I'm writing today's missive from The Green Room at the House of Four Cats. There haven't been many postings of late, and I wonder if a high dose of a new psychiatric drug isn't to blame. Not that it matters. The Good Ship Wonder-Nut.
This is my 500th post, which means I get a free sub at Captain Nemo's Pizzeria on Broadway in Cambridge. If I weren't so pre-occupied with suicide, death in general, self injury, sex, and a deep and unabiding concern about my sanity than I might have a witty, or even funny, observation. Instead, a story or two I will relate.
This has never happened to me before, but every so often tinges of a deeper mental illness manifest and frighten. Paranoia regarding the people I love, my neighbors, my family and crowds. Sometimes I'm convinced that everyone I know is talking about me, mocking me. That I have no firm place in the minds of anyone, and that I don't exist. Sometimes I feel as if I'm living in a dream, or alternate universe. The "real" me is still working, has his MA, perhaps, and is normal.
Most of the time, however, I tool around the flat and make love to Linda and clean the flat and read and do normal things, feeling pretty normal when I do them. The weed helps, too.
I need to mention Texas in this post. Odd, perhaps, but the governor of that shithole state, Rick Perry, is speaking of seceding from the USA. Apparently 25% of Texans, so upset about Obama and the $500 million in aid he wants to give Texas, feel the need to go to war.
Bring 'em on, as Bush would say. Texas is where John F. Kennedy was shot, it's Africa hot, people are generally functionally retarded, Bush lives and clears brush, and everyone has a superiority complex that masks how ridiculous they feel deep-fat frying a whole turkey in an old oil drum. They have to go. Bye bye, Texas, we hardly knew ye.
Well, we knew ye pretty well and we didn't like you. Buncha cowboy, homophobic cunts.
Tomorrow, it's post 501!