Saturday, January 31, 2009

Take Your Lithium and Roll Her In Flour

Today you will find two bits of information from the World of Science. The first is just two brain scans, which display the difference between a bipolar brain and a normal brain. The red coloration seen so richly in the bipolar brain indicates a high level of activity. Strangely, when people are depressed, scans show a very active brain. On the other end of the spectrum, mania also can be see in these scans, and also as the color red, just in different areas than depression. The appearance of a bipolar brain strikes me as dramatically different than a normal one. Take a gander...

Not too long ago I saw a neurologist, who in turn saw me because I was in the habit of floppin' and twitchin' from seizures. We spent a lot of time looking at my brain.

The second bit of science comes from a medical journal. It's about fat bottomed girls and how they make the rockin' world go round. Enjoy.

"Fat" Women Have More Sex Than "Normal" Counterparts by Mohit Joshi

Washington, Oct 31 : Those who think women scoring more on the weighing scale do not score much when it comes to sexual behaviour, certainly need a reality check, for a new study has revealed that fat ladies have more sex than females with "normal weight”.

Oregon and Hawaiian researchers have found that a woman''s weight does not seem to affect sexual behaviour.

Led by Dr. Bliss Kaneshiro, an assistant professor at the School of Medicine at the University of Hawaii, and Oregon State University professor Marie Harvey, the study was based on data from the 2002 National Survey of Family Growth that looked at sexual behaviour of more than 7,000 women.

In earlier studies it was Kaneshiro observed that obese and overweight women have a higher risk of unintended pregnancy than do normal weight women.

Thus, Kaneshiro studied the relationship between body mass index and sexual behavior, including sexual orientation, age at first intercourse, number of partners, and frequency of intercourse.

"Our analysis demonstrated that obese and overweight women do not differ significantly in some of the objective measures of sexual behavior compared to women of normal weight. This study indicates that all women deserve diligence in counseling on unintended pregnancy and STD prevention, regardless of body mass index," said Kaneshiro.

The study ruled out the widely held stereotypes that overweight and obese women are not as sexually active as other women, as the researchers concluded that it’s the opposite that is true.

"I was glad to see that the stereotype that you have to be slender to have sex is just that, a stereotype," said Harvey.

The data revealed that overweight women were more likely to report having sexual intercourse with a man, even when she controlled for age, race and type of residence.

In fact, 92 percent of overweight women reported having a history of sexual intercourse with a man, as compared to 87 percent of women with a normal body mass index.

"These results were unexpected and we don''t really know why this is the case," said Kaneshiro.

Kaneshiro''s study was awarded first prize at the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists'' annual meeting this year.

The study was published in the September issue of Obstetrics & Gynecology

. (ANI)

Friday, January 30, 2009

The Santiago 9

As I begin writing this, the clock reads, "8:49 PM" and the cocktail of lorazepam, lithium and my last 3 Vicodin (left over from some recent dental surgery) has begun working it's magic. They look like a handful of candy, or as special individuals, each with something unique to share, every pill is there for a reason. I feel pretty good right now.

The lordie works in mysterious ways.

But no sake. I can't really spend money on sake, as I'm quite poor. I get by, but I can't deviate from the plan lest I risk being flat broke by the 15th of the month. It blows. So the holidays got me some sake, and I did buy one cheap bottle, but it won't be a regular thing.

It really is good stuff, though. My birthday is July 26th and I'll take a bottle of sake.

The Israelis' really need to lay off the Gaza Strip. I'm hoping that perhaps that blog commentary will be the one to cause positive change in the Middle East. It doesn't seem likely. What is far more likely is that I'll have a heart attack and die.

What we need to do is round up the human race and get everyone in the right camp so this thing can be fought fare and square. What one might call, "Thunderdome Style." And it's best to organize this thing by race...so could the niggers stand over there, on the left, and the kikes to the far right...that's it. Wetbacks, you wait in the kitchen.

So then we have a big race war and we never have to hear about race again. There can be only one. It's all true...it's in Highlander. And apparently the fags and the squares can't get along, so they have to fight it out to glory.

Then we'll pit the pro-Choice people against the anti-abortion people.

And then we'll have 9 Chilean, heterosexual pro-lifers left, and they can start over. Would that satisfy these cunts who complain about the "bickering" in Washington? Debating is good, as is fighting for what you believe in. And when they stop debating, flee. F-L-E-A. We may have reached the point where people aren't bright enough to have a democracy. Fascism may come back as a matter of convenience. It saves time!

Behind me, the humidifier bubbles and taunts...taunts and bubbles. I know it's jibes well now, and before the sun rises tomorrow there will be a reckoning. Oh, yes, bubble away...yes, you need to make your mist, don't you? Glub, glub...gl"Hi Darren, I want to fucking kill you and pour muriatic acid in your pee hole! That would really hurt! Then I'd shoot you in your fat head and dump your body"ub...glub, burble.

Saturday, January 24, 2009

Six Ways to Write a Nasty Comment

Friends who post comments frequently may notice that I no longer allow anonymous comments 'round here. I did this because of numerous comments from an unknown person that annoy me. Most recently we have this one from a person I will call "Spitspine" because he or she won't identify him or herself:

"Recycling old material?
Why not try to convince the world of your unappreciated awesomeness by reprinting the "getting let go letter".
Keep hiting the sake, sometimes going for broke is entertaining.

DWL:'I've got a message of unrecognizably omniscient love and insight that I present to you."
World:'Yawn, show me something interesting.'"

Aside from not being able to spell "hitting,"Spitspine writes that I'm "recycling old material." I honestly don't know what that means, and would like to know if I'm repeating myself in the "Sermon on the Brokeback Mount" post. Since I'm not sure who Spitspine is, I can't ask, thus the new approach to anonymous comments.

And "unappreciated awesomeness" certainly can't be aimed at me, at least by anyone who knows me. It has no currency because that's not how I see this blog or myself. What is written under the blog title is true...

My name is Darren W. Lyle and I sometimes can't sleep, or need to vent and therefore write. Some of what I write ends up here. It is of no consequence to anyone or anything, so you need not take it even as seriously as a comic strip or postage stamp. Although there is truth here, about me.

I write this thing because I enjoy it. Sometimes I get an email from a friend or my brother telling me that they think this or that is funny or interesting, and it means a lot to me. Why? Because I have a sad and pathetic life full of reading and domestic chores. There are intense bright spots in my life, and generally speaking I'm fortunate, but there are no accomplishments that mean anything to anyone but me.

My strategy in life is basically to kill time and control pain and my illness until the world is relieved of my dead weight upon my death. Beyond that, I'm in love with my beloved and care about a handful of people. I do not feel unappreciated because I honestly and deeply feel that I haven't anything to offer, and I don't care. That is why I'm essentially in hiding, in my flat near Boston, working as hard as I can to be a good son, brother and partner. Beyond that, the clock is ticking toward my liberation.

If you're trying to get under my skin, and this goes for everyone, here are some suggestions about things that really do bother me.

1. Infertility. Even if you don't want to have children, there is an incredible power behind just knowing that you could have them if you wanted. When you're like me, and have no means of procreation, there is a nagging feeling of existential irrelevance that is surprisingly potent.

2. Bipolar Disorder/Borderline Personality Disorder/Avoidant Personality Disorder. Any of these will do, as they all have caused misery upon misery for me and those I love. If you're trying to "get to me" this should be your recurring theme.

3. Regret. Because of #2 there, I've done things and lost friends, and some of those people and events haunt me. Most recently, I lost my oldest friend, and there has to be at least 20 things I regret doing while she talked to me.

4. Disability. I can't work. With this alone you could have me crumbling. Just be clever about it. It causes unspeakable self-loathing, guilt and is behind most self-injury.

5. Screwing Around. Sex for me is about love, but for awhile I used it like a drunk uses whiskey. A woman's marriage fell apart because of me. If your archery is good, you could find a target here.

And finally, if you really want to get to me...

6. My mother. Back in 2001, my mother died of cancer after a long and painful battle. But I don't remember her last year among the living because of electro-convulsive therapy (ECT). It totally wiped out my memory of her as she said goodbye. Totally. I get stories from other people like they are talking about someone else. If you add the misery my depression and mania caused to the big picture, you'll have powerful ammunition to make me a sad clown.

Like I said, however, the price of doing this is you have to identify yourself.

Onward!

Friday, January 23, 2009

Sermon on the Brokeback Mount

If you're of a mind to, check out the website of an organization dedicated to disseminating lies about homosexuality on behalf of a righteous, ignorant, mentally-ill god. Naturally, they are called Americans for Truth about Homosexuality. I mention them and their nonsense because I'm right there on the front page. Why? Well, in the interest of Hell-Raising I signed up to receive emails from ATH, so that I may better understand the approach of poorly-educated, mean-spirited homophobes. These people don't upset me...their rhetoric is too silly to be taken seriously. They are a parody of themselves.

It's fucking delightful.

The first thing I learned is that these homophobes bend the truth over and really ram it home with lies, enough to make you wince. They really make the truth shake and quiver as they thrust their pulsating lies twixt protective cheeks. If you read their emails, you'll find yourself begging for lubricant. And that bag of Lay's potato chips you had last night won't provide nearly enough. After they drop their load of mendacity at the small of your back you'll be happy it's over. But you'll never quite be the same.

What?

Anyway, these fucknuts think that pedophilia and homosexuality are the same thing. So I tried to explain to them that they are not. A study or two was even provided showing that homosexuals are actually far less likely to engage in pedophilia, which appears to be a pathology that travels mostly with heterosexuality. They didn't respond, and the lies went on. They're fanatics, after all.

About a month later, I got another email, then another. So I took a different approach. I quoted from the Sermon on the Mount and I wrote, "God is love" in a short email response. That got their attention. "You need to be exposed to the Gospels," they wrote back.

This annoyed me, because as a Socialist and (I hope) a compassionate human being, the Sermon on the Mount is the most touching and inspirational part of the New Testament. Clearly, Jesus was gay. "Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the Earth" is something a fag would say. It's beautiful. Far superior to the macho head games of the Old Testament.

But ATH did not want to hear that. So we bickered back and forth. You can see where this is going. I got nasty and moved on...told 'em off, is what I did.

Now I find out that ATH is using this as an example of "hate speech" against Christians as they try to raise money for their backwards cause. And I quote...

The consistently eloquent Darren W. Lyle of Boston wrote us two days before Christmas with this message:

[F–k] you all.


This really made my day, for a couple of reasons. One, they mention that I wrote "two days before Christmas" like it was timed to insult Christians (who strangely like to quote from the Old Testament all the time). They also use my name and what they think is my hometown. As if they are giving me attention that I don't want. But in one of my emails I gave them my name and said that I'm proud to stand against them. It's like Nixon's "Enemies List." Everyone on it was and is proud about being on it.

As an aside, it seems that the two days before Christmas were quite active for me. Apparently, I had a bottle of sake and some weed and then spent Christmas eve writing to countless people. It was like the Airing of Grievances at Festivus. A friend got told off, I got kicked out of a website, and mysterious responses to things I never knew I wrote appeared several days later. My pen is gone, too, and for awhile my right nipple was killing me.

What I learned is that sake is a wonderful thing...taken in moderation.

Anyway, take a moment to write ATH and let them know what you think of them! Be sure to be eloquent.

Before I curl up in the closet and mutter in Esperanto to myself, I want to take a second to show my support for a fellow blogger, Apocalypse Cow, who understands that Psycho is NOT film noir. It ain't, and he's right. From now on, I'm not going to argue with you rubes who think it is. You'll get a link to his blog instead.

Movie arguments bother me more than anything political or social. Let me also say that Angelina Jolie was given a gift when she was nominated for "The Changeling." And Gran Torino got screwed. While I'm at it, Woody Allen is a genius with an amazing body of work, but he's an asshole who is on automatic pilot right now. Methinks he's basically making movies now so he can try and fuck young actresses like Scarlett Johansen. That's fine, but don't expect me to pay $10 to watch the spectacle.

Thursday, January 22, 2009

Hillary Liberates The State Department

It's almost 9:30 in the morning and I'm watching Hillary Clinton's reception at the State Department. She is, of course, the new Secretary of State. It was a wild scene, man. They received her like a liberator. For diplomats and foreign nationals, Bush was the Idiot King. Amazing times.

Some other news from my meager existence.

The Indian girl at the store down the street is cute, and also emits the vague patina of a thoughtful person. I call her the "Indian girl" because she is literally from India and is the daughter of the man who owns the store. We rarely say more than a handful of words to each other, mainly because of my pathetic inclination towards nervousness. However, we did talk a bit about "Slumdog Millionaire."

She tells me that the slums of Mumbai are really that bad, and that Americans need to travel more to see what is happening in the world. "Unfortunately," I told her, "most Americans who travel have a lot of money, and are jerks." The gist is that they are poor representatives for the rest of us.

I regret saying that now, as there are many good Americans traveling about who are engaged in service of some kind. Countless college kids volunteer to bust their asses overseas, or study abroad, and they represent well.

As for me, I filled out many study abroad applications when in college, and had hopes that I'd find myself in some exotic location, preferably with a lot of women around and sans plague. Unfortunately, the University of Amsterdam wasn't taking applications. And besides, I would have fucked it up. One imagines me, a misunderstanding, a car battery and a boob pressed up against bullet-proof glass.

Here's a top 10 list of Secret Service nicknames for Obama:

10. Raven McLeod
9. HNIC (Head Negro in Charge)
8. Stretch
7. Obamaba
6. Gutterball
5. McCool
4. Michelle's husband
3. The Anti-Bush
2. Blackulincoln
1. Hot Chocolate

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

Assorted Thoughts and a Bold New Look

I'm feeling saucy this afternoon, and as a result I decided to play with this thing. After I did that, I fiddled with the blog template. So feast your eyes, comrades, on the new look of Zeitgeist Expatriate. One detail you're bound not to care about, but I'll point out anyway, is the wire news feed on the right side. Mental illness, reform and sex are the three search parameters used for the articles. As a horny radical socialist with bipolar disorder, it felt right.

Linda and I notice something about the dark cloud of evil that seems to follow George Bush around. After Obama took the oath of office (he seemed nervous, I wonder why), George and Laura left on an Air Force helicopter on the other side of the Capitol Building. As is customary, they will be thrown into a live volcano with 22lbs of dandelions and a live rooster. I'm not sure, but it looked colder and darker around Bush. A bubble of badness.

Word just crossed the wire that Ted Kennedy had a seizure and hit the deck at some gathering. Not hard to understand why. Kennedy is getting old, and one imagines many parties to attend. Joe Biden is probably doing blow off a hooker's ass right now. Well, I hope Kennedy is doing alright.

Ah, and it looks like Robert Byrd of West Virginia has hit the deck for some reason. Man, these parties have got to be bumpin'. Get better, Byrd. I remember that speech you gave against the war back in '03. Wonderful.

A lot of my old Socialist comrades are giving me heat for being such a strong supporter of Obama. Yes, my friends, I know that Obama is pro-capitalist. I knew that when I voted for him. It's called "compromise." Both mainstream parties are fundamentally pro-capitalist, and I can live with that even though I think capitalism has failed. Obama is a reformer, not a revolutionary. He never said he was one, and no amount of whining on the radical left will change the fact that this is a great day for those of us with compassion and scruples and brains.

It appears that Byrd is fine. He had sympathy pains with Kennedy via a psychic bond he has with all Democrats. The same thing happened in Star Wars.

Has anyone seen Ann Coulter hitting the talk show circuit? She must have a new book. I read her old book (really) and I'm reasonably sure that she didn't write the anti-evolution parts of it. It comes right out of Fundamentalist "Flat Earth" nonsense from 100 years ago. Piltdown Man? Oi vey.

Anyway, she's been saying that Obama is not black. This was news to the world, and Obama. Her argument, of course, is that his mother was white, so he's only "1/2 black." The fact that his skin is dark brown, and that he looks black to everyone, doesn't throw her off. I hate to break it to her, but being black makes you black. It wouldn't matter if his parents were Perry Como and Shirley Temple. The man is black, Coulter!

Stupid fucknut.

Beef jerky time!

High Noon

I'm waiting patiently for Obama to saunter out onto the dais and swear an oath to defend the US Constitution, to a god most people believe in but certainly doesn't exist. What can I say? If you put on CNN right now, you'll see about 3 million people talking and laughing and celebrating. Bush is not only leaving, but Obama is taking over. It's a wonderful day that I've been waiting for since the crushing reality of the 2004 election, which I did not think Bush would win at the time.

Linda and I have been big supporters of Obama for a long time, going back to the early days of the battle with Hillary. So this is sweet, I'm going to savor it without an ounce of cynicism. There will be time for that later.

Good luck, Obama.

Friday, January 09, 2009

Darren's Tripe Stew

In accordance with a practical ritual, my 2009 calendar is now hanging behind my bedroom door. Linda knicked it for me. Each month has a different optical illusion, which gets more frustrating as the year passes by. December will find me either craving more visual trickery, or right well ready to put up the free Calendar I get in the town's weekly newspaper. It's mostly advertisements and allusions to mysterious childhood sporting events that would have everyone nervous were I to attend. It also lets me know when the hockey rink closes early at the Recreation Center. For some reason I hate it, but this optical illusion thing is a bad trip away from being rolled up and smoked.

With Vigor!

My bank also gave me a lovely, leather bound appointment book. Methinks they are mocking me. So it is with a great deal of subtly that I have, over the past two weeks, indicated that I'm totally batshit, emotionally fragile (thanks to Man in Black for saying what he did, as well as my brother, Linda, Jean White, Asa, Apocalypse Cow, Melanie and the anonymous heckler) and of so little social consequence that appointment books and calendars seem like sarcasm. The random sarcasm of an indifferent universe that is both tragic and funny as hell. Sometimes at the same time, like that shoe throwing affair with Bush. Damn, that was funny. My hat's off to Muntazer al-Zaidi, the Iraqi journalist responsible.

It wasn't funny, however, that they tried to rearrange al-Zaidi's arms and legs for him. By all accounts, he was perfectly happy that his elbows and knees bent like yours and mine. But that's a depressing fact of life. One minute you're flinging a shoe, the next they are taking you to and from your 3 by 5 cell to the bathroom with a spatula. And that's inches, folks, not feet.

I refuse to let John McCain win the war over the use of the word "folks." The campaign is long over, but that fucking word belongs to Porky Pig. Seriously, what an asshole. And the way Palin tied herself to that rocket was SO Wile E. Coyote.

An anonymous heckler is leaving messages on my comment section. She has referred to my writing as "depressing tripe," which I can't really argue with, except that it's only sporadically depressing. It is always, however, a tasty dish.

Here's my favorite recipe for tripe:
2lbs tripe (ox or cow stomach)
2 tablespoons shortening
2 eggs -- separated
2 tablespoons onions -- chopped
2 tablespoons flour
1/8 teaspoon garlic salt

1. Place tripe in a large saucepan and cover it with water.
Simmer at low heat until tripe is tender.
2. Drain tripe and reserve liquid. Remove and discard
fatty portions of tripe and cut tripe into 1-inch pieces.
Set aside.
3.
Saute, onion in shortening in a medium-sized saucepan
at medium heat. Set aside and start to get nervous.
4. Beat egg whites until stiff in a small mixing bowl.
Add egg yolks and continue to beat until mixture is lemon
colored, like your aunt Sylvia. Add flour and salt and
mix well.
5. Fold cooked tripe into egg mixture. Add tripe mixture
to saucepan containing
sauted onions. Cook at medium heat
until eggs are set.
6. Add reserved
liquid from tripe and garlic salt to egg
mixture and simmer at low heat for 5-10 minutes.

At that point, you're on your own.


Wednesday, January 07, 2009

Hello

I'm feeling a bit better today, and yesterday was better than the day before. There have been a lot of kind words and encouragement, mostly from people I don't know in person. For the sake of continuity, I should probably explain what happened and why there has been so much drama. Drama used to be a major problem for me, but in the past few years I've managed to short circuit some of my more destructive thought processes. But last week was a bad week for a fellow like me.

Thank you for the comments and emails. And try not to be anonymous on my blog. Come right out and tell me I suck if you think I suck.

Monday, January 05, 2009

Goodbye

I've become aware of a sad fact recently. That my blog is mediocre at best, and usually just poorly written drivel. I know that now, and will endeavor to stop wasting the time of people who check this site. I have the sense that my life is winding down, although it may take months or years to actually end.

No more pretended friendships, I know now (finally) that I'm being laughed at behind my back. I'm considering ECT, or at least a hospitalization, but I don't know. I'm tired of causing misery.

My name is Darren W. Lyle.

Saturday, January 03, 2009

Message Received

I've developed the opinion that it would be best for me to isolate myself. A young lady, a friend of mine, has told me that one night just before Christmas I sent her a message on Facebook. Apparently, it was full of sexual comments that made her uncomfortable. She is of the opinion that I was drunk. Even so, I don't remember reaching out in such a way, to a person I respect and like. No memory exists in my head of any of this, but my memory is fragile for many reasons.

Two weeks earlier, I swore on a friend's Facebook page after I was told that his family looks at the page often. He was angry with me.

In addition, a friend of 10 years isn't responding to my emails. I know she is there, but she doesn't want to speak to me.

A website banned me for violating the terms of service. Some say unfairly, but that is not of any import.

There is this man, about 35, whom I don't know very well. He is compassionate, funny, difficult to anger and quick to laugh. He has friends who admire him for his intelligence and wit, and he works hard and certainly pulls his own weight. He is loyal and loving and can always be counted upon to do the right thing.

I tried to be that, but have failed. What I am is a strange little man, stupid, with a string of spit where his spine ought to be. And I do not pull my own weight, my sense of humor is strange and disturbing. Because of this, I shouldn't expose myself to other people and friends. In fact, I should live in seclusion. By doing so, logically, the world will be a better place. I'm strongly inclined to commit suicide, but I can't. So I'll have to wait this life out. The greatest favor I can grant to my loved ones is to reduce my presence as much as possible. To hide, as it were, to isolate.

That is why my Facebook account is gone, and I'm going to try and communicate with others as little as possible. It may be that what is wrong with the world, the part that I complain about, is me. I sicken myself as much as I now know I sicken all of you. If my mother were alive, I would spit on her for ever bringing such an abomination into the world. But here I am, finally having gotten the message.

Friday, January 02, 2009

Goodbye

I'm not well. I'm going to stay away for awhile. I've shut down my email and Facebook, as well. Maybe I'll be back.

Bye everyone.

Of Amelioration and Albi

For the past half hour, I've watched a clubionid "sac" spider (the tiny white spider we've all seen in our homes and flats) crawl up and down a Toulouse Lautrec print above my desk. I'm happy to have the company of another being; the snakes are lying on their heating pads in their tanks across the room, and the cats and Belle are elsewhere. That's fine with me. If he or she lights somewhere, I'll place it on the sanserveria plant.

The spider and I are close. The arachnid world seems dominated by matriarchy, from what I remember, and there is sexual dimorphism at work in different species. More often than not, the female is larger than the male, and am therefore inclined to refer to this large spider as "she." One hopes there will be no objections. The temptation to name her is becoming hard to resist.

Having held her, I've decided to name my new friend "Albi," after Toulouse Lautrec's hometown in France. If I've spelled it wrong, my apologies, but I'm not of a mind to look these things up right now.

My ancestry is Scottish, and when I was younger I did some research into my clan, which is Clan Stuart (or "Stewart"). Darren W. Lyle, or D'Lisle, of the Clan Stuart centered in Renfrenshire, Scotland, in the lowlands; there is even a Castle Lyle there. While this is a matter of no consequence here, that research did lead me to Scottish folklore. I learned that it is very bad luck for a Scot to kill a spider. There is a legend involving Robert the Bruce, meant to teach us about tenacity and the value of not giving up. I'm sure it's on the Internet and easy to find. If not, then do something else.

I'm a superstitious atheist who gets nervous if he has $13 in his pocket, or if the stereo or television volume is at 13. If salt is spilt, I have to fling it over my left shoulder. In my mind, some salt is spilled every time salt is used, so I have to fling a little over my shoulder every time I use salt in any capacity. There is a little bit of madness there, but not worth losing any sleep over.

But I don't kill spiders because they don't swarm or get in the way, like roaches. I like them, and they are welcome to set up shop in my flat. Albi is perched on my paper files, near my desk. Specifically an order for bloodwork, meant to check my lithium and testosterone blood levels. She seems content to stay there. I'm content to let her.

Every so often I entertain the idea of packing my computer away in a box and isolating myself, with only the spiders and pets to keep me company while Linda is at work. And Dvorak's cello concerto, which Albi and I are listening to on the stereo. And my books.

Hermitude.

I'm not considering this because I dislike people. My pathology is more complicated than that, dear friends. I'm merely "avoidant" and bipolar, not schizoid. I'm fond of people and the living. The problem is that interaction requires the use of my mind, and my mind is not always good to me.

It has become clear to me that my mind is working against me when I try to maintain friendships. I've been very successful at quieting the voice in my head that tells me that I don't deserve the company of others, that I'm human waste with a Social Security number, and that I'm distracting people from better friends. This is my fault, as it is my brain and mind at work. But there is only so much imaginitive, cold and constant self-loathing and paranoia I can take. Every so often I slash my leg with a blade just to distract my mind, which sometimes feels like a car on black ice, spinning out of control.

I've sworn not to suicide, to all the right people, so I have to fight. I'm not weak, and if you think I am you don't know what I'm up against. I need to stop caring what people think of me, but that is not likely. Today I have things to do, and the rest of this concerto to listen to with Albi. Perhaps she can feel it. After that, a bit of Dostoevsky always makes me feel less alone. Perhaps I'll re-read "White Nights" later today. Melancholy. I look forward to my amelioration.

Albi has made herself small, on the frond of the plant; I placed her in a nice little spot a moment ago.