you say you like sports?
-Why would i sit around watching somebody else have all the fun when I could be outside having fun too?
By this point in the conversation, I am ignoring them, and I am thinking about what I want to do tomorrow or the book I’m reading. Maybe they have told me the new home of the Brooklyn Dodgers, but it never registered. Within a few minutes, I have erased from my memory most of what we talked about. I have forgotten their name and face. That was the US, and I have left that place.
Before I came here, I had spent the year in a cabin mostly off the grid in the desert. I was alone except for the company of my pet cats Mr. Bradley Cat and Walter Kitten, and I prefered it that way. Besides my hobby of telepathy, I have been out of practice of communicating with and being around other people.
Not long after moving here, I started trying to be social to make friends. My French is still horrible, so I tend to go where English is spoken. English is the most common language among non-French residents whether they are from Asia, the Americas, the Middle East, or from other parts of Europe.
For a social activity, I now run with a jogging club. It had to be a club where people speak English sometimes. Anything meeting this requirement is usually made of expats. A large proportion of the members of the jogging club work at embassies, NGOs, and other international organisations - the jogging club is very international. Besides myself, there is one other American.
It’s a typical Sunday morning run kind of club. We usually move at an easy jog for an hour, do some cool-down stretches, then finish by having lunch or drinks at a café.
One reason I like this group is that they are very educated and well-rounded. Many have witnessed historical events, have advanced degrees in the arts and humanities, archeology, and history. Some of them are from the oil or finance industries too which don’t interest me any more than talking to other neuroscientists.
My co-workers at the Institut and Sorbonne are also very educated, but they are all neuroscientists. Except for one or two, seeing them outside of work makes me feel like I am still at work. I don’t like to talk about work when I’m not at work.
This fentanyl analog availability explosion is just crazy ridiculously out of hand especially being the second wave after the first one created analog act that's failing to do anything to keep this one from happening a and doing the damage they have been doing as it should.... It's outrageous as ours only successfully happening due to the attempts to curb opiate use by reducing the access to pharmaceutical opiates that have been around for the longest time a and have much less risk nearly none when a good doctor is making the effort to really make a good plan for a patient and educating them so they can have enough of an understand that with the opiates the patient can mask the problem of temporary physical pain until the proper non drug treatment methods that without the medication end up being unsuccessful due to the issues that the opiates mask, which prevent the patient from having the ability to maintain the non drug treatment that over time become fixed allowing patients to then tackle getting through likely possible withdrawals while maintaining the strength recovered that the treatment brought about so that one can continue life stronger thanks in part to the opiates that were used at a crucial period to help the patient overcome the pain brought on by the challenges the moon drug treatment methods require that without the opiates the patient would be bound to fail and begin to degrade even further than when they started treatment leading to disability that could've easily been avoided. Then there are those with chronic pain that can never recover to a point to where without medication it is bearable although one can manage with opiates if one understands the proper t regimen of opiates that can be stabiliy used at the same dose without ever fluctuating as to not cause tolerance change leading to times when the regular dose is not effective at all with a regimen such as hydrocodone or oxycodone sustained released for either form as daytime active pain maintenance meds due to their effect that prevents the narcotic sedation from developing as strong (at least in my experience) and using preferably the metabolite morphine based counterpart although any of either morphine, hydromorphone, oxymorphone, and even heroin if it was available everywhere while it's availability as prescribed is limited as an immediate release formulation for breakthrough pain as IMO the mu binding opiates while more likely to cause heavy narcotic/sleep inducing sedation gives the best pain relief provided with a reduction of tightness and tension no other pain med has been able to provide I have found in my experience especially without a lack of size effects that cause any relief provided to become pointless while the opiates that opiates that have more activity focused on the kappa region like hydro/oxycodone creating mu effect by converting to their morphine counterpart while each become more selective to either the my for morphine counterparts and kappa for codeine counterparts as the molecule becomes smaller and smaller as they go from no prefix to hydro then oxy while I believe the best and perfect combo that sustains relief without side effects or even cognition impairment besides the physical dependency is using oxycodone in its 12 hour sustained released form orally 2-4x a day depending on daily and individuals needs while oxymorphone is used as needed 4x-6x by either oral/nasal/IV depending on an individual's preference needs as with a half life of 7-9 hours it is the one opiate of all the opiates that are morphine and codeine base and have basic receptor activity vs extensive in areas other than the opiate region that like oxymorphone have a long enough half life that with immediate release forms the medications they don't leave one withdrawing so quickly after a dose that it prevents the necessary full eight hours rest needed to maintain good health that without a sustained release form oxycodone, hydrocodone, hydromorphone, morphine, heroin, and codeine one could not obtain while dependant as the maximum half life of any of these is four hours.....
Just to not be too off topic with my rant I'll tie it up pointing out that due to fentanyls build as a key to fit as deeply into the opiate receptors and create as powerful an effect with the s smallest amount possible even if it leaves it falling apart so fast that it only has a half hour half life maybe hour at best causing it to be pretty useless for managing pain except in extremely short term yet excruciatingly painful situations such as surgery and woman in labor where as soon as the ultra short term pain ends it will leave the system near immediately and something like hydromorphone that has a very short half life as well can be used to ease out of the ultra powerful fentanyl. Even though it's developed as sublingual and nasal for breakthrough and patches for long term pain I highly doubt anyone really would need it where other basic opiates would handle most pains as long as one found a good dose and maintained minimal dosing without taking doses so close together that they stack and increase the tolerance, but at the same time don't deny fentanyl possibly being the only choice that is strong enough for such severe pain. It just has such a high likelihood of causing an out of control tolerance increase it should be the last resort choice always. The most dangerous thing about this compound is that without any modification it can absorb through the skin so it really needs to be properly formulated and used as it should as oddly the transdermal ROA has highest bioavailability next to IV and requires the lowest dose to cause effect making it extremely dangerous to be around the raw pure powder form of this compound and likely ask of its analogs as well.
To end my rant and ideology no one should attempt self medicating with fentanyl due to it being the riskiest of any opiate due to its unique nature that leads to dosing required so often it disrupts any life and leaves no possibility for a full night's sleep. If anyone does choose to foolishly choose to become a gunnie pig for this fentanyl analog or any even knowing everything I shared above start with the lowest dose as if it was more potent that fentanyl.... learn volumetric dosing... Only handle without exposed skin anywhere and a mask to prevent inhalation as well as working over a removable easy to clean surface to prevent spills that if left and not cleaned can kill an innocent animal or even unfortunate person who might step on the spill barefoot.
I hope everyone stays safe although really the best thing to do is boycott these fent analogs even if they seem like an easy solution for a possible supply that can help maintain for all the reasons above as well as to make them a waste of money to the vendors who irresponsibility make this stuff available as they will not keep wasting effort to carry what doesn't sell. It's only available as sadly there is demand, which is in control of the buyers not the greedy vendors who only respond to demand even if it's not what is desired, but something that is obtained when desires aren't accessible whether or not it truly is a replacement or just something that seems like one only to turn out to be worse than nothing most fentanyl users find out once dependant.
I know my writing is too much and weird, but my message is there, full of heart, and strong even if not that clear.
Just to not be too off topic with my rant I'll tie it up pointing out that due to fentanyls build as a key to fit as deeply into the opiate receptors and create as powerful an effect with the s smallest amount possible even if it leaves it falling apart so fast that it only has a half hour half life maybe hour at best causing it to be pretty useless for managing pain except in extremely short term yet excruciatingly painful situations such as surgery and woman in labor where as soon as the ultra short term pain ends it will leave the system near immediately and something like hydromorphone that has a very short half life as well can be used to ease out of the ultra powerful fentanyl. Even though it's developed as sublingual and nasal for breakthrough and patches for long term pain I highly doubt anyone really would need it where other basic opiates would handle most pains as long as one found a good dose and maintained minimal dosing without taking doses so close together that they stack and increase the tolerance, but at the same time don't deny fentanyl possibly being the only choice that is strong enough for such severe pain. It just has such a high likelihood of causing an out of control tolerance increase it should be the last resort choice always. The most dangerous thing about this compound is that without any modification it can absorb through the skin so it really needs to be properly formulated and used as it should as oddly the transdermal ROA has highest bioavailability next to IV and requires the lowest dose to cause effect making it extremely dangerous to be around the raw pure powder form of this compound and likely ask of its analogs as well.
To end my rant and ideology no one should attempt self medicating with fentanyl due to it being the riskiest of any opiate due to its unique nature that leads to dosing required so often it disrupts any life and leaves no possibility for a full night's sleep. If anyone does choose to foolishly choose to become a gunnie pig for this fentanyl analog or any even knowing everything I shared above start with the lowest dose as if it was more potent that fentanyl.... learn volumetric dosing... Only handle without exposed skin anywhere and a mask to prevent inhalation as well as working over a removable easy to clean surface to prevent spills that if left and not cleaned can kill an innocent animal or even unfortunate person who might step on the spill barefoot.
I hope everyone stays safe although really the best thing to do is boycott these fent analogs even if they seem like an easy solution for a possible supply that can help maintain for all the reasons above as well as to make them a waste of money to the vendors who irresponsibility make this stuff available as they will not keep wasting effort to carry what doesn't sell. It's only available as sadly there is demand, which is in control of the buyers not the greedy vendors who only respond to demand even if it's not what is desired, but something that is obtained when desires aren't accessible whether or not it truly is a replacement or just something that seems like one only to turn out to be worse than nothing most fentanyl users find out once dependant.
I know my writing is too much and weird, but my message is there, full of heart, and strong even if not that clear.
This fentanyl analog availability explosion is just crazy ridiculously out of hand especially being the second wave after the first one created analog act that's failing to do anything to keep this one from happening a and doing the damage they have been doing as it should.... It's outrageous as ours only successfully happening due to the attempts to curb opiate use by reducing the access to pharmaceutical opiates that have been around for the longest time a and have much less risk nearly none when a good doctor is making the effort to really make a good plan for a patient and educating them so they can have enough of an understand that with the opiates the patient can mask the problem of temporary physical pain until the proper non drug treatment methods that without the medication end up being unsuccessful due to the issues that the opiates mask, which prevent the patient from having the ability to maintain the non drug treatment that over time become fixed allowing patients to then tackle getting through likely possible withdrawals while maintaining the strength recovered that the treatment brought about so that one can continue life stronger thanks in part to the opiates that were used at a crucial period to help the patient overcome the pain brought on by the challenges the moon drug treatment methods require that without the opiates the patient would be bound to fail and begin to degrade even further than when they started treatment leading to disability that could've easily been avoided. Then there are those with chronic pain that can never recover to a point to where without medication it is bearable although one can manage with opiates if one understands the proper t regimen of opiates that can be stabiliy used at the same dose without ever fluctuating as to not cause tolerance change leading to times when the regular dose is not effective at all with a regimen such as hydrocodone or oxycodone sustained released for either form as daytime active pain maintenance meds due to their effect that prevents the narcotic sedation from developing as strong (at least in my experience) and using preferably the metabolite morphine based counterpart although any of either morphine, hydromorphone, oxymorphone, and even heroin if it was available everywhere while it's availability as prescribed is limited as an immediate release formulation for breakthrough pain as IMO the mu binding opiates while more likely to cause heavy narcotic/sleep inducing sedation gives the best pain relief provided with a reduction of tightness and tension no other pain med has been able to provide I have found in my experience especially without a lack of size effects that cause any relief provided to become pointless while the opiates that opiates that have more activity focused on the kappa region like hydro/oxycodone creating mu effect by converting to their morphine counterpart while each become more selective to either the my for morphine counterparts and kappa for codeine counterparts as the molecule becomes smaller and smaller as they go from no prefix to hydro then oxy while I believe the best and perfect combo that sustains relief without side effects or even cognition impairment besides the physical dependency is using oxycodone in its 12 hour sustained released form orally 2-4x a day depending on daily and individuals needs while oxymorphone is used as needed 4x-6x by either oral/nasal/IV depending on an individual's preference needs as with a half life of 7-9 hours it is the one opiate of all the opiates that are morphine and codeine base and have basic receptor activity vs extensive in areas other than the opiate region that like oxymorphone have a long enough half life that with immediate release forms the medications they don't leave one withdrawing so quickly after a dose that it prevents the necessary full eight hours rest needed to maintain good health that without a sustained release form oxycodone, hydrocodone, hydromorphone, morphine, heroin, and codeine one could not obtain while dependant as the maximum half life of any of these is four hours.....
Just to not be too off topic with my rant I'll tie it up pointing out that due to fentanyls build as a key to fit as deeply into the opiate receptors and create as powerful an effect with the s smallest amount possible even if it leaves it falling apart so fast that it only has a half hour half life maybe hour at best causing it to be pretty useless for managing pain except in extremely short term yet excruciatingly painful situations such as surgery and woman in labor where as soon as the ultra short term pain ends it will leave the system near immediately and something like hydromorphone that has a very short half life as well can be used to ease out of the ultra powerful fentanyl. Even though it's developed as sublingual and nasal for breakthrough and patches for long term pain I highly doubt anyone really would need it where other basic opiates would handle most pains as long as one found a good dose and maintained minimal dosing without taking doses so close together that they stack and increase the tolerance, but at the same time don't deny fentanyl possibly being the only choice that is strong enough for such severe pain. It just has such a high likelihood of causing an out of control tolerance increase it should be the last resort choice always. The most dangerous thing about this compound is that without any modification it can absorb through the skin so it really needs to be properly formulated and used as it should as oddly the transdermal ROA has highest bioavailability next to IV and requires the lowest dose to cause effect making it extremely dangerous to be around the raw pure powder form of this compound and likely ask of its analogs as well.
To end my rant and ideology no one should attempt self medicating with fentanyl due to it being the riskiest of any opiate due to its unique nature that leads to dosing required so often it disrupts any life and leaves no possibility for a full night's sleep. If anyone does choose to foolishly choose to become a gunnie pig for this fentanyl analog or any even knowing everything I shared above start with the lowest dose as if it was more potent that fentanyl.... learn volumetric dosing... Only handle without exposed skin anywhere and a mask to prevent inhalation as well as working over a removable easy to clean surface to prevent spills that if left and not cleaned can kill an innocent animal or even unfortunate person who might step on the spill barefoot.
I hope everyone stays safe although really the best thing to do is boycott these fent analogs even if they seem like an easy solution for a possible supply that can help maintain for all the reasons above as well as to make them a waste of money to the vendors who irresponsibility make this stuff available as they will not keep wasting effort to carry what doesn't sell. It's only available as sadly there is demand, which is in control of the buyers not the greedy vendors who only respond to demand even if it's not what is desired, but something that is obtained when desires aren't accessible whether or not it truly is a replacement or just something that seems like one only to turn out to be worse than nothing most fentanyl users find out once dependant.
I know my writing is too much and weird, but my message is there, full of heart, and strong even if not that clear.
Just to not be too off topic with my rant I'll tie it up pointing out that due to fentanyls build as a key to fit as deeply into the opiate receptors and create as powerful an effect with the s smallest amount possible even if it leaves it falling apart so fast that it only has a half hour half life maybe hour at best causing it to be pretty useless for managing pain except in extremely short term yet excruciatingly painful situations such as surgery and woman in labor where as soon as the ultra short term pain ends it will leave the system near immediately and something like hydromorphone that has a very short half life as well can be used to ease out of the ultra powerful fentanyl. Even though it's developed as sublingual and nasal for breakthrough and patches for long term pain I highly doubt anyone really would need it where other basic opiates would handle most pains as long as one found a good dose and maintained minimal dosing without taking doses so close together that they stack and increase the tolerance, but at the same time don't deny fentanyl possibly being the only choice that is strong enough for such severe pain. It just has such a high likelihood of causing an out of control tolerance increase it should be the last resort choice always. The most dangerous thing about this compound is that without any modification it can absorb through the skin so it really needs to be properly formulated and used as it should as oddly the transdermal ROA has highest bioavailability next to IV and requires the lowest dose to cause effect making it extremely dangerous to be around the raw pure powder form of this compound and likely ask of its analogs as well.
To end my rant and ideology no one should attempt self medicating with fentanyl due to it being the riskiest of any opiate due to its unique nature that leads to dosing required so often it disrupts any life and leaves no possibility for a full night's sleep. If anyone does choose to foolishly choose to become a gunnie pig for this fentanyl analog or any even knowing everything I shared above start with the lowest dose as if it was more potent that fentanyl.... learn volumetric dosing... Only handle without exposed skin anywhere and a mask to prevent inhalation as well as working over a removable easy to clean surface to prevent spills that if left and not cleaned can kill an innocent animal or even unfortunate person who might step on the spill barefoot.
I hope everyone stays safe although really the best thing to do is boycott these fent analogs even if they seem like an easy solution for a possible supply that can help maintain for all the reasons above as well as to make them a waste of money to the vendors who irresponsibility make this stuff available as they will not keep wasting effort to carry what doesn't sell. It's only available as sadly there is demand, which is in control of the buyers not the greedy vendors who only respond to demand even if it's not what is desired, but something that is obtained when desires aren't accessible whether or not it truly is a replacement or just something that seems like one only to turn out to be worse than nothing most fentanyl users find out once dependant.
I know my writing is too much and weird, but my message is there, full of heart, and strong even if not that clear.
There is an easy way to fine this blog if anyone like it..
It has nothing to do with BluLight other then that it's my, as a private individual's firs choice when it came to where i wonted tho host my blog!! (The majority of people i asked agreed)
And I'm just a person writhing in this blog for my own and are in NO way affiliated with blueLight.org
And so it doesn't sem to be something fishy with it i just have 1 domain address to it now!
And don't forget to donate to blue light if you find it informational, a good source to rare information about versus chemicals and other topic her!!
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It has nothing to do with BluLight other then that it's my, as a private individual's firs choice when it came to where i wonted tho host my blog!! (The majority of people i asked agreed)
And I'm just a person writhing in this blog for my own and are in NO way affiliated with blueLight.org
And so it doesn't sem to be something fishy with it i just have 1 domain address to it now!
And don't forget to donate to blue light if you find it informational, a good source to rare information about versus chemicals and other topic her!!
[/CENTER]
4-HO-DPT
4-HO-DPT Facts and First hand Research
[/CENTER]4-HO-DPT Facts and First hand Research
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[TD="align: left"]Chemical Names:
- 4-HYDROXY-N,N-DIPROPYL
- 4-INDOLOL, 3-[2-(DIPROPYLAMINO)ETHYL]
- 4-HYDROXY-N,N-DIPROPYLAMINOTRYPTAMINE
- 3-[2-(DIPROPYLAMINO)ETHYL]-4-INDOLOL
- Dipropyltryptamine
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4-HO-DPT is a psychedelic tryptamine first synthesized by Alexander Shuligin around 1945 and publish in the book TiiKAL written by the same man. It is the 4-hydroxyl analog of DPT one of the moused powerful psychedelic known to man.
Most people find 4-HO-DPT rather easy going and somewhat diapositive and it tends to lack the dankness that DPT brings to the table.. I haven't researched it myself but a friend of mine are going experiment with it the following weeks so keep locking for updates in this posts. (I might join him if my A-F hell will be less). It dose's seam to have the RAW power that DPT has bot also not the darkness that many people find in DPT. This seems more in the line of an very but even so powerful tryptamine like 4-AcO-DiPT. There is also not su much information available on this one even tho it's bin available from versus online resellers of Research Chemicals
Forme the book: TiKAL - The continuation. By Alexander & Ann Shuligun
Here is another case where there just aren't enough observations to determine at what level the activity will be seen, or what form it will take. The track record is pretty well established with the oxygen-free analogue DPT, and it would be hard to imagine a loss of potency by incorporating the "psilocin signature", the 4-hydroxy group. This threshold suggests something is nearby. It is a shame that the compound is so difficult to make.
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SYNTHESIS by Alexander Shulgin]
SYNTHESIS : A solution of 0.50 g 4-acetoxyindole (see under 4-HO-DET for its preparation) in 5 mL Et2O was stirred and cooled to 0 °C with protection from atmospheric moisture. There was then added 0.5 mL oxalyl chloride. The reaction mixture was stirred for an additional 30 min, and the intermediate indoleglyoxyl chloride separated as a yellow crystalline solid but was not isolated. This was treated with a 40% solution of dipropyl amine in anhydrous Et2O, dropwise, until the pH was 8-9. The reaction was diluted with 100 mL CHCl3 and shaken with 30 mL of a 5% aqueous NaHSO4 followed by 30 mL of a saturated aqueous NaHCO3 solution. After drying over anhydrous MgSO4, the organic solvents were removed under vacuum. The residue was recrystallized from Et2O / cyclohexane to give 0.73 g (78%) of 4-acetoxyindol-3-yl-N,N-dipropylglyoxylamide with a mp 130-131 °C. Anal: C,H,N.
To a stirred suspension of 0.50 g LAH in 10 mL anhydrous THF, stirred, under nitrogen and at room temperature, there was added a solution of 0.66 g 4-acetoxyindol-3-yl-N,N-dipropylglyoxylamide in 10 mL anhydrous THF. This was added dropwise at a rate that maintained the reaction at reflux. When the addition was complete, the reflux was maintained for an additional 15 min and then the reaction was cooled to 40 °C. The excess hydride and the product complex was destroyed by the addition of 1 mL EtOAC followed by 3 mL H2O. The solids were removed by filtration, the filter cake washed with THF, the filtrate and washings pooled, and the solvents removed under vacuum. The residue was distilled at the KugelRohr and the distillate recrystallized from EtOAC/hexane. Thus there was obtained 0.27 g (51%) of 4-hydroxy-N,N-dipropyltryptamine (4-HO-DPT) with a mp 96-97 °C. Anal: C,H,N.
SYNTHESIS : A solution of 0.50 g 4-acetoxyindole (see under 4-HO-DET for its preparation) in 5 mL Et2O was stirred and cooled to 0 °C with protection from atmospheric moisture. There was then added 0.5 mL oxalyl chloride. The reaction mixture was stirred for an additional 30 min, and the intermediate indoleglyoxyl chloride separated as a yellow crystalline solid but was not isolated. This was treated with a 40% solution of dipropyl amine in anhydrous Et2O, dropwise, until the pH was 8-9. The reaction was diluted with 100 mL CHCl3 and shaken with 30 mL of a 5% aqueous NaHSO4 followed by 30 mL of a saturated aqueous NaHCO3 solution. After drying over anhydrous MgSO4, the organic solvents were removed under vacuum. The residue was recrystallized from Et2O / cyclohexane to give 0.73 g (78%) of 4-acetoxyindol-3-yl-N,N-dipropylglyoxylamide with a mp 130-131 °C. Anal: C,H,N.
To a stirred suspension of 0.50 g LAH in 10 mL anhydrous THF, stirred, under nitrogen and at room temperature, there was added a solution of 0.66 g 4-acetoxyindol-3-yl-N,N-dipropylglyoxylamide in 10 mL anhydrous THF. This was added dropwise at a rate that maintained the reaction at reflux. When the addition was complete, the reflux was maintained for an additional 15 min and then the reaction was cooled to 40 °C. The excess hydride and the product complex was destroyed by the addition of 1 mL EtOAC followed by 3 mL H2O. The solids were removed by filtration, the filter cake washed with THF, the filtrate and washings pooled, and the solvents removed under vacuum. The residue was distilled at the KugelRohr and the distillate recrystallized from EtOAC/hexane. Thus there was obtained 0.27 g (51%) of 4-hydroxy-N,N-dipropyltryptamine (4-HO-DPT) with a mp 96-97 °C. Anal: C,H,N.
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[TD="align: center"]W.I.P.
Work In Progress
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Ok so i found tapering it down really gives you a moreish king of look on it so flushed the rest of it.
I'm 16-20H in form stopping tapering and whent CT (Was it smart ?? Maybe! Time will tell..)
Symptom's right now are weird blood pressure, hotflashes, fiver, mussel pain, craycy bad stomach (Both ends) and some mind fucking..
That's up until this point..
I seeped on Flunitrazepam 2mg and 2mg cloazepam + 3-5mgl Therelaen.
Really glad i have alot of benzo and theralen
So meany wired dream's some scary and some don't but all were very real!
Why go throw this just to c how it is??
That feels kind of stupid right now!!
It was / is legal her and i love exploring chemicals, but i haven't really liked opiets in general. Also i haven't ben using any chemicals except my Banzo's (Witch i tapered down from 4mg Xanax, 2mg Flunitrazepam, 8mg Clonazepam, 20mg Stillnoct and 30-60mg Remeron-S / a DAY to just 2mg clonazepam in the morning and 2mg in the evening (That was true hell for the heal, now its more the body with fenta.) so that's good.)
I hope / KNOW i will manage this and be ride of it in a moth tops..
I was only taking A-F fore about 2 months..
Love & Light to all Cheminautes out there!!
I saw her today at the reception
A glass of wine in her hand
I knew she would meet her connection
At her feet was her footloose man
No, you can't always get what you want
You can't always get what you want
You can't always get what you want
But if you try sometime you find
You get what you need
We went down to the demonstration
To get your fair share of abuse
Singing, "We're gonna vent our frustration
If we don't we're gonna blow a fifty-amp fuse"
You can't always get what you want
You can't always get what you want
You can't always get what you want
But if you try sometimes well you just might find
You get what you need
I went down to the Chelsea drugstore
To get your prescription filled
I was standing in line with Mr. Jimmy
And man, did he look pretty ill
We decided that we would have a soda
My favorite flavor, cherry red
I sung my song to Mr. Jimmy
Yeah, and he said one word to me, and that was "dead"
I said to him
You can't always get what you want
You can't always get what you want
You can't always get what you want
But if you try sometimes you just might find
You get what you need
You get what you need--yeah, oh baby
I saw her today at the reception
In her glass was a bleeding man
She was practiced at the art of deception
Well I could tell by her blood-stained hands
You can't always get what you want
You can't always get what you want
You can't always get what you want
But if you try sometimes you just might find
You just might find
You get what you need
You can't always get what you want
You can't always get what you want
You can't always get what you want
But if you try sometimes you just might find
You just might find
You get what you need
I'm 16-20H in form stopping tapering and whent CT (Was it smart ?? Maybe! Time will tell..)
Symptom's right now are weird blood pressure, hotflashes, fiver, mussel pain, craycy bad stomach (Both ends) and some mind fucking..
That's up until this point..
I seeped on Flunitrazepam 2mg and 2mg cloazepam + 3-5mgl Therelaen.
Really glad i have alot of benzo and theralen
So meany wired dream's some scary and some don't but all were very real!
Why go throw this just to c how it is??
That feels kind of stupid right now!!
It was / is legal her and i love exploring chemicals, but i haven't really liked opiets in general. Also i haven't ben using any chemicals except my Banzo's (Witch i tapered down from 4mg Xanax, 2mg Flunitrazepam, 8mg Clonazepam, 20mg Stillnoct and 30-60mg Remeron-S / a DAY to just 2mg clonazepam in the morning and 2mg in the evening (That was true hell for the heal, now its more the body with fenta.) so that's good.)
I hope / KNOW i will manage this and be ride of it in a moth tops..
I was only taking A-F fore about 2 months..
Love & Light to all Cheminautes out there!!
I saw her today at the reception
A glass of wine in her hand
I knew she would meet her connection
At her feet was her footloose man
No, you can't always get what you want
You can't always get what you want
You can't always get what you want
But if you try sometime you find
You get what you need
We went down to the demonstration
To get your fair share of abuse
Singing, "We're gonna vent our frustration
If we don't we're gonna blow a fifty-amp fuse"
You can't always get what you want
You can't always get what you want
You can't always get what you want
But if you try sometimes well you just might find
You get what you need
I went down to the Chelsea drugstore
To get your prescription filled
I was standing in line with Mr. Jimmy
And man, did he look pretty ill
We decided that we would have a soda
My favorite flavor, cherry red
I sung my song to Mr. Jimmy
Yeah, and he said one word to me, and that was "dead"
I said to him
You can't always get what you want
You can't always get what you want
You can't always get what you want
But if you try sometimes you just might find
You get what you need
You get what you need--yeah, oh baby
I saw her today at the reception
In her glass was a bleeding man
She was practiced at the art of deception
Well I could tell by her blood-stained hands
You can't always get what you want
You can't always get what you want
You can't always get what you want
But if you try sometimes you just might find
You just might find
You get what you need
You can't always get what you want
You can't always get what you want
You can't always get what you want
But if you try sometimes you just might find
You just might find
You get what you need
Summer vacation has started so I have some time to work on my blog. These entries are a few months old. Most of these are only rants and are not very coherent. They don’t have a point except to get things out of my system. I will post several.
When I moved here, it was the first time I had been single and felt really alone for several years. The population of the city and suburbs is around 10 million yet I was lonely despite having recently spent a year by myself in the desert with only my cats for company and not feeling lonely at all. I came here and quickly learned to rely on opiates to help me handle my loneliness and associated depression. By the time I had started seeing Fatima, I no longer no longer used opiates regularly.
I met Fatima at work. She is a medical doctor who practiced medicine in Saudi Arabia before she came to France to do medical research at the Institut.
I thought I would never again date somebody from work because what are you going to talk about when you get home? Since my freshman year in college, I have always been bored seeing anybody who is so much as in my own major. But she works in another lab, has a different project, and has very different life experience so it’s okay.
Fatima is married but separated. The reason she is still married, she explained, is that the divorce and property laws in Saudi Arabia are biased against women. I don’t understand the details beyond that, but the husband seems to keep all of the property and the wife can be thrown out onto the street and faces a life of poverty if her parents do not take her back. That is a common occurrence.
She is keeping me secret from her family who still live and work in Saudi Arabia. Although she has been separated for five years, seeing someone else while separated is still considered adultery in her country. The penalty for adultery is stoning to death for both adulterers. Her father is a minister of some government agency and as somebody who has a high position in the Saudi government, he is very conservative and religious.
It was not trivial for her to walk away from a marriage where she was treated like the property of her husband and cast aside to be replaced by her husband’s mistress, to take off her scarf and reject religious fundamentalism, and move here against her parents’ wishes. Not only that, but she is an activist for women’s rights in her country. Speaking out for women’s rights (I think of this as the authentic but rare form of feminism) is another thing that earns women fatwas over there. For the purpose of privacy, I refer to her as Fatima. Fatima is not her real name.
In my free time, I visit many cafés and restaurants here in Paris: Shakespeare and Co Bookstore to read and talk over a coffee with a friend, Café de Flore or les Deux Magots to sit and write all day, Maxim’s for dinner and many night clubs.
Last night, I took Fatima to a restaurant somebody had suggested called le Daniel’s. There is a dress code. The lighting was low and the seats were velvet. A DJ played house music, but it wasn’t too loud. About fifty people and as many women as men, mostly wearing jackets or dresses sat at the tables or mingled on the floor.
On one end of the room the barman was pouring drinks at a long bar. On one wall, a rack was stacked to the ceiling with bottles of wine. A mirror covered another wall. Tables and sculptures were scattered around the room.
Striptease Part II
The club is famous for strip teases. I didn’t know that until the performers came out. Suddenly, the music got loud. Here is a photo of one of the dancers:
Saudi Arabia doesn’t have strip clubs or bars. Women are required to be completely covered to the extent of wearing head gear. Fatima had never seen a strip show before, but she was cool. We watched the act and chatted. She didn’t say anything nasty.
Aelyssa, on the other hand, would have gone apeshit then and there. (Aelyssa is a the last girlfriend I had in the US). She would have stood up and said just loud enough for everybody in the whole bar to hear: WE NEED TO GO RIGHT NOW!
She would have stormed out, given me the silent treatment until the afternoon the next day, then chided me. (She is a school teacher and has a lot of practice scolding her students.) She would have given her neo-feminist rant. She would have complained that men were exploiting those dancers. Then she would have informed me that the dancers are whores and that I was objectifying women.
Then the jealousy would have completely taken over. The dancer happens to be thin and physically fit. She trains, has good muscle tone, coordination, and flexibility. Aelyssa, sadly, had not gone to the gym, ridden her bicycle, or done yoga one time in the last year we were together. She put on a lot of weight and looks like she has aged 10 years.
Aelyssa would have gone on about how whores like the dancers have been brainwashed and imprinted upon men that being thin and physically fit is an unrealistic expectation for women. It is her job as a Feminist to fight this, and it is my duty as her Significant Other to support her. To her, the Venus of Malta (a quasi-pornographic Stone Age carving of a naked women shaped like a pear.) is the natural body type, and the media and whores like the stripper have brainwashed men. The fact that 3 out of 4 Americans are overweight is her proof that fat is the normal and ideal body type. Yet, until the 1950s or so, only around 1 in 10 or 1 in 20 Americans were fat. Even today, only 1 in 10 are overweight in France. Body size is an easy way to spot an American, Australian, or British tourist.
A couple of vacationing middle-aged women were sitting beside us. They were from the Central Valley in California, and they looked like it. When the dancers came out, they suddenly looked very uncomfortable as though they had just realized they were in the wrong place. They made the obvious comment about the girl’s butt being on the bar and they were afraid they would get a disease. The barman, however, wiped down the bar after their act. The standard 10% bleach solution restaurants use kills everything.
When I moved here, it was the first time I had been single and felt really alone for several years. The population of the city and suburbs is around 10 million yet I was lonely despite having recently spent a year by myself in the desert with only my cats for company and not feeling lonely at all. I came here and quickly learned to rely on opiates to help me handle my loneliness and associated depression. By the time I had started seeing Fatima, I no longer no longer used opiates regularly.
I met Fatima at work. She is a medical doctor who practiced medicine in Saudi Arabia before she came to France to do medical research at the Institut.
I thought I would never again date somebody from work because what are you going to talk about when you get home? Since my freshman year in college, I have always been bored seeing anybody who is so much as in my own major. But she works in another lab, has a different project, and has very different life experience so it’s okay.
Fatima is married but separated. The reason she is still married, she explained, is that the divorce and property laws in Saudi Arabia are biased against women. I don’t understand the details beyond that, but the husband seems to keep all of the property and the wife can be thrown out onto the street and faces a life of poverty if her parents do not take her back. That is a common occurrence.
She is keeping me secret from her family who still live and work in Saudi Arabia. Although she has been separated for five years, seeing someone else while separated is still considered adultery in her country. The penalty for adultery is stoning to death for both adulterers. Her father is a minister of some government agency and as somebody who has a high position in the Saudi government, he is very conservative and religious.
It was not trivial for her to walk away from a marriage where she was treated like the property of her husband and cast aside to be replaced by her husband’s mistress, to take off her scarf and reject religious fundamentalism, and move here against her parents’ wishes. Not only that, but she is an activist for women’s rights in her country. Speaking out for women’s rights (I think of this as the authentic but rare form of feminism) is another thing that earns women fatwas over there. For the purpose of privacy, I refer to her as Fatima. Fatima is not her real name.
In my free time, I visit many cafés and restaurants here in Paris: Shakespeare and Co Bookstore to read and talk over a coffee with a friend, Café de Flore or les Deux Magots to sit and write all day, Maxim’s for dinner and many night clubs.
Last night, I took Fatima to a restaurant somebody had suggested called le Daniel’s. There is a dress code. The lighting was low and the seats were velvet. A DJ played house music, but it wasn’t too loud. About fifty people and as many women as men, mostly wearing jackets or dresses sat at the tables or mingled on the floor.
On one end of the room the barman was pouring drinks at a long bar. On one wall, a rack was stacked to the ceiling with bottles of wine. A mirror covered another wall. Tables and sculptures were scattered around the room.
Striptease Part II
The club is famous for strip teases. I didn’t know that until the performers came out. Suddenly, the music got loud. Here is a photo of one of the dancers:
Saudi Arabia doesn’t have strip clubs or bars. Women are required to be completely covered to the extent of wearing head gear. Fatima had never seen a strip show before, but she was cool. We watched the act and chatted. She didn’t say anything nasty.
Aelyssa, on the other hand, would have gone apeshit then and there. (Aelyssa is a the last girlfriend I had in the US). She would have stood up and said just loud enough for everybody in the whole bar to hear: WE NEED TO GO RIGHT NOW!
She would have stormed out, given me the silent treatment until the afternoon the next day, then chided me. (She is a school teacher and has a lot of practice scolding her students.) She would have given her neo-feminist rant. She would have complained that men were exploiting those dancers. Then she would have informed me that the dancers are whores and that I was objectifying women.
Then the jealousy would have completely taken over. The dancer happens to be thin and physically fit. She trains, has good muscle tone, coordination, and flexibility. Aelyssa, sadly, had not gone to the gym, ridden her bicycle, or done yoga one time in the last year we were together. She put on a lot of weight and looks like she has aged 10 years.
Aelyssa would have gone on about how whores like the dancers have been brainwashed and imprinted upon men that being thin and physically fit is an unrealistic expectation for women. It is her job as a Feminist to fight this, and it is my duty as her Significant Other to support her. To her, the Venus of Malta (a quasi-pornographic Stone Age carving of a naked women shaped like a pear.) is the natural body type, and the media and whores like the stripper have brainwashed men. The fact that 3 out of 4 Americans are overweight is her proof that fat is the normal and ideal body type. Yet, until the 1950s or so, only around 1 in 10 or 1 in 20 Americans were fat. Even today, only 1 in 10 are overweight in France. Body size is an easy way to spot an American, Australian, or British tourist.
A couple of vacationing middle-aged women were sitting beside us. They were from the Central Valley in California, and they looked like it. When the dancers came out, they suddenly looked very uncomfortable as though they had just realized they were in the wrong place. They made the obvious comment about the girl’s butt being on the bar and they were afraid they would get a disease. The barman, however, wiped down the bar after their act. The standard 10% bleach solution restaurants use kills everything.
Lethal Dose Definition:
Standard measure of the toxicity of a material that will kill half of the sample population of a specific test animal in a specified period through exposure via ingestion, skin contact, or injection.
LD50 is measured in micrograms (or milligrams) of the material per kilogram of the test-animal's body weight; lower the amount, more toxic the material.
Used in comparison of toxicities, LD50 values cannot be directly extrapolated from one specie to the other or to humans.
Also called median lethal dose and written also as LD50.
Standard measure of the toxicity of a material that will kill half of the sample population of a specific test animal in a specified period through exposure via ingestion, skin contact, or injection.
LD50 is measured in micrograms (or milligrams) of the material per kilogram of the test-animal's body weight; lower the amount, more toxic the material.
Used in comparison of toxicities, LD50 values cannot be directly extrapolated from one specie to the other or to humans.
Also called median lethal dose and written also as LD50.
METH-LAD:
| Threshold | Light | Common | Strong | Heavy |
|---|---|---|---|---|
| 25 - 50 mic | 50 - 75 mic | 75 - 200 mic | 200 - 400 mic | 400 mic + |
ALD-52:
| Threshold | Light | Common | Strong | Heavy |
|---|---|---|---|---|
| 20 - 40 mic | 40 - 65 mic | 65- 195 mic | 195- 400 mic | 400 mic + |
AL-LAD:
| Threshold | Light | Common | Strong | Heavy |
|---|---|---|---|---|
| 10 - 40 mic | 40 - 75 mic | 75 - 175 mic | 175 - 250 mic | 250 mic + |
ETH-LAD:
| Threshold | Light | Common | Strong | Heavy |
|---|---|---|---|---|
| 20 - 30 mic | 30 - 60 mic | 60 - 100 mic | 100 - 200 mic | 200 mic + |
PRO-LAD:
| Threshold | Light | Common | Strong | Heavy |
|---|---|---|---|---|
| 25 - 40 mic | 40 - 85 mic | 85- 200mic | 200- 350 mic | 350 mic + |
1P-ETH-LAD:
| Threshold | Light | Common | Strong | Heavy |
|---|---|---|---|---|
| 15 - 30 mic | 30- 100 mic | 100 - 180 mic | 180 - 280 mic | 280 mic + |
1P-METH-LAD:
| Threshold | Light | Common | Strong | Heavy |
|---|---|---|---|---|
| 15 - 20 mic | 20- 65 mic | 65 - 180 mic | 180 - 300 mic | 300 mic + |
PARGY-LAD:
| Threshold | Light | Common | Strong | Heavy |
|---|---|---|---|---|
| 15 - 20 mic | 20- 65 mic | 65 - 180 mic | 180 - 300 mic | 300 mic + |
LSZ:
| Threshold | Light | Common | Strong | Heavy |
|---|---|---|---|---|
| 50 - 100 mic | 100 - 150 mic | 150 - 300 mic | 100 - 200 mic | 200 mic + |
LSA:
| Threshold | Light | Common | Strong | Heavy |
|---|---|---|---|---|
| ??? | 1.5 - 3 g | 3 - 6 g | 6 - 10 g | 10g + |
Tied to gather from som many expedience / sites as i could, and compared to my own experiences
Missing is the BU-LAD and LSM i will get those in later.
If someone knows the LD50 for any of these Lysergamide's pleas write it in a comment! It would be greatly appreciated!
General Information:
2C-B is a phenthylamine (PEA) and the drug rose in popularity in the mid 80's as a legal alternative to ecstasy (MDMA), despite that 2C-B is a psychedelic it can be used as a stimulant and mood enhancer in lower dosages. It was classified as a drug by the FDA in 95 in the US,and from 2002 2C-B it became illegal in almost every country.
More is coming just started this article!
Dosage:
2c-b pictures:
2C-B is a phenthylamine (PEA) and the drug rose in popularity in the mid 80's as a legal alternative to ecstasy (MDMA), despite that 2C-B is a psychedelic it can be used as a stimulant and mood enhancer in lower dosages. It was classified as a drug by the FDA in 95 in the US,and from 2002 2C-B it became illegal in almost every country.
Wikipedia.org said:2C-B or 2,5-dimethoxy-4-bromophenethylamine is a psychedelic drug of the 2C family. It was first synthesized by Alexander Shulgin in 1974. In Shulgin's book PiHKAL, the dosage range is listed as 12–24 mg. 2C-B is sold as a white powder sometimes pressed in tablets or gel caps and is referred to on the street by a number of slang names. (To see Bee's, Nexus; Bees; Venus; Bromo Chemical Mescaline; BDMPEA)
The drug is usually taken orally, but can also be insufflated or vaporized.
Aphrodisiac
Before it was scheduled, 2C-B was sold in small doses as an aphrodisiac. Some users report aphrodisiac effects at lower doses.
More is coming just started this article!
Dosage:
| Oral (Swallowed): | Insnuffled (Snorted): | |
|---|---|---|
| Threshold: | 2-5mg | 1-5mg |
| Mild Dosage; | 5-15mg | 5mg |
| Common Dosage: | 10-25mg | 5-15mg |
| Strong Dosage: | 20-50mg | 15-25mg |
| LD50 | ? | ? |
2c-b pictures:
 |  |