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|Thursday, August 25th, 2016|
|Here we are years later..
Years have passed and I'm sleeping with weapons by the bed again. It's really hard to find a good place to live in vancouver.
|Sunday, July 10th, 2016|
So I went through a rough time these last few years. I spent close to a decade medicated for being just generally nuts. It was like wearing a mind-fogging helmet that forced me to behave. Which is good in that misbehaving can lead to death and things. The last 3 years in particular were marked by a chain of intense symptomatic relapses. I think I've just about made it through the jungle, and I'm making steps to recover what my life was like before putting on the helmet, but now I'm hearing and observing similar cases in other people around me. It's been hinted at by medical professionals I've talked to that this sort of thing is becoming more common or is going to be surging in with time. It would be romantic to think that I was some kind of experimental psychonaut whose long-suffering journey can be converted into an advanced treatment or intervention specialist. Like I was the lead position in a wave of insanity and now I can detect it happening in others in time to swoop in and coordinate a rescue.
From what I've read and from was implied by others:
Psychosis is becoming more of a thing because:
-In the past, symptomatic people would just die.
-In the past, treatment strategies were different - instead of being institutionalized, the crazies are now dumped into the streets. People are seeing the problems more.
The last one tripped my interest. Apparently people from 1st and 2nd generation immigrant families are very prone to psychosis. The reasoning being that they're susceptible to isolation, discrimination, poverty, and urban crowding. This is relevant to my biographical profile. I see the truth in it, but I really don't want it to be the case. The main reason would be that it implies that my distressed childhood development slated me to live a life of unending paranoiac torment and shrieking hysteria, that's just how my brain is geared now, but I'll endure it all without the benefit of society's empathy as they'll just write off the whole phenomena as generalized racial inferiority.
There are 2 things that really bother me about this:
1) There's a whole crop of 2nd gen kids thinking that they're normal citizens with a fair shot at life and who are about to go into the grinder.
2) Everyone else is just sort of aware of the whole thing and is okay watching and laughing.
I'm tempted to follow the paranoia spiral as far as it would go, but I've been there before and it's exhausting to flagellate myself with realizations of how badly much of society wants me to fail as a human being. What turns things around is that there are some people who do have authentic empathy. There's superficial empathy, which seems like a selfish way to avoid revealing one's callousness. But authentic empathy is there, and it shows up enough to be meaningful. There's agendas and traps and concealed motives, but the first step to repaying an offer of help is to assume that it's actual good will, and the second would be to use it to recover. If someone actually wants you to succeed and tries to enable that, then pulling yourself together and doing the thing is really the best way to make their efforts worth it.
So yeah, it might be the case that there's a wave of psychosis about to sweep through. I've seen weird behaviors pop up at increasing frequency. Maybe I'm just more aware, or maybe demographic shifts or increased media presence are sparking shockwaves of insanity. In which case I've been through the gauntlet already. Does that make me better equipped to navigate the burning psychosphere? or does it make me weaker and prone to collapse and relapse? Or have the rules on these things not yet been written?
|Tuesday, July 5th, 2016|
I saw a filmmaker I know recruiting on facebook and looking for a non-white actor to be in a video about diversity at a university. A white guy in the thread stated that because there are so many non-white people at the university, using a white actor would be the best way to show diversity. But the reason the call was being made for a non-white actor in the first place was because all the other actors in the video were white. So it's a video about diversity being made for a diverse audience starring almost entirely white actors, and white people recommend making it more diverse by adding more white actors. That makes perfect sense to people.
|Wednesday, June 22nd, 2016|
|Multiple Identity Crisis
Virtual identities and hypersigilism
When I create a new virtual identity it takes me awhile to feel them out. It's like putting on a suit of armor or picking up a new tool. It's almost like your muscle memory has to attune to the new instrument in a progressive manner until you cease to notice the armor on your skin. The virtual character's online voice sounds neutral to me, likely similar to my normal way of typing or speaking. But then over time the character develops into what it was meant to be. They grow a style or a tone that's not just me. Once I've worn in the character such that I'm secure that it can protect my ego and give me the feeling of pseudo-anonymity that I desire, then it takes on its own life. Sometimes the phenomena loops back and emerges from my spatial presence in subtle and unexpected ways. It seems roundabout, but its a functional, albeit weird, way for me to develop my consciousness with the help of virtual space.
Social and cultural identity
For whatever reason I strongly feel that I'm culturally/socially outside. My physical presence is tolerated in public space, but there's a whole codified system of social mores dedicated to preventing me from getting in too deep or to have too much of an understanding of who's whom and what's going on. Obviously things are like that for a reason – no one wants a loose cannon wandering into an already tense situation and screwing everything up. But the message I'm getting is that I'm a universal loose cannon that everyone instantaneously knows to avoid. I'm sure everyone feels like this at some point, but then eventually they find their people or whatever and become a self-actualized member of society that feels comfortable excluding the types of people they would have been friends with earlier in life. Maybe that'll happen to me one day and I'll look back at younger me and be like “ho ho ho, it wasn't that bad.” But yeah here and now it feels that bad. I sort of hate it.
It could just be my fate to be an mercurial outsider that never really fits into a group but can walk between groups with greater ease than other people. At this point of my life it seems very much that this is going to be a life-long trend, which means that career, relationships, community ties are off-limits to me, but I gain the benefit of having rare experiences or access to concealed knowledge. As lonely and unhappy as I feel at times, I should make more of an effort to realize that just because I'm outside looking in there aren't people inside looking outwards.
Good advice that I'd give to myself would be to not be ashamed of being in the margins. But I feel that even marginalized people have identity groups. I'm too weird to have an identity group to prove that I'm being neglected or excluded by normative society. In fact, trendy middle-class liberals are quick to write me off as conventionally hegemonic despite their riches and community roots. I feel that it's easy to be anti-establishment when the establishment provides a comfortable safety net for you to fall into once you're tired of rebelling against it. In my case my mere existence is rebellious since the people that make up the establishment sincerely don't want me to exist as a person, no matter how normcore I may try to be. On a genetic level I represent too many of their fears come to life.
So I exist in the “margins” of society, yet I am not officially marginalized, and I generally support existing identity groups that are struggling for visibility and human rights, but I may not be a part of actions of solidarity for fear that I'm some spy for oppressive mainstream society.
So I'm not sure how else to describe myself. Some people say I shouldn't try to label myself. But without a label I essentially don't exist. That might be the one thing everyone can agree on: that I don't exist or shouldn't exist.
So people who know me know that I don't shut up about how the internet shaped my adolescence and young adulthood. As I got tired of my usual online haunts and tried to explore the “adult” world of society at large, I kept returning to online spaces to escape the damages I mentioned above. I'm deep enough into my life that if things were ever going to change, they would have done so already. Enough time has passed that if I was ever going to start dating again, or applying for permanent work, or accumulating money or stuff, then the ball would have started rolling by now. None of this late-bloomer stuff. If given the choice to be a criminal or a professional I would probably pick being a criminal just out of principal – its really the only way to make an honest living. I've got so many well-earned layers of jaded that I think I'm basically done as regular human. There's really nothing for me in this city or anywhere else, but online spaces are a rare opportunity to put on a new skin. Only by hiding yourself can you really reveal yourself, and that's far more cathartic than whatever it is I'm supposed to be spending money on. So years later and my young adult fears are more or less true: All the most consistently rewarding things in life are online and cheap, and my spatial existence is really just this weird vehicle that runs around collecting food and information while wrecking things for other people. My life is the video game and my virtual existence is where I can relax with discussion and companionship. Some would find it sad or pathological, but it's the only way and if my existence is any indication then there's going to be a whole generation of people living and dying like this with out any other recourse. People would be quick to blame me for being immature or non-cooperative or non-conforming, but those people don't understand what its like in the ... I can't even say “margins” or “shadows” because that's too lame. They don't understand what its like in spaces that don't exist.
|Tuesday, April 26th, 2016|
Life advice: Don't let other people's stupid life advice get you down.
|Saturday, April 16th, 2016|
Today I think I farted on a little kid by accident. The guilt I feel is balanced by the catharsis of knowing that there's not much more in this world I'll ever feel more guilty about. It can only go uphill from here.
|Wednesday, March 9th, 2016|
I find that a lot of old friends have been reconnecting with me in the last while. They have been sitting down with me and telling me things. It's as if they were checking up on me or trying to teach me something. Sometimes it was coffee or lunch or a hike, but they felt like giving me the impression that they knew something about me that I didn't know. Not just friends, but people I met at events or groups or just randomly. They seem to hint that they know what I'll wind up as, but they can't tell me because it would ruin the journey for me. Or they would tell me stories about people they know that seemed like thinly-veiled parables for what I could wind up as if things went wrong. I've had maybe at least 10 random friend cryptic prophetic revelations about my future career, life and challenges. It felt exciting, like I was on the cusp of some new chapter of my life and if I stayed true to myself I can have a life of happiness and help everyone around me achieve their dreams. They're all full of shit. They're my friends and I care about them but they are full of shit. It's hard to believe that a dozen people from my past would, in a 2-3 month period, reconnect and give me vague lessons about my future trajectory as a person, and for that not to mean something special. I mean if something like that happened it must be a calling. I have to be on the cusp of some great journey for all of this to happen. Or not. I'd like to believe that my close friends know me well enough to give me profound guidance on life. I'd like to trust them and believe that they know me better than I do. But they don't. I am different - people can't read me as well as they think they can. I know enough about my life to know that people don't know what to make of me. They pretend they can, hence everyone trying to "guide" me. But that's their own vanity thinking they can understand me. They think they know something I don't. But if they did they would just tell me in plain language. Some people seem to think I'll be a scientist or others a poet or others a jack of all trades, or a monster, or a guide, or a mother. The only thing consistent between the predictions is that they're all vague. If anyone knew what was up they would just say it. They would know enough about me to know that I don't like being manipulated and misled.
|Tuesday, February 16th, 2016|
|Random life stories
I've been on a grand adventure. The last two years has been a steady stream of weird events and insanity for myself and others. In the last year or so I've had like 4 psychotic events, 2 of which I was hospitalized for, one I endured in solitary isolation lasting several months through which I burned through my savings (I occasionally left my nest for groceries but used the machine and spoke to no one), and one I spent screaming and passing out at a friend's place while in a paranoiac stupor. I was technically eligible for disability, but the process for getting disability assistance in canada is basically impossible without a full time effort and the help of consultants lasting several months. When you're saddled with mental illness it's prohibitively difficult to get assistance, which is likely why the mentally ill wind up on the streets and eventually self-medicate with drugs.
I was lucky though, I had a roommate with a great knack for intervention. And the friend I crashed with was like somekind of witch doctor when it came to dealing with insanity. People like those two are very rare and they're far more skilled, empathic, and effective than medical professionals who basically treat patients like cattle and often (always) harbor extreme contempt for the people they "care" for. The one advantage of cooperating with the mental health institution is they you can get drugs and doctor's notes excusing year-long absences - which is the main reason I still have a shot at completing my master's degree after vanishing for several years. The drugs usually suck, but after enough suffering (8 years) they finally gave me the good shit. And then I added weed on top of that and shit was tight.
So two things happened after my stay with the witch doctor. I decided I needed to change my life up so I enrolled in the most advanced 1st aid class I could get into. At first I thought it was just a basic certification, but it turns out that the level of first aid I took was a career in and of itself. From that I went from being a useless academic to being a super in-demand multi-purpose medic. I wasn't a paramedic, I needed a few more courses before that, but more like someone who would be put onto teams to provide expedient medical intervention. So I could be put into construction teams, sporting event, security teams, ect. I got my security ticket too. With the basic training I could upgrade to private investigator, camera installation, armored car driver, K9, weapons, ect. People make fun of security for being rent-a-cops and mall cops and stuff, but you can do some really advanced stuff if you have the right skill set - some of the security guys I know are former military, or guarded secret documents, or guarded foreign political guys and stuff. On a security team I'm usually just a basic guard or a medic.
The other cool thing I did was weeeeed. Shit's so tight. When I was working construction I just wanted it to be a weekend thing as a reward and to sooth my muscles that were sore from labor. But when I left construction I went on a several week bender where I did like multiple bowls a day and walked around at night looking for coyotes. My roommate at the time was a hunter, so he helped me track the coyotes. We found like 12 of them at once, one time. One time they actually started hunting us. They used all these distraction and surrounding tactics and stuff just like in jurassic park. People are all like "lol coyotes are pussys just kick them" but when there's 12, and they've been known to kill large animals, and even a person from time to time, and they're surrounding you and making creepy noises and stuff, it's hard to believe they're not a threat. But yeah we often did that high as fuck.
Having gained the power of the coyote, the wisdom of ganga, and the healing skills of worksafe BC, I did the most insane thing I could think of: I vowed, for an entire year, to volunteer for every geek convention I could. There are a lot of conventions in vancouver and I only managed to make it out to volunteer for 3 of them. I scheduled another 2 on top of that, but communication fell apart and I missed them. The first one was pretty well run and straightforward, except for a girl going psychotic and trying to kill herself. A bunch of construction douches showed up to the con, probably with the intent on hitting on underaged pussy, and abused one of the venue staff until she had a breakdown. The douches were kicked out, but before they left they went around abusing the nerds, possibly inducing the near suicide. The girl was pulled from the railing that she climbed up onto and the police took her away. The event organizer dismissed it as "drama", indicating that he either sees a lot of suicide or that he generally lacks basic empathy (he's still a generally nice guy, even if he has a reptilian lack of concern for human tragedy.) Or maybe it was a fake suicide attempt. I don't know but she looked psychotic as the police were escorting her out in her anime girl cosplay.
Convention 2 was pretty safe and problem-free, although the security team I was in was a little too tightly wound. They were wearing body armor (like actual tactical armor, not costume stuff), handcuffs, ect. I did some minor medical interventions and I was mostly on door duty but I got to do a bit of information gathering and some radio handling.
Convention 3 was by far the strangest. I don't even know how to sum it up. I showed up as a regular volunteer, but was upgraded to security. I had Serving it Right, a requirement to serve alcohol in BC. I myself don't drink alcohol and never have, so I had to guess what everything tasted like when people asked for recommendations. It was pretty sweet - I was pouring beer for wizards and unicorns and stuff. But yeah, the upgrade to the security team. It was a sci-fi and fantasy con, but it seemed to be a tradition for the security team to be either furries or furry-aligned. One of them threw a coin on to the counter and it has a furry symbol on it - they have special secret coins with like their secret rank minted onto it. I guess he was expecting me to present my coin but I had no idea what any of this was. I've been flirting with furry for pretty much forever, but at no point did I tell them anything. So somehow they can just tell. My direct superior was a transmale (cockatoo when online, none the less) and rode my ass whenever he could. Maybe he liked me a little and decided to express it with psycho head games and working me hard at random. When we were alone he wanted to kick me in the balls. It was like part hostility and part seductive offer. I mean I can certainly find getting kicked in the balls sensual, but I balance that with a general desire not to be kicked in the balls. He also wanted to tie me up, put a collar on me, and occasionally talked to me like a dog when sending me out on tasks. Which I sort of appreciated in a perverse way, so I can't really complain about it. Also he gave me one of the coveted walkie-talkies (while insisting I go out for walkies) for some of my tasks - a privilege I abused when the building fire alarm went off and I excitedly spammed the channel with garbled and misleading nonsense. Also a fire alarm going off (and caused by) a bunch of nerds in a hotel is like a scene out of dante's inferno. It was chaos. People were screaming, it was insane.
At some point I got some time off and went to the dance floor where the DJ was playing the dankest most poison old stuff to an empty room. So a bunch of volunteers just had our own tiny dance party. One of them was the cockatoo's roommate, female-ish genderfluid - I'll go with "she", and we danced the tango with her taking the male lead. She told me she was psychic and the two of us got swept up in to a room "party" (just people chilling) where I got to hang out with various people from the geek community. Including someone who was introduced as "the furry". But I was safe, no one knew about my weird online shameful cartoon animal molestation interests. At least until I started talking with The Furry and making it clear I wanted to know more about his completely insane and cringe-y world. I got the impression that I was probably better of keeping it as a hidden semi-anonymous online thing, but I would always sort of be curious about the weird orgies and secret coins and rituals. But yeah, I'm not so desperate for friends that I need to make something like that my life - I'm content to stick to IRC channels to sate my hunger for dominating and preying on fruity internet animal clowns in the dark corners of cyberspace.
It was a multi-day event and I was dreading the long transit home one night. So the cockatoo let me stay in a room he had set aside for exhausted volunteers. I got some sleep until him and his psychic roommate woke me up in the middle of the night for what appeared to be no reason. Did they urgently need the room for some reason? Or psycho head games? Either way I was pretty sleep deprived. I made it through the day but left before the after party because I was exhausted and probably wouldn't have made it home (I was stranded last time I went to a con volunteer afterparty).
Yeah. So after that I sort of had a decreased interest in the geek community. I sort of also withdrew from the local film scene since I realized I didn't really have a future in it, nor did I really care about a lot of stuff the vancouver indy scene was generating. When I first got into microbudget cinema it was because the people who pioneered it were fiercely innovative and creative. Now it's formulaic clones of bland characters and story models. I still write scripts, but I don't really expect to sell them. So I've lost love of film and geek stuff. I've loudly declared my resentment towards science, my first and most enduring passion. But what happens if I finish my master's after all these years? Will it renew that passion and give me hope of some kind of awesome science career like the one I've been chasing my whole life? I'll find out when I get there. But for now it looks like I've given up on every dream I've had. Or is this just a slump? Will I come back harder? I don't know. But I feel I need a new dream to keep me going. Egalitarianism? No. Fuck that - that's just a fairy tale. Robot future? No. Hell no. I'm a mammal I want to do mammal stuff. Eugenics? Noooo. That's unnecessary, humans are more or less fine if society wasn't bent. Change society? No. That's too hard and only works very slowly. I guess I should just finish my degree and play it by ear.
Exp tally (last ~1 year):
Medical aid delivered
broken ankles possibly requiring steel plates: 4 (one double)
nail gun mishaps: 2
knife wounds: ~3
head wound: 1
chemical damage to eyes: 1
drug overdose: 1
Psychological assistance (not necessarily successful)
attempted suicide: 1
suicide ideation: 2+
drug addiction/withdrawal: ongoing
random sub-threshold psychotic: multiple, ongoing
Criminal (hearsay, likely fictional accounts)
drugs (coke, meth, steroids, oxy): 3+
credit card fraud: 1
uttering threats: 1
attempted murder: 1 (sentence served)
assault: 3+ (suspected, charges pending)
aggressive soliciting: 1
racoons (including 1 attack)
crows (including crow hatred towards me)
coyotes (largest group spotted of 12. Den located, hunting area located)
safety guidelines and enforcement
intro hammer swinging
navigating hazard areas
Calamity (myself and others)
short stay shelter
sent to nunavut
Insanity encountered (not all of which I disapprove of)
flat earth society (I discovered that someone I know is a die hard flat earther)
furry secret society
non-seizure psychotic fits
charismatic church exorcist (he even did a church spell on me. Different event from the last time I was exorcised.)
serious ideation of a genetically engineered dickgirl utopia (if everyone is the same gender, there will be no gender problems)
anime club facebook group openly posting about their obvious interest in pedophilia (content deleted)
professional full-time LoL account grinders
I'm sure I missed something, but yeah that was my year.
|Saturday, June 27th, 2015|
Clearly human civilization has dealt with mental illness before. Shakespeare knew what it was and so did many other major authors, philosophers and poets from now to antiquity. So why don't mental health professionals know how to deal with mental illness? Is there some doctrine in professional education that rules that professionals are best when they don't have any tacit knowledge about what they're doing? Is there a legal precedent that stops them from helping in any reasonable way? Is their role solely to collect data and do nothing else? Are they just jerks? Either way I'm feeling very betrayed by society and my "community". I've never wanted to be a burden or exploit generosity, but the one time I actually need and request help is the time that everyone collectively throws their hands up and yells "not my problem." I wouldn't even mind just apathy, but this feels (from my biased perspective) that my vulnerability is being abused. Mental health professionals obviously make a lot of money (albeit compared to my sub-poverty existence) but they make their comfortable livings doing what appears to be nothing (not true: they googled something for me once.) I don't even mind the corruption and laziness, but it's the constant battery and poisoning of my trust. I make the repeated mistake of believing someone when they're in a position of authority and when they claim to be out to help me or to be on my side. I know a grifter bullshitter in the street when he wants change for nothing, but now I have to suddenly learn to identify equivocators and tactical communicators with big public institutions whom I was raised to be obedient and idiotically trusting toward. And in the end everything I've said and written means nothing because I'm wrong by default. I'm the one with the stigma, who is an unreliable narrator, who is the mongrel of poor breeding and poor social class, who is disgruntled, who is weird, who is bent and psychotic. So my mouth is gagged and all I can do is sit by and watch the inverted ethics and apathy of people who have more than me, and do less than me, enjoying everything and using me to justify their spurious political meta-narratives where phenomenology replaces truth and everything I do, say or think fits into a tidy explanation for why everything is working as planned and my daily distress doesn't exist at all. Either that or it was all my fault when my only crime was believing that someone can help.
|Thursday, June 18th, 2015|
This last year has been a bit of an adventure. It's now evident to me that I have a mental illness that's going to impair me for the rest of my life. Normal person things like careers and relationships don't really seem like they're going to be an option for me. I'm still on the fence about whether it would be safe for me to operate vehicles or firearms. It often leaves me feeling very wounded - there isn't really anywhere I can go for help. Medical science and psychiatry doesn't really have much to offer despite all the displays of professionalism and authority. I've done the drugs they want me to do and the therapies, but in the end I'm really just on my own with all this. Many people say they'll help, but really have no intent to do so. Some friends actually do want to help, but don't really have the appropriate insight or experience for all their good intentions. A small handful happen to have a superhuman talent for intervention and are capable of rehabilitating me better than the hospital can. But otherwise all I can do is try to disable myself with tranquilizers whenever I feel like there's a problem. It doesn't solve the problem, it just renders me too comatose to get up and go cause damage.
In spite of all this I've been cowboying up and getting random certifications for self development. I got a pretty beefy first aid ticket and it's gotten me random work. The main flaw on the jobsite is that although I know the first aid stuff well, I don't have a lot of experience. So I've been working and volunteering random gigs with the intent of leveling up my first aid skill, and the plan's been working. I find after the first emergency call, everything gets much less terrifying. I haven't tended to a super high priority injury yet, but I'm getting my feet wet.
My next step is a security ticket. I'm slowly puttering through the security course online. I find even without the certification, just knowing about all the laws and protocols related to the field is really interesting. Between the first aid and security the world seems sort of like a GTA sandbox game where everyone is just beating each other up and patching each other together, but with complex rules for trash talking, intimidation, and legal posturing ("tactical communication" is the official term, I think). Being a science guy all this time, I was largely oblivious to the living GTA game going on around me at all times.
My version of the game is complicated by the need to calibrate for my random levels of mental derangement. Drugs (prescribed, over the counter, and gray area) are like power ups, but instead of healing health, they up or down mental health which can be either too high or too down. Medical supplies are good for healing damage, but I also use them for work since I often bring my own kit to a site. Boots and shoes can be equipped for different tasks (class 1 for construction; but class 2 for light labor, running and risk of combat). Animal sprays and sport smoke grenades are good for distracting animals that come out when I'm out late or camping. If my derangement gets too high I can ask a friend to take care of me, but then I owe them a solid. Each friend usually takes a different kind of favor. If all else fails I either get arrested or go to the hospital for a few weeks. Or dead, but that hasn't happened yet.
Eventually I'd like to tie all of this back to science and creative writing since they're things I've had a life long obsession with. I have a hundred schemes on how to do this and I can come up with a hundred more, but my insanity level is too high to effectively focus on lofty long-term dogma at the moment. All of this precludes a stable career in a job that pays money. Like always I float along on small gigs well below the poverty line. Like I'm accustomed to. Current Mood: several overlapping
|Thursday, February 5th, 2015|
|Rowdy rowdy rape victim
So a couple months back I was camping with some friends. We were two cars worth and were meeting at the campsite. In our car we had mixed newbies and people who were in the main social circle (I was a newbie). While briefing us on who would be in the other car we were told to avoid talking about rape because one of the girls was raped (cause yeah that's totally a go-to topic when you're meeting new people. "Wow, nice day today - it's totally raping weather".) But yeah sure enough one of the guys in our car either forgot, misheard, or epically failed at being a normal social human being and later made reference to "raping" people at online gaming, as if totally unaware that the rape victim girl was right there. For a moment the girl herself had the saddest face I've seen a human make, but then flipped around 180 and started joining in about how fun it was to rape people at games. But like compulsively, like way too much. I was about to say something like "hey, you shouldn't use the word 'rape' like that," but she was the one blitzing us with rape jokes. I imagine it may have been cathartic for her on some level, like only by understanding her tormenter can she ever transcend her pain, but I can't help but feel that she was as wounded as ever. It's like batman - becoming the thing that you despise will never make the pain go away. Just like batman. Rape batman.
|Monday, September 29th, 2014|
Life is getting up in the morning, realizing that you can kill yourself in 5 minutes using your shirt and a door handle, and then not doing it.
You can start freebird and be dead by the time the song is done.
|Sunday, September 7th, 2014|
|Safeway mental handicap rampage
So I was at safeway the other day and there was a woman there with a pretty severely mentally handicapped guy. The guy was a savant at spinning cups, as he was doing while his mom(?) got starbucks at the supermarket kiosk. He spun the cups with amazing skill, it was really awesome. His talents extend to raging as well, as he immediately began hitting himself in the head and yowling for nearly the entire time they were there. It made me happy. All the norms walking by trying hard to pretend that there wasn't this guy hitting himself in the head and howling in the language of torment. It just brought me joy to see them all try to act casual as their world was invaded by a rampaging individual. I don't know what was making him angry, but his roars of outrage are the very ones I want to scream every time I visit that supermarket. For a moment I got to live through him and feel his catharsis.
|Tuesday, September 2nd, 2014|
|No, you soulless machine, I will not buy toilet paper today.
I was at a shopper's drugmart to buy a canned coffee and I noticed that everyone had a matching package of toilet paper. The people were like ants carrying loads of TP back to their nest as if some giant dropped a bunch of TP granules onto the ground at some kind of toilet-paper-eating giants' picnic. I followed the trail back to the discount area where I saw an employee loading more toilet paper packages onto the shelf.
"They take them as fast as I bring them," he told me.
Two for four dollars. Holy.
"I guess I'll join the frenzy," I said and picked up two of the TP and one of the paper towel packages also on sale.
So I was walking around with my arms full and using my chin to hold down the paper. I found the coffee and had to stack the paper aside so I could grab the can, which got me thinking about how exactly I was going to get all this home without a bag. Then I saw the lineup. It snaked through half the store and more people were being recruited to it every moment I waited.
One guy in line, a lean middle-aged asian guy who looked like a cartoon of an engineer, stepped out of the line, TP in his hands, and said loudly,
"This is crazy."
He said it again and shook his head, while walking back to the discount area to return the TP.
His epiphany inspired me. I stacked the paper back where I found it, left the store, and went to safeway to get the coffee can instead. That man saved me from waiting in that line. I probably wouldn't have done it, but his outburst secured my resolve. Sales come and destroy humans, rendering them insectoid consuming machines. But every now and then someone steps out of line and refuses.
Also I moved twice in the last half year, one move triggered by a criminal crackhead roommate, and I had another psychotic episode requiring police intervention and a hospital stay. Once every 7 years isn't so bad, I figure. I took my hospitalization as a vacation and used it to do a lot of creative writing, some of which makes sense. My new home is at the foot of burnaby mountain, so I can hike up to SFU in the mornings for exercise before work. I'm still writing my thesis and I don't think there's any way it can be good enough to justify the amount of time I spent on it. It's the prison that I've made for myself and now I'm stuck forever. Or at least until December, at which point I'm out of the program either way. Whatever happens, come this new year I can try to actually get a job that pays in money instead of the joy of making irreducibly small contributions to science.
|Monday, December 16th, 2013|
|Surrey doge drama
I was heading home from the supermarket when I passed a pair of humans walking their dogs. The humans were white, overweight, trashy. Classic S town. The woman's dog was tiny one and wasn't on a leash. It suddenly bolted into the street and ran around while she chased after it. The chase coincided with my walk home so I got to spectate as she followed after the tiny dog and yelled its name over and over again. On the sidewalk were two yokels taking a picture of the night's sky with a cellphone as if they never saw the light-polluted moon before. In the distance someone was peeling out in their car. Surrey. Along the way, fellow dog owners out for a walk/drive made a formation to try to corral the dog. They eventually cornered and retrieved it. During the pursuit, the woman revealed that it was the first time she was walking the dog. She, after dark, took a young, leashless dog out for a walk for the first time ever. After a display of her wisdom and common sense, I don't feel that these people deserve to be pet owners. Knowing perfectly intelligent people (and myself) trapped in rent vassalships, and people who have been homeless, I find it to be an injustice that people like this lady own homes. Even in surrey.
|Tuesday, December 10th, 2013|
|I tried to watch a rom-com.
At some point in my life I wanted to be a writer. Not like a science writer or a technical writer, but someone who wrote creative stories that were read by people and earned me rewards like money and high fives. I took a few stabs at it and achieved mostly failure with just enough encouragement to string me along. Hope is really a terrible thing because it can keep you focused on things that you should have given up on long ago. Hope creates a situation in humans where a wise animal or an AI would correctly reallocate resources to a more promising strategy at life.
As a writer I'd need to be able to appeal to a range of audiences, emotions and human traditions. I completely fail at writing romantic b-plot, so to remedy this I formulated a plan to watch a bunch of romantic comedies so that I can assimilate their structure and sensibilities, thus mastering the ability to appeal to fans of romance. I tried to watch a romantic comedy and was instantly assailed with aesthetics and culture that I found profoundly unpalatable. I resolved to watch at least 15 minutes, enough time for a few hooks to be lain, and made it to 15:05. The five seconds were because of titties being exposed half-way into minute 14. But titties weren't enough. Titties couldn't balance out the deep disgust I had with what human courtship in this culture appears to be. I realized that I'm not human and that I probably can't even fake being human enough to fool them into giving me money for telling them pretty lies.
Sometimes I write scripts for a friend's video production studio. He has a mostly male audience and the specific stuff I've written for him has an almost elusively male viewership. But I now realize that I am fundamentally unable to write something that a woman would want to watch or read. The sausage fest is my home. I must embrace the sausage fest. My experiment with writing for broad audiences is a failure. From now on I must write for the phallus and no one else. Nothing but battles, sperge-heavy sci-fi, and pornography.
|Saturday, December 7th, 2013|
|Saga of white guy, psychotic withdrawl
SO white guy's getting evicted. His loud music and probably-STD-covered tranny hooker adventure pushed brown guy roommate to get the property manager to give white guy his eviction papers. I believe white guy had some kind of deal with the property manager where he was living there at reduced rent or something in exchange for fixing stuff and developing the property. Of course he never really did that. In fact more stuff wound up broken by accident with him around since he was so big and dinosaur-like. He smoked weed everyday and to cover up the smell of weed and cigarettes he kept the bathroom fan on 24/7 until the fan failed. Now the fan doesn't work and he continues SWED'ing. I find it to be ironic that a handy man moves in and more stuff winds up breaking because of him. Anyways, so begins the awkward 2 months until he actually has to leave. He pretty much knows who got him evicted, but now he has to spend 2 months awkwardly avoiding or dealing with brown guy. He brought over what I presume was a hooker last night, but at least this time he kept it quiet. Still, I'm not to pumped about the potential spread of STD's all over the shared rooms and facilities. I'm considering getting antiseptics from my lab and wiping stuff down in my home before I use it.
So I'm totally off the medication that I've been on for the last 6-7 years. I stopped the anti-psychotics immediately and for the 3 days that followed I had an almost anti-psychotic withdrawal. Like an anti-anti-psychotic effect. The cessation of the drugs actually induced a mild psychotic state for a couple of days. I could best describe it as nostalgic for a time when I was psychotic. It was like I was meeting an old friend or visiting a place I haven't been in awhile, except it was my entering my old brain like my soul was piloting a mech made of neurons. It's like I cast away my shiny new brain mech for my old busted-ass one from nearly a decade ago. It was still busted-ass and I knew why I abandoned it, but it was fun to have that sensation again. It was an emotion that was between stoked, optimistic and hate-filled. It was an illusory emotion that normal brains don't sense that can generally be described as insanity
. The insanity emotion was like that woman born with extra red photoreceptors who can detect colors that normal human brains can't observe or comprehend. Eventually it faded and I was clear of the anti-psychotic withdrawal. But then I slowly ramped off of the mood stabilizers. It took about a week to clear the lithium and in the final days I experienced a similar withdrawal syndrome where emotions became intense and I was filled with dark feelings for entire days. Libido was all over the place, but orgasms were life-affirming when they happened. But in the days following discontinuation of the mood stabilizers, I was constantly brooding and unhappy. I expect I'll be hit with moods like that in the future, but hopefully now I'm now mentally equipped to endure and manage such neurochemical events.
|Saturday, November 30th, 2013|
|My holy mountain: stripper pole beat down, tranny gangbang, and legal chemically induced psychosis
I read somewhere that the search for the philosopher's stone was largely a metaphor the alchemist's transformation during their journey of self-discovery through the study and practice of the alchemical arts. I'm not sure how much of that tradition is retained in modern academia, but I've certainly taken the road to my thesis preparation and defense as a personal journey of growth and transformation. My daily goal when I wake up isn't to write another chapter of my manuscript, but to grow somehow.
A few weeks back I had a date with a couple. They were older than me and professionals. The guy was a biologist who studies the same animals I do. The lady was modern dancer who did artistic dance choreography that I found interesting but not totally accessible. I like to dance as a form of expression and I do it whenever I get a chance, regardless of how appropriate it may be. But her job was to push dance to new places. I couldn't quite understand why someone would dance for anything but fun, but there's a whole culture of people who dance as part of a statement or theoretical exploration. Anyways, I met them on a dating site that I signed up for in a pang of loneliness. I'm quite used to being alone and I consider desperate solitude to be a close friend, but I made an account in hopes of finding some sort of validation/attention. I quickly got over my loneliness and returned to my normal chaste and disinterested state, but by that time I already had the profile filled out, so I resolved to keep it for a month and see what happens. I realized that dating sites aren't so much good for finding people to date, but are instead one of the largest open source mutual therapy resources that exist in our world. For the most part, the only people who showed interest in me were broken, sad, old ladies. I listened to their stories and offered support, and they listened to me and helped me feel better about myself. It was all these failed, broken people collecting together at the bottom of the search algorithms who just needed someone to communicate with. I'm sure all the pretty people had no trouble hooking up and dating as intended by the site's design, but me and the people interested in me were an underclass of damaged human that needed soothing and reassurance. The one group I did actually meet in person for a date-like meeting was the aforementioned couple. By this point I had given up on any form of physical intimacy during my lifetime, largely due to my own psychological constrains, but I was thrilled to meet such interesting people. I kind of want to hang out with them and just shoot the shit, but I know they're interested on something of a more sexual nature.
My sexual nature doesn't really include sex. I was at a friend's place for a social gathering. The hostess ran off with the guy she wanted to fuck, leaving the one other girl alone with like 4 guys. She drank a whole bottle of wine and started dropping hints about how much she liked gangbangs. I didn't drink anything (I don't drink) and as a matter of policy I won't do it with a drunk girl. Eventually she challenged me to a sexy wrestling match. Now normally in a sexy wrestling match you give and take. You be forceful a bit, then you let her win. Oh no you got me, oooh turabout, ut oh, ect. But that night I just destroyed her. I tooled her. I just used her as a training dummy and transitioned from lock to hold to pin. It's been years since I practiced submission grappling, but I remembered quite a few moves and had an intuitive feel for how far a person's joints will go before destruction. So I just put her locks, pushed her just before joint failure, then released her and moved to the next hold. It was like a catch and release drill. She started moaning sexually and communicating that she was really into it, so I explained to her the "stoplight" safeword system and cranked things up. I mostly was trying to tire her out so she fall asleep and let me hang out with everyone else. She would get stunned or exhausted and lie down defeated for awhile, and I was able to get back into the conversation. But then, after a bit of rest, she'd wake up and attack again. So I took her down and crushed her to burn her energy (there are certain pins that require little effort, but put the defender under a lot of stress. It's good for tiring them out.) We repeated this cycle several times and eventually I got my brother to just tie her up to a stripper pole that was in the living room (this house has a dancing pole installed. It's an amazing full-body exercise and a lot of fun. I really recommend it.) At this point, I was delivering strikes to her body and slaps to her face, mostly out of sadism. So we beat her up and tied her to a stripper pole, but not before getting pictures of my bare ass sitting on her face. Then we got pictures of her tied to the pole. At no point did I orgasm, but I found everything very satisfying.
Having fulfilled by need for dating-like social interaction and sex-like physical contact, I felt that my weaknesses in those areas were being treated. My journey from shit to gold was starting to take shape. For the whole last year I've been hiking burnaby mountain, often walking from my home at the bottom of the hill all the way up the mountain to get to work. I lost some weight in the process, marking my physical transformation. I've gotten contact lenses for the first time and, after struggling to learn how to put them in, finally was able to live without glasses while having adequate vision. Lost weight, free of glasses, new haircuts, new wardrobe, improved sex-ish life. Everything was changing. I wasn't just going to be a master of science. I was going to master myself. But there was one thing missing. For the last six-seven-odd years I've been on anti-psychotics and mood stabilizers. I had violent psychotic episode years back where I caused some property damage and nearly got killed. Since that time I've been on medication which has supposedly been keeping me sane, but also gave me erectile dysfunction, made me fat, made me periodically grow lactating breasts, and apparently may be making a benign tumor grow in my head. Also it sucks all the joy, emotion and fun out of life. If the medication was working then I owe it a great deal. But all the same, I finally started to seriously consider if I still needed it. I hadn't had any symptoms of psychosis in nearly a decade, maybe I'm actually okay. If I was in danger of another episode, I know the warning signs to look for, and so do my friends who are part of my support network that I built following the episode. So I went to the doctor to ask him to refer me to a mental health professional so I can get more information about whether or not this is a safe and advisable move. He told me that there are no psychiatrists available. None of the psychiatrists he knew in burnaby or surrey were taking on new clients. The one psychiatrist at sfu was leaving to go back to private practice. The doctor who handled my case file when I was out of the psych ward years ago had retired or vanished or something. Nobody knew anything about my case. The clinic I've been going to for prescriptions all these years were just renewing the prescription that I gave them when I first visited there - they never talked to my family doctor or the psychiatrist who handled me post-episode. If I lied about my prescription and told them I was on something else, they would give it to me without asking or checking. When I got my blood test back my lithium levels were dangerously high. The clinic GP arbitrarily just told me to take a bit less lithium and get retested in a month. I realized that they're just guessing. They don't know what's best for me. I'm on my own and I always have been. Is it a good idea to get off the meds? Apparently there's no one I can talk to about it, so it's up to me. I can see it being a dangerous move. But I guess it's time to get dangerous. So I started ramping off the meds a few days ago. I cut out the antipsychotics and have been slowly decreasing the mood stabilizers to avoid a shock to my renal system. When quitting antipsychotics there's a "withdrawl" phase where, for a short time, you actually wind up getting the symptoms that the drugs were supposed to treat. So I actually entered a drug-induced psychotic state that was totally legal and almost encouraged. It was very mild compared to an actual episode, but still fairly tripping. I would describe it as nostalgic - it reminded me of the me that existed before the medication. The old me that was a bit crazy and full of intense passions that were dulled by the drugs. But something was very different. In the several years that I was on the medication, I grew a lot. I developed new tools and understanding. The anxieties I had when I had my episode no longer mattered to me. When I had the psychotic shock from the withdrawl I was reminded of all my triggers, but wasn't affected by them anymore - I grew past them. What would have sent me into a depressive spiral was now a non-issue because I solved that problem about myself years ago. I've had sex, I've traveled, I've made career accomplishments, I got the hell out of surrey even if for a little while, I don't argue with my parents anymore, I have friends, I go out to things, I go for hikes whenever I feel like it, I do all these things that were sources of intense stress years ago when all I did was study and be angry. I feel like the anxieties that contributed to the episode have been removed and that I'm now a new person capable of living an actual life. Then the psychotic withdrawl faded and it felt like I was starting again as a new person. Emotions seemed richer, everything had more meaning. People's faces meant more to me - I can tell their emotions and intents better. I hope I can keep doing this. I have several months of medication on hand if I need to go back, but for now I'll see where this goes.
Me and my brown roommate has lived at our shitty illegal suite for maybe two years now. We've seen a lot of housemates come and go. Every couple that moved in downstairs eventually broke up, thus prompting us to dub a curse upon that second floor. It's the floor where couples go to die. If your life is so shitty that you're moving in to the dump across from the abandoned porn store, then odds are any family you try to raise there will fail and die. Floor three however is great for coloreds and poor peckerwoods. The only people we get on the third floor are immigrants and low class white people who should know better. The room next to mine seems to carry a curse in that no one sticks around very long. Usually it's occupied by filipinos training for trades or muslim brown guys, or white kids from the interior who have come to vancouver to start a band. The white bumpkin kids usually get absorbed by gross hipster culture and leave once they realize that they can live with idiot hipsters instead of dirty coolie-boy coloreds and octaroon science freaks. But the new white guy looks like he's here to stay. He's the maintenance guy, in his 30's, and there's some kind of deal going on where the land lord is letting him stay in the house. He's been good and keeps the place clean and stuff. He does construction-type work fixing and finishing houses, makes a lot of money sporadically, and has a very blue-collar demeanor. He's always been pleasant to me, but he's butt heads with my brown roommate before. He's really big and sort of stomps around like a pale dinosaur. When he's around, he makes a lot of noise, but I guess it's hard for someone big like that to do anything quietly. My little hands are mouselike and great for handling tiny instruments and doing microsurgery. So sneaking around stealthily may come natural to me. But to a dinosaur or an elephant, stomping around and bumping into stuff is just normal business. Anyways, the main reason I bring all this up is because the new white guy brought home two tranny hookers tonight. I wasn't there personally (I'm house sitting in surrey at the moment) but I'm getting first hand accounts of how much tranny dick he's sucking. He was playing music incredibly loudly (half of his room is a sound system), so brown guy goes to knock on the door and tell him to turn it down. White guy opens the door, reveals the two ratchet ass tranny hookers and his mouth covered in lube. White guy brags about how big the girls' dicks are and how much dick he's sucking. Brown guy tells him to keep the music down and then relates the story to me via text and facebook. At some point a fight breaks out between white guy and the hookers. They cuss each other out loudly and the hookers leave. I imagine that brown guy could be making it all up just to fuck with me, but knowing white guy I can very much believe this to be true. I kind of wish I was there to be able to verify it, but at the same time I've very happy to not be there right now. I chose an interesting time to get off my anti-psychotic medication. My transformation continues.
|Thursday, November 7th, 2013|
Best pee I've had was when I was camping in the interior. It was a daily outing to go play in the river near our campsite. One day I was swimming in the river and I had to pee. So I found a shallow spot and stood up in waist deep water and peed while looking at the mountains before me as the water carried my pee downstream. It's like I was peeing an entire river into a mountain valley. God fist level peeing.
|Friday, October 11th, 2013|
|Surey gun fight showdown part 2
So my home in surrey (I rent in burnaby but crash often in surrey) seems to be a common place for gangster gun fights. There was another shooting outside my place at around 3 in the morning. Someone must be dead because the police actually bothered to show up this time.