Chibi is cruel

I'm not a huge Birthday Massacre fan. This is primarily because I don't cut myself and I don't have black hair and/or makeup and I'm over the age of fifteen. But I have been known to listen to them on occasion. I got their new album today and it fucking blows. It's not even like a 'well, it's not as good as the last one, but it's still pretty good' (see: Delain). It just flat-out tongues balls. I know I should listen to it a second time, because that's what I do with new albums before I make up my mind, but it's just really, really bad. And now my whole day is shattered because of it.

Well, not really. But my antipsychotics are almost out and it's such a pain in the bum to get refills.

Re-reading old posts here makes it seem like all I do is bitch and complain. In reality, that's the only reason I even made this: it's a place where I can talk about my brain's defects without anyone from real life knowing.

I'm listening to TBM's old albums now and they don't lick ass. There's definitely something wrong with their new effort.

I've been trying to describe how "a black figure" would look to people curious about my hallucinations. A black-cloaked dark figure. Basically a halfman. How is that so difficult to understand? The auditory hallucinations are fairly self-explanatory, but for some reason my visual and tactile ones don't warrant a CT scan. What if I've got a massive penis-shaped brain tumour?! HUH?!

I also have these flashes of rage where I physically wish to harm someone. Usually it's people less intelligent than I, and stupid people annoy me to no end. How difficult is it to understand simple tasks like line order, driving, or common lavatory courtesies? Whatever, fuck them. Eventually their stupidity will catch up to and destroy them.

Time to go watch more Jersey Shore. It's such a trashy program, and yet I can't stop watching. I wonder how often the people on that show want to slap someone upside the head. I get these almost spasm-like violent images of me breaking someone's neck, or kicking them in the throat, or ripping out their tongues. I think this is the sort of thing which could get me hospitalised. It's already been offered, but I turned that down because being confined to a ward with a bunch of loonies is about as appetising as a forkful of dried shit. Although it might be a nice way to relax. Maybe I'll think about it sometime in the future. I don't know.

Emilie Autumn is my hero in some ways. I've listened to the entire Opheliac Companion more than once, and I can't say I've regretted the.....well, something like seven hours (or perhaps it's more; I haven't checked). I hope she puts out a companion for her new album, because that would more or less make my life.

I'm really fucking pissed that TBM's new album is so bad. I mean I wouldn't even consider them in my top 30 artists, but still, it's fun to listen to every now and again. But not this anal fungus. What a disgrace.

Even worse that some pompous doucheasses have given it praise. There isn't a single hook worth listening to in the whole lot.

The way Emilie Autumn speaks is an aphrodisiac. Her inflection literally makes rise out of my dong. I'm not so much referencing her patterns of singing as much as her day-to-day speech. The way she clips her words and rolls others, it's like a lazy cross between English and Bostonian. And I mean 'lazy' in terms of tongue pressure, not effort of speech.

Tahdon lyödä nyrkin seinään
Aina, aina on riitoja vaan
Miksi et voi jo luovuttaa
Anteeksi saat
sanoisit vaan ei huolta huuda vaan, huuda vaan

Words of truth, those. Except in this case I mean less a Significant Other and more myself. I talk to myself frequently throughout the day, and that way I'm never really lonely. It could also be some sort of personality disorder, but who knows. I was schooled at home for seven years when I was a youngster, so I've always had an attitude that I don't pull gratification from others' reactions or opinions of me. I couldn't give a fuck what anyone else thinks. Hence why I have a beard.

Although I did do something highly embarrassing on the internet a few days ago. I won't say where or what it was, but all the same I feel odd about it.

But in the end, I don't really give a fuck.

I don't know what I'm going to do for my family for Christmas this year. I used all my savings putting on a bachelor party for my bff, and now I haven't even got enough money for candy. I was thinking of writing a holiday novella, and giving each of them a small part of it. That way they'd have to combine all their parts to get the whole story. Or maybe writing each of them into it. Or perhaps writing a script for an audiodrama and getting all of my fronds involved. WHO KNOWS. One thing is for certain: I don't give a fuck. Money means nothing to me, as do possessions.

SOMETIMES I WRITE POEMS.

When I do, they're always depressing. Except this one I wrote when I was sixteen or so. It was about vaginas. It was probably the best thing I've ever written, but I have no idea where I saved it. Chances are, eight years later, I won't even be able to find it. A shame. Humanity is lesser for it. In fact, I probably would have won a nobel prize for the poem. Anyway, here is this one. It needs a good deal of work, particularly in the second half, but I don't have the energy to think about that. I post things stream-of-conscious here, with no editing, so fuck it: I'm not editing this.

And no, gentleman, poetry does not make less of my manhood. 100% of exes will agree with me on this fact. If you're so closeted to believe that poetry is for she-males, think again. Also, you may feel free to lavish upon me your adoration at any point.

I'm waiting.

This has no title.

I'm psychotic, I'm bonkers
I truly am insane.
I'm mad, I'm wonky
I'm lost inside my head.
I'm batty, I'm daft
I'm crazy; a looney.
I've been defeated,
mistreated,
stomped on and crushed;
I'm flat, empty,
the tank's all gone.
I have no future
no long bloody suture
I'm all dried up,
I'm all worn out.
No blood in my veins;
wrapped in chains:
constricted, afflicted and restricted,
Depicted a protagonist
But more antagonist,
shackled as a Hiro
and yet here I'm a jackal;
I'm dead inside,
dead in my head and my red veins and heart.
A walking ghost,
host to malice intent;
where do I turn?

Anyway, I'm going to piss off and watch shitty programming. I might even toss in a porn or two; who knows. The night is young and I've only just taken my meds. It will be at least an hour before I start feeling the good stuff, so I bet I can squeeze a fap or two in.

That's right.

I just typed that.

Deal with it.