When one is mentally ill, and of the same style, flavor and disposition as am I, it is extremely important to have a place to hide. Away from the perceived judgmental scowl of the Zeitgeist. And of my scantily-clad, extremely gregarious neighbor, Pierre the pharmacist, deli guy, gas station attendant, speechless Chinese man, church folk and myriad cashiers. Basically, anyone I might see on a given day.
That hiding place for me is my flat, particularly my bedroom and desk. The very desk I'm sitting at now. If I am to be likened to a turtle in his shell, I will accept that. It's a good analogy. Even here in this bedroom are thoughts that are just terrible, of things once done and that can't be undone, or stricken from memory. Of things I said, and did. Regret. I'm a very, very emotional creature.
For reasons that are unclear to me, but seem to be perfectly understandable to my psychiatrists, any human contact causes severe anxiety and potentially suicidal ideation. That's not as bad as it sounds, given that just about anything I don't like triggers "suicidal ideation." A lot of people do. The author Kurt Vonnegut spoke that urge often. Of course he never killed himself.
Instead he died from a hideously painful fall that caused terrible damage to his frail old body and brain. I'm told that it's better to die of old age than dying young via suicide. I'm skeptical, but I'm willing to give it a try.
This perturbed state of rattled tension is almost constantly present and radiant within me. Occasionally, it is reduced to a nagging sensation. Once in a great while, I'm free and comfortable within my skin and genuinely feel that human beings are my equals and not my superiors. That I'm not sub-human and a frightful wretch. In the entire time I've been with Linda, a year and a half, I've felt that freedom maybe 10 times. And I'm never going to be happier than I am with Linda. It never lasts more than an hour, then the nagging thoughts return, the stomach butterflies, and the chest pain that requires propranolol to reduce. Lorazepam helps. Sometimes marijuana helps, as well.
That's an interesting expression, "butterflies in my stomach." It feels like my stomach itself is the butterfly, rising and falling slowly then quickly.
Anyway, enough of that shit. Enough about me. Right now I'm listening to Tchaikovsky again, his violin concerto, again. I'm supposed to be working to help the Socialist Party of America/Social Democrats USA (we haven't settled on a name yet). A lot of work needs to be done, and I don't know where the hell we are going to get the dues to pay the Socialist Internationale (SI), which are $2,300 for observer status and $10,000 for voting member status. I'm supposed to be joining the phone conference calls, made up of the vanguard of this new party. Since I'm in that vanguard, I should take part in those conference calls, made up of about 15 or 20 people.
Anxiety, anxiety, anxiety, disorder, disorder, disorder.
Linda and I had sex the other night, then in my sleep I had a "wet dream" while having sex with Linda in my dream. Pretty amazing. She has some sort of psycho-sexual hold on me.
What I have right now is music. It almost manages to rob me of myself and set me free. I am the very albatross around my own neck.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Stan Winston Shuts Down
Thank you, my darling Linda. With any luck, you laughed.
I just learned that Stan Winston died of cancer. An artistic genius in my view. This is all I could find obituary-wise.
Hollywood Visual Effects Artist Stan Winston Dies
By VOA News
17 June 2008
The legendary Academy Award winning special effects and make-up artist responsible for the dinosaurs of Jurassic Park, and the high-tech armored suits worn in the current blockbuster Iron Man has died.
Stan Winston's career spanned four decades. He died after a seven-year battle against multiple myeloma - a cancer of the blood. He was 62.
He created some of the most memorable special effects in cinematic history, including the shear-fingered looks of Johnny Depp in Edward Scissorhands, Danny Devito's grotesque Penguin in Batman Returns and the human-like, stuffed Teddy Bear of A.I: Artificial Intelligence.
Winston was nominated for 10 Academy Awards and had won four.
He received visual effects Oscars for bringing to life the extraterrestrials of Aliens, the cyborgs of Terminator 2, and the dinosaurs of Jurassic Park. He also won a makeup Oscar for Batman Returns.
Winston's work will also be seen in the upcoming movies Terminator 4 and G.I. Joe.
I just learned that Stan Winston died of cancer. An artistic genius in my view. This is all I could find obituary-wise.
Hollywood Visual Effects Artist Stan Winston Dies
By VOA News
17 June 2008
The legendary Academy Award winning special effects and make-up artist responsible for the dinosaurs of Jurassic Park, and the high-tech armored suits worn in the current blockbuster Iron Man has died.
Stan Winston's career spanned four decades. He died after a seven-year battle against multiple myeloma - a cancer of the blood. He was 62.
He created some of the most memorable special effects in cinematic history, including the shear-fingered looks of Johnny Depp in Edward Scissorhands, Danny Devito's grotesque Penguin in Batman Returns and the human-like, stuffed Teddy Bear of A.I: Artificial Intelligence.
Winston was nominated for 10 Academy Awards and had won four.
He received visual effects Oscars for bringing to life the extraterrestrials of Aliens, the cyborgs of Terminator 2, and the dinosaurs of Jurassic Park. He also won a makeup Oscar for Batman Returns.
Winston's work will also be seen in the upcoming movies Terminator 4 and G.I. Joe.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Just To Be Clear
If God ever drops his wand, I'm going to be all over it. I'm going to take it and make God make me a big, fucking batch of muffins. Blueberry muffins. And I'm not giving the wand back.
Friday, June 06, 2008
What To Do About Poverty: The McCain Solution
The McCain campaign issues a statement about his plan to deal with the lower classes. McCain tells it like it is, even if his ideas aren't popular.
With a British accent.
With a British accent.
Down On The Farm
Good day to you all. This morning finds me using my girlfriend's laptop (if you know what I mean, wink wink) in the parlour of my flat. I like to talk and write like that, to use words like "flat" and "parlour," as it makes me feel like I'm in an episode of Ms. Marple or Poirot. I'm not sure why I want to be in an episode of Ms. Marple or Poirot...actually, I don't. Except maybe to say something really ribald, or accuse Poirot of farting.
J'accuse!
Along those lines, I feel compelled to mention my newly-formed dislike of National Public Radio. You know, Fresh Air and All Things Considered. I'm not sure how this happened, but it did. I was driving around the day before yesterday (yesterday had me hiding in the closet and humming "Old Man River" to avoid hearing McCain's speech about Social Security. I turned it off the television, but I knew it was still out there, floating around the airwaves and being stupid) and I had NPR on the radio. I can't put a finger on it, or a baseball bat, but something about the super subtle, ultra safe "analysis" of the issues had me changing the station and listening to chamber music. Listening to chamber music is like listening to a metronome...very soothing.
My theory is that NPR bothers me because it is enveloped in self-congratulation over being so intellectual. It screams, "This is what smart people listen to!" Everyone speaks in soft tones and laughs at sort-of-smart-but-definitely-not-funny "jokes" between the on air personalities. Many of my friends are NPR listeners, and I'm afraid to tell them how much I've grown to hate it for fear of being seen as a pop culture loving boob. Hey, I despise popular culture, but at least "American Idol" and "Eat Poop" are both shows that know they are of no intellectual consequence. I don't watch either, and "Eat Poop" doesn't even exist, but you get the idea. Pop culture is the mob, and I do appreciate the spectacle because on some level I do like the human race. NPR seems like a hideout for people who haven't yet been told by smart people that it's OK to like this or that. In that ironic sense, nobody is more judgemental of what you watch and listen to than an NPR fan. They analyze the shit out of every popular trend, and then judge (usually by implication) the value of it.
When I listen to NPR I think of the "fops" that have appeared on at least a couple of episodes of The Simpsons.
If you don't understand of what I speak, ask an NPR listener what he or she thinks of "Lost." The response will be something like, "I don't own a television," or "What's that?" when they know exactly what it is. Or my personal favorite, "I only watch Ms. Marple, Poirot and History's Mysteries." That last one is a real quote. You know who you are, Clare.
It's strange, because I used to listen quite a lot. I appreciate the value of talking to an expert on South American tribal art in a discussion about inner city "tagging" and vandalism by youth gangs. In the abstract, I can also enjoy a discussion about the possible connection between food dye and hyperactivity in children. But I'd much rather read about it than listen to the horrific banter on NPR. "Our kids are dying for a break from dangerous food dyes." Oh, shoot me.
One more thing. On NPR, don't call in to a show unless you are going for your Master's, or are willing to lie about doing so. A person with a Bachelor's degree is treated like a felt-stroking village idiot. A high school graduate will be talked about like he or she isn't even in the room. These people give scholars and intellectuals a bad name.
Anyway, enough of that. Time to justify the title of this entry, "Down On The Farm." I get emails from an organization called "We Hate Gay People." Or it may as well be named that. Actually, it's called Americans for Truth. Ha! These sister-fucking, back woods nimrods released a video that you have to see. Consider it a parting moment of Zen. Enjoy!
Down on the anti-gay farm.
J'accuse!
Along those lines, I feel compelled to mention my newly-formed dislike of National Public Radio. You know, Fresh Air and All Things Considered. I'm not sure how this happened, but it did. I was driving around the day before yesterday (yesterday had me hiding in the closet and humming "Old Man River" to avoid hearing McCain's speech about Social Security. I turned it off the television, but I knew it was still out there, floating around the airwaves and being stupid) and I had NPR on the radio. I can't put a finger on it, or a baseball bat, but something about the super subtle, ultra safe "analysis" of the issues had me changing the station and listening to chamber music. Listening to chamber music is like listening to a metronome...very soothing.
My theory is that NPR bothers me because it is enveloped in self-congratulation over being so intellectual. It screams, "This is what smart people listen to!" Everyone speaks in soft tones and laughs at sort-of-smart-but-definitely-not-funny "jokes" between the on air personalities. Many of my friends are NPR listeners, and I'm afraid to tell them how much I've grown to hate it for fear of being seen as a pop culture loving boob. Hey, I despise popular culture, but at least "American Idol" and "Eat Poop" are both shows that know they are of no intellectual consequence. I don't watch either, and "Eat Poop" doesn't even exist, but you get the idea. Pop culture is the mob, and I do appreciate the spectacle because on some level I do like the human race. NPR seems like a hideout for people who haven't yet been told by smart people that it's OK to like this or that. In that ironic sense, nobody is more judgemental of what you watch and listen to than an NPR fan. They analyze the shit out of every popular trend, and then judge (usually by implication) the value of it.
When I listen to NPR I think of the "fops" that have appeared on at least a couple of episodes of The Simpsons.
If you don't understand of what I speak, ask an NPR listener what he or she thinks of "Lost." The response will be something like, "I don't own a television," or "What's that?" when they know exactly what it is. Or my personal favorite, "I only watch Ms. Marple, Poirot and History's Mysteries." That last one is a real quote. You know who you are, Clare.
It's strange, because I used to listen quite a lot. I appreciate the value of talking to an expert on South American tribal art in a discussion about inner city "tagging" and vandalism by youth gangs. In the abstract, I can also enjoy a discussion about the possible connection between food dye and hyperactivity in children. But I'd much rather read about it than listen to the horrific banter on NPR. "Our kids are dying for a break from dangerous food dyes." Oh, shoot me.
One more thing. On NPR, don't call in to a show unless you are going for your Master's, or are willing to lie about doing so. A person with a Bachelor's degree is treated like a felt-stroking village idiot. A high school graduate will be talked about like he or she isn't even in the room. These people give scholars and intellectuals a bad name.
Anyway, enough of that. Time to justify the title of this entry, "Down On The Farm." I get emails from an organization called "We Hate Gay People." Or it may as well be named that. Actually, it's called Americans for Truth. Ha! These sister-fucking, back woods nimrods released a video that you have to see. Consider it a parting moment of Zen. Enjoy!
Down on the anti-gay farm.
Thursday, June 05, 2008
A Magical Realm of Gold Farmers
Today I'm going to write about something that really happened last night, and to a lesser degree over the last three nights. We live in a weird world, which is a meaningless statement, in terms of philosophy (what is "normal" and what is "weird"). All the scholarly discussions aside, I maintain that what happened was irrefutably odd. Judge for yourself. You won't be shocked by the story, and it won't ruin your character. It's definitely benign, at least from where I'm riding my ram.
About that ram. I sometimes play a game that you might be familiar with, called, "World of Warcraft." It's an online realm with millions of players who pretend to something, ANYTHING other than what they are in real life. Some players live in their mother's basement and make believe that people outside the house know they exist. Many more players are IT guys who are a whisker's width away from bringing a magnet to work and cramming it into the server. They, too, find release in a magical land of scantily-clad she-warriors and fiery violence. About thirty percent of the people playing this thing, believe it or not, are women. Very unsatisfied women.
I think I'm making it pretty clear that I have a low opinion of people who play this thing. But that is almost certainly because I play it myself. Not nearly as often as most people, I'm sure, given the crushing migraine that always follows playing for more than 90 minutes. That's about the time when I would start to worry about myself anyway.
If my beloved Linda ever breaks up with me and I find myself in that Hellish theme park, Six Flags Over Your Lonely, Rejected Ass, I'll have to cancel my subscription to World of Warcraft. I absolutely must have a girlfriend if I'm going to play any sort of role-playing game. Not having a partner and playing video games as an adult is a deadly combination. I'd collapse into myself, shrink and disappear in a glowing ball of negative energy like the house at the end of Poltergeist. And I can't let that happen again.
On to the story, which some people find terribly amusing and I just find odd, and yes, I did laugh like hell when it happened.
Last week a friend paid me a small sum for cleaning her apartment while she was away. Some people are willing to pay a small amount of money in return for not having to scour off the small bit of black shit that somehow finds it's way up the toilet bowl, just under the rim, and anchors there. Anyway, I was told to "treat" myself, so I renewed my World of Warcraft subscription, bought an issue of The Economist (don't ask, I don't know why I like that magazine, either) and did something I've never done before...I pooped on the hood of my neighbor's car.
Well, that last part isn't true. I don't even like the word "poop." If anything, I'd have shit on the hood of my neighbor's car, which I didn't do, either. What I did do is find a website that sells "gold" for use in World of Warcraft. For a mere $10, they would give me 1000 gold. To give you an idea of how much fake money that is, I've never had more than 40 gold. It seems that in magical realms and in the real world, I'M ALWAYS BROKE. So an order was placed, I got my receipt via email and I waited for something to happen.
Later that afternoon, something did happen. I got a call from a mysterious company "Albatross Research." Since I am sought after by numerous bill collectors, I just hung up on them. But they called again, and I just hung up. Then again, this time at a hard to ignore 1am the following morning. I suspected then, for some reason, that Chinese fake gold people were involved. Here's how the conversation went.
Phone Person: (thick accent, vaguely sounding like a Chinese dialect) Ya, ya, is this Thundercrush?
Me: I'm sorry? What?
PP: You Thundercrush, you go on now?
Because I'm so smart, I began to figure it out.
Me: Yes, I'll go on now, I'm Thundercrush, where should I go?
PP: (Ominously) You go Goldshire. Five minutes.
Nothing but sex itself would have kept me from running to the computer. For one, I wanted my gold. And I was really curious at all the Cloak and Dagger. I thought they were just going to mail the gold to my character online.
Linda sincerely wanted to know why, at 1 in the morning, I was getting a call from a Chinese woman (she picked up the day before). Even more interesting to her was why I seemed to have received a message that actually meant something. I was in motion, scurrying nude to my computer desk. I quickly explained what was happening, and then there was a long pause. Then, you know what she said?
"You're a fucking weird guy, you know that?" And off she went back to sleep.
So I logged into World of Warcraft, literally shivering because of my shameless nudity, and because the air conditioner was blowing right on me. My nipples were like little +10 Frost Resistance shields. When in the game, I bolted to Goldshire and waited. The rest played out like a Hitchcockian spy thriller.
As I stood in the thick crowd, mainly made up of Pacific time people, a level one character approached me. Her name was "FakJoy" and immediately she sidled up next to me, and paused. Then a whispered command, "Follow me to Stormwind, now we go." And off we went, and again I followed. It should have been raining.
At Stormwind, another level one peasant showed up and spoke with FakJoy. I asked if they were from the magical land of Hong Kong, but got no answer. "Do you work in a factory," I asked. Nothing. Suddenly, a trade window opened up and 1000 gold was just there. I took it, and FakJoy had one more thing to say, "You have gold now, you go, you go play."
And with that, I was left alone. I tried to follow, possibly back to a dim, Chinese gold farming factory in Xincuan, but she disappeared into the crowd. I was left with 1000 gold and a lot of questions.
About that ram. I sometimes play a game that you might be familiar with, called, "World of Warcraft." It's an online realm with millions of players who pretend to something, ANYTHING other than what they are in real life. Some players live in their mother's basement and make believe that people outside the house know they exist. Many more players are IT guys who are a whisker's width away from bringing a magnet to work and cramming it into the server. They, too, find release in a magical land of scantily-clad she-warriors and fiery violence. About thirty percent of the people playing this thing, believe it or not, are women. Very unsatisfied women.
I think I'm making it pretty clear that I have a low opinion of people who play this thing. But that is almost certainly because I play it myself. Not nearly as often as most people, I'm sure, given the crushing migraine that always follows playing for more than 90 minutes. That's about the time when I would start to worry about myself anyway.
If my beloved Linda ever breaks up with me and I find myself in that Hellish theme park, Six Flags Over Your Lonely, Rejected Ass, I'll have to cancel my subscription to World of Warcraft. I absolutely must have a girlfriend if I'm going to play any sort of role-playing game. Not having a partner and playing video games as an adult is a deadly combination. I'd collapse into myself, shrink and disappear in a glowing ball of negative energy like the house at the end of Poltergeist. And I can't let that happen again.
On to the story, which some people find terribly amusing and I just find odd, and yes, I did laugh like hell when it happened.
Last week a friend paid me a small sum for cleaning her apartment while she was away. Some people are willing to pay a small amount of money in return for not having to scour off the small bit of black shit that somehow finds it's way up the toilet bowl, just under the rim, and anchors there. Anyway, I was told to "treat" myself, so I renewed my World of Warcraft subscription, bought an issue of The Economist (don't ask, I don't know why I like that magazine, either) and did something I've never done before...I pooped on the hood of my neighbor's car.
Well, that last part isn't true. I don't even like the word "poop." If anything, I'd have shit on the hood of my neighbor's car, which I didn't do, either. What I did do is find a website that sells "gold" for use in World of Warcraft. For a mere $10, they would give me 1000 gold. To give you an idea of how much fake money that is, I've never had more than 40 gold. It seems that in magical realms and in the real world, I'M ALWAYS BROKE. So an order was placed, I got my receipt via email and I waited for something to happen.
Later that afternoon, something did happen. I got a call from a mysterious company "Albatross Research." Since I am sought after by numerous bill collectors, I just hung up on them. But they called again, and I just hung up. Then again, this time at a hard to ignore 1am the following morning. I suspected then, for some reason, that Chinese fake gold people were involved. Here's how the conversation went.
Phone Person: (thick accent, vaguely sounding like a Chinese dialect) Ya, ya, is this Thundercrush?
Me: I'm sorry? What?
PP: You Thundercrush, you go on now?
Because I'm so smart, I began to figure it out.
Me: Yes, I'll go on now, I'm Thundercrush, where should I go?
PP: (Ominously) You go Goldshire. Five minutes.
Nothing but sex itself would have kept me from running to the computer. For one, I wanted my gold. And I was really curious at all the Cloak and Dagger. I thought they were just going to mail the gold to my character online.
Linda sincerely wanted to know why, at 1 in the morning, I was getting a call from a Chinese woman (she picked up the day before). Even more interesting to her was why I seemed to have received a message that actually meant something. I was in motion, scurrying nude to my computer desk. I quickly explained what was happening, and then there was a long pause. Then, you know what she said?
"You're a fucking weird guy, you know that?" And off she went back to sleep.
So I logged into World of Warcraft, literally shivering because of my shameless nudity, and because the air conditioner was blowing right on me. My nipples were like little +10 Frost Resistance shields. When in the game, I bolted to Goldshire and waited. The rest played out like a Hitchcockian spy thriller.
As I stood in the thick crowd, mainly made up of Pacific time people, a level one character approached me. Her name was "FakJoy" and immediately she sidled up next to me, and paused. Then a whispered command, "Follow me to Stormwind, now we go." And off we went, and again I followed. It should have been raining.
At Stormwind, another level one peasant showed up and spoke with FakJoy. I asked if they were from the magical land of Hong Kong, but got no answer. "Do you work in a factory," I asked. Nothing. Suddenly, a trade window opened up and 1000 gold was just there. I took it, and FakJoy had one more thing to say, "You have gold now, you go, you go play."
And with that, I was left alone. I tried to follow, possibly back to a dim, Chinese gold farming factory in Xincuan, but she disappeared into the crowd. I was left with 1000 gold and a lot of questions.
Sunday, June 01, 2008
Serenity Now
This morning found me with a surplus of energy, which fueled my desire and ability to get my ass out of bed around 7 this morning. Unless you're going to church, temple, Denny's, what have you, that's pretty early for a Sunday morning. It's now almost 10am and my beloved is still sleeping. Our only plan for today is to go see Indiana Jones and the Maltese Falcon, or whatever, sometime this afternoon at the Somerville Theatre in Davis Square. I'm told they sell beer and wine, which I'll need given my lack of marijuana.
It's a waste going to the movies high, anyway. Schindler's List isn't supposed to be funny.
As usual, I've already taken so many drugs this morning. Three tramadol, one levoxythyroxine and one lithium carbonate. I've taken to using tramadol as a "mood enhancer" because, well, it enhances my mood. Perhaps it makes me a little manic, but I'll take that over depressed.
I'm wearing a Socialist Party USA pin from 2000, although I'm not sure why. My dues are paid up until September, which is good, given my poverty, but the Socialist Party is huddled around a small group of people led by Eric Chester (obscure book author, intellectual, and man with enormous white beard). A new party has split from the old, and I'm told that it will be called Social Democrats of America, although that may not be final. I'm tempted to join the 25 or so people who left and work in some capacity for them. I could be chair of the Massachusetts local if I want it. I just want the chair, not the chairpersonship. Ha! I'm terrible at recruiting members, though. I can't even recruit wizards and shit into the guild in World of WarCraft.
But I just know that sometime soon I'm going to really step in it and volunteer to do something for the newly formed party. They need help and I indirectly helped the split to happen by signing the Fist and Rose Manifesto. Enough of that for now, though. I know it's boring.
Thanks to BipolarChica (Conversations In My Head) for giving me a Flower Sniffer Award! I'm so honored. By all means, go to her 'blog and check it out. We both have something in common. We're bat-shit crazy. Along those lines, this week I have an appointment with my psychiatrist and I'm supposed to talk about my addiction to various and sundry drugs. Particularly the ones not prescribed to me. Apparently, they don't like it when you take drugs that weren't prescribed to you. Who knew?
Beyond drug addiction, and a penis that hasn't been working as perfectly well as it once did (damn erections), my paramount concern and source of extreme unease has been anxiety bordering on paranoia. I'm so tired of chest pain, shallow breathing and irritability, all of which are connected to social phobia and anxiety over what amounts to nothing. Deep down, I know that Clare and Donna don't secretly hate me. But I feel that they do. Perhaps they resent me for not working, or maybe I did something nasty of which I'm not aware. I'm also reasonably confident that Linda isn't going to leave me, despite the overwhelming feeling that she is going to do just that.
One needs to be careful here, because I could create a problem where none previously existed. You crazy people know of what I write. It's ironic, but that is of little comfort. I need to be intellectually and emotionally pugnacious against my own self-destructive desires. The danger here is that I'll constantly seek re-enforcement that everything is ne plus ultra between my friends and I, and my beloved most of all. I know from hard experience that the need to be comforted again and again will eventually lead to a tenuous situation. It's both annoying and deeply disconcerting to be asked several times a day if "everything is OK between us" and the self-deprecation on my part just makes it so much worse. Nobody wants to be with someone who needs constant comforting.
Instead, I need to look at the evidence, which strongly indicates that all is well with Linda and all my friends, and my family, as well. I must keep the paranoid and panicked thoughts in my brain and not give them life through speech and action. That way lies pain and heartache. If I can't control my thoughts I can at least control my actions.
That's what I've learned about how to deal with self-loathing, anxiety and social panic. You'd think I'd have learned more, but I'm not terribly bright.
In addition to all this, suicidal thoughts are well in my mind, and busy. I'm not fearful that I will do anything. No more than usual, anyway. It is difficult, however, to focus on running errands or reading "The Economist" (for some reason, I dig that magazine...it all comes down to who has the money) when a voice in the back of your head is urging you to stick your face in the fan, or "trip" in front of a bus and get creamed. Cream of Darren. Just put me in a Campbell's can and bury me behind "FoodMaster."
I'm going to try like Hell to make sure Linda has a fun day with me today. I will keep my nihilistic self-loathing and social anxiety and paranoia to myself. Stifle. Serenity now!
Onward!
It's a waste going to the movies high, anyway. Schindler's List isn't supposed to be funny.
As usual, I've already taken so many drugs this morning. Three tramadol, one levoxythyroxine and one lithium carbonate. I've taken to using tramadol as a "mood enhancer" because, well, it enhances my mood. Perhaps it makes me a little manic, but I'll take that over depressed.
I'm wearing a Socialist Party USA pin from 2000, although I'm not sure why. My dues are paid up until September, which is good, given my poverty, but the Socialist Party is huddled around a small group of people led by Eric Chester (obscure book author, intellectual, and man with enormous white beard). A new party has split from the old, and I'm told that it will be called Social Democrats of America, although that may not be final. I'm tempted to join the 25 or so people who left and work in some capacity for them. I could be chair of the Massachusetts local if I want it. I just want the chair, not the chairpersonship. Ha! I'm terrible at recruiting members, though. I can't even recruit wizards and shit into the guild in World of WarCraft.
But I just know that sometime soon I'm going to really step in it and volunteer to do something for the newly formed party. They need help and I indirectly helped the split to happen by signing the Fist and Rose Manifesto. Enough of that for now, though. I know it's boring.
Thanks to BipolarChica (Conversations In My Head) for giving me a Flower Sniffer Award! I'm so honored. By all means, go to her 'blog and check it out. We both have something in common. We're bat-shit crazy. Along those lines, this week I have an appointment with my psychiatrist and I'm supposed to talk about my addiction to various and sundry drugs. Particularly the ones not prescribed to me. Apparently, they don't like it when you take drugs that weren't prescribed to you. Who knew?
Beyond drug addiction, and a penis that hasn't been working as perfectly well as it once did (damn erections), my paramount concern and source of extreme unease has been anxiety bordering on paranoia. I'm so tired of chest pain, shallow breathing and irritability, all of which are connected to social phobia and anxiety over what amounts to nothing. Deep down, I know that Clare and Donna don't secretly hate me. But I feel that they do. Perhaps they resent me for not working, or maybe I did something nasty of which I'm not aware. I'm also reasonably confident that Linda isn't going to leave me, despite the overwhelming feeling that she is going to do just that.
One needs to be careful here, because I could create a problem where none previously existed. You crazy people know of what I write. It's ironic, but that is of little comfort. I need to be intellectually and emotionally pugnacious against my own self-destructive desires. The danger here is that I'll constantly seek re-enforcement that everything is ne plus ultra between my friends and I, and my beloved most of all. I know from hard experience that the need to be comforted again and again will eventually lead to a tenuous situation. It's both annoying and deeply disconcerting to be asked several times a day if "everything is OK between us" and the self-deprecation on my part just makes it so much worse. Nobody wants to be with someone who needs constant comforting.
Instead, I need to look at the evidence, which strongly indicates that all is well with Linda and all my friends, and my family, as well. I must keep the paranoid and panicked thoughts in my brain and not give them life through speech and action. That way lies pain and heartache. If I can't control my thoughts I can at least control my actions.
That's what I've learned about how to deal with self-loathing, anxiety and social panic. You'd think I'd have learned more, but I'm not terribly bright.
In addition to all this, suicidal thoughts are well in my mind, and busy. I'm not fearful that I will do anything. No more than usual, anyway. It is difficult, however, to focus on running errands or reading "The Economist" (for some reason, I dig that magazine...it all comes down to who has the money) when a voice in the back of your head is urging you to stick your face in the fan, or "trip" in front of a bus and get creamed. Cream of Darren. Just put me in a Campbell's can and bury me behind "FoodMaster."
I'm going to try like Hell to make sure Linda has a fun day with me today. I will keep my nihilistic self-loathing and social anxiety and paranoia to myself. Stifle. Serenity now!
Onward!
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