Blogs

If you do not approve of my lifestyle then don't torture yourself by continuing to read my blog. I'm not asking for your opinion. Nor do I want it. So go be righteous somewhere else.

Most say I'm fucked up. I find sluts on Craigslist and fuck them. These women want it or they wouldn't be making themselves available. I'm in a sexless marriage that looks so happy to everyone else. A wife that will do everything I ask and need, except want to be intimate with me. A commitment to a marriage, but a yearning for more, a voice challenging me not to accept my life on someone else's undiscussed, unsatisfactory terms.

I know the answer is simple for many people: "get a divorce and move on" or "that's why it's called a 'vow' - you promise to stick it out thru anything".

But reality isn't always so simple. Or it seems more complicated when the turmoil is in your own heart and head.

I work hard I don't feel I should have to give up my life as I know it just because my wife has gone through menopause and is not interested in sex anymore.

So I cheat. This blog is not for haters, it's not for amateur psychologist. It's for people that cheat.

The title says it all. I feel so defeated all the time. I've felt this way all my adult life. I have hated anger and conflict since I was little. I always tried to avoid it all costs even to my own detriment. I just feel like I'm stuck in a cycle of bad feelings and no motivation to get better. Each one compounding on the other. I try to take it a day at a time and tell myself that one bad day doesn't mean all is lost. But lately all those bad days have been building into bad weeks and bad months.

I won't give up hope

"Hope is the only thing stronger than fear"

To be continued............

I think I decided to make this blog for myself and any one who reads it feel free to comment. I wanted to kind of keep track of my progress as I deal with this anxiety stress and depression and a place to put down my thoughts and feelings. So here it goes

I am a middle aged closet abuser of neurontin. I've only abused it 4 times. I'm high on it as I write this. I want relief from reality. This past couple of months have been hell. The anxiety is getting out of control. I sit all day and obsess over all that's happened and I cannot seem to accomplish even the smallest of tasks. Cleaning house laundry and just daily activities aren't taking care of. I feel so Damn defeated before I even start. I figure why the hell even try because no matter how hard I try to have a "normal" life it's not gonna happen. May be later on I'll go into greater detail about the events that caused all of this. Anyway that's where the Neurontin comes in. It helps me to temporarily bury my problems and makes me feel like things are ok. Burying my problems doesn't have any benefit at all but I've been doing it most of my life. Its almost instinctual now.
I've been wanting to see a therapist lately. Even that idea creates a lot of anxiety and it scares the hell out of me thinking about confronting these issues. I feel that's the only way things will get better. Instead of hiding from them. I'm usually a very happy person but I'm having a hard time being happy now. This really fn sucks when reality is so troubling and it's all to real. I still desperately cling to the hope that things will be better some day. Which is a good thing. But most days feel like that's all that's keeping me from spiraling down deeper and deeper.

To be continued.......

To anyone who reads this wish me luck in getting into a therapist and thankyou for taking the time to read this

Why does reality have to be so fn real....

They say every man must need protection
They say every man must fall
Yet I swear I see my reflection
Some place so high above the wall
I see my light come shining
From the west unto the east
Any day now, any day now
I shall be released
- Bob Dylan

Click to expand...

The outlaw writer is, in his or her essence, an outlaw; not necessarily strictly in terms of legislation, but more-so. The outlaw writer flaunts any imagination of wrong or right; no boundary is off limits, if it gels with his soul; if he decides this thing or that must be spoken on, it will be, and without shame or guilt. The outlaw writer often has a background, realistically in illegal activity; from petty theft to scams or drug dealing. The outlaw writer marches to the beat of their own drum – is an outcast, and a weirdo – has no friends, yet is simultaneously connected with all human beings in an intimate embrace of solidarity and humanism.

The outlaw writers moral compass is so on point, and so deadly accurate, that immoral and amoral action seems the only way to be human again – for they see that humanity is a criminal entity, even under its most righteous of guises of purity and goodness. That Is why the outlaw writer sometimes appears flippant, undisciplined, careless, and rogue. For she is; she has gone to the depths and heights of goodness and bad, and knows within herself, that both is okay; neither is truly criminal; both are expressions of pure human intent, pure human emotion, pure human being.

Outlaw writers feel lost, most often, if not actively pursuing a concordant outlaw activity. Whether that be drugs, institutional infiltration, graffiti vandalism, or even more highly intellectual sabotage – taking that which is commonly held to be true and decimating it skilfully in the eyes of those who are otherwise intelligent, otherwise switched on.

Outlaw writers know they aren’t meant for this world, but fight on with both fists bleeding, swinging until they pass out, knowing with no comfort that the world isn’t made for them but they must keep on going for if just one of their ideas is recognized then their existence might be validated.

The outlaw writer is not without her scruples – she struggles and she questions till the day she hits the grave. The outlaw writer is resurfacing, resurrecting among the rubble – injecting into mediocrity the fire and anarchy the human spirit craves.

Im here again after years of being lost in a whirlwind of life's more peculiar lessons. Tonight i feel the heavy nostalgia breathing down my spine maybe thats why im writing tonight. When i loaded up BL i got an eerie and tingly feeling all over. I used to visit for the reports and humbling philosophical discussion. I feel as if my intellectual brain is trying to stretch out of a deep sleep.

Ive been so lost, confused and busy lately that i cant say when the last time ive had any real fun. Just work and life grinding away at me. Have pretty much given up on the idea of friends or even just socializing. I find it all very exhausting even around people i used to be very comfortable with. Most must think im pretty strange for the acrobatics i will sometimes perform in order to avoid social situations. It feels as if a different kind of numb has moved in to my mind. I have allowed a new darkness in without realizing.

Though the past few years haven't been at all bad, lots of ups and downs self-doubt and personal growth. In fact i would bet they will be difined boldly in my overall person. l couldn’t even begin to imagine where id be without the two most influential people on me ever the last two years. It was through loving them that i was able to begin the long journey to love myself. But at the same time it feels like the loss of these people has compounded my fears of getting close to other people. Glad i got to say it finally

In the days of darkness comes the light.
In the rays of light feel the essence of birth.
With the beauty of birth begets the serenity of death.
In the acceptance of death the longing of knowledge overpowers.
Being overpowered instills the fear.
In the defeat of fear the darkness emerges.

There is a stillness inside of me. It feeds off of the wasted emotions. No matter my strength the stillness returns. It touches my soul with a darkness. The stillness pierces through my being longing, searching, reaching. There's a stillness inside of me. It takes your place as it comforts me.

I am alone in this world. I reach out and long for a hand to pull me through yet nothing is what I find. The faces and voices that surround me are empty and fake. I search for myself . I am lost in this world. The world is lost to me. I am no longer afraid.

Since my last entry a lot has taken place...I got sudden word that Rizza had filed for Anullment, hoping to marry what ever yoyo fell for her. I flew into Cebu, where she has been living since she left. Her man is a Filipino, 4'10" like her, pramaturely bald with a giant goiter. I told her that I wasn't paying for shit. If she had to bribe whatever judge, that is on her.

I believe that I had mentioned in past entries that I had been dreaming about Lovely. It got to the point that everytime I closed my eyes she would pop up. Jews put a lot of stock into dreams so that finally I did the unthinkable, I sought her out. I was in Cebu, but she had long changed her cell phone number. I looked her up on a social media site and much to my suprise, found out she was in Cebu! I figured that I would give it a couple of days and then show up at the hotel she had named- though, her staying at a posh hotel made me think maybe things had gotten complicated in the 10 months I hadn't spoken to her.

The next day I turned on my iPhone and boom, she had left for Borocay, the biggest tourist mecca in the Philippines...and then I saw her post about Ben, her 50-something white boyfriend she had gotten in the interim, suprise.

Well it felt like I had been punched in the stomach but only for a few minutes. I had long ago realised that she was a phony. I had been paying her bills, put DSL on in her house and then one day- as I discussed in past entries- found she was on maybe a dozen dating sites, in clothes I had bought her. I was thankful at the time that I hadn't finished construction on the wing we were building onto her parent's home, for us. Still, those dreams I was having had gotten to me.

Mariz and her family kept asking me to go up to Luzon but the last thing I needed was to be with a girl as I tried sorting out what I was feeling.. I flew to Israel, spent the last two months in Bat Yam and got into New York two days ago. The day I arrived I heard another soldier had been kidnapped. He had worked with some Palestinian at a cafe in Bat Yam before his induction for mandatory service 2 years ago.

The Palestinian kept in touch with him and somehow convinced him to meet him at Qal Qilya Border Crossing. From their they took a taxi to Sha'arei Tikvah, a "Settlement," next to the Palestinian's village, Beit Aman. Getting out of the taxi at the "Settlement" entrance they began walking to Beit Aman. Walking through a field in between the 2 communities the Palestinian's brother was waiting. The 2 Palestinians killed the 20 soldier and stuffed him in a 7 meter- deep well.

The idea was to trade his body parts for a third brother, a Tanzim terrorist in prison since 2003 for dispatching a female "Suicide Bomber" amongst other acts of gratuitous violence. SHABBAK (Shin Bet) used the CCTV at Qal Qilya to trace the taxi and found out where their destination was. Then, using the "Settlement's" CCTV array they were able to identify the Palestinian.

The IDF threw a cordon on Beit Aman then spread out. Under Shin Bet "interrogation" the piece of shit admitted his cowardly act and then led them to the well. Tomer Chazan, 20, was from my hometown, Bat Yam. I didn't know him but as a soldier, and the father of 2 career military and 1 Reservist I feel the pain.

In 1993 when Rabin and Arafat kissed on the White House lawn I actually cried in happiness, thanking G-D for having survived long enough to see peace coming- grateful that my children would not need to spend most of their lives in trenches. The Second Intifadeh cure me of that naivete. There can never be peace, that is a fact. They will never allow us to exist. Now two of my kids are spending their life in trenches. I pray I live long enough to see my grandchildren grow up, but I am sure that they, like their parents, grandparents and great-grandparents will also be soldiers.

I am sitting in the lobby of the methadone clinic. Each time I come to the US I must switch from morphine to methadone. I just took my first dose but it still hasn't sated the monster. I might as well walk to the subway as I wait for it to hit me.

So I've been working at a very ubiquitous coffee chain for the past 6 months. I've been doing pretty damn good too. Not a lot of responsibility aside from showing up on time (which can be hard, because sometimes I have to be there at 6am, ready to work) but I've been doing it. The store I started at originally was SUPER busy during out peak period, seeing like 150+ people in our busiest half hour. My new store that i transferred to about a month ago (and about 2 blocks away) is about half that during our busiest half hour, which is great.

I had some slip ups and was in housing court YET AGAIN back in November and December of 2014. The landlord and his attorney were basically like, "If we have to take you to court again, we're going to pursue an eviction case and not a nonpayment case." Or something like that. I'm not 100% sure that they can do that, but I also do not wish to find out. So I've been caught up with my rent since then. That's almost 6 months of paying rent [almost] on time. My rent is due on the 5th, so it's usually in by the 8th or something like that. I don't want to fuck with them, because obviously we need a place to live. Me, my girlfriend, my brother and my dogs. I don't particularly enjoy the apartment I live in because of the bad memories and the crampedness and whatever else. But it's the only place I've ever lived and it's the only place I could afford (in NYC at least). So we'll be here for the foreseeable future.

We were SO CLOSE to being homeless SO MANY TIMES. It took a huge toll on my nerves. And my girlfriend's nerves as well. Even my brother. Any time someone knocks at the door, we all freak out a little. Even if it's a Jehovah's Witness or whatever. We're just so on edge because it was usually the Marshall coming to serve us with eviction papers. Ugh. That definitely didn't help me to stay sober, because anxiety is a huge trigger in my drug use. So glad I came to that realization.

I still see my therapist with whom I used to score drugs with/for. (I mostly would buy him molly and he'd throw me like $20 bucks and give me a ride to the dealer I'd see anyway, so it wasn't very beneficial to me.) I don't really know why I see him still. The "therapeutic relationship" has been ruined for many years. There's nothing I can gain from seeing him. I only go maybe every other week. We have a standing appointment. He mostly vents to me about his ex-wife and his fucked up patients. It's so toxic, to be honest. I need to find a new therapist, but I feel like he ruined therapy for me... I have no faith in it. I've seen three other therapists prior to him, but they obviously didn't work out either. Maybe I'll just give up on therapy for now and try again in 6 months or so. My psychiatrist is amazing. I should probably ask her for a recommendation, but I haven't done so yet.

Also, my Suboxone doctor and I have come a long way... He's going to start giving me refills so I don't have to see him every month. Which is a huge victory for me, because prior to that he wanted to drop me as a patient. Basically, I'd use 3 weeks out of the month and then stop the week before I had to see him. I'm sure he could tell. That's his fucking job, after all. I then stopped using so much and just stayed on Suboxone only. That really helped me get my life back. Being dependent on a chemical to function fucking SUCKS BALLS, but at least Suboxone is legal and fairly affordable (I pay around $80 for the prescription fee and the actual medication. Can't beat that. God knows I was spending every last dime on heroin and still spending maybe 2 out of every 4 weeks per month DOPE SICK. And every time I'd start to feel like a human being again, bam, start using heroin again and then run out of money. I couldn't keep a job. It was no way to live. I was a terrible girlfriend and a terrible sister and a terrible friend and a terrible dog mommy.

This brings me to the past week. I had 4 days off from work, because they fucking like to cut my hours every once in a while. Tuesday through Friday, off. So an old dealer of mine got in touch with me and offered me some coke and dope for like $70 bucks. It was hard to pass up. So hard, in fact, I didn't pass up on it. I went and got the shit. I did like half the coke and one bag of dope so far. I'm pretty faded at the moment. Obviously. Because that's the only time I like to write, when I'm faded. Sad, but true. I could have gotten marijuana or something, but no, I wanted coke and dope. It's not a *huge* deal because I get paid tomorrow and we have plenty of food in the house and all the bills are paid and I don't have any responsibilities until Saturday when I work again, but like, WHY? Why did I need to get high? The last time I got high was a little over a month ago I think. Which is pretty huge for me. I was a daily user. I didn't use IV, but heroin and coke are still heroin and coke. If I did use IV, I would probably be worse off. If my family did become homeless because of me, I don't know what I would have done. We probably would have lost our dogs and had to put them in a shelter or something. They're gorgeous dogs and highly sought after breeds so I'm sure they would have been adopted, but I know we would have been heartbroken. My male dog is 8 and a half years old and my female is 5 and a half. They've been with us since they were puppies. God, the fact that I would have lost my dogs never dawned on me as a real possibility because I was so fucked up I guess. But it could have and would have happened.

I'm so happy I got on Suboxone. Perhaps I give Suboxone too much credit. Obviously it was me choosing to cut down on using drugs. But the Suboxone made it possible to not be sick and to get a job and stay employed and be responsible and pay my bills. I've been on Suboxone maintenance for 2 years in July. The initial fee of $300 dollars for the evaluation appointment was difficult to get together, but it was the best investment I've ever made. I know I am no better than a daily heroin user in terms of my brain and body being dependent on a chemical to function normally, but I don't wake up in a panic each a every morning, counting down the hours until I am too sick to function, trying to come up with ways to make enough money to get well. And even if I did have the money, trying to find a fucking dope dealer to meet up with. Hoping and praying that their dope was actual dope, that it would get me well, that it wouldn't kill me, that I wouldn't get arrested or robbed or physically harmed on my way to buy the dope. So much stress maintaining a dope habit.

I am thankful it never got to the point where I had to live on the streets and beg or sell my body or rob innocent people for money. That's not to say I haven't done some grimy things for money, because I have. I'm sure we all have. That monkey wants to be fed, and it will make us become people we'd otherwise despise in order to satiate the beast. And then do the same shit all over the next day and the next and the next, ad nauseum, ad infinitum, until we decide we've had enough and want to get better and go to rehab or detox or cold turkey at home. Or until our bodies decide we've had enough and we overdose and die. Or we get caught by the police. Or we seek help from a doctor in the form of opiate replacement therapy. Or any of the other things that happen to addicts. I sort of want to do something in the field of social work to help others like me, but I just relapsed today. I'm essentially writing a long cocaine ramble. I don't think anyone will actually read this to the end, which is perfectly fine. But I don't know. BIG COFFEE CHAIN isn't really fulfilling work, but it's something to do until I decide what I really want to do.

I know I don't want to keep disappointing my family. I want to make them proud. I want to move my family out of this apartment. I want all the same things I wanted before I started this addiction. I wish I never touched an opiate or cocaine, but I did. I did learn a lot from this experience.

I'm going to try to write in here more often. And not just when I relapse. Ha. I hope every single Bluelighter I've interacted with is doing great. I hope every Bluelighter I've yet to meet is doing great.

I hope everyone finds what they're looking for. I'm still searching for my happiness, but I feel like I'm at least going in the right direction now. More so than before, at least.

It is a precious time of year, when the heat remains for an encore but the punishing humidity and bloodsucking insects of high summer have been forced into the depths of the forest by the calm winds of early autumn.

The trees have begun to show their fall colours, and shadows have grown eerily long with the approach of the equinox. Going along the winding, dusty road where traffic rarely flows, I like to lazily stab puffballs with found sticks and watch the spores scatter.

There's a small bridge that was once painted red, but it rotted and was consumed by the burgeoning moss. Beneath the bridge there lies a creek bed that glimmers with pyrite at the bottom of a ravine thick with trees, where rounded boulders left by glacial movement eons ago stand firm on the slope like sentinels of the wild.

In shield country, the roads of men give way to the lakes and rivers that define the landscape. In shield country, it is possible to travel vast distances in any direction over water. There is as much lake as there is land. It kindles a sense of adventure to hop in a canoe and paddle as far as possible before the daylight gives way to dusk and the sky glows cerulean like the dying flame of a gas lamp. It's a race to make it back to shore before it gets swallowed by the dark.

After the sun sets, I would go lie down in the grass of the clearing and stare upwards. The silhouettes of trees serve as a frame for what lies beyond them, up there. The sky, unfiltered by the lights of the distant city, reveals a humbling sight.

I can see the light of so many stars that it is difficult to find the black between them. These stars are to the sky what grains of sand are to a beach that stretches on without bounds, like a cosmic network forged across the timeless void. The Milky Way cuts across them, like a river flowing through the wilderness of space.

The I that is me leaves my body and submerges into the cool granite of this ancient land mass. All that is left above the surface is a brain connected to eyeballs that somehow evolved to perceive a sight so immense that it defies human understanding. Seeing this sky, I can understand why people believed it to be the domain of God. It speaks to me in a beautiful language I cannot understand. All I can know is that I am stardust graced by the fleeting spark of life. I am in awe. I am grateful.

I hadn't had sex for three and a half years until last month when I got fucked by a tranny. Like, really fucked. She fucked me in the ass around 9 times, cumming in me every time, and then she jacked off into my mouth a few times too. This all took place in a 24 hour window, most of it within 7-8 hours. And yeah, it was a 'she' - she took estrogen and had breast implants, the whole nine...I'm that weird type of guy who likes genetic women and male to female trannies, but NOT guys, unless you count feminine crossdressers in drag, which I'm guessing a lot of regular straight people would.

Anyway, like I said, this was the first time I'd gotten fucked in more than three years, and it sucked, ultimately. It was crazy, because she used a lot of lube, and I felt fine on the days she fucked me, but HOLY FUCK, for the next two weeks, especially after a day or two, my whole fucking ass was sore, and I had to convert to a liquid diet for a while just because I couldn't shit without feeling like a DEMON for a whole half hour after passing stool...

Long story long, now I have no fucking idea what to do. Yeah, I am attracted to females, but I'm a terrible top in bed, I don't know how else to say it. And I don't even want to deal with a strap on in my ass...yeah, no thanks, an immovable plastic dick is not going in my ass.

And I'm a damn good bottom, I like trannies and trannies love my ass. But I'm just at a loss. I don't think I can deal with the pain of continual ass play. I can get fucked, like, once a month, lol, but I know that's not even close to realistic. And I'm not asking for pity, but yeah, I'm starting to seriously envision a life in which I'm either completely asexual or in which I have one-off encounters once or twice a year until I'm in my 40's or so when it'll probably be rarely ever...it's not really depressing just lonely.

And just to show I'm somewhat rational, I will admit: yes, this is an insane event to base any future life musings on, because of the obvious: 1) I hadn't had anal intercourse, or anal play of any kind, in over three years, and I didn't tell this to the top tranny; 2) she fucked me 9 times in a day - that's a ridiculous amount, even if my asshole was loose and ready to go; 3) I didn't make it any better by acting like a hungry bottom...I actually pushed back onto her dick a lot and begged her to fuck me harder...stupid I know; 4) basically from what I read about online, I went through the worst anal pain possible BESIDES actually having a colon tear from getting fucked (which honestly could have happened if she had been a few inches bigger), which usually only happens in male rape or from not using lube (which is crazy)

or maybe i am crazy and i am dreaming and none of this ever happened and i'll wake up tomorrow and my dick will be firmly planted into my alien queen's pussy. but who knows? i kinda doubt that. i mostly just see either a painful sexually fulfilled future or a pleasant but asexual existence...fuck...

Goodness its been nearly 6 months. So much has moved in this time. New role, super awesome money but deadly hours and stress levels through the fuckin roof. Worth it? I don't know anymore. Like I can do whatever I want financially but never have the time to be fucked and generally cannot be bothered. I feel so out of step with everyone else I used to know. Almost lonely at times. Its like ive stepped into a different world and most people my age would never get it.

On another note, got back with Mr. I not long after my last post. What a shit time that break up lead to. Surprised I didnt end up o/ding on benzos and booze. When I think back to that time I am absolutely astounded I am still here and got promoted. Pays to be a hard cunt in banking. Literally.

[video]https://youtu.be/HbgXJHANdKE[/video]

completely experimental, mind you. share..or w/e

Why did you have to kill yourself? I wish you knew how much I love you. I was a bad sister, I left you with dad all alone when I should have been closer. A year before I had considered bringing you over to stay with us but we decided it might not be good for Caleb who was 8 at the time.

IF I KNEW THIS WOULD HAVE HAPPENED I WOULD HAVE DONE IT IN A HEARTBEAT!

I can't believe I could have helped you but I didn't! I fucking love you, chaits. I FUCKING LOVE YOU LIKE THE BABY BROTHER THAT YOU ARE!

WHY THE FUCK DIDNT YOU REACH OUT TO ME??? Why wasn't I there for you more? But I will never understand why you killed yourself without a last phone call. You didn't even try to contact me. Didn't you think I cared about you?

I have SO MANY REGRETS! SO MANY! But nothing I can ever say or do will bring you back so all I can say is I'm sorry and I loved you more than anything. And I just want you to know that.

You will never leave my heart and mind. We are tightly bound by our experiences and by the fucked up dad we have. Every step of my life I will be making it up to you. Everything I do to pull myself out of this hole is for you. If I couldn't save you, I'll save someone else.

Your death gave me the final push to become a mental health professional and all my work is dedicated to you. Every day I don't want to get out of bed, I'll do it for you. It's all I can do but it still doesn't feel like enough because you died not knowing how much you mean to me. You weren't just my little brother. You're my little baby brother.

I COULD HAVE FUCKING SAVED YOU, I KNOW IT! I got through it and so could you. I saved myself but I failed you.

WHY DIDN'T I SEE THE SIGNS? WHY DID I LET DAD GET IN THE WAY? I was so mad at dad that by ignoring him, I wasn't there for you.

That time you rang me from the psychiatric ward, I realized you look up to me and when you were in pain I was the one you reached out to. I feel like I let you down by not helping you more. But why didn't you make a phone call when you were desperate again?

I truly hope that you wanted to but lost my number. Or you were so lost that there were no options left

I could have MADE there be options. I would have done anything to save your life.

DYING IN THE WOODS ALONE, WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK??? I guess you didn't think you'd be found BUT YOU WERE! So NOW WHAT? Those trees are burnt in my mind, the tons of snake holes or whatever they were.

I can wish whatever I want but none of it brings you back. You died how and where you died; I'm not here to proscribe the ways you could have made it easier on us.

Just know I love you, okay? Yeah, I fucked up. But now I'm gonna focus on not making myself another casualty.

What started out to see what would happen for a mouse to take as much stimulants as me became a 30 something boy standing on his bed trying to cover up the hole the mouse was quickly chewing threw. I assume after all the psychotropic drugs fed to this mouse if not dead he has evolved in to something that will call me bitch. I hate having to teach my spell.check to swear. Anyway. I figure I better end this experiments quickly because he squeaked then climbs the hookah tube I slid down there until i can see the drug crazies look in his eye.
So today I will spray him with lye. That should vet rid of the little body to.

We find ourselves at the edge of cataclysm. Scratch that. We develop the capacity to discover ourselves when we face the edge. Yes, that's better. Mihály Csíkszentmihályi, who hashed out the theory of flow, explained that essentially we experience ego loss when we engage in tasks that are challenging enough to stand on the ceiling of our level of skill. If the task is not challenging, we grow complacent. If the task is too challenging, we are stressed by our inability to measure up. If the task is just right for us, we are given the opportunity to transcend ourselves.

Have you heard of impostor syndrome? We could be our own doppelgangers, a generation full of some of the brightest, most competent people who are terrified of failure despite growing up with the constant reassurance that we are all special and unique and somehow great from birth. Then the real world slaps us down from that cocoon of blissful ignorance and we accept working for sixty hours a week for less pay than we deserve because we are afraid. We have our justifications; "the economy is bad, i'm lucky to have a job at all", "i can't afford to lose this job, i have no safety net".

We are given insurmountable tasks of no meaningful consequence. Do it or risk being fired in favour of someone else willing to do it--someone willing to work longer hours for less money. The objective is no longer to give you tasks you can finish, the objective is to give you a neverending stream of tasks and it is someone else's job to figure out where the beginnings and endings need to be. We live in a vertically-oriented society where the objective is to squeeze as much labour out of the poor sod hanging on for dear life to the rung below your own.

It's pointless to be a realist, when reality is nothing more than a layer of scaffolding on a structure made entirely of abstractions. Better, perhaps, to be a pragmatist and reject what everyone else believes and wants you to believe. If you don't buy into it, all their power disappears immediately. It's all a game of confidence, a game we lose when we let petty fears steal our focus.

Im even high!

I thought that I had been threw withdrawal of the fentanyl, the detox was 100s of spoons and endless cottons to suck on when the dope came to collect . Like the Charon, who needs payment to cross the river Styx, it will not be short changed. So I went to my first test of suboxone they send me home and then the insanity kicked in.landing me in the hospital with an abscess. I said I was off everything for a week and then they tried to give me the pain med shot before the gas.

Apparently they never saw anyone with such a tolerance. So I can't say I am not scared even though I have 20 ms contin 15 mgs , and 60 x 10 mgs oxymorphone hcl
Does anyone know the equivalent to 1 mg of fentanyl to either of the above.
At my end of shooting I was at 48 mg s a shot. Believe me or not.. don't say I am a liar . I feel no pride in being an addict, so just help if possible.

Feeding pigeons at the fountain in Temple Square this afternoon. I had just bought a loaf of bread and sat on the edge of the fountain. That attracted the pigeons. This one waddled up to me and started pecking my finger until I fed it.


I like to sit by the fountain and read while I wait for the morphine to kick in. I don't want to be visibly high, so when I start to feel it, I go inside and work for a while.

Earlier today, I had tea with Pinar at an Arabic café in the Latin Quarter. She is learning English, so often, she speaks English to me, and I speak French to her, and we correct each others' mistakes.

Out of the blue, she invited me to go with her to her best friend's wedding in Algeria this summer some time after the Eid-ul-Fitr holiday, the end of Ramadan.

We would be spending a week together very close, travelling through a dangerous and remote region of the world and visiting and staying with people she knows. She would probaly expect me to be meeting her closest friends and family. We have never traveled together, but I think the trip would be fun.

What does it mean when a woman invites you to go to her best friend's wedding? It seems like a big deal when a Western woman asks you to go to a wedding, like she is claiming you, right? But when the wedding is in a foreign country where travel is difficult? And there are cultural differences - she's Muslim and it's in an Arabic country? Is Pinar trying to tell me something?

She liked my story about spending a year in the desert in the cabin and about hiking the Pacific Crestr Trail so maybe she only thinks i like going to out of the way places.

There used to be a blogger on here, Rachamim, who lived in the Middle East and was very familiar with the Maghreb (Northwest Africa) and its customs. He would know, but he's been AWOL for years.

It would be a fun and interesting trip, and I would probably never do it on my own. Partly because I don't speak Arabic. Arabic is her first language. Also, Algeria is one of those countries taht the STate Department issues travel warnings to stay away from. But she knows the country and where it is safe and which places to avoid.

I see her nearly every day at work. Outside of work, we often go out together. We know each other somewhat well, and I enjoy her company. But we only go out as friends, and we have never talked about going further than that. I have always assumed it wasn't possible.

She has an exotic Middle Eastern beauty. I'm very plain in comparison so I have assumed she would never feel anything for me. She smells good too. When we hug and kiss, it's hard to resist the temptation to inhale deeply and smell her hair. I think she would notice if I did that. She's smart too. She has a PhD in neurobiology. I like smart women. She's easy to get along with. I could fall for her.

I haven't told her about Ariadne specifically. She doesn't know I'm addicted to morphine either. If I'm going to Algeria, there's no way I'm taking any morphine with me on the plane.

So, I have no idea how to interpret her invitation. Dudes never invite other dudes as 'dates' to their best friend's weddings, unless they are gay, right? It's usually the girl friend who invites her boyfriend to her best friend's wedding. The only weddings I've been were those when girl friends I was very serious with took me as a date to the weddings of their family of girl friends. Or my own friends. Something like this would mean a lot more than driving an hour to the next city and then spending the day at the wedding and driving home at night.

There are big cultural differences between American Women and non-American women and how weddings are done. But wouldnt being invited as a date mean the same thing in both cultures?

I didn't expect to be continuing this one because it began as a dream and dreams aren't real. Despite that, dreams seem to tap into something Jung called Synchronicity, "the view that the structure of reality includes a principle of acausal connection which manifests itself most conspicuously in the form of meaningful coincidences." What happened yesterday in waking life is a coincidence that goes with the dream I just wrote about.




Le Dandy Club is a club in the heart of Pigalle, meters from the famous Moulin Rouge. Formerly, it was an establishment once frequented by the "dandys" of the 18th century. It's served as a brothel, salon, cabaret, cafe, and bar, and is currently furnished with canapé style sofas, antique pianos, victorian furniture, beds in the little rooms where the prostitutes lived.

Ariadne and I were out yesterday evening for drinks and dinner. We met at teh Moulin Rouge and went in there and to a few other places bar hopping. She had to get up early for work today so she went home. I have the day off, so I went ot unlock my bicycle, but I noticed an interesting looking bar next to where I had locked my bike.

It was "le Dandy Club." I peeked in and wandered around inside. There were lots of people drinking, talking, sitting on the sofas and beds. Standing next to an old record player was a tall blond woman. There aren't many natural blondes in Paris, and most women here are shorter than me.

She turned and looked directly at me and said "bonsoir" (hello). Her face had delicate features, blue eyes, and high cheek bones and a fine nose like a German or Scandanavian. She's strikingly beautiful and could be a model. She looked exactly like the woman from the dream I wrote about yesterday. She is the woman from the dream.

She said hello again, are you OK? I was just remembering how she looked naked on the beach in the afternoon sun. I must have looked very surprised or confused, because I was very surprised to recognise someone from a dream and who I have never seen in waking life.

We talked for a while. Her name is Ingrid. She's German but has lived here for 10 years and works for an agency that works with children in famine countries.

Out of the blue, she invited me to a party on a yacht next week and gave me her contact information. I didn't tell her about Ariadne. Ordinarilly, since I'm already seeing someone, I would have thrown away her card as soon as she was out of sight. But I don't meet people I know only from dreams very often. And the kind of dream she was in was very strange and erotic. I kept her card, and hid it where Ariadne won't find it.

Childhood is meant to be a place of trust and innocence but sadly for many of us this is not the case. I was only eight years old when I discovered the harshness of the real world. I was subjected to countless diets by my mother from an early age. She would prod my skinny rib cage and find layers of imaginary fat to condemn. Looking back at childhood pictures and my boney little frame it was nothing other than cruelty and neglect. I was starved until I reached a weight that was far too low for my height and collapsed as a result. Even this did not deter my mother and after months of ill treatment I caught pneumonia and she had to ease up on me. Whenever I gained weight she would ration my food carefully again. I would try to sneak food out of the fridge but whenever she noticed it was missing I was punished by my rations being cut even more. My mother insisted I was fat and ugly and I had ruined her life by being born. One day I sat staring at my dog Blues bowl of dog food and biscuits and gave in to temptation. I scooped out a small handful. It made me gag and retch so much that my Grandmother heard and was distraught when she discovered what I was doing. She immediately stuck her fingers down my throat and made me vomit. I sobbed and coughed as she held me and I cried "Don't tell anyone Mum will kill me if she finds out". Nan made me promise not to do it again but sadly I could not keep that promise. I felt guilty about taking the food from Blue at first. Then one day I was playing a game of catch on the floor with Blue. I was pretending to be a dog wagging its tail and barking at him. He did it back but then suddenly unexpectedly he went over to his bowl picked up a biscuit and threw it up in the air so that it landed at my feet. I picked it up an nibbled it pretending to eat it. Then he wagged his tail and trotted over to his bowl, picked a biscuit and dropped it right infront of me. Blue went to his bowl again, picked up another biscuit and noisily crunched on it watching me as I chewed on mine.
Years later I confronted my Mother about the terrible deprivation she had inflicted on me. She insisted it had been for my own good and that I was and still am fat and disgusting. I find it hard to forgive her all these years later. My Grandmother did her best to protect me but she too was terrified of my Mum. I think I probably would have been dead if it wasn't for her.