Pillz + Metal

This week I've upped my metal-listening habits to include Viking metal along with doom and black. I've previously only been attuned to symphonic and a little power metal here and there (mainly Fairyland), but the last few days have given way to Amon Amarth and Sabaton, which are two of my immediate favourites. Sabaton in particular is extremely addicting, and as an added bonus their songs aren't 10-minute epic ballads.

I've also realised that I'm on nine separate medications. They are as follows:

1. Desyrel
2. Nature-throid
3. Zoloft
4. Zyprexa
5. 5-MTHF
6. L-Carnitine
7. Iron
8. Daily vitamin
9. Melatonin drops

I mean juses crust, that's a lot of foreign ingredients to put into my body. Not like I really care what I do to my body; after all I was an actual alcoholic from 2010 through the first half of 2012. But all the same it just feels wrong to be injecting that much shit into me. Speaking of injecting, I forgot I also have to inject myself with B12 shots three times a week. Thankfully needles have never bothered me so it's pretty simple: stick it right into the muscle tissue of each thigh (alternating so I don't form track marks).



I find that I don't, in fact, feel like writing anything right now. That, in turn, makes me mad enough that I'm ACTUALLY GOING TO WRITE SHIT DOWN. I started writing this post a week ago, so now I'm on a different train of thought than when I started. I suppose I can ramble sometimes; that tends to happen when I've got one particular song running on repeat (Sabaton - We Burn) on Spotify. But don't worry, I don't actually use Spotify to listen to new music, only to play local files. I will have none of their petty advertisement inside my ears. PLUNDERED AND RAPED.

I have a friend's bachelor party coming up in May or June and it will cost ~200 smacks to attend. I don't even have enough money to buy more alcohol, so I'm stressing the fuck out about not being able to attend. His actual wedding is a destination affair so I know I won't be able to go, so I feel especially dirty if I can't go to his bachelor party too. On the other side of the coin, I don't mind all that much. We used to be best mates, but then we went to separate universities and our friendship fell apart. We still get along and hang out occasionally, but it's nowhere near the same level. Plus I have a natural knack for not keeping tabs on friends. I suppose it's because I'm wrapped up in my own tribulations so deeply that nothing can touch me. I feel that if I keep myself as tightly cocooned as possible, nothing can penetrate my defences.

I erected said defences after I Splitsville with my last ladyfriend. I was in so much pain that I put up barricades around my emotional centres so thick that nothing could weasel its way through. I effectively stopped giving a fuck about anything. That works great unless it means being a good friend, which I know I am not. And that's kind of shocking given that I'm a way better listener than talker. I'd much rather hear about your problems than talk about my own. I'm that guy. But not the hopelessly beta, endlessly friendzoned type either. I just like fixing other people's problems and not my own. If only my problems could be fixed. It's been almost an entire month since my last post and I've barely worked on my second novel at all. I just can't get focused enough through the haze of pain -both mental and physical. It's so difficult to explain what I mean by pain. Unless you've actually experienced something of this magnitude, you have no goddamn idea. I've got an unhealing cystectomy that I've had two operations on and still hasn't healed since October 2010. I've had four rods and a titanium cage inserted into my spine. I've got migraines every day. And that's just the physical stuff. It doesn't even touch on the Shadow Man or my generalised psychosis. Or my extreme paranoia and/or social anxiety. In other news I feel much better about going out of the house without a hat.

It used to be so bad -my panic attacks, that is- that I refused to leave the house without a hat on. I would instantly burst into uncontrollable sweats when I left the house, so I used hats to disguise the flop sweat as best I could. Now, at least, I can leave the house without a hat. Although it's winter, so maybe by the time summer rolls around again that will be back to normal. It remains to be seen.

OH YEAH I FORGOT, I'M ALSO ON VISTARIL. 

So make that ten pills I take routinely. Although actually I take the vistaril only as-needed, but it seems that I need it every time I go out.

ACTUALLY, I went to a party last saturday with a bunch of grownups (read: over 30) and didn't sweat at all. I did wear a hat though, as a pre-emptive strike against panic attacks, but I didn't sweat at all and would have been just fine without a hat. I had two gluten-free beers and a margarita in the space of about four hours, so it wasn't the alcohol preventing me from panicking. I did it all by myself. But even more impressive was the fact that I was the youngest person there by almost ten years and I held my own in conversation. I had only met one of the women there before, besides my brother and his woman, so they were strangers. I was kind of quiet in the beginning while I felt out what type of atmosphere was going on -not to mention the fact that the hostess' daughter wasn't in bed yet. Oh yeah I forgot to mention how Grown Up this party was. There was a fucking child there until she wore herself out so much that she fell asleep playing a game.

It was supposed to be a coming home party for my brother; he was working on a cruise ship for the last six months and just got home at the beginning of the month. There was sushi and I had some even though sushi in general I find revolting. There was also veggie fries, crackers, and delicious chicken that Erin made. It was kind of warm but it still tasted like sex. Oh and Hawaiian bread with dip. I've never dipped Hawaiian bread in anything before, but it's shockingly delicious.

But hey, fuck it. At least I can meet new people and not be an awkward sweaty fuck. That's a huge improvement over my past self over the last two or three years. Those emotional barricades I erected made it so even friendliness was too much to handle without overloading my systems. Jesus Fuck, this metal music is so good. I'm hopelessly addicted. I've listened to Sabaton and Amon Amarth over 200 times each in the last week, and Finntroll 178 times. I've listened to a lot of fucking music recently. It's just so addicting and I can't help myself. It's odd that I find music sung my males so attractive, but there it is. I usually, as a rule, don't like male singers. They just don't sound good to me. But with this metal binge I'm on, I don't even notice. It's a healthy reversal I think.

I'll get back to my previous point in another post. I bet it won't be a whole month before I post again.

I bet.

The Shadow Man commeth

Once there was a time of a never-ending dream
Of being free, of immortality
When a song was a mystery
And the stars so easy to reach
But something changed, now the sand’s trickling slow
The time of innocence is over now

I know the rivers won’t be flowing on forevermore
The wind of time blows right into my eyes
My flower withers and so do they all
Nothing lasts forevermore

I've been dwelling on my Shadow Man. I first started seeing a shadowy figure about five or six months ago. He would flash in and out of my vision like a little prick. Now I don't see him hardly as often but I can feel that someone is watching me. It feels like this all the time, like I'm being watched and judged. I don't really know how to react to this. On one hand, it's disturbing that a Shadow Man would even take interest in me, since I lead about the most boring existence on the planet. On the other it's sort of flattering.

I don't know what to make of the Shadow Man. Is he an entity of some sort, or is it all a figment of my understressed imagination? I don't know. When I know he is watching I don't necessarily feel evil or darkness at all, but I do feel dirty. That seems the most apt way to describe it. It feels like I'm sick or dirty in some way, after he's done watching me. Like he's getting off on it. Although putting it like that makes it seem sexual, which is certainly is not. I would just like him to stand still long enough for me to get a good read on him.

The lead singer of one of my favourite bands - In This Moment

I'm still on the antipsychotics and I've recently discovered that melatonin is a seriously bitchin' way to finally get some rest. I've been on melatonin drops for about a month and a half now, and it's made all the difference. I sleep about twelve hours per day now, and that's no exaggeration. I might even get more. I usually chem up about an hour before I want to sleep, then I'll lie down and do some reading on the ol' Kindle Fire, and when I'm ready to sleep I just fall into it right away. The melatonin in combination with the antipsychotics really help me get rest. I've also recently had a great deal of bloodwork done and it's been discovered that I'm intolerant to gluten, which is a real buzzkill. My antibody reading was four times the normal, so I'm borderline coeliac disease. I probably worded that wrong, but at least you get the gist of it.

I've watched six series of Dexter in the couple weeks. I basically just spend all my waking time watching that goddamn program. It's addicting and I hadn't seen past series four before. The incest vibe toward the end of series six really threw a bone into the narrative (pun intended). In other news I can't seem to get focused on my second novel. I have the characters and the basic flow of the story, but I can't start full production until I get a better grasp on the narrative as a whole. I've tried writing where I didn't know how the story would progress, but that always collapses after about 75 pages or so. While it's definitely more fun to "write as you go," it's no way to get a good story produced. Gotta have the whole thing planned from the start or it won't fucking work.

I feel like I'm eternally frustrated. I'm bored most of the time because I can't get motivated to do what I really want: write the motherfucking book. I just want to get into a rhythm again, where I wake up, pound out a few thousand words, then relax. That's how I got through my first novel, and it worked like a fucking charm. But now I just can't get motivated. It'll be one year in May since I finished my last book. If I can't get this second novel done by then, I'll be a massive failure. An absolute failure. I know that if I don't hit that deadline I'll probably kill myself. I don't think I'd be able to live with it. Particularly since this second book will be a fucking shitton shorter than the 116.000+ word behemoth that was my debut. Well it's a bit presumptuous to call it my 'debut,' given that only three people have even read excerpts --no one besides me has been privy to the full copy. I'm just too nervous to let people read it. I know it's pretty good, at least, but I also know the content would make getting it published a fuckin' nightmare. I'd have to halve it at best just to get it on store shelves.

But whatever. I just don't care about living. It exhausts me.

If any of you just sit back and think about how exhausting life is, it's really not worth it. And I don't even have a real job. I can only imagine how much I would want to off myself if I had to work with people in a place that wasn't my own fucking room. The amount of antipsychotics I would need boggles the mind.

I have a mental illness and it eats at me. It chews me to pieces inside and I have no way to get it out. It's like I need a lover to share this with. Part of me loves and revels in it; how many people have genuine mental illnesses? But the rest of me hates myself just for desiring this. As a learning experience, it's seductive. I want to hate it, but I can't. Just like I can't make sense in this entire paragraph, it makes even less inside me. I feel like my mind is filthy. As I sit here and drink a lemon-lime smashmouth drink (I made it myself; it's so strong I can only take baby sips) I love myself for being DEFECTIVE. I love myself for being different. But it's that same differentness which makes me the same as anyone else. Who doesn't have low points in their lives? And am I so weak that I can't get over it and move on? Am I that defective that I can't? Is it my Shadow Man who is strangling my desire to live?

I don't know what the fuck is going on. I feel like I've gone through a dozen different emotions just by writing this shit.

And it is shit. I know hardly anyone reads this --and no one who knows me IRL (at least I hope to fuck not). But I write it so I can let my emotions free and EXPRESS MYSELF. I know that's about the lamest, most hipster/emo-esque thing I've ever said, but there it is all the same. I don't feel like living but I'm not going to kill myself. How does that fit for size? Whatever. I'm the fuck out of here.

Life is a suicide

I've come to think that suicide is a beautiful endcap to an otherwise imperfect existence. It's a majestic 'FUCK YOU' to the world, and to the people who didn't have the common decency to take a moment, think about things, and conclude that no, I'm not fine. How much responsibility do people around me have to make sure that my short time in this life is satisfactory? At what point does my pain deserve to be shared? Or am I being selfish? Should I just keep on not sharing my inner anxieties with friends and family? I must admit, it's much simpler when people ignore the fact that I'm fucking nuts...or they don't know in the first place.

Is suicide a crutch? Of course it is. Let loose a simple 'I want to kill myself' in a conversation and it's like an atomic bomb was dropped. People just sort of spaz out and say things like 'how could you think something like that?' or even 'don't you dare,' like to them it's just a way out of a something I'd rather not do. Like back pain for example. Everyone uses the whole 'my back hurts' phrase to get out of doing something they ought.

Dear, please take out the trash and clean the gutters.
I can't honey, I wrenched my back getting out of bed.
Oh no! Okay, just sit on the couch. I'll do the work.

Like people don't know how much suffering real back pain causes. To me it's a reality, not one of those 'well, 30% of the population reports lower back pain' kind of things. You tell me your back hurts, I'll tell you about the titanium rods, screws, and mesh cages in my spine. You use it to get out of chores, I would rather do ten years of chores than be in this sort of agony. It's indescribable.

Rate your pain on a scale of one to ten, please. Ten being the highest.

          Bitch, ten doesn't even cover how badly this hurts.

I've gotten very close the precipice of harming myself.

I've never thought about it in black-and-white terms, like 'shall I hurt myself today, or shan't I?' It's been a matter of 'has my mental and physical anguish manifested itself to a sufficient degree that I feel I need a release in the form of a knife against my arms?' It's a matter of scales. But fuck it, what difference does it make? I went out last night to a bar with a group of friends to celebrate a birthday. It felt like it made no difference that I was there. Like the party would have been just as good without me. I've been reduced to a B-grade friend inside my circle.

And I feel indifferent. I honestly don't feel one way or the other, at least in terms of what difference it makes to me. I feel more comfortable staying at home and minding my own business. Do I find some joy in being out and drinking, talking with women, and generally hanging out? Sure; I'm not a sociopath. On the other hand, I'm equally comfortable keeping myself to myself and just being alone. In fact, I find even more joy from that...if joy is even the correct term. I don't think it satisfies my precise emotions. I haven't felt real joy in about three years, and even then, as I look back on it now, I think it was more faked emotions. I was incredibly happy on Christmas morning when I unwrapped a brand new Kindle Fire my sister bought me, and a new pair of Skull Candy headphones from my mother. But was it pure joy? No.

Pain is like a filter. Particles of happiness shoot through the little holes every now and again, but the vast majority of emotions get bottlenecked.

I don't even know what I'm saying anymore.

I live at home, with my mum. Tonight she started crying. I will outline the situation as best I can.

1. I no longer have a mobile because I did the mathematics and it was not worth the monthly bill.
2. My friends have to call the house phone.
3. My sister is visiting for the holidays, and she sleeps on a futon in the office.
4. My mum moved the phone base unit from there into her bedroom.
5. I knew a friend was going to ring at about 23.15 or so last night so I told my mum she should put the phone on silent.
6. She didn't.
7. Friend rings.
8. Mum is obviously woken up by this.
9. Bitches for several minutes before I make my escape to the bars.
10. Mum comes home from work today and complains that she only got three hours of sleep. I know this is an exaggeration, but I console her for a bit.
11. It is now tonight at about 20.30 and she is going to bed, with the intention to sleep 'at least twelve hours.'
12. Unplugs the base unit from her room and tells me to plug it in upstairs.
13. I say she should not have unplugged it and instead should have just put it on silent, because I know from experience how much of a pain the fucking ass it is to hook it back up (DSL filters and the like).
14. She goes into a hissy fit and tells me to do it anyway.
15. I don't really comprehend what she is saying, because she is making no sense.
16. I proceed to plug the phone unit into a socket downstairs because as far as I know there is only one phone plug upstairs, which already has one plugged in.
17. I didn't realise that without the base unit plugged in, my satellite unit won't function.
18. She calls on her mobile to check if it rings.
19. It doesn't.
20. She gets more mad, because she's concerned that her parents are going to die in the middle of the night and she will need to pick up the phone.
21. Wut. Then why did you unplug the phone?
22. The sheer logic of this makes her more mad.
23. She says 'you just don't understand my life.'
24. I agree and say I don't care either, because at this point it's been about twenty minutes and her illogicality is giving me a migraine.
25. She repeats this several times and then starts crying.
26. I know at this point she won't sleep now because she's put too much pressure on sleeping. Like when you know you have to get up early and have trouble getting to sleep because you're anxious. She's put too much pressure on getting a lot of sleep so in turn that will make the sleep shitty.
27. She goes to bed downstairs and slams the door.
28. I get mad and watch some basketball on my computer.
29. She comes back upstairs after awhile because she tried to plug the base unit back in her room but it doesn't work.
30. I go downstairs to fix it.
31. She didn't plug it into the jack far enough.
32. This whole time I'm fucking confused. If you didn't want to hear the phone ring, just put it on silent. If you're concerned that someone will have an emergency, then why put it on silent in the first place?
33. The sheer logic of this makes her more upset.
34. I come upstairs frustrated as fuck.

Whatever. I think it's just a woman thing. Logic upsets them. I remember getting into so many arguments with an ex-girlfriend because she was the most illogical person I've ever met. For example, she would get mad at me if I went out with friends (we went to different universities, first about two hours apart, then she transferred to one about fifteen hours away) because there would be women there and I would talk to them. Having enough of her complaints, I just stayed in. Then she would get mad at me for staying in, so I would go out again. Then she would get mad at me for going out. Repeat ad nauseam.

I really feel like I'm teetering on a knife point. On one side is sanity and social normalcy; on the other is a complete loss of my mental faculties. It's chaos where I am, and I feel like just a little knock one way or the other will put me into the bad side. Of course that's assuming 'bad side' is insanity. At this point I'm not certain. In fact, I almost think that if I fall into complete insanity that life will be much more satisfying. I will be devoid of responsibility. As an insane person, I will not be expected to contribute to the greater society at large. I think that would be very nice. Nothing would be needed from me, and for once people would know exactly what is wrong with me. Simply saying I have 'generalised psychosis' is about as specific as saying I'm attracted to women as a whole, when I find large women gross and anorexic women even more disgusting.

But fuck me, right? If I was meant to lead a fulfilling life, I would be leading one. I suppose that big 'FUCK YOU' was meant for me in the first place. I'm cursed. It's been fairly obvious that the director of my fate is an enormous jackass. It's simply not possible for me to be so soundly unlucky in so many different ways. Like, why would have so much physically and mentally wrong with me, and yet none of my siblings are even remotely ill? And why do I have such bad luck with women friends? I either fall for the crazy ones or the slutty ones. I have yet to find a ladyfriend who is both sane and not slutty. Maybe I just attract that sort of thing because of my indifference. I don't know. It's got to be something inherently defective inside me, because it can't be coincidence

Whatever bitches, I'm going to go watch Jackass 2.5 and masturbate.

While eating M&Ms.

Good news everyone

I have finally gotten back to work on my first novel. I actually hadn't touched it one bit since May, but this week I finally decided it's been long enough and I dove dick-first into the editing stage. I'm currently on page 145 of 219 pages, of which each page in Word translates into at least two of their printed counterparts. It's 116,000+ words of lyrical brilliance. In fact, I completely forgot how good a writer I was. The last six months I've been scared to go back and read my work because I expected it to be shit. Well, I had no need to worry because as it turns out, it's not half bad.

Here's a short excerpt: 

Open the bag, filter through a bunch of crap only fat people carry around, grab the canister.

It’s Sonic Boots, a self protection device falling under the clichéd category of things in Ziomii’s bag. It’s a battery-powered, air-driven ass-kicking in a bottle, and it displaces enough atmosphere to put a hundred-kilo assailant through a brick wall.

The locker door pushes in, crimps together at the corners, and disintegrates. It’s there, and then it isn’t Emelie swipes her stuff, dumps it all in her own bag, and sprints back through the WORKING GIRLS ONLY door, making a straight path through the mutinous crowd and the parking lot.

I wrote the book in American because it makes it easier for people to understand. It's too difficult for Americans to understand European English, and yet it seems fine the other way around. Just one more reason why I hate living here in this god-awful country of fat fucks and uneducated heathens. In fact, America is just about the last place I would choose to live, short of Vietnam, anywhere in Asia, or Siberia. Actually, take that back: Siberia would be just fine with me. I hate summer and I love winter and the cold and the snow and the ice and snuggling under some heavy blankets naked. Yeah: fuck winter. Fuck it fuck it

fuck it

WHATEVER. 

I still want to kill myself, but at least now I'm going to at least wait until I've put this book in a state ready for reading.

Birthday wishes to myself

"You like the smell of blood
When it's pumpin' like a factory
Ooh, you like your words to cut
You like to choose the best artillery
I wonder who you're thinkin' of
Who am I
Am I the epitome
Of everything you hate
And you desire
You love me like an enemy"




Today was my birthday. Not one of my IRL friends wished me a happy day. I got a few dozen facebook wishes, but no one else seemed to remember.*

And you know what?

I don't even care.

My best friend never remembers, and besides he's in graduate school and I know it's busy around this time of year. But even so, it doesn't even bother me a little that no one else called or emailed. I hate being the centre of attention. When I opened my gifts from my mother (jeans, a new shirt, and a little cash) I was embarrassed because she didn't have anything to open -even though it was just the two of us. That's why I like Christmas so much because I can give back and not always be the focus of all the attention

*Obviously everyone in my family remembered, but that point is excusable for the sake of my thesis.

I don't really associate birthdays with a particular emotion. I mean it's nice to get gifts, naturally, but I've always gotten more pleasure from giving than receiving. When I was at university one time my mother made me a cake and my girlfriend brought it over to my apartment and we had birthday sex and then cake and then more sex. That was pretty nice.

Other than that specific birthday, I don't really remember many to be that great. It's exactly three weeks before Christmas, so that's pretty cool. But a lot of times I get combo presents since they're so close together.

I really want to hurt myself. I've been thinking a lot recently about getting into cutting. I don't really know how to explain my thoughts on the subject without seeming overly-emo (nigh impossible given that I'm listening to The Letter Black right now), but I'll do my best: It just seems like a way to excite my nerves. Without swerving lanes while I'm driving or playing chicken with a freight train, nothing gets my nervous system off. With all the drugs I'm on, even masturbating is a huge chore, and I don't have enough money for narcotics. I just feel so bleh all the time, and I feel that through pain I could get off a little bit (both metaphorically and realistically).

Some of this no doubt is a result of my boredom. I'm trying as hard as I can to start my next novel, but it's so much effort to put finger to keyboard in any meaningful way. I've got the plot all worked out, so all there's left to do is make a playlist and actually put my ass in a chair and write. I just can't do it. I don't feel empathy for the characters yet, even though one of them is named Triple-T and is an agoraphobic clown murderer.

WHAT THE FUCK EVER

I don't even know what's going on anymore. I bought some nice shit today for my sisters for Christmas. I bought a DVD for my brother, since he's working on a cruise ship and isn't allowed to have many things. It's Man on Fire, which is a fucking excellent film

I meant to use this site as sort of a personal diary because it's so fucking difficult to keep track of the passage of time. I put up nice coloured lights around my computer room the other day so I'm in the holiday mood; I know that once I stop separating each day with a meaningful occasion, the holiday will be over, the lights will be down, and I'll be wondering what the fuck just happened.

I will probably start shitposting here more often. I feel that even if I rant in unstructured free verse like this, it might exercise my mind to the point where I can at least fap again. I just don't find anything arousing anymore, besides maybe my huge Suicide Girls collection. Those girls are hot as fuck -at least for the most part- and I would definitely sprout decent wood if I ever met one in real life.

OK peace assholes. I'm going to go watch more Good Wife and then also Brazilian carnival orgy porn.

Adam Lay Ybounden - dieser beitrag bedeutet nichts

I have decided my next girlfriend absolutely must listen to the same type of music as me. My last ladyfriend enjoyed indie/emo rock along with pop (Spears, Gaga, other shit-tier tunage) and we didn't get along very well. Explosive sexual encounters, certainly, but the vast majority of our conversations were bland and dull. One woman I dated since enjoyed screamo rapcore and KISS; that went pretty well. But since I've sworn off women altogether for at least the next three years, I have a good amount of time to settle down and make decisions in terms of what my life partner will possess.

Weird hair, I think as well. Someone who is not afraid to shout 'VAGINA SPASM' in public when referencing something awesome.

Bah, first I have to get sane and then get my adult feet under me before I even think about getting it in again. Fuck that noise. When my daily regimen mainly consists of repeatedly muttering to myself "don't put that razor on your arm," there isn't room for much else. That, plus women are the devil and I don't have nearly enough money.

I have decided I want to watch scary films more often. I don't really know why, but I think it has to do with my wanting to feel something. I haven't felt anything in a long time. It's impossible to describe what the complete absence of feels is like, because everyone feels things. Except me. I just don't care about anything. Usually this is fine, but imagine how challenging daily life is.

I have decided I want to shave my head into a mohawk. Combined with my beard, I am believing this will make me look fucking awesome. I don't know if I want to do it myself or have someone else do it, but if I can care enough to find my electric trimmer, I'll give it a go this week. Unless of course I pussy out or am convinced in some fashion not to do it. Then there's the choice of having the non-mohawked parts all the way down to skin or not. TOO MANY DECISIONS. DECISIONS ARE THE DEVIL.

Whatevs. I can't be bothered to fill in the rest of this space. I am too tired to write anymore. I am going to write a book starting in a couple of days for my family for Christmas. It is going to be epic. There will be a caveman, and also a section taking place during the Battle of Blood River. Talk about a massacre: 3,000 fatalities v. 3 wounded. Yeah, I'd say that battle was pretty one-sided.

Dragon Age has too much nudity in it to be enjoyable

This is easily in my top 50 favourite tracks. In terms of Sadness Evoked, it scores a perfect 10/10. For some reason I always Eva Green singing this and then drowning at the end of Casino Royale; fucking sadness all around. Speaking of sadness, I learned today that on monday I get to endure six hours of psychiatric testing, all of which will be super fun and enjoyable and I won't feel bad about it at all.

Just kidding, I'm sure it will be fucking miserable.

Here is a .gif  me fighting a Desire Demon. I was playing DA:O earlier and decided to take a great deal of screenshots. I've never actually beaten the game despite spending north of 100 hours over the last three years on this goddamn game. I usually finish the dwarves and mages, or elves and mages, or elves and dwarves, but never all three. I think I've got three save files all with around 40 hours each. Well, this time I promise I'll finish the game for certain. I'm positive my incoming addiction to LOTRO will make no difference. Although I have a hard time becoming addicted to anything. I thought at one point I was addicted to sex, but then I touched myself more and that thought became irrelevant. I've thought before I could be an alcoholic, but then I graduated university and realised drinking was a way to forget how shitty life is as opposed to a celebratory activity. Every now and again I become addicted to a particular video game, or a food item, but those all fade away. When it's gone, I feel empty, like a piece of myself is missing.

Speaking of the 'missing' concept, have you ever felt as though you weren't sure if what happened in a dream was real or 'only imagination?' If yes, apply that entire feel to all day, everyday (and night!) and now you know what it's like to be me. My psychotic dreams have elevated to a new apex of realism, to the point where I actively do not know if something is real or not. My memories have been ransacked by this ugly fucking psycho mentality. Memories are the most precious personal possession a human being has, and now I'm losing them. Like weeds growing amongst flowers, I can't tell what is what. I frequently will be in conversation with someone and make a point of reference to a prior discussion, only to learn that never happened. It's startling at first, but then it gets to a point where conversation in general is useless. Talking to myself is far more fruitful, since I can't tell what is real or not. My actual reality is being steadily unhinged. I think that's part of the psychosis and not something more severe, like my aforementioned penis-shaped tumour. Although since I'm not cleared to get a head CT (with contrast!) no one will ever know. What if I have an extra wiener in my head? How terrific would that be? I could perform cunnilingus and sex at the same time. I would be the most popular porn actor of all time, forever.

Like, he totally came BLOOD. On my FACE!

But really, what kind of job must that be? I was watching All About Anna the other day and it's the first film I've seen where the lead actors/resses actually bone for realz. It's hilarious though, because the actor who bones the lead actress first is ugly as shit and has a small dong. That would be kind of crazy though, right? Porn is one thing, but thespians banging just seems wrong somehow.

If I were King of the Universe, I would decree that every hot actresses would have to do a porno. That way all sexual mystery would be gone. Also it would prevent nightmares such as the Kardashians and Kristen Stewart. She totally has coneboobs. The first scene of her topless would be enough to remove her the industry forever. Not like now, where she shows her tas in some trashy indie flick that no one will see since the pics of her coneboobs already leaked onto the interballs. It would also prevent Lindsay Lohan doing a Playboy cover for something like 750k American. What kind of shit is that, I mean really. Fuck her and her nearly-invisible nipples.

That's a shitload of coke though.

If I had that kind of cash I would buy my own house, buy a Saab, and invest the rest. Live off the dividends, yo. Money management like a CEO, and all the bitches be hatin'.

Clothed adventuring is for casuals.

Just kidding, my money management skills are somewhere between 'flat broke' and 'homeless.' My mother has purchased a few books for me, but since I have no money I haven't gotten around to reading them. What purpose are money books if I couldn't even afford spaghetti at a semi-decent restaurant? Plus, I get all of my cooking fetish out of the way by watching Hell's Kitchen and/or Top chef. Fuckers don't know what's going on.

Neither do I, evidently. Everything I've written prior to this statement has been utter nonsensical shittus. Everything after this point will be also nonsensical shittus.

I think I might just end my rant now. I have nothing to look forward to in life. I've already experienced opposite-sex romances, I've lived on my own and with flatmates, I've been to other countries and travelled all over my own, I've got a university degree. I've had physical labour jobs, medical science laboratory jobs, and desk jobs. What the fuck else is there to look forward to besides children, to which I am allergic.

I've never handled a human infant before. In all of my soon-to-be twenty five years, I've never even been near an infant. My first friend has recently begun down the [unintentional?] procreation path with his wife, and that will be the first human infant I will have been near.

Whatever.