dear runaway god

okay. here's a blog post that might actually help. if it doesn't help other people understand me, at least maybe it will help me understand my situation a little better.

part one: my life in five minutes.

snot is running out of my nose. it's very impatient, it whines like a little baby, and this is constant, throughout my day. my neck is so stiff, it constantly needs to pop, so i'm looking like an idiot trying to pop my neck all the time. my skin itches because of the clothing. i have never found any clothing that ever fit me right and didn't itch like crazy. i loathe clothing on my skin, but you fearful fucks tell me i have to have it because you're scared of skin. not only do i have to wear clothing, but i have to wear it twentyfourseven now, thanks to your greed, selfishness, and apathy, and i have to wear lots of it to stay warm. thanks for that.

if i sit by a seven eleven and panhandle, this is what i go through within five minutes. i try to light a cigarette, but i can't enjoy it because i'm constantly having to spit every ten seconds or less, because my stupid mouth overproduces saliva unless i get major cottonmouth going. so i get my cigarette saver, put the cigarette out, spit a bunch, shoot snot out my nose (called snotrockets®), have to pop my knuckles every minute or less, cause they won't stop bitching either, and if i don't pop them, i'm just not able to do what needs to be done. eyelashes in my eyes, goopers (eye snot strings and crusties) in my eyes making me unable to see what i'm doing, eyes watering, oh, don't forget to pop my neck again, okay try to hit the pipe, no, have to spit again, more snot out the nose, spit again, inhale, pop my neck, pop my knuckles, spit again, try to finally take a hit. recover from that. more snot, more spit, more popping of neck and knuckles, inhale deeply, now i need to either burp or fart. my body can never decide, so i have to contort my body to decide for it, but that never works. if a burp actually comes all the way up, i'm surprised. if a fart comes all the way out, i'm more surprised. it's called gastroparesis, look it up before you sound stupid. oh, yeah, and keep 'complex ptsd' in mind this whole time, too. cause if people walk by me and piss me off, there's screaming stuffed into this menu somewhere, and that kills my throat more. i don't want to scream at people, i don't want to hate people, i don't want to be angry and hateful, i want to be away from people. people don't understand that, but it's not just ptsd, and that's not just an excuse. i'm antisocial. study that. oh, stay focused, i'm still spitting and snotrockets, and knuckle/neck popping between hits here, and we're only up to one hit. okay, try to take another hit. take a deep breath to calm and loosen the stomach, pop the neck, spit, snot, oh, no, got a fart coming, so i sit up and try to... nope, it's gonna be a pussy and retreat, causing more pain. okay, start over. breath, snot, spit, neck pop, take a hit, exhale. no coughing, no recovery required, praise jebus. pop neck, deep breath, snot, spit, try to take a hit, nope, i can't light the lighter until i pop the bitchy knuckle. okay, start over. snot, spit, neck, breath, take a hit. success. breathe, now you got a burp coming, pop the neck before and after, but that gets fucked up in the middle by having to look at someone walking up to me, or a hot girl walking past, which makes the burp retreat like a pussy, causing more pain. now i have this sharp, stabbing pain dig into my back. relax, breathe. snot, spit, burp, neck, breathe, knuckles, scratch face, scratch nose, scratch nose again, spit, dry off mouth, scratch nose again, finally a burp comes up, stomach pain, chest cramp, relax, breathe, try again. snot, spit, breath, neck, take a hit. okay, success. give it a bit to kick in, light the cigarette. this whole time, i'm trying to keep my headphones in, to drown the world out. i'm not allowed to have my headphones in. i'm too poor to ignore people. not like the rich who ignore me so well. the shinier the shoes, the stiffer the neck. i take a couple hits of the cigarette, someone walks up to me asking me for a cigarette. no, i don't give out my cigarettes, i panhandle for a pack of my own every day, there's nothing stopping you from doing the same, it's easy enough to make a sign and stand there for two hours. i hit the cigarette again, and just when i remember to put my metal back in my ears, i get maybe two seconds of raintime, and some other idiot walks up to me asking me for meth. what part of i'm homeless are you dumb fucks seriously not understanding here? i don't fucking have anything! headphones back in the ears. next time someone asks me for meth, i'm going to... not hold back the scream, and them i'm going to ask them this...

'maybe you can answer something for me... (screaming at them) what the fuck are my headphones doing out of my ears!'.

okay, after about five cigarette hits, put it out, grab the pipe again. wipe my stupid facial hair out of my way, how fucking constantly annoying that shit is. that's a whole category of annoyance all its own, so i won't go into that one. oh, have to pull a gooper out of my eye, cause i can't see shit. oh, now that i see something, there's a hot girl walking past, and my uncontrollable male bobblehead just can't miss it. girl seen, breath taken, neck popped, knuckles popped, spit, snot, spit, snot, spit, snot, breathe, pop neck again, try to burp, no, that one went rogue, we're gonna have to track him down later and execute him. more snot, more spit, breathe, take a hit. nope, have to pop my neck in twenty different directions first. breathe, swallow, spit, snot, back pain, breathe, take a hit. success. relax, breathe deep. god forbid the evil burp demon releases the hiccup monkeys, i start screaming. screaming is my way of holding back the bullets. when i smile at you, i'm holding back screams. don't act like you understand how much i'm holding back when i'm looking at you. i've already been through this too much more than you. and the fact that you haven't studied your history, cause you still say 'columbine' when you see me. don't debate me here. you always do, you're the most predictable phony, and there are seven billion clones of you, you plastic martyr. i never wanted this hell, this prison body in a prison world where nothing i see do i want to see, but that's my fault, blame that on my, i'm your scapegoat, too. yes, master, you're right, dominate me, your majesty. and you wonder why i envision slitting your throat every morning. oh, wait, i have to let some 'i hate' grunts out, cause that little thought just tore though my mind like a bullet from hell. okay, breathe, sit straight, burp, get the snot and spit brothers to shut up for a second. i don't know which one's whinier, the redheaded stepchild, or axl rose. i'll let you figure out which is which. who was worse when it comes to 'bitch, bitch, bitch', was it my family, or my own body. who was better at destroying my life, was it my family, or my own fucking body? who destroys more of my moment to moment enjoyment? well, now that i have my family out of the picture...

we're only up to the third minute. breathe, neck, snot, spit, burp, try to take a hit, no, i'm being asked for meth again by an incoherent fucking zombie, do i look like a fucking methhead to you! is there anything about me that says 'moron' to you? what is it about me that says 'scumbag'? do i look anything like you? does it look to you like i make the same horrible choices in life that you do? get the fuck away from me before i start stabbing methheads like some fuckin' superhero! you wanna debate how serious i am, which is my predicted reaction, or do you want to take the smart route and fuck off! nope, stand there and bitch at me some more, like i can hear you with machine head in my ears, you fucking moron! how many of you idiots do there have to be! cut off the internal screaming warfare, breathe, relax, focus, pop the neck, knuckles, release the snit spot brothers, burp, no, that one went awol, chest pain, back pain, stomach pain, knee pain, adjust the ankles, oh, shit, now my eye is filled with sidesluts, which fills my mind with hatred, my body cringes, internal screaming session for about three seconds, shut up, focus, breathe, relax, sit straight, burps, fragments, snot, spit, knuckles, neck, breathe, take another hit... success. spit is finally slowing down like wolverine in japan. send the assassin to track down that rogue burp. get his ass up here before i stupidly stab myself to tear him out. minute four. try to take three hits, hopefully that will be enough to finally turn off the spit and snot faucets. burp, cringe, pain, close deep inside this body, hide away for a second, wish to die, to not be here, shut the concrete out. look up, open your eyes, focus, breathe, neck pop, try to take a hit, nope, being asked for meth again. buddy, you don't even see my hand on my pocket pen right now, do you? are you not realizing that this can be used as a weapon? or that i know where your jugular is? you're assuming i'm stupid and dumb and uneducated like everyone else. and if i am educated, i'm only educated by too many movies like the rest of you. god you people are imaginative. have you forgotten what intuition is? or was? how about common sense? i wrote the eulogy for common sense on my blog, no one ever read it. it's still there, if you want to try and prove me wrong. yeah, i know common sense is dead, i know compassion is dead, i know sympathy is dead, but i'm hoping intuition is still finding its way through the fog from one monkey island to another. maybe it will find amelia earheart, and she can fly be back to timothy leary's bus, and i can drive the sixties back here. that fog is thick enough, the cops will never see me. trust me, i learned a lot from that show, mama told me to. i feel sick. full body pain, i cringe, sit up, focus, breathe, stop your mind from screaming, stare at the ground, headphones, fart, spit, wipe mouth, scratch face, deal with the uncooked muffin topping under this stupid hat that was designed by a squirrel claiming to be ceo of nutsocks, inc., but i think they just spelled crazy wrong. my head's getting pulled three different directions, left is a hot girl, right is a guy i could ask for change, but up is where my focus is being pulled by my stupid neck. fuck this, take another hit of the pipe, stop the internal ranting, breathe, sit straight, focus, no, i have to adjust my pants before my stomach kills me. that proves to be as difficult as subhumanly possible. getting close to minute five. bobblehead, burp, scratch, stomach pain, snot, spit, neck, knuckles, breath, sit straight, try to take the hit. nope, bus drives by, blowing wind and trash my way, i have to close my eyes and turn my head, because knowing my lack of luck, every piece of that dirt will avoid everyone else, and land right in my eyes. happens every fucking time, i don't see anyone else walking away digging in their faces like i have to.

if you think for even a second that i wanted this, or that i enjoy this, then i just gauged your sanity. don't believe me? fuckin' say something. some of you look at me, like 'how disgusting'. first of all, what, you're not human, too? just because you have a trash can in your home doesn't mean you're not disgusting, too. you call yourselves sophisticated, but in my eyes, if you were really sophisticated, you would have figured out a way to evolve to the point of not having to shit anymore, thus your sewers wouldn't stink up the streets when i walk through your neighborhoods. even in the nice neighborhoods, i can smell you. stop the rant, shut up, close your eyes, do not look at people, do not look at people, do not fucking look at anyone, control your fucking eyes! close them, keep them fucking closed! metal in the ears! breathe, relax, sit straight, burps, cough up a little toxic puke for satan's forehead, okay, the dragon is still inside me, i feel good, if only i could get my email program to shut the fuck up right now, i get nothing but automated messages, and they're popping up like every five minutes, you fucking annoying world, shut the fuck up, what part of leave me alone do you not understand. stop the rant. snot and spit are slowing down, take another hit. breathe, relax, sit straight, neck, knuckles, take a hit, fart, burp, don't let that one turn into hiccups, hold it, stop everything, close your eyes. relax, let it go. approaching the end of minute five. light the cigarette, see if i feel stoned enough yet. tongue is dry, breath has slowed, heart's still shaking, but numb, a pain from my shoulders all the way down through my wrists, makes me cringe, flesh feels less sensitive, thoughts are calming.

that's a good five minute glimpse into my day. that's if everything goes as best as possible.

part two: my daily prayer.

dear dead god. please shut this body up. get it to stop hurting, annoying me, killing me, get it to shut the fuck up, i've been begging you for thirty years now, i know you're not there, but if you're too much of a pussy to show your fucking face to me, then i'm destroying your entire manmade religion in your name. why can't you get this body to give me just five minutes of peace. why is that too much for me to ask. why can't you show your face to me? you show it to a billion delusional morons, but you can't show me a fuckin' thing. i've seen no burning bushes, i've heard no fucking voice. am i too much of a scientist, do you already hate me that much, do you know that i'm your enemy, is that why you won't show your face to me, because i'm here to destroy you? tell me, asshole! get this fucking body to stop hurting, god! your idiot followers tell me i don't pray well enough, i never put enough heart into it, or that i use unacceptable language, but i know that the real heaven doesn't have censorship laws, it's the fake heaven where all the plastic children go when they die, it basically looks like a toy store with clouds, i've seen it, you put your credit card in the door when you die, and however much money you died with, that's how luxurious you get to live up there. that heaven, the fake toy store heaven for christians is on the third floor of the target walmart mall building, and i told you from the beginning, i'm never going there, real flesh doesn't fit through the plastic slot. but your godbrain is made of legos, so you can't figure that out.

a poetic line from my twitter:

i wish i could carve this pathetic meat sack off my soul, so i could truly walk around naked.

no, the real heaven is where people with hearts go. i wouldn't expect that factoid to hurt you, is plastic flammable? oh, sorry, didn't read your label. who wrote your label, they misspelled your brainwashing instructions. hey, god, if you're really up there, or if you're at least claiming to be up there, or if it's just a few idiots claiming that you're up there, or if aliens or other gods or conscious creatures and beings of whatever sort are actually up there, if there's anything real out there that can hear me, please, i'm suffering in the hell of this body, and i just want to see something better than concrete, please, i'd give anything, i've already given everything, what more do i have to give to be free of this nightmare that everyone else seems to enjoy, and if i'm in misery, they tell me it's my fault, but they don't understand that credit cards are just slave chains, and if i don't want to be a part of it, i'm fucked, they don't understand that, god, how do i tell these people, how do i make them understand, and stop disagreeing out of ignorance and stubbornness. how, lord, how? aliens, gods, timothy leary, whatever the fuck is out there, please, does anyone hear me. can anyone hear me. i know i've never had anyone to pray to, but please.

i hear about these other metal bands getting started, and i always read that 'they had friends who all shared the same interests'. like in flames, and their buddy bands, at the gates, and dark tranquility... for example. they were all responsible for pioneering swedish melodic death metal, because they were all already friends who shared the same interests. says that right on wikipedia, on just about every fucking band's page. why was i never allowed to have anything like that? i've never had that! does anyone else realize or give a shit, i've never had that! how the fuck am i supposed to start a band with people i can trust, when i'm thirty seven years old with zero lifelong friends with any talent, let alone similar fucking tastes as me! i'm about as unique as a thumb on a hand, there's no one... why do i even ask. why do i ever open my fucking mouth. i know there's no ear, visible or not, listening to this. i know how bands are supposed to be started. i'm doing it the completely wrong way, and i'm hoping there's a reason for it. cause this path is lined with disaster. but it's my only choice, because i don't have a credit card, i can't just go to a metal show and pay and get in, i have to try and beg my way in, meeting all the wrong people standing outside, and getting led on wild goose chases of insanity with these seriously lunacious fucking people, yes, i just came up with a word, i couldn't think of anything crazy enough to describe you that hasn't been clichéd because of you and your overpopulated plastic playpen mall. god, i cringe. i hate. i hurt. is this making sense to anyone else yet, will anyone ever read this, god? will i ever be heard even by the right people. must i get swamped by morons outside a place, which pours blood all over my people issues, when i should be inside, not wasting one more moment, talking to the rockstars who know how to do this shit, the rockstars who already stand against a system like this, so hopefully, in theory, they'd have no problem with giving a fellow sprout a little boost. but no, the record exec has to come flying through the window like a supervillain, saying 'no, no, no', they love to say no a lot. way too much, i think. makes me wonder what their mother said. but anyway, they come flying through the window like they were watching the whole time through hidden cameras stashed there by little 'brother' slaves. boy, these terms. anyway. with the amount of farts that are not coming out of me, i could spontaneously combust, and i wish i could time it right, and take out a mall with me. at least they couldn't call me a suicide bomber, cause a: it wasn't suicide, and b: it wasn't a bomb. even if it was minimally intentional to die in a mall, but why would i want to die in a mall, i had a nice place in washington picked out to see my last sunset if this goes wrong. why do skinny guys have to wear shirts that say 'paris' on them? when it comes to attracting women, that's just cheating.

dear lord, please. some magical ear in the sky that's more evolved than i, please. whatever aliens are up there who aren't buttfucking the government puppets, anyone, please. this body causes me constant pain. it's driving me insane, i'm not able to think. i cannot get this body to shut up and leave me alone. the soul trapped inside this body, was built to stand on a stage and rock the shit out of that thing like an earthquake. like a lego boat in a bath tub.

speaking of, i'm gonna make my own 'proper' children's rhyme.

rub a dub dub, three ladies in a tub... may i get in?

that's the way it should have been written. can we travel back in time, shoot the author, and call it even? move on?

no one can hear me. i know for a fact that there's no god up there, but these idiots won't even let me finish that sentence alone, and they refuse to believe how serious i am, cause you know, scientific fact and evidence don't mean shit to them, but i know for a solid, concrete fact, that there absolutely is no god in the sky, oh, but yes, keep spitting your horse shit into my ear, i need to hear it again, cause i obviously didn't hear it well enough the first ten billion times, maybe you can do a better job than the last four billion retards to sell your same product, nope, still not buying it, sorry, i can't afford your god, he's too greedy for me, but oh, that's not good enough for you either, you have to interrupt and dominate this conversation even more, yes, cut off my speech, talk over me, stand over me, look down on me, yes, master, i hear you, yes, master, i didn't know that yet, wow, how fascinating...

this lady yesterday, standing there for about ten minutes, trying to convince me to go vegan because it's the source of all the mind control in this world, and all the problems and all the slavery, is because we're killing the animals and getting bad karma from it...

are you people really that fucking insane?

let me put it this way. when i design my utopia, there will be no bibles there, no beliefs, no control, no money, no need for it, and no people like you telling other people what to do based on opinion. you know what there's going to be a lot of? well, we're all gonna be sitting around with huge smiles on our faces, smoking a shitload of weed, cigarettes, and eating a bunch of meat. because meat is still healthy, and if you don't think so, you're more controlled by misinformation than you know. animals don't give off bad karma. if you end their lives correctly, you can eat worry free. you don't need to be so brutal and bloody. design a little natural serum that ends their bodily functions peacefully, quietly, wish them a safe journey, and then get the village idiot to carve that shit up, cook it up, and serve it. see, once the animal is dead, peacefully, he's not going to care what you do to his body. hell, my mother didn't, when she died, she donated four hundred pounds of mistakes to science, but don't worry, they aren't starving. anyway. if this was done with the slightest bit of logic, and not superstition and paranoia like you idiots... we'll kill our own animals peacefully. we'll farm our own shit without your chemicals. we'll do everything without your input. we'll still be eating a lot of meat, smoking a lot of weed, and there ain't shit you can say about it. we do not want your suggestions or opinions or beliefs, and the sign says, no solicitation for the long hair freaky people. the fine print just underneath it, says 'fuck off'. if you're not a long haired freaky people, you don't belong here. how's that feel? you gonna slaughter another indian tribe? what do you have to worry about, you've done it before, and not even the internet can stop you, right? god, you're stupid. and predictable. which makes you look even more stupid.

but thankfully, i'm not as stupid as i look, so we're functioning on a few more brain cells over here, but you can debate that if you want. we'll put it on youtube, on the 'who looks dumber' channel. we get some shiny ratings, and we don't even give a shit about ratings, go figure. so yeah, lots of meat being eaten the right way, instead of being paranoid and going the complete opposite direction, running from the problem, by saying 'just stop eating meat all together', rather than being logical and saying 'let's just fire all the butchers who can't do their job right'. or, ooh, even further, 'and if they try to find work as a butcher again, we make them walk into a volcano'. or, even better, 'instead of finding future work as butchers, maybe they should work in a lego factory, where there are no children or animals. maybe if you got them some girlfriends, some weed, and a few metal records, they wouldn't have the urge to bludgeon animals in horrid ways like unruly children in vacant back yards, god, this fucking stomach! god, get this fucking body to shut up and leave me alone, please! how many years do i have to ask and be told i'm not asking well enough before you fucking hear me, or before your followers give up and stop trying to convert me, like it's still a fucking requirement to live a good life! when are these people going to let god and the need for his crutch finally go, let it fucking go! it's been two thousand years, it's twenty fifteen, he hasn't shown his face, three armageddon deadlines have been missed, we found a fossil named lucy, how much more evidence do you fucking need, you stubborn fucking children! stop selling me your fucking lies, and making me scream at you with hatred! shut the fuck up! i got something to sell you! i can't wait to take this all the way. i want to have my minions go out into the streets, passing out flyers and pamphlets, and shouting 'save your soul from the lord!', god, i can't wait for that. the world's first televolutionist, cause it's about fucking time, i can't wait to offend you all as much as possible and see that look on your face that says 'priceless', cause when i do, i know that the word 'price' just became that much less relevant, and that's exactly what i'm shooting for. figure it out. i know your god doesn't exist, because i'm trapped in a turd, being forced to watch a bad movie that's way too long. i know that your money is just a very intricate series of slave chains, but you don't realize that i am unattached. i have let go. i no longer tolerate that shit. are you not hearing me, no, obviously you're not, because you're still fucking talking, and i'm having to sit there and nod my head like a good little slave while you rape my ear against my will, hello!!! i do not tolerate forced delusion, are you understanding me! i never once believed in your god, not for one day in my life, yet you still sell me that product, you try to make that choice for me, because you don't know any other way to communicate with me, and you don't think that's sad. fuck your god, fuck your dollars, fuck your beliefs, fuck your words, get the fuck away from me before i stab you in the fucking neck! did you hear that part at least! so this lady keeps interrupting me and talking over me and won't let me speak, and just keeps repeating herself, puking this horse shit into my fucking ear, and finally, to get her to finally walk away, after ten minutes of being forced to listen to something i clearly don't need to hear again, cause i tried telling her, i love eating meat, i've had vegan friends, i know all there is to know about it, i think it's lunacy derived from paranoia, but i can't tell this lady any of that, because she'll interrupt me every two fucking words, so i finally, to get her to go away, i sit there and just keep repeating the words 'i know', over and over and over again, louder and louder and louder, and louder, and more, and more, and repeating, and repeating, till she FUCKING HEARS ME!!! I KNOW, I KNOW, I KNOW, I KNOW, I KNOW, I KNOW, I KNOW, I KNOW, I KNOW, I KNOW, I KNOW, TRUST ME, YOU DUMB FUCKING BITCH, I FUCKING KNOW THIS SHIT BETTER THAN YOU, YOU FUCKTARDED TOXIC GOATCOW!!! GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!!! I KNOW, I KNOW, I KNOW, I KNOW, (getting even louder and louder and louder, and more aggressive, repeating) I KNOW. I KNOW! I KNOW!!! I KNOW!!! I KNOW THIS!!! I KNOW!!!

she finally says 'oh, you do, well, good', and finally walks away.

what the fuck makes you people think you can dominate me and try to change my mind to fit in your mold that fucking brutally! what makes you think you're going to get away with two thousand years of that karma, and you're worried about a few animals and how pissed they might be in the afterlife? why does there need to be an afterlife, are you that scared of not existing? what the fuck is wrong with you! if you're scared of shit, why do i have to be scared with you, does it comfort you to know that everyone's paranoid? in that case, are you more fearful now that people are waking up and realizing there's nothing to fear, and more of those people are coming out of the woodwork, and i know you try to ignore them like they're crazy, but we're ignoring you for the same reason, and you're not realizing that, which is of course our fault, what is it you want to hear i wonder???!!! what the fuck is wrong with you! we try to tell you simply, by saying 'neaderthal yearns to dominate everything out of ignorance and fear', but you're not seeing the connection, which really makes me wonder, cause i'm gauging the shit out of your iq right now, and i'm trying to defrost it to see if there's anything that shouldn't be thrown into the volcano, but all you're seeing is terminator movies and fantasy while i'm saying this, but then your cops tell me i watch too many movies when i try to say that i know the laws and i know my rights. wow.

i was proud of myself. i told yet another asshole cop where to stick it the other day, and i'm still free. wanna hear this bonus track story before i end my prayer, god? sorry, i know your answering machine doesn't drag on this long, even though your fucking preachers do, but sure, sever my tongue again, i love that, master.

i was laying on a sidewalk. since i've already been taken to jail for laying on a sidewalk, and had the charges dropped, i can basically tell this cop whatever the fuck i want, there's nothing he can do to me, because laying on a sidewalk is not a crime. oh, yeah, i know, watch how this one plays out, i had more control over this monkey than he even knew. he pulls up in his car once, and tells me to get up, i said okay, he pulled off. and of course, two minutes later, he comes back, pulls his car up, gets out, immediately starts being a prick and blaming it on me. i started trying to talk, but not even one syllable was heard, even by myself, cause he kept spitting these orders and commands out of his mouth, which i can't hear, because i'm trying to talk, asshole! does anyone realize that? it seems like the dumber they are, or the more authority they have, the more they talk and the less they listen, and i wonder if there's a connection. why do i see neanderthal fur sticking out of their uniforms? their breath smells like... clan of the cave bear, that's what that smells like. i smell daryl hannah. but he won't listen, so i have to shout over him, which he blames me for the 'hostility'. yeah, okay, mister guntoting lunatic, i'm the one who's hostile, sure. i'm the one who's carrying a gun because that's the job i decided to get, so i take out my self blame on anyone but myself... wow, okay, yeah. anyway, i was trying to say, officer assbag, if you'd care to shut your dominant authoritative mouth long enough. i can tell you everything you need to know...

he interrupts. you fucking moron. seriously? that needed to be said just then, that it's my fault? so within two seconds of pulling up, he's demanding that i 'turn around and face the wall'. so i finally just shouted out over him, 'no, i don't have to'. he looks at me, and says 'you don't have to?'. i tried answering him, but apparently he didn't want an answer, he says 'i can have thirty more people here right now' blah blah blah. i interrupted him. i know, my mama would be proud already. i interrupted him, defending myself, saying 'no, i don't have to, because i'm no fucking criminal!' i got to 'cri...' and he cuts me off, not hearing the 'minal' part. oh, i'm a good writer, you're not getting past me. all this 'hostility' could have been avoided, keep in mind, had this asshole just done his peacekeeping job and kept his hostile fucking mouth shut. but okay, i'm the slave in this situation. he starts 'calling for backup' (for one homeless dude, i know, what a puss, right?) on his shoulder talkie device, so i cut him off again, and this time, drowned out his interruptions, which is impossible for me to do unless a certain trigger is hit.

you still think i haven't figured out this ptsd crap yet. you still think i'm dumber than you. you still assume i'm just stupid, that i can't possible know all this shit, only fictional people in movies know this much shit, so i must watch too many movies, that's obviously the one and only possible answer ever, so put it on wikipedia and finalize it.

wrong.

i interrupted his little backup call, playdoh show. and just kept plowing through these words:

i can tell you everything you need to know in five seconds if you'd shut your fucking mouth! i'm ozzy draven, thirty seven, father of two, no warrants, no probation, no parole, because i'm not a fucking criminal, so stop treating me like one!

even though i finished what i was saying, do you want to know how far through that i got before he started talking?

i made it up to the word 'warrants', and he starts saying 'then get out of here and don't come back, stay away from this street'.

it's not a broken record that you guys sound like, cause i've heard broken records.

you guys sound like clones.

have a blessed day. praise jebus beiber. god's a vegan, yes, i know.

god, i can't wait for the day... it's coming soon, i can smell the pamphlets. i can see the sun shining off the streets as the people walk by. the most definitive feeling, the most informative visual, and you guys have no clue what i'm talking about because you don't know shit about synaesthesia, you just think i've seen too many xmen movies, but that tells me somethin'...

shows how much you know... i am a mutant. you try proving that to christians. google says mutant is a word, christians is underlined in red. hmm... oh, sorry, did i offend your sense of humour, did he run off? sorry. get a new one. maybe one that's not designed by the plastic god company.

falsify your existence on this planet. i see how people in starbucks strike up conversations, and i see them sitting there listening to everyone else's story. never mine. what happens to me, you would never believe, but for some reason, i still feel obligated to convince you. as if it serves as a reason to get me a place of my own to live.

there's a new lesson aching to be learned. go ahead, keep running and hiding from it.
there's a new idea yearning to be learned. and witches on stakes to be burned, oh my!

i've been evolving from you since you were burnin' witches.
you've been in denial and darkness the whole time. self inflicted delusion.
a creature of darkness in a mind of questions; that which does not question.

my head shakes in disappointment too many times each day, but it's all my fault.

oh, yeah, and one more thought for this blog post. another constant annoyance that i wish i had the right to separate myself from.

i'm sick of looking at people. i used to have my dual monitor computer in my room, and outside my window was a fucking brick wall, so i never had to see shit but daylight. i could focus on my computer, my thoughts, my movies, whatever i wanted to do. but sitting in a starbucks, i can't control my neck. it's turning left and right to see all of you, but i'm tired of looking. i wish to god i could control my neck, my eyes, and tell them, stop looking at people, stop talking to people, say only what's necessary and save everything personal for a book, not one detail revealed before necessary, don't look at these people, don't talk to these people, stare at the ground, find ways to feed yourself without having to say one word, keep your metal in your ears, do not take them out, eyes on the ground, shake your head no, get in that habit, instead of the instinct to be nice...

which is a revelation for me... being nice is an instinct for some. then what does that make 'being mean'. freud?

eyes to the ground. metal to the ears. block it all out. the sign speaks for you. don't look at them, don't talk to them, do not take your ears out, just disappear, be invisible, you know how better than anyone else, and you've proven it. trying to be seen is your mistake, you're inviting methheads and drug addict scumfucks and crackroaches, and that's all you invite, what is it about my energy that invites methheads, but not potheads?

i'm not a drug addict! i'm a pothead. can i not attract any other potheads? all i attract is drug addicts. why! that law of attraction horse shit, i can't buy it. none of this world's superstitions or beliefs that they have tried to put on me to define me... have never worked. i'm not just an unnecessary puzzle piece in their puzzle, i'm from a whole other puzzle, with completely different lines and curves, and they're still trying to define me as something like them and put me in their moldy little box, what do you think they would do to actual aliens?

you're purple and you can teleport? well, unless it's fictional, or out of a fictional bible, we can't believe that, so we're just gonna say that you somehow magically fit through the mcdonald's drive through speaker, and then the food gets here, and you also believe in our god.

i wouldn't expect the aliens to shake their heads in disappointment, cause they probly have evolved another physical reaction for disappointment, like pissing upward, or tapping their legs on the ground.

you know those radio djs, how they have little sound clips of things... i always wish i had a little sound clip of bill hicks' pompous laughter to play at any moment, like a little clicker in my hand, and whatever speakers are around me at the time, it would play bill's voice, like the voice of god, through these speakers, with his pompous laugh, 'eh-heh!'. like, 'you really expect me to believe that?'. he says so much in that tiny little nonverbal reaction. that's poetry to me. condensed meaning into minimal words. brings a whole new meaning to 'from concentrate'.

so... that's my story for the day. part one: pain. part two: god. part three: cops. part four: people. cringe.

now, i need to find a restroom that won't kick me out after two minutes. you humans are fucking retarded. these bodies are not designed to shit in two minutes. but everything is a portable single serving convenience to you. individually wrapped forks for your protection from retardation and brain cell warfare. intellectual terrorism. copcakes and starfucks microwaved rubbery plastic nuclear fuckin'... your food makes mcdonald's look real. compared to mcdonald's sausage and egg mcmuffin, yours looks like the playskool version my cousin used to have. you don't realize that, do you? and you call this health food. i bet you that tofu is just leftover eighty year old whale blubber, and you guys are eating it thinking it's healthy, and that you can believe and trust what the people who made it tell you, no, that looks like fuckin' expired whale blubber to me. either that, or fish from men in black iii. you should watch more movies, and be less useless. fuckin' tofu. tofurkey. tofuck you.

fuck vegans are just one more controlling religion that i'm against. don't think you can cram me into your mold either, if you haven't learned from the lack of christianity in me, i'm a customer you're never going to have. just mark it as a 'no sale', tell your boss you failed, and leave me the fuck alone. why do you HAVE to sell me? you've got seven billion other mindless clones, why do you need me? am i the only real soul in this world? is this the path of temptation? are all these little jungle delusions trying to hook me for a reason? for who? where is my prison in this world, and where is my heaven, and how do i define the two? i honestly feel like the devil himself is behind every single store window, pulling his finger in, that big smile, taunting me to buy any and every product, any and every belief, so long as he can snag a little chunk of my soul each time, so i'm easier to control, more submissive and docile, and willing to do what he tells me. but i feel like all these people are just fake plastic puppets, robots doing his dirty work, in a lost world, where i'm the last person, the last soul that's still real, and needs to be acquired by satan industries, just so evil can pour through this world... so it's one attraction after another. one conversion attempt after another. this chain of people, and i have to say no to each one of them, why? that's only the work of satan, cause on down that line of people, i can see clearly the setting we're in, the faces, and his face behind each one. i can see it. know he's behind all this. products. beliefs. control. why do i have to be sold? why? no one's ever answered that, they refuse. but why, why do you have to keep selling me your product to this day, when i have refused to buy it for thirty seven years straight now? do you think one of these times i'm going to give in and say okay, and you get to claim victory, that you just killed the last unicorn? what the fuck world are you living in? i see satan in every store window. you don't. you sell me his products like you're his employed salesman, but he's not paying you, you're paying him, and that screams 'perfect slave' to me. but not you. maybe you were sniffing glue and got some in your ears, need a qtip? wake the fuck up. i will never buy your product. i will never hold a bible in my hand. stop trying. you will never win. it's a fruitless endeavor. my soul cannot be acquired. because i'm honestly not the least bit interested in your products. all i'm interested in is getting the fuck away from you, as far as possible. you'll never understand that.

so, from now on, this is my vow to myself. whenever someone starts shoving their beliefs down my throat, trying to sell me their bible product, i'm just going to start selling mine. which means i should type up a funny little thing and memorize it, so i can just spit it out quick, without being interrupted. or, as i told my psychiatrist, being intentionally brutally verbally slaughtered. how many times do i have to say it. so, i'll type it up, perfect it, practice it, repeat it, and get it ready. get it stageworthy, practice it on people on the street, and if they still don't listen, i'll take it to the stage, record it, put it on youtube, and STILL NEVER BE FUCKING HEARD! AND I CAN PROVE THAT BECAUSE FIFTY PEOPLE A DAY WILL STILL COME UP TO ME EVERY DAY TRYING TO SELL ME THEIR SHIT EVERY FUCKING DAY!!! AND I WILL HAVE THAT FUCKING PROOF!!! BUT PROOF DOESN'T MEAN SHIT TO CHRISTIANS ANYWAY!!!

actually, that needs to be part of it, the fact that proof doesn't mean shit to them. anyway, i'm done, i'll work on that next, but yeah, i need something good to say, to sell them my religion, instead of... letting them speak.

have a wonderful day. kiss my multithumbed ass. and during the typing of this blog post, i got ten automated emails. count them, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine... fucking will you shut the fuck up!!! leave me alone, you fucking robots! ten automated emails popping up while i'm typing this. ten. i could show you a screenshot of my mail program. ten! and reverbnation should be ashamed of themselves. why are you the worst one?

dear god,

it's not my fault that you ran away.
abandoned your post.
left all your fans without a sequel.
but there's a new god coming out.
it promises to be a 'blockbuster'... pun intended.

sincerely,
evolution.

dear imageshack

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good morning, bad night

i've finally gotten a few excellent pieces of advice lately. one lady named kena, this morning, told me about poor kids radio. i have to look them up when i get time. last night was extremely windy and cold, i woke up with a throat full of dirt, it hurts to swallow. i was in so much fucking pain last night, i thought i was losing my mind. good god, that's an ass. sorry, distractions. anyway.

near the end of every month, when i'm waiting for my disability check... every month now, for a year and a half, near the end of each month, i meet someone who says they'll help me. but when i get my disability check, it goes to them, and i'm left with nothing, and the money didn't even last till the fifth. i'm left starving, sober, and having to panhandle every fucking day. why does this keep happening, why can't i stop meeting people who demand my money, why can't i say no? because i fucking hate saying no, and i fucking hate money. exchanging money for a place to live, that concept is so fucking retarded to me, i'd honestly rather die. i'd rather just not be in your world, because i'm sick of having to pay for shit you shouldn't have to pay for. no one understands this, no one gives a shit, but anything you turn into ash or turds, or anything you sleep on or in, should not cost fucking money. that way everyone would have a fair shot at starting their fucking day, wouldn't you say? if everyone started off their day with about ten points, every day... if you did something nice for someone other than yourself, you get a point. seems simple enough to me. humanity could finally be free to unite, rather than letting their opinions and beliefs keep them divided. can this not fucking happen? ever? am i just never allowed to have money in my hand? to have the few reasonable things i need to live each day? and you excuse this world as fair? how can you possibly be that stupid?

i'm really hoping this month might be different, but from the looks of this city, i'm seriously doubting it. all people are simply out to fuck you, to steal from you, and to not care about you. making friends costs way too much money these days, and having friends is just... fucking stupid. constantly asking myself, waiting, wondering when they're going to give up, take my cash, and disappear. when they're going to treat me rudely. the first sign of them shaking their head no at me. that look in their eyes when they've made their choice, right before the mask changes. that moment when the disappointment transfers. i've seen it way too many times to give a shit anymore. you wonder why i fucking hate you all, why i won't even give you a chance. my trust has been buttfucked by too many assholes. twist that through the little black hole in your mind. humans make me fucking sick.

i thought about writing a poem called 'owning humans'. trying to remember strings of words that i have thought, is like digging up fossils, trying to extract their dreams in liquid form, and putting them in bottles for the rich to call 'perfume'. piecing together my thoughts is like building a puzzle, but rather than cut out pieces, it's pieces of broken mirror. anyone can appear broken in that moment.

i know other people have made it through this shit with their lives, but i don't yet understand how. i read marilyn manson's book. i have yet to read nikki sixx's book. i have heard the stories. i know this is possible. and it has to happen soon. will i ever get to tell my story. will anyone ever care. would i still give a shit anyway.

i picture the next time a girl tries to touch me, if i shudder at the touch, would it scare her and make her leave.

i actually can't picture the next time a girl might try to touch me. i honestly doubt it will ever happen again. i know exactly how invisible i am in your eyes. why do i feel so fucking insane. have i already lost too much. why is my heart, why does my heart feel like this, i've never felt this before, and i've been through some pretty horrid shit, but it feels like an eternal nightmare black hole of misery on one side, and agony on the other. but at the same time, i know you cheery happy fucks never like to hear that downer shit, so what's the point of telling the story. i don't have much faith in you anymore. if my story would reflect that, and explain that, would it matter. would anyone give half a flabby fuck.

coming from a life where you've never had any worthwhile friends. where you've wasted twenty years of your life doing what you never should have done. watching your dreams waste away on the back burner for twenty years. because people kept telling you there was other shit you needed to do.. for them. 'take me to work, get me food, i'm late for my appointment'. every moment, every question, every time i was asked, i knew, as hard as a rock in the center of my brain, trying to pull the light switch string, i knew harder than concrete that i was wasting that moment, that i was needed elsewhere, that i was supposed to be doing something else. this gravitational pull, tilting the earth, but never quite dropping me next to the right person. people don't fucking understand this, but it's not easy for me to make friends. i've been antisocial since birth. i come from a family where i was never allowed to speak, to be heard. i come from a family who was really really good at talking to people, but no fucking clue what they were saying, but they'd sure shove their opinion down your throat against your will. they were good at it.

she'll never look at me.
she'll never see me.
just stop fucking looking.
keep your eyes fucking closed.
metal in your ears, smoke in your lungs, misery in your pants.

and i should be wearing a skirt. i fucking hate these pants. who would put this uncomfortable shit on their skin, and then demand that everyone else do it as well. how far out of their minds were they?

i can still taste dirt on my tongue. woke up in a pile of leaves that resembled a park in new hampshire, even though i was laying on a concrete sidewalk in los angeles. apparently god felt the need to blow every piece of trash on this earth at me last night. i was screaming at people.

thought about doing this bit on stage.

i can prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt... i know you guys don't want to hear this, you'll do everything you can to deny it, i know, but i can prove that your god does not exist. i know, i know, relax, you're just my hallucinations anyway, we'll get through this. but come on, open your mind for just a second here. i can prove, i have proof, that your god never existed. and i feel if i say this, that we can finally let it go and move on. learn to love eachother again, instead of keeping excuses between us. we're all assholes right now, i get it, but i think we could all put down our swords if we realized we no longer had a reason to hold them. would you like to know how i can prove that your god never existed? because...

factoid number one: there are seven billion people on this planet.
factoid number two: one seventh of them are without a home.
factoid number three: ...the wind blows.

that right there is literally all you need to say to disprove the existence of a god.

i'm not apologizing for that one. there's no way i'd be sorry for that one. i don't feel bad, i feel fuckin' great. lighter, happier, and fuckin' free. infact, i could repeat that.

i've begged your god to stop the wind, to turn up the thermostat, to leave me the fuck alone.

when i was eight years old, i actually gave the one honest prayer of my entire life for my grandmother to stop screaming at my mother. i took an hour long walk around the block, and when i came back, i could still hear the screaming from the street. from the entrance to the apartments, i could hear my grandmother smashing dishes on the wall. just psychotic, and my mother still having to sit there and take that shit. as soon as i was old enough, and after that prayer opened my eyes to the truth, that i was all alone on this earth, i started defending my mother against my evil grandmother. i was lost in no fairytale, i saw it get about as real as it could. my mother never deserved that abuse. but she loved her mother. as a child, that broke my fucking heart. no matter what you do to help someone you love, they'll always choose someone else over you. always. if you had money, you could put money on it, and then you'd have more money. if i were smart enough, that's how i could have gotten rich. betting people that my grandmother would scream at my mother today, place your bets! fuck it, i win again!

i'll get you next time, gadget!

it was always my mother and i vs the world. and now she's dead.

my grandmother died in march of this year, at the age of eighty five. thirty years older than my mother.
my mother died at the end of may, this year, at the age of fifty five.

you tell me: was it worth it?

does life mean anything? does it matter at all? or is it simply matter?

i know one thing, your dollars don't mean shit in the scheme of things. ask carl sagan's ghost. i'm sure he's still counting galaxies. i can still hear his voice, saying 'billions and billions', and my mother laughing at it. echoes of sanity, once within the walls of delusion, now free to roam... and count.

yeah. life's never been fair, and it's not supposed to be. i should have killed myself years ago. how can i possibly dream of starting a metal band, if i'm never allowed to finish a fucking sentence?

that is not a hypothetical or rhetorical question. it's not a philosophical debate, and it doesn't have a fucking price tag.

if my dreams succeed, the last price tag you'll ever see is the one on your toe. hopefully, you'll thank me for that. but more than likely, you'll hate me thousands of years into the future. blaming me for the loss of... whatever. not caring what i've already lost. if i made it big, the person who would have been most proud of me, my only true lifelong friend... my mother... in my mind, i can see her back there in tucson, sitting in her bed, sun shining behind her, and she's sticking her fist in the air. 'that's my son!'.

how can i dream of starting a metal band, if i've never gotten to finish a sentence?
how can i dream of being heard, if i've never been heard enough to even get used to the concept?

my entire life, every fucking day of my life, people constantly talk over me. interrupting me. shaking their head no at me. telling me what i should be, how i should act, how i should dress, how to talk to people, what words to say...

saying things like this... infact, i wanted to do this bit on stage as well...

next time i mention to someone that i really need therapy, and before i can get the word therapy out, they've already started shaking their head no at me, and they tell me 'dude, you don't need therapy'... i'm going to calmly stab them in the throat with my pen, and when all the idiots get involved thinking it's their business... i can just show them this blog post. this blog post is my proof, my defense, and all the reason i need. and if the judge has an iq above the temperature of the room, i'm quite confident that he'll say 'yup, nope, he's right, let him go'.

lawyer gets a confused look on his face, and the judge says 'he warned the guy! i mean, technically, he warned the guy a thousand times, it's just too bad knowledge isn't cloned, too'.

truth.

like the paddles zapping you back to life.

frank zappa you back to life.

i miss my mama.

one christmas, my mother waited till midnight on christmas eve, outside a tree lot, to get a free christmas tree. just so i would wake up the next morning and see a christmas tree. decorated and everything. that was my mother.

god, i miss you, mama. i fuckin' don't know what to do without you.

people constantly have to talk over me. every fucking day, just talking over me. they let me get about five words out, and their mouths just open up and this loud gibberish starts pouring out like toxic turds, clearly not giving a fuck what i was saying, just telling me the words in their minds. incoherent, psychotic, deaf, dumb, and blind. no wonder, look at the drugs you're on. i could have told you that, but apparently you need an imaginary god to tell you. the only way you can be convinced of anything is by your own delusions. how fucking sad is that.

i can hear all your diagnoses spewing out of your mind toward me, though.

'he's justifying his reality'...
'he's making excuses'...
'he thinks he's better than me'...
'he actually thinks he's sane'...
'he doesn't understand that there are other people on this planet'...

buddy, i'm waiting for a doctor to truly analyze my brain, so he can tell you what's in it, and then i'll pay your god to back up that message, and then we can finally all smile when you've finally shut your fucking mouth.

my mama had a pin that said 'closed minds usually have open mouths'.

invisibility. in a plastic world full of porches and people with that look on their face. i don't think they realize that i know exactly what thought is in their minds at that point. i can read it on the surface of their eye like an acid trip caressing the tongue. i know exactly what you're thinking. this perfectly coiffed model idiot just walked past me in this starfucks for example, holding his latté... he gives this slow eyed look out the window, and then turns his head just like the models do in the movies, with that slow blink, half look, direction change, you think i don't know what that thought is? it's fucking obvious! it's uglier than i am! this is verbatim what's going through your mind at that moment...

'i wonder who all is looking at me'.

you wanna know one difference between me and you?

i'll let you take a wild guess, but i'm sure you'll misunderstand the purpose, cause nineteen ninety nine really fucked you guys up, especially those of you who never studied your history, but come on, give it an honest try.

the black trench coat is a dead give away.

and if you say 'columbine' one more fucking time, i'm gonna stab you in the throat.

no, see, long before the matrix made a compromising superhero out of neo...
before two teenage idiots gave trench coats a bad name on cnn...
before michael moore made any fucking documentaries in bowling alleys...

trench coats existed.

if you watch the movie 'the crow', with brandon lee? trench coat. you'll notice at least one other connection, if you're paying attention, there. but that movie came out in nineteen ninety four.

back in nineteen ninety one, there was a comedian recording a comedy show called 'revelations' in london... he wore that trench coat best.

and that's the sign you need to look for. fuck those teenage columbine idiots, they were morons! this should be obvious to you, but since you flunked history, i'll give you a little catchup. not the condiment, you idiot. pay attention.

rewinding back through history. whether it be history channel, discovery channel, the show cops, or old westerns, whenever you see a trench coat show up... you idiots are looking for the wrong shit under that coat.

you shouldn't be looking for weapons of violence, and shotguns, and crap like that.

you should be looking for a certain... i don't know... i would use the word 'swagger', except that some idiot named ice cube eternally fucked that one up. now that word is dripping with oil. but you look for a certain attitude. you look for that symbol, that sign, that eye. almost like he's dancing within the coat. can you see it yet?

when he's the man who wears it best... that's all you need to know. so everything that happened after nineteen ninety nine... you can just let that shit go now. agreed?

okay, so... the difference between me and mister model douchebag looking out the window?

i'm obviously not wondering who's looking at me, without acknowledging that they are, just feeling those eyes on your skin, knowing that they're there, wanting it, needing it, never deserving it. i know everything behind it. you can debate that all you want, but you're only wasting your own time. why would you give a fuck about what i see anyway. exactly, you don't. i don't give a fuck who's looking at me in that way, i don't give a fuck who thinks who is better than who, and i certainly don't give a fuck about people like you. whenever i do look at a woman, i see their eyes never even contemplating to move in my direction, cause they're too concerned with whoever they think is better than me. that's exactly how retarded your society is. i'm not just antisocial. i'm the enemy of your society. i'm only here to end it, so we can move on.

your eyes are the most dishonest part of you. the more plastic your skin, the more revealing your eyes. cause there's less and less in there to see. i know what's in your mind. and i know what goes through your mind when you actually do lay eyes on me. cause it's only for a split second before they gracefully raise to go out the door. tell me this isn't your exact thought... even if it's in less words with less effort than this (forgive me, i'm a writer, after all).

'he's ugly trash'...
'he's not worth my glimpse/glance'...
'i shouldn't be looking at that'...
'why do those losers look at me'...
'what's with the columbine getup'...
'does he have a twelve gauge under there'...
'should i be worried'...
'don't even look at me'...
'i'm beautiful, you're so not'...

before you debate that, get a lawyer and a psychiatrist to analyze that, and then get them to analyze how honest you are with yourself about the world you live in. i'm sure an iq check wouldn't hurt.

anyway. that's my morning. trying to stay out of the freezing wind. out of your god's wrath on homeless people.

it's you who says we have to sleep outside, while you're in your comfortable house, watching people play poker on television, not even giving one honest thought toward the fact that because of you, there is an entire seventh of this human race, who are sleeping outside. one billion people, out of seven billion people... sorry, your calculator is outdated, let's put it this way. there are seven people standing on this tiny little planet. five of them are happily watching espn on their big screen television. one of them is responsible for keeping this money shit going, so they're actually in some dark satanic dungeon right now, chanting rituals and drinking goat blood, so we're not going to worry about him for the time being. anyway. out of seven people standing on this tiny little earth, five of them are actually sitting on a comfy, warm couch, being lazy, and thinking they've earned it, that they deserve it.

one of those people is sitting outside, starving, freezing his ass off, and the only thought you can fart in his direction, is that he should get a job like the rest of you, so he can afford his own life. you're unaware of the fact that we're fed up with this money horse shit, we don't want a boss poking their fingers in our chest constantly, we're tired of being told what to do, and having no real answer as to what is acceptable on this earth. no living standards, half of you are on the wrong drugs, lost in a haze of confusion with a lack of logic or education. all you can think, is that the homeless dude should get a job. but he's going to have to work for guy number four, and guy number four is an asshole with anger issues who works in a slaughter house because he likes killing things to take his anger out, but he gets bored with being stuck in the same life every day, so that extra added anger he has to take out on you, aka the homeless dude trying to get a job. just to afford a warm bed to sleep on every night, and something to eat when they wake up the next morning. and you justify that with excuses, calling it fair, and not realizing how wrong you are. did you not hear me say that we're fed up with this horse shit, the fact that our only option in life is to get a job working for some asshole who treats us like shit, for a minimal wage that only usually barely affords the rent for an apartment, meanwhile we're starving every day, we spend most of our day slaving away in a seven eleven, so we don't even get to enjoy sitting in our home... what the fuck is the point, why do you think that's so great, and why can't some of us have another option in life? those are not rhetorical questions, and if you don't have the answers, i'll fuckin' think them up, publish them, copyright them, and charge you every dollar you have to read them. because i fucking hate you, and i want you to know that. you haven't deserved that comfy couch and television combo this whole time, simply because one out of those seven people is not enjoying their time on this planet. you're ignoring that, which makes you the problem. you stand between us on the street, and the dude in the dungeon who's controlling how hard the wind blows on us. there is no god, i already proved that. so the only one to blame... is not me, for not getting a job... it's you, for having a job. for supporting this system one day too many. actually, several decades too many, but who's counting. i've never given much of a shit about the past, i'm much more concerned with what comes next, cause i haven't had fun yet. i haven't had one good day doing what i was supposed to do yet. especially if i'm considering doing it with the people i'm supposed to do it with, cause having fun and being social are two different things for me. you'll never understand that. and you'll just continue to call me the lazy one. may i remind you, i have no couch, asshole. i have no television. and i'm in so much pain, it hurts to even sit down, because all i can sit on is concrete and cold hatred. you trash, your lies, your alcohol, your fears, your hypocrisy. and i know you still don't know what that word means, but you sure get furious everytime you hear it.

i gotta go, i've got a bowl to smoke thanks to kena, and i've got a tooth falling out, and dirt to cough out of my throat. at least it's not as bad as when i saw rage against the machine in phoenix. our snot was brown. piles of kleenex with what looked like worm turds in them. that was a good night. at least i still had four walls to go home to. hopefully the wind has died down, and the temperature has risen a little, and i can actually light the bowl.

this is me. clearly, i'm not you.

oh, yeah, and the dude in the dungeon? well... just watch 'truman show' and get back to me after you actually read this, cause if you can't at least be not lazy enough to read my blog, why should i be not lazy enough to work for you selling starfucks products. think about it, asshole. phil collins already wrote that fuckin' song, you just haven't heard it yet, but you'll blame that on me, it's all my fault. that's called a scapegoat, and you need to stop that one, too. it's your god who's telling you to act this way toward other people. fellow humans sharing this planet with you. greed, selfishness, beliefs, they all need to go. you're to blame, good god that's an ass, jesus lady, what do you feed that thing? sorry. why the fuck did i come to cancer city. plastic central. hateville, usa. why, lord, why.

you'll never realize...
your god makes you superstitious.
your god leaves you buried in tradition out of fear.
your god makes you blame me for all your problems, thus making me your scapegoat, your slave, your puppet for abuse.
your god makes you lie, spewing illogical nonsense, but not responsible enough to practice what you preach, which makes you a hypocrite.
your god tells you to trust your government, thus we're all trapped in this never ending slavery machine, spinning away, spewing out blood and bones with every turn, no dollar ever trickling its way down to those of us who need it most, but want it least. and you'll never understand this enough to give us another option. that's why i'm here.

that's just one of the numerous reasons i hate you. whether you deny it or not, my hatred is justified. more so than your excuses in support of a monetary society. basically, on the scale of things, i'm trying to say you need to stop being so stupid and blind. before long, you won't have a choice. you'll have to leave your comfy home behind and learn how to live life like we have. because that's what you deserve. judgement day is coming. but i'm not so sure your god's going to be on your side, and i'm not so sure it's going to be god. the fact that money is the root of all evil, but you guys never took that thought far enough to see the source of it, the fact that money says 'in god we trust' on it, but there's a 'separation' between church and state for whatever reason... it needs to be said, but church is state, and you're in denial. the writers of your bible were nothing more than capitalists. it was a scam. you bought a lie, and you're drowning in shame. i'm sorry, but it's not my fault. that was your choice. and whether you like it or not, your bad choice was responsible for my existence. simply because i never liked authorities poking their fingers in my chest. i'll be holding my breath till you understand that. if money is the root of all evil, and if money buys you god, then there is no god. you bought a product from the wrong salesman. who, like my drug addict uncle, just so happened to be the best salesman out of the two. he's been trying harder, for longer, and you didn't catch that. didn't they even put that in a movie? let me guess, you didn't see that one, did you? yeah... choice. free will.

the demise of unity.
the death of connection.

what a fucking joke. the american dream, 'yeah, come over here, get a job, and live your dreams'...

said by a dude with fresh native american blood on his hands. you don't even wonder why we call them 'native americans'. what the fuck that term really means. indians, and the confusion of the two. god, you're stupid. you're twentieth generation stupid. so you're twentieth generation to blame. the longer you support this system, the more wrong you are. after humanity finally unites, and just before i die... all i want is to take a breath.

kinda like that boondock saints joke. genie grants three wishes, black man asks for all his people to be back in africa and happy, mexican asks for all his people to be back in mexico and happy, white dude asks for a coke.

your mistake. and a big one at that. not that you'd ever claim responsibility. figure that, terrorists are actually more responsible than you. they claim responsibility for their attacks. but you on the other hand. god, that delusion must be thick.

i want off this fucking planet so goddamn bad, i can taste the storms on jupiter.

will you ever learn. will you ever care. will you ever let that credit card fall to the ground. and embrace your fellow human. it's been two thousand years, what do you say? hugging time? forgiveness? my head keeps feeling like it's going black. my tooth is falling out. so loose i can feel air going through it whenever i move my tongue.

i miss my mama. i could tell her about my tooth, and she would care. whether just the look in her eye, i knew. she cared. she was the only person i could ever tell half this shit to. i miss you, mama. i can't drive fifty five.

but apparently you did.

enough rambling. time to dig dirt out of my eyeballs, wipe the tears and snot, and dream of a restroom of my own.

back when the idea of a monetary society was first suggested, i wish i had been there to say 'what a fucking joke!'. yeah, make people hate and fear eachother through generations of plastic... the falsening of our very flesh.

genetically modified foods for genetically modified people who look more like the mannequins than the mannequins look like us. which came first, the human or the mannequin? hmm...

i didn't need to be genetically modified. i've mutated. evolved.

apologize for what? tell you what, this is your new job, your duty in life, so says god himself...

you're responsible for the apologies from now on. get to work.

...
and one more thing, on a side note... this is seeming like a very weird day. after yesterday when i met the singer of la guns, and then that brutally cold and windy night last night... it seems like i'm seeing more famous people today. before that, i had this veil over my eyes, and i wasn't recognizing anyone. it also seems like more people are watching me for some reason. looking at me more than usual. i know how invisible i usually am.

how do i meet the people i need to meet? such an alien concept to me. would i even recognize them?

otep shamaya. maria brink. brian posehn. i know they all live here, but i think the only one i'd actually recognize is brian posehn. i already recognized andy dick, but then again that dimple chin is pretty fucking obvious. who on this earth can't recognize andy dick? see, that's not saying much. okay, brain, shut the fuck up now. publish, post, close, shut down, pack up, walk out, smoke. now!

starting line

a few things have occurred to me this morning. and last night. i don't have much time this morning, which is perfect, because i need to make this quick. so instead of emails and shit, i'm just putting everything here.

number one. for people i'm meeting, or about to meet. i realize it can be easy to get lost in my blog. i write too much because i never get to speak. it's not easy to explain. so i'm putting a quick introduction/explanation here, to let you know who i am. i'm ozzy draven. i'm thirty seven, father of two, i've been traveling for the past year and a half because my life was destroyed during twenty thirteen. i'm glad it was, it was a crap life, i knew every day, that whole time, that i was wasting my life in the wrong town, with the wrong people, and not pursuing my dreams and talents. so that's why i've come to los angeles. in the past year and a half, i've been through seattle, portland, san francisco, hitchhiked up the coast of california, it's been fun. my main talent has always been that i'm a writer. my mother was an intelligent woman, she recently passed away at fifty five, which will always remind me of sammy hagar, but she taught me a lot. i miss her dearly, because i knew she would have been the most proud of me. it was always her and i vs the world. because of that, i'm a writer. but i find that people don't read anymore. since the internet was born, no one has read my blog. which makes me wonder why blogs exist, it's a dumb word anyway, it's my fuckin' journal, or am i the only person online... well... i'm rambling and almost out of time. when i finally get to speak, i can't truncate anything, cause my tongue has been so severed, i'm surprised i know who i am. i've been told who to be so many times in my life, why should i remember myself, my life was destroyed.

anyway. to put it simply. if you're just meeting me, and i get pissed off, or bow my head... i cannot help that. you are triggering the fuck out of my complex ptsd, you need to understand what that is, it's nothing to be fucked with, if you see me getting agitated, starting to shake, or i start yelling, i apologize, i don't mean to do that, but i'm being triggered, and i cannot help that. my entire life, people have talked over me, told me i'm wrong before i even finished the sentence, start shaking their heads at me about three words in, and me being so intelligent, and reading a fuck of a lot more than they realize... my mother even tried explaining to teachers when i was a kid, but they almost refused to understand. but she knew. i take in everything. people have used the term 'hyperaware', but i'm not sure anyone really understands it but me. to understand me, you really, honestly have to watch the xmen movies. not only am i an evolutionist for a reason, but i have actually mutated. evolved. picture charles xavier in xmen first class. that's me. i could tell you stories from my childhood, but i'm out of time. nice to meet you, i'm not a lunatic, but i do have psychological damage i need help with, yes, i am admitting that myself, no i am not stupid, people love to assume i'm stupid, but i'm truly not, but how would anyone know if i never get to finish a sentence in a society that speaks at five second intervals between videogame consumption burps.

yeah, this is me. nice to meet you, sorry i couldn't say what i wanted to say, but that's why i have this fucking blog in the first place. thanks. time to go. your life is more important than mine. i submit.

talking to myself

'tears falling from the sky
words from a lullaby
everything beautiful dies'... tristania.

i feel so alone. i've truly got no one to talk to. i hate this world in such an unhealthy way, and i've got no one i can tell. whenever i get a moment to relax and sit on my computer, i have to get right back up again. whenever i get a chance to use a restroom, they come banging on the door. everytime i get sat somewhere, some jackass tells me i can't be there, like i'm some piece of trash he can just kick further down the road. whenever i get a chance to sit and smoke, i immediately have to get back up again, cause this stupid body won't leave me alone. i haven't gotten a moment of pleasure out of this life yet. i've got to battle seven billion idiots before i can. if it's not my nose running, it's my burps. if it's not my burps, it's my neck having to pop. if it's not that, it's the fucking wind blowing.

i wish there were a god i could kill to get that wind to stop blowing.
i really never thought i would grow to hate nature this much.

it seems like my music isn't heavy enough for me anymore. i'm still not willing to dive down to death metal, but i used to have a massive collection of some heavy fucking records. bands that no one else has ever heard of. i used to be so proud of that shit. i remember playing a mix cd for andy, trying to impress him (like that would ever happen), and i remember playing 'only inhuman' by sonic syndicate, to see if he would be impressed by that tricky drum part near the end. nope. fuck no. what a fool i was to think i had an actual friend. or someone who shared a similar taste in music.

it's becoming apparent to me that i'm just never supposed to have any fuckin' friends in this world, i stick out so much, no one wants to be daring enough... i fucking hate you people. all of you. lost in a world of opinions and paranoia. you sicken me.

some douchebag threw my sleeping bag in a trash can this morning, so now it smells like beer and shit, so naturally i reek now, too. i can't get the smell out of my nose, i can still taste it, and i honestly think i got a cold. i fucking hate people. i fucking hate people. you people don't hear me saying that every morning when i have to wake up off this concrete of yours, and go walking toward the seven eleven for my hot chocolate, but yeah, i sound completely fucking insane, ranting through the streets about 'why, god, why can't we have a superhero who kills drug addicts, why, lord, why!'. and between that, this heavy breathing utterance of 'i fucking hate you, i fucking hate you', i sound like the song 'syl' by strapping young lad. which, i call that song 'dawning'. but i've always liked sunrises. you'd have no fuckin' clue about why. and why would i expect you to. i fucking hate you people.

i see all these people living around me. spending money. it's painfully obvious to me, every minute i notice, that none of these people are ever going to want to touch me, or talk to me. i already know they're just there to fuck me over, that's their only purpose in life. how immune do i have to be for this. cause i'm about ready to give up.

if i have to pry my head through this ceiling of concrete and retardation and reality television, just to succeed in getting the fuck away from you permanently, to where i get no more junk mail, no more advertisements, no more authorities poking their fingers in my chest... what the fuck is the point. you all can tell me your opinion of the point, but you're fucking wrong, and the more insistent you are, the dumber you look. this is a game of who can be more stubborn, you idiot.

i fucking hate you people. all of you. there is no way out of this. this sickening excuse for a world you've created, where everyone has to 'fit in', and no one can 'fit out', because there's not even a fucking term for it! stick out, stand out, fit out? i'm a fucking thumb, fuck your phrases! see me as what the fuck i am, i am here to oppose you, thus i'm the thumb, the evolution of an opposable digit, so it can smack the rest of the fingers upside the nails, and tell you you're fucking wrong!

but i need to get that out of my head. it doesn't matter that you're wrong. it just matters that you no longer have control over everyone. those of us who want nothing to do with you and your dollar derby frenzy, should be allowed to walk the fuck away, live in the woods, and... you get the idea.

i sound so sick, so mental, walking through the streets every morning, every night, growling to myself, 'i hate you all, i fucking hate you all', i sound worse than my hateful grandmother ever did, and i know for a fact that none of you give a shit about how much that sickens me. no one cares enough to know the story anymore, even though i've told it a billion fucking times, but my grandmother was a hateful piece of shit. her entire life, hateful, angry, evil. with no good enough excuse as to why, other than her mother was evil. so that gives you an excuse NOT to change. fucking moron.

i'm sick of talking about my past, coming from stupid people, only to encounter more stupid people, i'm so fucking sick of stupid people, why can't i meet anyone with a fucking brain! this is fucking sad, do you not care! you're fucking stupid, stupidity is the norm, and you're too stupid to care! and you don't see anything wrong with that!

i had started saying for a while, that 'i'm allergic to ignorance', but i felt like that didn't have the punch it needed. it wasn't offensive enough to make me smile. because i smile more when someone's face sours, getting that look of being offended all over it. none of you realize yet who the fuck i am, but that's a key part of it.

please allow me to introduce myself, i'm a man of... class, and taste.

subtleties and subtitles.

when i offend someone, it puts this little dose of joy in my heart. it doesn't happen often enough anymore, cause these monster truck idiots are so desensitized to anything and everything with passion except hostility. and they don't see anything wrong with that! god, are you there, can you smack the shit out of your people, please? they're too dumb to learn anything, didn't it say in the rule book, that if they're too dumb to learn, that you should pull the plug? is there a magic potion you can toss down here?

i don't even have a god i can talk to. no imaginary friends, no real friends, no methhead sideslut girlfriend... cause they're all on fucking meth. which sickens me in such a dark, evil way. so many women... so many women... drugged out of their minds on meth... so many women... do you really need that many! why do all you fucking women have to do that shit! so fucking many of you! i can't find a single one of you who only smokes weed, why the fuck did every single one of you have to get caught up on that shit, and date the guy who got you started on it, while he's dragging his pants on the fucking ground, what the fuck is wrong with you!!! i can't even begin to tell you how much that sickens me, and i'm a fucking poet, i'm a writer, i do this shit for a living! you can't even care enough to know how fucked that is! and that's even more fucked! why can't i find one fucking woman who's not on meth!!! what the fuck is wrong with you! god, i fucking hate you all! so goddamn much, it's unhealthy! i hate you more than your god could ever know. i fucking hate you! get off the fucking drugs, or kill yourselves, you fucking losers!

it's sickening, that i can't find one pothead girl to be my friend, but every crackroach scumfuck in the world has a little sideslut hanging off his fucking arm! yeah, that's fair, god. yeah, really? seriously?

i wish i had a god to talk to. i wish i had a therapist to talk to. i wish i had a friend to talk to.

i'll never have anyone. ever again. no one will find me interesting. if they do, it will only be for five minutes until the star of the party steals the spotlight from me. that always fucking happens. as soon as i get anyone's attention, it's taken away from me by some loudmouth piece of monkey shit. usually black, sideways hat, dragging pants, obnoxious, belligerent...

'this bog is thick, and easy to get lost in, cause you're a dumbass, belligerent fucker'... tool.

but for a while there, i was saying that i'm allergic to stupidity. that doesn't cut it. and no one understands the new term, even though it's perfectly worded.

i'm an intellectual supremacist.

i want to draw this little comic of a zombie walking up to another zombie on the street, one says 'got any meth', and the other replies, 'got any brains'. and the zombie keeps walking, and comes up on the next zombie, and asks 'got any meth, to which the other zombie replies 'got any brains'. he keeps walking, in this incoherent haze, and finally comes up to me in a trench coat. he asks 'got any meth', and i reply 'got any intellect?'.

by the way, i'm not sure how many people are aware of this factoid here, but i get asked for meth twenty times a fucking day. now, i know how stupid you are, and i know you need a calculator just to figure out how old you are, let alone what an intelligence quotient is, so i'll make this really easy for you to understand here.

that's twenty different people a day, because if it were the same people, you'd think they'd eventually get the hint, so no, it has to be twenty different people a day.

that means when i wake up, and get my hot chocolate, and i'm sitting by the seven eleven panhandling, smoking, and enjoying my morning, conceiving big ideas, there's going to be some walking dead fucking zombie walking up to me before eight am, to ask me for meth. then, around ten am, i'll see another one. then, around noon, i'll see two or three more. then, between one and two pm, i'll see four more. from two pm to five pm or sunset, there's at least eight more. after the sun sets, i'll get at least ten more.

i don't know if anyone's paying attention here, but if this is such a popular drug, and everyone's on it... don't you think it would be a little easier to find? why should they all have to ask me? i remember back in the day, when i was a pothead and had a couple pothead friends, i remember if i wanted weed, i could call a pothead friend, and get my weed with minimal hassle. now, it's impossible to find weed, even though weed is supposedly legal, and there are even apps, like 'leafly', that help you find weed stores, but it's still impossible to find weed... but at the same time, i'm getting twenty people a fucking day...

i don't think you're paying attention here...

TWENTY PEOPLE A FUCKING DAY!!! TWENTY FUCKING PEOPLE!!! TWENTY PEOPLE WHO DO NOT KNOW ME AND ARE NOT MY FUCKING FRIENDS, ACTING LIKE I'M THEIR FUCKING FRIEND, AND ASKING ME FOR THE MOST SICKENING SUBSTANCE ON THE FUCKING PLANET, LIKE I'M IN THAT FUCKING GUTTER WITH YOU! LIKE I'VE MADE THE SAME BAD CHOICES IN LIFE!!! WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU!!! IS THAT HOW STUPID YOU ARE, AND DOES THAT EXPLAIN WHY THERE ARE SO FUCKING MANY OF YOU!!!

people can't stop telling me, 'this is los angeles, if you don't like meth, you shouldn't have come here'.

i don't think anyone's understanding a fucking thing here. i have to explain it like i'm running a fucking day care center, but i really wish anyone could try to understand how fucked this is. i need to explain this to you. i shouldn't have to, but i need to explain this to you, you need to know this. try to understand...

los angeles is where talented people go to get famous.
spokane washington is where drug addicts go to be sad and die.

there's already a big difference right there, but incase you need it enlightened more...

i have talent. i came here to pursue my talents, not waste my life away on bad choices and bad drugs and sadness and 'poor me, no one likes me, so i'm just gonna drown in drugs for the rest of my pathetic life'.

yeah, i really have an urge to be you.

but anyway, let me say this part again...

i came to los angeles to pursue my talents. if you want to get strung out on drugs, you should go to spokane. that's where all the losers live. talented people should live in los angeles, and should be ashamed to be this close to this cancerous deathfest. am i the only one who thinks that? then i'm the only human on this planet. go ahead, debate that, i'm sure the crickets would love to hear you.

i'm so sickened. and i've got no one to tell. i'm truly alone. i've always known this, that i'm truly the most alone person on this sad little planet, that old soul rogue rebel who always walks alone, but when no one recognizes you, it can get a little too dark on this road. these children didn't study their history, so no one was expecting me. i sure thought the trench coat would be a dead giveaway, but these people can't remember anything past nineteen ninety nine. which befuddles the fuck out of me, cause i was born in nineteen seventy eight, and i remember that before we had bowling for columbine, and the trench coat mafia wannabes, and neo the compromising superhero, back before those losers existed... trench coats were considered cool. the more rare they were, the cooler they were, because only a certain number of people wear that skin properly. the oldest of us.

i can feel half of you thinking i'm delusional right now, but i've been trying to tell you for years, i don't give a frog floggin' fuck what you think, and you still seem to think i do, which tells me you haven't been listening, but we'll get to that later when your finally shows up for the armageddon show, but you know...

i wear it best.

yet all people can seem to do, is criticize me for the way i dress and the music i listen to. i've never been one to point fingers, cause my mama taught me that pointing was rude, as is staring, but apparently she didn't teach the rest of you... but... let's just say it's raining cats and thumbs on this seven eleven loser named jesse right now. god, how i've hated that name. one of the gayest male names there could ever be. 'i'm gonna be halfway girly, but still start with a 'j'.'. can i suck your cock right now, i really need to get this cancerous lump of horse shit out of my throat before it grows a name. it's already got thumbs, hurry up.

i will never hear voices laughing at me again. whether they think it's 'at me', or 'with me', doesn't matter, no one fucking laughs anymore. which depresses the fuck out of me even more since i defeated my depression.

people have tried to tell me, that it's not possible to 'defeat your depression'.
people have tried to tell me, that once you go insane, there's no coming back.
people have tried to stuff me into their fearful little mold a lot.

but once in a while, some freud brained antizombie bad ass trench coat mutherfucker comes along and teaches us the truth. those of you who have forgotten that, should go back to school, because you don't deserve to be here if you don't know who the fuck john lennon was.

people have tried to tell me that sanity is so limited, that intellect has only been defined so far, so that's only as far as the light shines, people have tried to fill my head with a lot of retarded limitation crap. for how many years now? i could ask you if any of you were responsible and accountable. and if you claim to be, i just proved you wrong, but we'll get back to that.

people have tried to fill my head with so much, so many of their own fears, their limited knowledge...

they're not realizing. i'm the guy who comes along every so often to set shit straight.

i'm here to show you that it is possible to defeat your depression. it is possible to lose your mind twice in your life and still come back. it is possible to not fear anything, it is possible to train your third eye to see the future...

and all you dumb little scruntroaches who think it's not, like you know everything there is to know on the topic, and there will never be any new information, no new discoveries, no new journeys, and that freud only lives once...

god, how can i put this simply...

on the spectrum of our history...
in the eyes of evolution...
from the perspective of charles darwin...

if you put a little dot on the history map where charles darwin is petting a neanderthal on the head, and then rewind back about twenty thousand years, and put another little dot on that part of the history map...

this is linear, of course... pay attention...

before charles darwin discovered evolution...
before the neanderthal got violent with his nerdy tech support buddy...
before the monkey ever picked up the gun and the credit card...

leave it to the retard to be proud of 'i was here first'.
leave it to the outlaw to be proud of 'i was here last'.

what i would give to be the last man standing on this silent planet.

on the linear, historic timeline, there's a dot where charles darwin was born. then, twenty thousand years before that, there's a little dot where you took a shit on a log that you were proud of...

now, try to look at those two little dots through the perspective of sigmund fuckin' freud.

these glasses might help...

yeah, there you go. nice and clear. see, you're a loser, thus you already lost thousands of years ago. you call this twenty fifteen. i call this three years away from the deadline. it is you who should not be here.

i think i actually got a cold from that dirty sleeping bag.

but anyway. i have to get these clustered thoughts out of my brain before they fucking choke me and i have an aneurysm. i never get to speak to anyone. as soon as i open my mouth, they open theirs. i cannot finish a sentence, i haven't finished a sentence in years. if i get to speak at all, it's for no more than five seconds at a time, and apparently, that's what humans think is a sufficient conversation, an efficient way to communicate and relay messages and information.

there's another comic drawing. if only i could draw.

guy number one talks for five seconds...
guy number two talks for five seconds...
guy number one talks for five more seconds...
guy number two talks for five more seconds...

and that's how a company functions, children!

now onto our next lesson, how to get rich without lifting a finger.
rule number one: whips and chains excite me.
rule number two: sticks and stones do break bones.
rule number three: you own the words to do the rest.

every time i try to pop my neck, it really feels like my head's going black, and that i'm about to be evicted from my own skull house. i've got constant eyelashes on annoying me, snot, my throat, my neck, my back, my legs, my knees, my ankles, my knuckles, nothing will stop annoying me. if anyone was paying attention for the last ten years, they could at least remember that part of my story, that that's how the mother of my children 'fell in love' with me, was because i was ranting about my nose and how it won't leave me alone and won't give me a minute of enjoyment out of this life, it's constant snot, and if i try to pick this nostril with a kleenex, i can only do it once, because the other nostril won't stop whining, and needs to be wiped now, and it can only be done once, cause i have to go back to the first one, and the eyelash in my eye can't wait, and itching on my shoulder can't wait, the fart bubbling around in my belly won't wait, the back pain won't let me think, my neck needs to be popped, oh, but wait, i'm still just cleaning my fucking nose, i've got the nose of a two year old, oh, but wait, i have to burp first, cause that one really won't wait, oh, now i have to run to the restroom cause that won't wait, i was just trying to smoke a bowl, but now that whole shitfest has gotten worse, because now if i need to get up and run to the restroom, i have to pick up my laptop, put it in the case, zip it up, fold up my bedding, walk two or three blocks to a restroom, be told that i can't use it unless i'm a customer, so i have to walk another block to another restroom, and i only get two minutes in there before some overauthoritative jackass has to come banging on the door, no matter what fucking time of day it is, there's always someone more important than me, so that just adds to the stress i have to deal with just trying to get this body to shut up long enough to let me fucking breathe and hit this fucking bowl, and if i could hit the bowl enough, it actually works, and this body shuts up, and i can sit there and breathe, and enjoy a movie for once, but you know me so much better than i know myself, so go ahead, why don't you tell me how the fuck i'm supposed to live my life, as if i haven't been told yet. let me see if i can recite it verbatim from yesterday's forced conversion attempt. let's see, you think i should stop smoking weed, dress better, get a job, listen to more popular music, and try to be the clone on that side of the street. is that about right? oh, yeah, i forgot... bibles. yes, i know, your god is lonely with seven billion empty heads, that's why he's still sending you after me after all these years, he wants to infiltrate the only living brain on this planet, yeah, i get it.

i can't wait to start passing out my pamphlets. converting people to my religion. i cannot fucking wait.

first of all, god forbid we finally create a religion based on truth, or at least the search for it.
and secondly... god fucking forbid! god fucking forbid we finally have a religion designed the right way.

you all can have your lunacy and as much hypocrisy as you want, and enjoy looking stupid for as long as you're comfortable, with your scientology and mormonism and some truly fucked up, insane religions based on superstition, delusion, and nothing anywhere near truth...

and then we'll do things our way. who are you to tell us we can't? god?

fuck no, you're not. especially if we're designing our own god, we don't have to listen to yours anymore, but i'm sure you'll persist anyway. you stubborn, closedminded, pathetic piece of suffocating sloth shit!

my throat's really starting to hurt. i fucking cannot stand people. i fucking hate you all so much, you disgust me. always trying to tell me how to live your life, and not realizing that it's wrong. no wonder god's not still here, if he was, the sky would be raining flyswatters and thumbs.

sorry, i guess that visual analogy is too big for your box. where's larry the cable guy when you need him?

the truth is, i know who you are, and i don't need you to convince me otherwise, though you try like satan himself, behind that watery, shapeshifting mask of lies, lizard tongues, and secrecy.

you figure that's the way it would happen, right? if god were to find satan to finally end him... don't you think the comic book version would go a little like this...

god: you're satan, i've got my eye on you.
satan: no, i'm not satan, truly i'm not, i'm stan, they just spelled the name tag wrong.
god: no, you're satan, you can't fool me.
satan: no, really, i'm just the tech support guy, really.
god: are you actually trying to convince me that you're not satan? i can see you hiding under black darkness and fear.
satan: dude, i'm totally not satan, i'm stan, i'm here to install your cable.

don't you think, based on intellect alone, that's how it would happen? basically? i mean that's how i see it. that's how i've always seen it. if you're defined as being a coward... how the fuck are you going to act like anything but?

you can have all the knowledge in the world, it doesn't make you a better person, it just makes you harder to track down.

a human vaginal wart named vasego taught me that.

i should have known, coming from an idiot with 'ego' in his name. i don't even think he knew... well... i guess that doesn't matter, but... people truly never don't underestimate how observant i am. how many negatives is that?

i never don't not do that.

i'm sure i could find some way to cancel out all the evil in this world. for a while, i thought it was if i could prove that i am actually the reincarnation of bill hicks, but on second look at that courtroom... yeah, maybe i'll backburner that one for a while. the way this bulldozer is running out of gas and spirit, i don't think we're going much further. it's like when mom's clutch died on the way back from ozzfest in phoenix. eight kids and a fat mother crammed into the cab of a tow truck. yup. thems was the good times.

but mom's dead.
life doesn't matter.
in the eyes of death, it never will.
time still scrolls on.

in fact, black sabbath said it better.

so i vowed that life is just a burden.
cause you know there's never been a winner.
try your hardest, you'll still be a loser.
the world will still be turning when you're gone.

there's also a little sound clip in devin townsend's 'life'.

'in death, not only are the mightiest and the most humble brought down to the same level, but we're not different from any other organism'.

and of course i'm loving the new sirenia album. five bucks to the first non drug addict to guess why.

god, where are all my brains. i miss you guys so much. being here alone is too dark.

all the brains that i've written about. like in my song 'i'm bringing thinking back'...

all the greatest minds of the world
looking out through the glass in a museum
like a memory covered in the dust of brain cells
get ready, cause i'm bringing them all back
it's time to get the fucking blood pumping...

where are you. it's so dark here, where are your minds, those bright lights i've seen on the hill at night, they have followed me young and into tomorrow...

where are you...?

from galileo, to isaac newton, einstein, charles darwin, bill hicks, timothy leary, terence mckenna, robert anton wilson, john lennon, ganghi, they're all fucking dead!

i know reincarnation still flows through these veins. you can't convince me otherwise.

seems like talking to myself, i actually feel more sympathy and compassion than from anyone else.

how fucking sad is that.

goodnight, loneliness...

maybe you'll be less invisible tomorrow.

at least you're not as sad as brian posehn's fat feelings. i'm still too metal for you, though.

I hate weekends

Sunday morning. I'm already so hateful, I could vomit fresh coffee. Whenever other people are around, I cannot think. People suffocate my brain, there's an actual problem going on here. I need therapy. Badly. I need someone to talk to about this. To learn more about why I'm so hateful.

Just this morning so far. Had to smoke an unnecessary bowl with someone, people keep asking me for shit, never giving. After the bowl was wasted, I meant to share a cigarette with him, but got to talking, and smoked the whole thing, not even enjoying it myself. Then I try to go in the starfucks, but my bed isn't small enough, so I'm sitting outside panhandling... I fucking hate people! Just because I don't have a door, doesn't mean you can just walk right in! Leave me the fuck alone!

Goddamnit!

Why am I the only one who can see such a brighter future, that I'm ashamed to have to rant about this shit? Why does that phrasing not make sense to anyone else? What the fuck am I doing in this world?

And what the fuck do I do with the rest of my morning now, besides sleep it off. Just hi back to sleep. It's Sunday. No one does shit on Sunday, there's nothing to do on a Sunday, and I fucking hate... Everything. Doc, could you tell me why? Without charging me slave chains for truth? Just act human and spit it out? Please?

another turd day

god, i am so fucking hateful it's unhealthy.

i don't even know what to write.

fucked.

fucked, fucked, fucked.

there's no way out of this stupidity. i'm just not allowed to have money. i should have just gotten a greyhound back to seattle. or some small town close to it. cheap apartment. i could be out of here right now.

to find out that before i can get my id here, i need to show them a birth certificate to prove who i am, and not even that will work for me, because i legally changed my name. i'm fucked. no matter what i do, i can't do anything. and now, as i write this, i've got the morning sun glaring in my eyes, while i sit in starbucks, trying to be invisible, cause i can't afford to buy anything even if i wanted to, which i don't. i can't stand any starfucks products, even their hot chocolate tastes like shit. so... what the fuck do i do now.

i need to get out of this area, that's for sure, i hate this area, and the people here. i had one guy tell me 'the valley', meaning north hollywood, and a little west of that, or whatever the fuck, people can't use decipherable terms anymore, it's all just incoherent babble, fast talking, low volume, unintelligibullshit. but another guy told me about the 'inland empire', meaning everything east of here gets cheaper, and a few people have 'sort of' confirmed that. and that's also where i found a cheap motel, somewhere in rosemead, i think. actually, hell, that's a good idea.

https://goo.gl/maps/ccanUaWxihz

so i think i'll go there, there's a walmart, seven elevens, libraries. all i need is muss bunny. i mean bus money. i'll make up a few good signs, panhandle by the walmart, try to pay for that motel... i'll be okay. so yeah. that's what i'll do for now at least. library opens at nine:thirty, i'll panhandle till then, see what i can get. i've got weed for now, and a pack of smokes. i'll try to get free food, and whatever money i get, i'll try to get out to rosemead. hopefully there are some potheads around there. i had a good idea for that, hang around the smoke shops, especially the more hippie lookin' ones, and find potheads. my neck really hurts. and i still wish i could mean one single strictly pothead girl that doesn't have some douchebag dragging his pants on the ground next to her.

but anyway. so that's my morning. woke up fucked, but still trying... something. i don't know. i just need some indoor time with my laptop so i can relax and clear my mind. i need to write a lot to get this shit out of my head, try to get it published in some money making way. once i get enough ideas out of my head, i think then i can focus on recording some music, but i figure at this point, i just want to do it alone. after seeing what people are like here, i don't think i'll ever get anyone to listen to me, and be dedicated enough to do what i say, i'll always have assholes telling me what they think i should do, so i just have to do it all myself. i can try to still hire an assistant to help me with things, or have a small army of slaves someday, but... i picture having my own studio set up, with the instruments set up my way and locked in their playing positions (guitars on mounts), and my own drum cage set up, ready to record, and if there's a part i can't do, i'll hire some local dude to come in and do it for however much money and some lunch. i might make a few friends that way. i thought for sure i'd meet some homeless musicians who were honestly trying to get something cool accomplished, but everyone's so lost and aimless, on the wrong drugs, there's really nothing going on, no inspiration, no anticipation, no excitement, the only thing i've been excited over in years is the marvel movies. just watched antman, love paul rudd.

but i fucking hate people. i fucking hate you people. i do not claim to be a part of the human race, i'm ashamed to be on this planet, because i wish this were a world that, if i can't be heard, let me disappear, but no, i have to come to the center of insanity first, so either way, i lose. i fucking hate you. every person that supports this delusion.

all things are too good to be true.
most of them suck so much, that's how true they are.
as regretfully true as concrete.

keep your fuckin' receipt.

i think your world sucks.
if i had a better world, would you like it?
would you let me live in it?
i know i'll never get an answer.

sa.turd.ay

just say turd. well, thursday got blown to shit. didn't get to the dinner, cause when i left the starfucks, and looked at the paper... i left starfucks around one. sat by the seven eleven and looked at the paper, says it's over at two:thirty. what the fuck thanksgiving dinner ends at two fucking thirty? how early are these people passing out? i know they aren't morning people like i am.

finally got a new sleeping bag. there are things i should be doing today, but honestly, i'm still too tired, exhausted, sleepy. brett might call today. can't find anyone with weed. these are the saddest homeless people i've ever seen. at least homeless people in san francisco had a little drive behind it. i'm not sure what else to do.

carol and brett both gave me a lot to think about. i need to email carol and explain that i've never been able to meditate, don't even have much interest in it honestly, but i have seen a bright light in my crown chakra (top of my head) that's part of a long story i can't write yet, but i need to get my neck to stop hurting and having to pop constantly. but hopefully when i get the motel on december third, that might help. which, i also need to do that soon, too. but i have till thursday, can't do shit on weekends, so i'm just gonna panhandle for the weekend, and then on monday start trying to find a motel. jesse got fired from seven eleven, so i've got no reason to stay around that corner anymore. not that i had one in the first place, i just got stuck there. but i should go elsewhere by now, i need to find a better corner. it needs to have a place to sleep that's a dark, quiet corner. a possible stash spot. a seven eleven, a panhandling spot close to the seven eleven, a starbucks, a library... a restroom... if i can get ahold of monique from wings of laughter, then i don't need to stay around rockpaper on sunset for open mic. if brett can help, then... well, we'll see where that goes first. cause he talks too fast and too quiet for me to really understand.

why am i the most coherent, intelligible person i've ever known... besides my mother? or is it the least opinionated? am i openminded on the scale of closedmindedness? what is it? i know part of it is that i don't like religion, superstition, tradition, shit like that, cause i'm not those people, but what else separates me from everyone else, cause i know it's a thick fuckin' wall, but how do i define it, or figure out what texture it is at least. if and when i do meet other big brains, are they going to reject me the same way the small minds do? cause that's what i already assume, the way this society functions on obsessions with money, which made everyone apathetic.

panhandling gives you a very fucked up view of this world. i don't think anyone else even cares to see it.

fuck it, i'm gonna go eat something cheap and lay down for a while longer. hopefully not get arrested this time.

FOR LAYING ON A FUCKING SIDEWALK!!!

jesus, what a crime! fuckin' nuke me.