Johnny’s Mental Health

My first psychiatrist typed all of my symptoms into a Macintosh, then handed me a scantron sheet that said “You’re Crazy”, and wrote out a prescription for some type of medication that I’d already taken recreationally for years

I don’t remember much about my second psychiatrist, because I was sloshed every time I saw her, and high as fuck from triple dosing the pills my previous psyche prescribed me, but I do remember her cancelling my prescription, refusing to prescribe me new meds until I detox, and that she had big, luscious tits that I chose to stare at instead of listening to her babble about personality disorders.

My third psyche was the twelfth or thirteenth Shutterstock image you see when you type “White Doctor” into Google. He was nice, but I’m pretty sure he was an android. I spent our first appointment imagining which section of the curriculum for Clinical Psychiatry taught how to sympathetically smile and properly space out understanding nods while patients tell them how they can’t be in intimate relationships because they were molested as a kid, or how they can’t take the train anymore because it’s just a matter of time until they jump in front of one, or how cocaine and ecstasy calms them down and alcohol makes them hyper, or how they can’t sleep without having horrible nightmares so they stay up longer than they should but always crash after a week, or how some days they’re so anxious that they shake and have to blame it on too much coffee so their coworkers don’t think they’re drug addicts, which they probably are. I lasted for a few months with the white doctor. He gave me sleeping pills that actually worked, though they made me gain forty pounds in three months, without me noticing, because I never look in mirrors, and the sliver of Native American in me thinks cameras steal your soul. The other pills he prescribed for my “psychological issues” properly fucked me up and introduced me to the worst withdrawals since the Vicodin days of my late teens.

I quit doctors for a few years after Mr. White. If I was going to go through withdrawals, they might as well be the result of being under the influence of good drugs.


I’m afraid this will wind up buried in my drafts so I’ll just post it and get to work on pt. 2


Johnny’s Mantras #I think I’m going to start over. This is 1

The same trains I used to tag on,

                                       I dream about jumping in front of

How should I begin this?


How have you been?

World, I’m back,

Fuck that.

Nothing has changed. I’m still a curmudgeon. I’m still better off left alone.

Though, I think it’s a good idea to attempt to post something of worth on here, yea?


I don’t know.

I don’t really have anything to say. I haven’t posted in weeks, and I feel like that’s a good thing. I said that I’d delete this blog if I didn’t make it sober into Feb; well here I am, and what? What the fuck? Stupid, stupid, stupid. I learned fucking nothing. I might have well been in a drunken haze for the last month. Instead, I was painfully lucid. Painfully in touch with myself. Painfully aware of all the pain others feel. I fucking hate it. I’m so fucking sick of it. I should’ve never quit drinking. Now I just have pent up anger and annoyance and indignation and all those stupid feelings people who feel too much experience.

I made it to Feb, only barely though. I can’t be around a lot of people sober, so I shut myself in for long periods of time. It’s not them, it’s me–at least, mostly me–but I can’t control my caustic nature. I hate fucking everything. I need booze to function; to like and love; to not sit in a corner and plot the point in time I’ll bash their stupid fucking heads in. I’m crazy, I hate it. I’m nice, really. Or maybe I’m not.

Again, none of this makes sense. Nice post, B—you stupid, fucking moron. Nobody wants to hear your shit. Die.

Nearly four weeks of sobriety and I learned nothing. I didn’t expect to, but I hoped and wished I would. I want something more. I want something more than me but get nothing.

I don’t sit idly. I spent all the time reading about various subjects to better me; none of that retarded chicken soup for the stupid fucking soul or how to not lose your shit and punch your sister in her stupid fucking face.

I’m sorry. I don’t mean that.

What did I do in my sobriety? I added further annoyances to my purview. I binged on conspiracy theories–flat earth in particular. I laughed at morons not understanding basic science while chastising myself for not knowing the same science.

Conspiracies are hilarious. I fucking love them. Of course, I don’t believe them, with the exception of every Jew conspiracy—they really do run the media and control the weather.

I find the psychology of conspiracy theorists interesting. Maybe, it just gives me the chance to not feel like a fucking dolt.

“Oh, the earth is flat? What about equatorial mounts?” silence.

Easy peaxy.

Oy, another rambling post. Did you miss me? I don’t, didn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t, never would. I s/b put down. What a whiner I am. Sorry.

I can’t remember the day I quit drinking, and I refuse to look it up, but it feels like weeks. I think I’m right. I’ll guess, first week of Jan–so maybe a month? I don’t know. Who the fuck cares? That’s the sign of an alcoholic. Counting the days like a convict in prison. I think I’d like prison as long as there’s a proper library…how stupid.

I made it sober this long because I shut myself out from society. Bedroom, bathroom, road, train, work, and the same in reverse. The same for weeks. The weekend? Locked in my garage chain smoking, with the exception of my lover coming down one weekend to see who I really was: a sober coward.

I made it though. There was one close call. I hadn’t hung out with one of my best friends for a few months, so I agreed to go play pool with him and my brother. I was excited, high off kratom and Gaba (kinda cheating), but soon after getting to my pool hall, my friend came back and told me my ex was there. Normally, I wouldn’t give a fuck–I’d actually trip more that it was brought up at all–but it was an ex I particularly loathe. An ex who spent her time talking shit about me behind her back to friends I introduced her to. An ex who had the personality of whoever her friends were/who she was dating. She was a chameleon, and I actually envied it. I’ve never had the ability to blend in; to adopt the personality traits of the people I’m around; to fit in; to take advantage of other’s desire to find those like them.

I envied her, but I also hate her, because she’s fake. The fakest person I know. Normally, I don’t give a shit about those type of people, but she stole aspects of my personality–and I’m not being a scornful lover–she stole my fucking personality. The same people she thought she could talk shit about me to laughed as she mimicked my personality.

Fuck, that sounds so bad. I’m a piece of shit, not worthy of emulating. I guess that’s why I hate her so much. I have so much self-loathing, so much pain inflicted by myself and others,; so many lonely years, without anyone, without myself…all I had was my personality, and she stole it. I hate her. She stole a black and blue personality and rocked it like it was a name brand. I hate her. A chameleon cunt. A stupid, fucking  biter.

I ignored her at the pool hall. She came up, expecting me to be something(?), I’m not sure.

I told her that my precum has more personality than she does.

I told her that her Asian pussy is equivalent to a black micro dick.

I’m ashamed of what I said, but I’m glad she got a bit of my wrath.

Maybe I should thank her for inspiring me to write a few clever things.

Now, I’m done with her.

and I’m done posting.

I think I’ll be able to post something pretty manana.

Thank you, all you beautiful individualists.

Oh, not spellchecking or rereading :)/


Nasal Drip of Conscious

Type out, delete.

Type out, delete.

Trash the draft.


I read all of my comments, but I’m too stupid to respond to them. I’ll try manana. I’m sorry.

It’s getting to the point where it would be much better, and probably more original, to copy sentences and paragraphs from my previous drafts and paste them in a new one.

It’s all the same. I’m so boring.

Yea, I did bad things on New Years, and I’m just getting back to feeling like myself—whatever the fuck is ‘myself’.

I have to quit drinking. I’m a tough dude, but even hardened alcoholics have to take a break after spending a night and morning throwing up blood, followed by three days of shitting blood.

I’m alright, though.

I’ve decided that I’m going to delete this blog if I can’t stay sober until the end of January. I like this blog so I think it’s a good threat.

Sober three days, how boring.

Sobriety reminds me that I’m a masochist and coward. I hurt myself because I’m afraid others will.

Painful lucidity: that’s what sobriety provides me. Everything makes sense, and that’s why it’s painful. I see the world for what it is tonight, but I don’t have the booze to forget that I saw the world for what it is tonight.

And the nightmares…The nightmares. …All I can do is strategically sleep for a few hours at a time to keep them at bay. I’m running through my meds. If I keep up the pace, I’ll have to tell my doctor that I lost them again, or something, to have them refilled early.

I’m a mess, surprise, surprise. What will I do without booze? And sleep? And hope?

At least I’m used to the latter taking plush sabbaticals.

I ingest spirits to scare away the ones squatting in my decrepit temple.

I need to renovate my mind….I guess that’s what a New Year is for.

Shy so Delirious

I quit.

And so should all of you.

We all know people are shit and the world is fucked. What, besides a biological imperative, keeps us going?

Silly things like love and hope and dreams….all bullshit.

There is no heaven,

There is no hell.

YOU DO NOT MATTER….but we’re all matter.

How fucking stupid.

I’m not sure where I was going with this; I think I was saying that I hope everyone has a lovely night.

Don’t drink kiddies. It’s called spirits for a reason—because it takes your spirits…or so I read on some flyer from the temperance movement in the 1920’s

FUck you…and I’m out. Suck my dik.

So Many Posts

I got another bottle—let’s get faded.

A song I’d never heard played as I stumbled into my garage, stepping over my sleeping guard huskies. It’s amazing, or I’m drunk; it’s Dramamine by Modest Mouse. I might just like the video cuz it’s trippy as shit, but the guitar in it’s pretty dope. I only knew Float On by them, which isn’t a bad song, just played out.

How many more of these can I do tonight?  This is probably the last. I’m sleepy now.

It’s only nine, but it feels like it’s manana morning. Fuck. Getting old sucks, or it’s good, or who cares?

I wake up early at least, yea?

Tomorrow will definitely hurt. Too much booze, not enough food, too many pills, not enough hope—I’m guaranteed to have anxiety tomorrow.

I should stop writing this shit.

What do you people want? Do you want someone to tell you that life’s a dream? That everything will be alright if you try your hardest? That we’re all equal? That if we complain enough, we’ll eventually create a paradise?

It’s all shit

You’re all stupid.

I’m stupide

We’re all stupid.

Don’t try.

Give up.

You might as well start shooting heroine—if you have an upper personality, take coke, but know that eventually you’ll need an intervention, the same one I had to do for a fam member….they quit coke, but only because the had meth to switch to.

I really am nonsensical. Why am I writing like everyone else is living my life. I’m just rambling. Pay no attention.

I’m pretty sure people only like my posts because everyone enjoys a nice dumpster fire.

I hate all of you.

I hope you all die horrific deaths.

Let’s see how many people unsubscribe from me.

Let’s see how many masochists there are.


Y is the Worst Consonant


Fucking shit. A bottle of wine down, a pint of Brandy and a J of top shelf—what the fucking shit? I should be slurring. I should be howling at headlights and throwing rocks on the moon…but no. I’m as sober as a person can be after ingesting this amount of booze and weed. How fucking stupid. I need more drugs. I need some ex or coke or shrooms or painkillers or barbs or maybe some lenos….fuck it, I’m down. I’m running out of substances to make me not feel like how I feel. Every version of me is becoming normalized. I have to off some of my personalities–there are too many.

What the fuck.

How stupid.

I want to fucking slur like a drunken idiot. I want to go to the liquor store and steal a Playboy like a teen, or skip down the street to the train depot by my house and bust a piece on the side of a freight train.

Fuck, these moods are bad.

I think the Gabapentin prevents me from getting drunk; it has to be that.

Maybe I should take my sleeping pills before my drunken wish comes true.

Or maybe I should just smoke enough weed to scare me from going outside and getting into trouble.

Maybe I should paint.

Maybe I should destroy.

Maybe I should do both.