Sunday et Fin

Post wise, it was a fairly good weekend, though nothing too creative.

I’m happy to be back and interacting with the lovely folks of WordPress. I hate social media, always have, but this community is so pretty and inspiring and encouraging—it’s kind of surreal how much I like it. I’m a cynic and a pessimist, so I tend to look at every good thing expecting the worst or searching for a catch, but I’m happy to say, I don’t need to do that here. I’m still suspicious of the kindness and support towards me and my writing, but that’s just because I’m a chemically unstable, paranoid asshole, though I’m learning to believe all of your kind words, and all of the kind words I receive in my real life, and kindness in general.

I learned a weird thing about me today: I don’t wear boxers most of the time. Yes, I free-ball. How did I not realize this? I have no fucking idea. I’m neurotic and obsessive and hyperaware, yet I’m also an oblivious ditz. What’s weirder is, none of my past lovers have ever mentioned my lack of underwear. Maybe it’s a new thing. I don’t know. I do develop weird quirks out of nowhere, often having to do with things I deem unnecessary—so maybe that’s what happened. Again, I answered my question shortly after posing it to myself. I’m a weirdo. And there has been some head and/or ball out oopsies while cycling. Yea, I’m a moron. I knew I often go free-ballin, I just have horrible short term memory. This is my thinking process, folks. A dumpster fire, yea?

Hmm I actually feel like writing more.

Some new things in my life: I changed roles recently at work, with an embarrassingly small raise that makes me want to firebomb my building(that’s a joke, NSA, not a threat), but I’m kind of stuck at my job right now because the healthcare plan they provide is amazing—a must for the amount of therapy/medication I require to half-way function—but I really need to start looking harder for a new job, preferably telecommuting and independent contracting. Anyways, I’m now a Graphic Support Coordinator; it sounds fancy, and definitely looks good on a resume, but it basically means I coordinate our Graphic Support team (duh) to fix live designs and root designs on our marketplace, work with engineering(who are crazy smarter than me, and autistic…I think) to fix issues in the tools/programs we use and propose updates and fix/report glitches. I do a lot of shit on the side, writing instruction manuals for our tools and processes is probably my favorite task, that I do despite having a team that could do it for me—I guess that’s just my love for writing. I’ve had a few “that email was fantastic, I want you to write all mine,” which is pretty funny, to me. I love writing epic emails, that, unbeknownst to the people I’m sending them to, is just me mocking the company, and my bosses, via verbose explanations for inane processes that could be explained in two long sentences. I find it hilarious, but again, that might just be my weird personality.

Alright, no more work talk. How about some spicy stuff: I met a new girl, one that my lover will love once I surprise her with our new plaything. She’ll be the super freak in the equation. Some of her fets involve fire play(scary) rape play(I’ll never do, not my thing) extreme dominance(I’m down) being fucked on top roses, thorns and all(kind of interested in, but I don’t like wasting pretty flowers) double domination(down, but my lover is not very dominate) cutting(ehh no) watersports(the name is creepy, but peeing on girls in the shower is funny, not sexy) and a bunch of other interesting fets, many I have never heard of, nor will ever likely try. I’m still the vanilla one, but I love to please, so I’m pretty much down for anything, as long as it doesn’t creep me out. Dominance is a weird thing for me; I’m able to be a dom, but I’m such an easy going, you do you, type of person, that it makes it hard to tell a girl to shove her ben wa balls in her ass then lick my cum off my boots(yea, TMI? sorry). I’m a novelty whore—I love trying new things in all aspects of my life—so I’m constantly looking for new ways to get my rocks off, and the number one thing that gets my rocks off, is getting another person’s rocks off. That makes me a good lover, I guess.

Hmmm what else? Ohhhhhhhhhhh I bought a new bike. Fuck, she’s amazing. Her name Is Cabrini Green. She’s a mean 24 speed with disc brakes and an incredibly sexy lime green frame. Fuck. My lover got mad because I describe Cabrini like she’s a gorgeous woman. Sorry, I’m a cyclist :). I can’t wait until spring. Currently, I bike 30 miles a day, but once the weather gets better, I’ll double that, on average, and likely triple it more days than not. I fucking love riding; it’s so fucking fun; it makes me feel so fucking free. One day, I’m going to disappear on my bike. Head south down the coast, into Mexico to chill for a bit, then smash through the rest of the shithole Central American countries(sorry, they suck) except for Nicaragua, it’s beautiful, then skip the first two countries(?) in north east South America(?) and go straight into the non shitty countries, then Brazil, and settle in Uruguay. I think that itinerary is correct haha. I’m fairly knowledgeable geography wise, but I got drunk while writing this.

Uruguay will be my home one day, maybe Argentina, though I’ll be outwardly anti Che Guevara if I live in the latter; he was an asshole, murder, and hypocrite, the last being the worst. I can’t stand people who like Che Guevara, it’s fucking annoying. Yes, he had an enviable life, but as a person, he was shit. A failed capitalist turned communist; a doctor that enjoyed killing people; a homophobe; a possible rapist; he was a slew of shitty things people ignore because he was hot as fuck. HOT AS FUCK. I’m not gay, but I’d bend him over. Jokes, kind of–I’d let him suck my balls.

Simon Bolivar is a real Latin American hero; the George Washington of South America, the liberator of five(contemporary) countries, an amazing leader and thinker, up there with the founding fathers of America. The US really fucked up by not assisting Bolivar in his revolution. South America would be so much better if the US had assisted two hundred years ago, not turn most of the countries into banana republics. Ew, I’m getting into politics.

I want to move into South America, only a few handful of countries, because they maintain Eurocentric values(people might not that I call it that, but it’s true) that mesh well with my personality. America in a vacuum is lovely, and perfect for me, but I hate the mechanics that keeps it as the world’s soul mega power. Fuck, politics again. I’ll leave it at, I’m proud of being an American, and despite all the shitty things it’s done/does, it’s still an overwhelmingly positive force today…though, it might not(probably not) won’t maintain it’s position for much longer. Hopefully, it goes down the route Sweden made: a former empire(small, yea) that turned isolationist, and created a self sufficient economy(I can’t remember the term for that). FUck, no more politics. I’m drunk and rambling haha.

Oy vey, 1200+ words of me saying nothing—I’m a platinum rambler. I’ll leave this at, I love all of you. Thank you so much for reading and liking and commenting and being you. There are so many unique souls on here—it’s quite comforting. You all make me feel weird and normal at the same time. Thank you. I hope everyone had a great weekend and have a great week. Good night.

And ehhh I’m not spellchecking or going over this again at all, so sorry if there are any errors. Blah blah blah, I say this every time, you know what’s up.

 

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Half the Man I Used to Be(a few weeks ago)

Who new cutting a pill in half had the power to cut a man in half? I knew but, like all the previous times I’ve tapered off neuroleptics and benzos and TCAs, I temporarily forgot…until I started to feel the debilitating ramifications of a seemingly slight alteration to my chemical makeup.

I’ve always been incredibly sensitive to drugs, which is kind of funny considering I spent half my life doing nearly every drug there is. Despite my rampant, recreational drug use, I’ve never really been addicted to drugs, with the exception of a fairly nasty Vicodin addiction after discovering in my teens that my veteran father forgot to bring three months worth of Vicodin he had unintentionally amassed—along with various other drugs, mostly useless to me, though there was a viagraesque med that worked perfectly for the sexual dysfunction that comes with a painkiller addiction—when he left to live with his girlfriend. My teenage painkiller addiction was probably the only thing that kept me from being addicted later on in my life. That, and watching one of my older sisters become the worst kind of tweaker—a story for another post. Technically, I’m addicted to the psychotropic I’m tapering down from, yea? That’s why I’ve been waking up every two hours feeling like I was just in a horrible accident. But doctor’s don’t really use the term addicted in reference to the pills they prescribe. I mean that as no slight to my wonderful doctor, she’s a saint, because I perfectly knew well that one day I’d eventually have to quit one of the drugs that make up my capsule cocktail, and lose a few weeks to withdrawals. But this round of withdrawals is turning out to be particularly wicked, or so I feel right now.

To me, insomnia is the worst aspect of withdrawals. Yes, my body feels like it was dipped in honey and thrown on an ant mound. Yes, it feels like I have astigmatism, despite having 20/20 vision. Yes, I can’t stand for more than ten minutes at a time without feeling woozy. I could take all that if I was able to sleep a solid four hours. Four hours, that’s all I need to sloppily wipe away parts of the previous day. But I can’t even get that. Two hours…that’s all I’m getting per night, for the last week.┬áTo put it in perspective, I started re-watching(re-listening to) the Game of Thrones series on Friday; I’m now on episode two of season five.

One good thing has come from my sleep deprivation: a delirious epiphany this morning. I started to fixate on some of the contradictory symptoms withdrawals produce. I’m exhausted, yet wide-awake. I’m nauseous, yet starving. I’m burning up, yet freezing. All this because I reduced the dosage of a single pill. As I fixated on these things, I started to think about all my baseline, emotional contradictions. I love and hate things and/or people in the span of days, sometimes hours. I’m worthless, then precious. I’m ugly, then handsome. I’m charming, then gauche. I think so much I can’t think. I thought to myself, maybe I’ve always been in a state of withdrawal. But an emotional, or spiritual, withdrawal, not a drug induced one. I started thinking about god—specifically the Abrahamic god—and how the original idea of hell was simply a state absent of god, not an actual place, but an emotional state. I moved out of the metaphysical realm and into the natural. What was taken from me that could cause a perpetual life of emotional withdrawals? Well, it’s simple—my innocence. My innocence was chopped in half, like my psychotropic is now, then chopped again, then again, and again and again and again, until there was none left. I lost the remainder of my innocence many years ago, and I’m still suffering from withdrawals.

Looking back at my “epiphany”, I realize it’s not all that new of an idea. Lost innocence, in some shape or form, is almost always the cause of psychological afflictions. I’ve just always refused to personally acknowledge it. I tell my therapists how I feel currently, refusing to dig up my past in fears of getting dirty. I tell them that I’m congenitally fucked and ask for meds. But there’s definitely genetic factors that come into play. It’s not all lost innocence. Though, if my mother’s issues are the product of lost innocence, and her mother’s too, how far back does it go? Maybe that’s how the Garden of Eden myth was created. Maybe my issues are the product of Adam and Eve’s lost innocence?

Or maybe I’m high.

To mitigate the pain and discomfort of the withdrawals, I took some norcos right before typing this up, and they’re beginning to take effect.

Some of this post might not make sense. Maybe none of it. I don’t care, I’ll post it anyways.

My apologies for another rambling post—I just needed to post something. Hopefully I’ll be able to produce something more creative soon.

Babbling Brook of Conscious

Fuck it. I can’t post anything of worth so I’ll just babble a bit.

I quit drinking again, and I feel great, physically, but my mind is going through its usual post-binge shock. I know it’s technically withdrawals, but I hate using that term because I feel it diminishes the experience hopeless drunks go through, shaking and trembling, taking shooters like medicine spread across hours and days and weeks to ensure their bodies don’t shut down–just to relapse again and again and again.

I’m lucky enough to have never been a full blown, drink or go into seizures, alcoholic.┬áProlonged hardcore drinking, that which exceeds four consecutive days, destroys me psychologically…unfortunately. I can deal with physical hangovers–waking up, head pounding like I used a hydraulic press for a pillow, mouth and tongue temporarily destroyed from chain-smoking packs of menthols and downing absurd proofs, cuddling my porcelain whore for hours, intermittently microwaving hot pockets, bagel bites and other greasy foods to soothe my tummy tempest, just to fly out thirty minutes later because I was brazen enough to try and lay comfortably on my side instead of the 45 degree elevation required to keep my stomach’s corrosive contents placidly in place. I can take all that. It’s the psychological ramifications of heavy drinking I find unbearable. It’s the way my self-loathing mind confabulates the previous night’s blackout, filling in long gaps of lost time with reckless words and actions that hurt people I love or could’ve loved or probably hated. It’s the hate spiral I go into after waking up in a foreign place next to a foreign person. It’s walks of shame and Ubers of regret. It’s turning off my phone to avoid pissed off calls and what the fuck is wrong with you texts. It’s finding out days or weeks later that nobody realized I was obliterated, and that I actually didn’t do anything wrong; I was actually a blast to be around, as always, and got some rando at a bar, that turned out to be a really cool chick, to temporarily fall in love with me for a night. It’s my friends thinking that the real me is the drunken personage I created to cope with my anxious, self loathing soul that’s too sensitive to be around other people sober. It’s my stupid, fucking, chemically unstable mind that can’t even find happiness in innocent flings or partaking in the requisite party nights of a young adult. It’s me. It’s always me.

It felt good to write that out. I keep too much bottled up. It’s better to vomit on here than vomit in a toilet, or worse, let ugly words foment and fester in my mind, eating away at my sanity, leaving me alone in my garage, talking to myself about talking to myself while hyper-fixating on erroneous things like trying to convince myself that the freckles on my left arm aren’t arranged in a way that explains some esoteric idea in Morse code

Eventually my mind will settle down to its depressed baseline–then I’ll deal with the savage lucidity sobriety provides.