A Blow To Tweaker Pride

What shame!  What ignominy!  I'm not sure I can ever show my face in public or private or among hallucinated voices ever again...  There I was, so haughty and full of myself, exultant in my victory, thinking the whole time during production that I alone had been cast as the lead in the exciting, groundbreaking DARBY O'GILL AND THE LITTLE PEOPLE II:  METHPOCALYPSE!, when in fact, as I found out during the well-attended screening, that all along I was a bit player billed far down the credits as "Anonymous Terrified Hot Bitch From The 70s #5."  I was more mortified than if I had been Courtney Love turned down for the role of Nancy Spungeon, after she had seen her own lackluster acting thrown into sharp relief onscreen as a second banana she had originally esteemed herself as better than.   At least she still has her hubris, delusion, and self-righteous indignation, whereas I now find myself bereft of every comfort.

Oh, painful reality!  Oh humiliation!

The Latest (And If I Had My Say, the Last) Straw

But then, when have I ever had my say?

Oh, right.

Here we go again.  What a sad, terrifying (but is it still mystifying, in 2016?) story.

Of course, if it had happened in San Francisco, the article in the SFGate wouldn't have come out until it could cite a fig-leaf toxicology report from the City's creepy ME at General, cover for the cops, and downplay or neglect to mention the victim's poor grandmother, who also died in a hail of gunfire.

They're lucky I wasn't there, or I probably would have pulled another mean Dark Phoenix number (with of course the little leg up from my usual lovely, anonymous assistants -- always grateful for you guys out there), twisting their porky, hair-trigger asses all over the place.

Goddamn them.  He was just a kid.  And his grandmother!

I don't blame so many people for being afraid to ask for help...

Reno Screamer

I can't be the only one who's fed up with stories of cops shooting naked, unarmed, fucked-up people in public.  It's 2016 and this shit is still going on!

I Blame Barack Obama...

...For everything that embarrasses me or mortifies me in my quest for attention.

Maybe The Pot Is Calling The Kettle Black, But...

Look, I'm bipolar II, with hypomania, depression, uncontrollable emotional outbursts. and psychosis.  I'm crazy as a shithouse rat.  I think telepathy and telekinesis are real, and that I've been the subject of secret government experimentation.  I've had visions, hallucinations, conversations with the dead, clairvoyance, satori, epiphany, theophany, have been inducted into mystery, and I've survived mind-rape.  I've been visited by ghosts, shadow people, various "thems," and the local sheriff's deputy who was serving a restraining order.  I dip my french fries in my chocolate shake and am convinced I'm the biblical Antichrist.  Sometimes I feel like a boddhisatva starring in a Dr. Who episode penned by Philip K. Dick.  I'm fucking out-to-lunch most of the time.

That said, I don't get libertarianism.  Professed libertarians call themselves pragmatists and realists, but they rely on and believe in (or want to be true) absolutely fanciful, delusional ideas that are completely at variance with the way people and the world actually behave.  As boneheaded as many American voters are, we will never have a libertarian president.  Most of my fellow countrymen are at least that in touch with objective reality...

I wouldn't consider libertarian notions irritating or a peeve, but the existence of libertarian candidates is amusing, IMHO.

Sh, I'm Listening To Voices...

My anthem.

Socratic Daemons

You know that little voice in the back of your head that tells you, "This is probably not such a good idea"?  Well, I don't have that voice.  It's not to say I don't hear voices -- sometimes it's like Grand Central Station crossed with the U.N. in there, but I would know if any voice in my head had issued that caveat.

Also, I'll let you dear reader know the first moment if any among the voices in my head sound like Bobcat Goldthwait.  Because that would be hilarious and newsworthy.

Not That The Onus Is On Me...

...to "prove" anything, but I think when I get paid next month I'm just going to go ahead and buy an otoscope, and post a picture of my outer ear canal and eardrum.  Then we can all agree for once and for all whether or not I do have some kind of hardware in my skull (I don't see how it's possible, because I don't recall any recovery time being necessary after the procedure was allegedly performed in 2009.  Weird shit.)

It should at least put to rest any debate that's going on out there among those schizophrenics, tweakers, and other undiagnosed individuals as to whether or not I personally have a government implant.  I mean, I could just be as crazy as everybody else.  That is a possibility...

Big Girls Don't Cry

Fergie learned her lesson.

Dad At Colusa Regional Medical Center

When I was a little boy, my father would always tell me, "Life isn't fair."  But he was wrong, like he proved to be wrong about everything.  Life is exceedingly fair, and no one gets away with anything for very long.  My mother was more correct:  "It always catches up with you in the end and kicks your ass."  Whose to say?  It's not about naivete or cynicism, delusion or realism.  It's beyond blame and fault.  It's about memory.  How does our memory serve us?

In most non-sociopaths, memory is a faulty thing.  Better to rely on faith than on memory.  I personally have a memory like that of an elephant.  I can't remember specific calender dates (making me a bad plaintiff), but I can remember the tone and gist of what's come to pass.  I'm kind of unique.  (Also, I smell funny to some people, but that is a nonsequitur...)

If memory serves, I was subject to abuse at the hands of those who had me as their charge to keep.  I was mistreated, invaded, assaulted, constrained, and tormented.  I was subjected to chemical restraint at Saint Francis Medical Center in San Francisco -- illegal in the state of California.  I was told by the property management at 230 Eddy, "I don't want to know why you're qualified to live in subsidized housing.  Then I'd be guilty of discrimination."  I was told by my social worker at San Francisco's General Hospital's Ward 86 (get it?  You're 86'd:  the last bar you can be thrown out of in San Francisco) -- I was told this:  that in the case where I was powerless against the powerful, I was to blame for the situation in which I found myself.  The only defense those who did these things had was that it left no physical mark besides the cigarette burns I inflicted on myself in order to obey the voices, using pain to anchor myself in reality to save myself.

But this is not about me.  A lot has been about me, but this is about everyone but me.  I've never needed a boyfriend I could cuddle with more in my life.  I'd even sleep with Matthew Barney right now if it meant a modicum of comfort and a transient moment of bliss.  I'm so blind to the world of cause and effect sometimes, no matter how in it I am mired.

So my dad left the hospital against medical advice.  At least, that's their story and he's abiding by it.  There's only these key pieces of evidence I have:  he was non-ambulatory patient who for months had threatened to leave, and had accused staff of holding him against his will, but only last night did they call and say, "He's threatening to leave against medical advice."  I told them, "So all you have to do is refuse to assist him in leaving.  No sweat."  Then this morning, I got a call from dad saying he was at the casino and needed a ride home.  I assumed it was a bullshit call.  I phoned the medical center's skilled nursing facility and asked the nurses station, which is right next to my dad's room,, "Is he still there?"

She put me on hold.  Big tell.

She came back on the line to say he left AMA.  I swear to God (of whom the sociopaths have a certainty -- bless their hearts -- and in whom the rest of us have to gin up faith), I'm going to get a lawyer (possibly via this blog post) and have a case.  We are a poor, well-educated family which has always turned it's nose up at litigation.  But this smells like an out-of-court settlement situation.

What do you, the Perry Mason fans at home think?

Could You Repeat That?

Yes, everything you were saying during the last six years.  I didn't catch it -- I was busy listening to real people in the material world.  Artificially induced psychosis can be so difficult!

Not That I Have Room To Talk, And I Hate To Say It, But...

...Isn't tweaking near Bohemian Grove just asking for it?  And by "it" I mean stuff that merits a visit from special agents Fox Mulder and Dana Scully.

I'm Ready To Throw My Hands Up...

...Out of sheer exasperation.  I hate the way these cop deaths in NY and FL have been politicized. It just does not seem like the thing for people upset about police brutality to do -- it's the one thing people protesting police brutality would probably never do. Nor do I buy the conspiracy theory that the cops set up the murder of other cops whom they wanted dead (not to say it's inconceivable, but it is extremely unlikely). One of the more common delusions I've heard of from, say, tweakers, schizophrenics, and assorted other paranoiacs is that the cops are "out to get them." Chances are, a little digging into both shooters' pasts will uncover mental health issues -- they probably heard voices and hallucinated police hurting them in some way. I doubt that they themselves were victims of actual police brutality who were on some vengeful rampage. All this talk of assassination and retaliation seems extremely ill-informed, premature and irresponsible.

Every Day

Seems like a test of every value I hold dear, every value without which I would happily die.  Reverence, humility, compassion, wisdom, respect, honesty, piety, disobedience to our vested authorities -- all of these feel weighed and their worth now decided on by those capable of positing pure mockeries of them.  My soul is being hammered at by the soulless, and one day it might crack.  I may be sanctimonious and naive, but my life refuses to be reduced to a simple formula for easy digestion by a factotum I've never met and has absolute control over my life or death.  It's been a daunting few years, to say the least.

What can I say?  You have to put a bullet in me to stop me from believing in the things that make life worth living.

Pluto

To my executioner/hunter:  you and I are both lost.  I guess you thought I was important, but I was treated, on the balance, pretty fairly.  You seem to be somewhat bitter.  Can't you find a nice white lady to give you a hug?  I'll never fathom some of this shit.  Hang in there, and remember:  friends are for life...

Hive Mind

T̖̕o̼̝͈̜͈͇ͅ ͇̪̝i̗͙̘n̘͕͔vo̸͈͓̦̪ķ̤͚̥͎͔͇ȩ̹͇̟ ̻̞͇͕̗͚̹t͕̻̱̱h̖͎̮̼̟̳͈e̡̟̞͉͍̣̤ ͇̰h̞̠̫̬i̶̖̟̟̯̟͇v͎e̲-͔͈͍̠͠m̘͉̳̝̥į̬͙̝̥̘̟n͓̜̺̺̞d̫̩̩̲͘ ̰͎̼r̝͔̫̻ͅe͖͈͉͞ͅp̱̼r͖̰̤͎̖ẹ̬̻͙̻͖s̲̱̲̮̖͍e̦͕n͢t͙̘i̧̞̯̻̬̣̥n͎͉g͙͉̬̗͖̮̜ ̞̩̗͎͙̮͔͟c͉̬̰ha̴͍o̲̹̲̼̱s̳̦͔̖.҉̹̪̱̘̦̥̹
͍̺͉̘̯̱I̪͚͎̠͢n̮̻͍v̸̦̤͕̦̮̘ͅo͞k̺̘͔͍̭͔̹i̼̯͍̦͖ņ̭̳̰͍̪̯g͘ ͖ț͇͉h̯͙̯͕̘͎e̛̦͎͚̤ ͇̥̲͎̻̮͞f̨̠͚̬̟̭͙ͅe̴̪̳̫̪̹̣el̩͖̟̞͞i̷̻̫̰̪̭ṇ̙̼ͅg̨̟̤ ̧̖of̩̱ ̙̺ͅc̳̤̺̠̝ͅh͈ao̰̯̜̟͚͉s҉̪̳̱.͓̙̗͉̥̳̜͝
̤͇̼̟̭ͅW̡̤̝̖̗̪̱i͕͈̲͕̩̟̞t͔̞̼̠ḫ̢̯ ̪̫͎̞̹o̮̯̱͔u̹t̲ͅ o̙̼͇͍̙̱r̹̜̮̺͉͕̼d̻͓̖͍e͏̝̼̲̠̘r̡.̺
͈̩T͓̹̳̰̣̟̤́ḩ̗͚͇̯̺̬ͅe̛͎͕̜̱ ̺̭̬͇ͅN҉̥e̞̳̘̯͕͡z̺̜͍͢p͏er̻d̨̹̭̰̮i̼̺̩̰̯͠a̫͓n͓̦̖̞̻̦͍͞ ̲hi̸̜͙v̵̲̖̗̪̗ẹ̡̟͚͔-͚͔͚̞m̧̼͔̘̮͍i̦n̴̖̱̖̬d̨̰̠ ̮̼̹͖͓͖͝ò̱̭f̱͙͍̰ ͔͖̬̟̬͔̫c̳h͙̦̺a̻̙͉͚̤̘̥o͎͚̮͕͘ͅs҉̙̯͕̼͎ͅ.̻̺̙̖͟ ̡͚͎Z̖̺a͎ĺ͔̯͓̰g̮̳̯ó̩̟̱͓̠.̶̻͙̦ ̞
̝̟̞͍̲̗H̭̞͎͇͚̫͞e̸͓ͅ ̰͔̳w̲͖̙̫̻̰̘h̗͙͍̙o̗̥͎̩ ̪̼̫͕̜͘ͅW͓̲͔a̝̯͓̟͡i͍t̸̳̻s̤̪͞ ̩͔̳B̧͎̜̼e͙̺͎͘h͎͉͍̣̙̫͙i̠͈͉nd̦̼̪̪̪ ̩̫͈̘ͅT̥͎͓͚̤͝h̡͈̞͈̻e̘̟̪ ͈͉̜̺̥̻͝Wa̟̝̫̯̹̭l̵l̝̣͕͎̩̺̳.̤͙̙
̩̗̜̪̟̟Z̡͖̦̺̜Ą̫̮̫̫L̮̬̞̝͖̞̠G͍̼̦͔̳͉̰O̡̳̫̺!̢͈

Un Milagro

For better or for worse due to my mental issues I sometimes suffer terrible tactile and auditory hallucinations.  But today I didn't feel beset by demons.  Rather, as I walked past the front of the Mission Dolores around 3 pm, having blown a kiss to the plaster Virgin Mary inset in a niche in the southeast wall of the cemetary, I felt a strong warmth pressing on my left hand, as though someone were holding it while walking with me, and I got the impression someone was expressing love and gratitude to me.

Who gets to have moments like those?  They make it all worth it.

Titles for Term Papers

- Civilized Cavemen:  The Gentle and Peacable Hunter Gatherer
- Consciously Directed Social Partitioning
- Metabeings:  Our Institutions and Subcultures and Their Life Cycles
- Externalizers Versus Internalizers
- Psychopaths, Sociopaths and Empaths:  The Game of Inverse Narcissism
- Woman King:  How Empresses Reign
- Celebrating Laziness: Reasons for Being a Lump on a Log
- Precipitous Action in Governance
- The Sexual Predicate of Tyranny
- The Sadist as Twisted Empath:  Arousing Pain

Feel free to steal and riff.

Realness

Happy Thanksgiving, everybody.  I'm boarding my younger brother's car this afternoon, in expectation of reaching my parents' house by evening.  Goodbye, San Francisco, hello, Central Valley.

It was a stupendous night last night, as though at the launch of a Saturn V rocket boosting a capsule to the moon.  Thank you for letting me break all the rules, be hella stupid, make tons of mistakes, and have my own piddling little life the rest of you could afford to let me have.  Muchas gracias.

I may not be out of the woods yet, but I'm going like a bat out of hell.  I love each and every one of my readers to this blog, and one day we'll drop the secret on how famous I am...

P.S.  I'm very grateful for the opportunity to share this shit sandwich.  Sure you don't want some more?

P.P.S.  I may not know reality, but I can bring the muthahfuckin' REALNESS up in here...

Deadly Delusion -- A Lifetime Original Movie

Have you ever heard the rather self-aggrandizing criticism one person might level against another that the other can't cope with reality, or misperceives it (to the point, it is to laugh, that more than just the object of criticism suffers)?  As fault-finding goes, I've always found that one a waste of time.  For one thing, I wager most people are like me:  if they even contemplate the nature of reality, they assume it's whatever they can't help but experience moment by moment, squared against their memories of a life lived in the only world they've ever known.  Sure, the world will surprise you as long as you are alive, but reality is more or less constant. 

Were one to correct another's perception of reality, what frame of reference does one even begin with?  Who actually has the temerity to propose that they've got the most comprehensively mapped, paramaterized reality?  Since I already know my senses are occasionally suspect, subject to deception, error, misinterpretation, even full-blown hallucination, I'm just not going to presume, and then read about Buddhist monks pulling the ground out from under one another...

Words like delusion, psychosis and insane, among others, get bandied about far too often, and almost never in any helpful way.  I had an ex who more or less characterized my thinking as somewhere between that of Blanche DuBois and that of Jason Vorhees -- but it would go without saying I'm not the only variable in that equation.  If I'm guilty of wrongthink, I'm sure I'll pay out the nose.  And don't doubt for a second that when I end up in Room 101, I'll blame only myself.