The Obscure

I am an unclean man, in both a literal and a metaphorical sense. Actually, after further thought, I am really only unclean in a literal sense.
I woke up this morning, with them statesboro blues (August 20th!). I grabbed a cuppa coffee and zipped off to work. Work was hectic, we ran out of cookies at about 9:30 and I just bagged cookies for a few hours until Brittany returned with a few boxes of cookies, and I baked as much as I could until about 1 o'clock, when I had to go pick up Joyce and drive her to Huntington!
For those of you who don't know, Huntington is about 2 and a half hours away from here in western Mass. I was driving her there because she drove me to work a lot when I didn't have my truck and I was grateful.
Anyway, with stops and the break at her sister's house in huntington included, it took me about 6 and a quarter hours to get there and back. Which means I have been up and moving fooooooooor... 11.5 hours-ish!
Not incredibly bad, Patrick apparently works 12 hours days habitually. I'd kill myself.
Anyway, having showered yesterday at about 3 PM and not so much as wet my hair since, I am grimy and disgusting and think I shall soon fall victim to a deadly case of esophagus-lice.

That is all I have to say right now. Oh yeah, and metaphorically I feel... umm... orange.
Aren't I just the surreal-ist?

Well, I have purchased a new sketchbook and sullied it with my mind and my ink for hours on end. Now it is time to exercise my fictional writing muscle, which has grown so atrophied that I am now beginning to doubt if it is even developed enough to perform the most rudimentary of jabbing motions. The time it took me to compose that god-awful sentence is proof enough that my doubts were quite reasonable. As was the phrasing of that following sentence.
I am tiring fast of this, it is not as fun as picking up the habit of constant sketching again, but it is equally as important, in my mind. Perhaps before I go on I should explain myself.
I was utterly useless for about two or three months, right? An utter slug, I didn't do anything except work and sleep. I stopped drawing and writing pretty much at all for this whole duration, although I still would have occasional blog updates, all the writing I do outside of my blog ceased, and my sketching--Pfft! Fuhgettabowdit!
Anyway, a couple of days ago I got really upset about it and started trying to get back in the habit of being semi-intelligent. It's fun to be semi-intelligent, it helps you score with the ladies.
A semi-intelligent cookie boy dropout. Feh.

Anyway, I have to go drive Lena to Maria's house, or something. More on this later.

Aha! Now, I assume you all have read the lyrics to the song that is plastering the walls of my life at this very moment that preceed this post. If not, I will pause a moment in writing and then continue.
...There!
The Grabban Zee Babban of Eurodeluasia once told me that there is no true path to happiness, that happiness is more like an answer to a question that we can ask when we are wise enough to know how to phrase it. I thought this a very peculiar thing indeed, and I told him so. He said that most people do, and that's why there is so much misery in the world these days. That shut me up, and I've dedicated my time since to figuring out how to ask for happiness in some less than obvious fashion.
It has become apparent to those in a position of power that I am moronic in all things philosophical and that true enlightenment shall evade me till my dying day.
To these things hurled at me by naysayers, I shall emulate the Grabban's regal example by saying, "Feh." and going about my business.

Who, you may wonder, is the Grabban? Well, I made him up, a long time ago. A character I pulled out of my muddled mind so that I could write the biography and philosophies of a great thinker. What is the Grabban? The Grabban is a revolutionary leader in Eurodeluasia, beginning in the Year of the X (confounding, no?) he is physically grotesque, without arms or legs--contorted, like so many others, by the radiation required to run the robots of the Society. Mentally he is immense, and in school he had ambitions of serving the Society in the name of science. After witnessing the murder of his parents at the hands of anti-mutant rallyists, though, he lost a bit of his sanity. He has devoted his life since to leading the mutant revolution against the humans and seceding from the Society that had abused him so.
This has all been written extremely quickly, but it is part of the idea for the graphic novel I want to put together. Unfortunately, I have no motivation to actually do it. Also unfortunately, it's not a very good idea.
They should just skip ahead and give me an Eisner. I don't feel like putting in the effort, but I want the damn recognition!

George Clinton and the Parliament Funkadelics- Testify

Friends, inquisitive friends
Are asking what's come over me
A change, there's been a change
And it's oh so plain to see
Now it was just a little while ago
My life was incomplete
I was down so low
I had to look up at my feet

I just want to testify what your love has done for me
Oh, I just want to testify what your love had done for me
Ooooh luscious, sure been delicious to me
Ooooh luscious, sure been delicious to me
Ooooh luscious, sure been delicious to me
Ooooh luscious, sure been delicious to me
Once I was a hollow man
In which a lonely heart did dwell
Then love came sneakin' in upon me
Bringin' light to an empty shell

Love just walked in on me
And it's taken me by surprise
There's happiness around me
You can see it in my eyes
Now I've heard so many time before
That your love can be so bad
I just want to tell you people
It's the best love I ever had
I just want to testify what your love has done for me
Oh, I just want to testify what your love has done for me

Mmmhmm, boy.

Hello again, one and all. A large dose of clonapyn has recently been inserted into my digestive system, thus it is really only a matter of time before I stumble off blindly to bed.
Anything that happens, you know I am to blame. Gonna find myself a doctor, and perhaps my luck will change. Round about now I find myself incredibly depressed, today another family tragedy struck the hour as our incredibly old and lovably disgusting cat, Chelsea, was taken from us.
On the plus side, Maria's surgery went quite well, or so I hear. Now we only have to wait and see if it actually does anything.

Do not judge my brain power by the grammar and content of this blog post, I know not what I do.

It brings me near tears to think of Chelsea's death. I know that may sound strange to you folk, as I have made jokes about her prolonged lifespan so many times now that her dying should seem more like a punchline than anything else. I would still be sad about losing her, of course, but after the immense length of time she spent sick and exhausted, I would think that dying would be just like going to sleep after a long day at the Job.
The thing that made me so sad though, was that, well... Chelsea was my Uncle John's cat, until he grew unable to take care of her and we had to take her off his hands. When she was a kitten she was abused horribly, so as an older cat she was mean to everyone, she bit and scratched us indiscriminately, and no one was safe from her attacks--save my Uncle John, who loved her profusely and, at least to my child's eye, appeared to be loved back.
The fact that she managed to hold out and keep on living right up until he passed away is... is just more than I can bear. It puts her extreme old age into a different perspective for me; and though I'm almost sure it was only coincidence, it somehow makes grieving over my uncle more painful than it already was.

Again, I apologize for the grammar and content of this post. I have slept very little in the past few weeks, my body is deteriorating at a much faster rate than usual lately, so things that used to be normal for me, like writing blog posts, are now clumsily performed and inadequate.

That being said, thank you for reading. That is to say, thank you for reading, if you read it. Now I am going to try and make my way to bed. Wish me luck.

"The time has come," the Texan said, "To speak of gayer things
Of whips, and chaps, and molten wax, and vibrators, and things."

And the sleepy spick by sunlight shines down lustfully on she who is his domain; farther down the road I must travel to escape these wretched things. Too far down, I shouldn't wonder.

What in God's name is going through my mind right now? A lot of pain, I know that much. My older sister is under the knife today, I am so stressed out about it I can barely move. My head is killing me, I've been perk-free for four days now, but I think I'm gonna have to break my streak.
Break, Streak. Weird.

Anyway, that's really all I have to say for now. Goodbye, ladies and gents.

It's a jungle in here.

Ugh, and entire world of opportunities, utterly useless to the unstable mind.
Having just eaten (a term I now occasionally use after spending a lot of my time in the company of a Sharon) a big ol' dose of seroquel, I'm going to write here for 15 minutes to half an hour before I start to fade out, and then I shall stumble my way to my throroughly trashed bedroom and sleep for twelve hours on my couch.
Things are incredibly strange in the Colón household, lately. I won't get into it too much, but I haven't really been spending very much time here. Lena is living with the Stones again, I haven't seen or spoken to her in about a week. After spending the past year or so hanging out with her for hours every night while the insomnia and madness ate away at our brains, this makes me miss her. My, don't I feel gay?
My own mental health has gone a bit too far down the tubes for my liking, as well. Don't really know why or how, but I seem to have entirely lost my grip on reality. When I get particularly psychotic I start to lose my hold on the concept of time, and my memory slips more than usual. As such it feels like chunks of my life are being torn out and cast away, by the end of the day I usually can't remember the morning anymore.
I think I can chock that down to my whole, abandoning my medications, thing. Or maybe abandoning my medications was a result of it. In either case, the abandoning didn't help matters much. I'm down to about two roxicets a day now, though, which is less than half of what I was taking before. Tomorrow I plan to try and chop it down to one. More on that later.

I don't know why I have to be such a crazy bastard about everything, it really is kind of a mess. A man can talk and talk about how happiness is a conscious choice and how you need to make your own purpose in life--but at the end of the day, I really just don't have the fire in my belly to believe it. Let other people sieze happiness and find purpose, my life is utterly pointless. Inanity killed the cat, my friends, and no satisfaction will bring it back to life. Believe me, I spent six weeks blaring Stones' records at the corpse of Black Jack and he didn't even budge an inch.
That seroquel is beginning to take a hold of me, but I think I can keep this going for a little while longer.

A frightened child once looked deep into my eyes and told me how I terrified him. He refused, even at my pleading, to tell me why I was so gruesome. I love children, in the non-creepy way, too. Still, they run from me.
I had the dream the other night that I was driving around in a car, and a guy at a coffee shop was renowned for his obnoxious sense of humour. Don't you hate the people who are supposed to be funny but really just piss you off? Maybe that's just me.
Maybe I am one of those guys. Damn man, that's heavy stuff.

I have to go now, and army of snowflakes is crushing me.