The Obscure

I changed the links around, fellas. I'm sorry, but it had to be done, most of the links I had were so stagnant that they were beginning to cyber-stink, and that's the worst kind of stink there is, because it doesn't exist.

Addition!
I updated Australopithecus, for the first time in about ten million years. It's a very long and stupid post though, so you don't have to read it if you don't want to.

I've taken a shard of the drug, my mind will soon succumb to the wiles of the drug, and I will find myself floating in a river of altered consciousness.

Perhaps I do have things to say. I feel as if I'm sick to death of something, but I cannot pinpoint what it is. I now realize that this is a feeling I've had pretty consistently throughout my entire life, but it's only been sharpened to a razor-point now by pain.
Where will I find myself when this is all over and done with? I have come to terms with the fact that I can never live the infinite fantasy lives of my imagination; I think I would be content with just one life that wasn't--except for a few parts that I am incredibly grateful for--riddled with misery.
I loathe reading and writing. I can't stand them, they sicken me. Writing down things, even little things, like notes to my parents when I leave the house, it takes over my whole being. It consumes my mind so that I cannot focus on anything else, and it is a disgusting feeling. To always be a slave to something for no reason other than being born with a slightly deranged mind, it gives me vile shudders.

I've only gotten a few hours sleep in the past decade or so, so I think I will go.
Goodnight, ladies and gents.

I deleted some posts just now. Don't know why exactly.
I don't have anything to say.

So I went to the doctor, to see what he could give me
He said, "son, son, you've gone too far
Cause achin' and seizin' is all that you do."

I went to the doctor today, as you could probably gather from the title of this *SPOILER WARNING* very depressed and whiny blog-post.
As most of you know by now, I've been having these weird attacks, lately. I don't know exactly what they are, or how to describe them; essentially though, they are seizures. I lose control of my body, I stumble around, my speech get's very slurred and my vision get's blurry. If I am standing up, or if I try to stand up, or if I in any way come near something anything like a vertical position: I will fall to the ground. I will then lie there until the seizure (or whatever) wears off enough for me to get up and stumble over to a couch or chair or something. That, or one of my parents finds me and picks me up and carries me over to a couch or a chair or something.
After all the stumbling, falling, slurring, blurring, and occasional spurring, comes incredible pain in my head. These are my worst headaches, it's this awful, pounding, all-encompassing pain that makes my entire body twitch and my stomach churn as if my central nervous system is worrying about being destroyed by the pain.
This has been happening three or four times a day for the past couple weeks. The whole process takes about two hours, half an hour to an hour of stumbling, and an hour and a half of terrible pain. Though, if given a choice between the two, I'd take the headaches all the way. I will not describe in here in detail the feeling I get when I have these seizures, but let it be known that it is far from a pleasant one.
Anyway, so instead of having bad constant headaches, I now have waves of complete loss of control of my body, followed by the worst headaches I have ever had, over and over and over again. So, naturally, I go to the doctor. What does the doctor say?
I'm no longer allowed to drive!
I guess it makes sense, if I went floppy on the road I might get into a crazy big ol' accident and kill myself and some people. But still, I am really ticked about it. Also, I can't go in to work on thursday and friday, which means my check will, ONCE AGAIN, be tiny.

Anyway, those are my woes for today. The doctor gave me more percoset, enough for three a day. If things keep up this way I'm going to need more of something, though. This is just unnatural.
Goodnight, ladies and gentlemen.

Video killed the radio star.

Hello, my numerous and multi-many-pronged friends! I sit here in my sombrero contemplating Socrates, and other great philosophers of the day. It appears I cannot have a drink without a leak in it. Therefore I shall miss approximately one sip of every drink I will ever drink for the rest of my days, and that sip shall go to no one but the dust.
I should sleep, for I have work in the morning. I took some of the pills that do make me tired, soon the effects of them shall be shown on my boyish features and I will make to my bed.
Luck be a lady tonight, my friends, luck be a lady tonight. Or whatever.

I think I shall go lie down in awkward positions on my couch for a few hours until the sun rises. Then I will watch the sun rise with a shot of espresso. Brilliance, my lad!
Of course, this is bound to not happen, I'll probably fall asleep in an hour or two and then have to wake up way after the sunrise and go to work. I haven't seen a sunrise in ages.
Seeing the sun rise on the water is the best thing ever, it's really the main thing I've ever liked about camping. That and the copious amounts of cardgames. It's surprising how bored you get without television to fill in the blanks!
I have leapt from subject to subject long enough, I bid you ah-dew.

I do not have any thoughts in my mind right now! I only have musings over the manner of life and death, I only have philosophies and a single large confusing mass of the irrevocably insane.
Wherefore art thou gatorade? Why not a more delicious drink, white-out perhaps, or turpentine? I do not know what I am doing here, I do not know what is going through my mind. I have in my system, a magnificent amount of chemicals. Pain pills, sleeping pills, psych pills, and it appears that none of them are doing anything but eating away at my sanity and leaving me with my fingers on my clackers and my brain floating, adjacent to the floor, in it's clear plastic tube.
BUT! There is undoubtedly an answer to the eternal question. The question which, according to Lovecraft's incredibly fictional Necronomicon, must be asked. The answer is B. Unfortunately, without an original copy of the Necronomicon to go by, we cannot be sure what the exactly the letter B, in this case, indicates--if anything.

Well, I guess that is all the update that shall be given for now, as I have run out of creative juices and/or am too doped up to compose sentences.

Additions, But No Subtractions
Hello again, one and all. Tonight is a night like no other, bold things have been set aflame in my mind, dreams for the future, closure from the past. I sit here, wreathed in smoke from the burning embers of my last resort, with all of my words flooding back into my fingers fresh and new, as if writing is a treasure that I am to discover tonight, as opposed to seven years ago.
My hair is greasy and unkempt, as it was during my pubesence. It is my own doing, I tried to comb it, you see. My mane is such that any kind of hair product whatsoever destroys it's equilibrium and turns it into a sticky black bird's nest--yet every few months I attempt to tame it with comb and gel, and always I receive the same disgusting result that remains with me for a few days before it entirely washes out.
I am going to Puerto Rico, my friends. It is official, and I would cordially invite all of you to come along with me, had I the authority to do so. Unfortunately I do not, thus I cannot cordially invite any of you to come along with me. What I can do, for what it is worth, is bring my little tape recorder and a pack of tapes, and get the life story of my grandfather and my two uncles recorded down so that I might one day write a book entitled, "The Rise and Fall of the Colón Boys."
Cool idea, huh? I thought so. My grandfather was a sailor, he was in the merchant marines. No doubt he has some cool sailing stories he'd like to share with me, y'know? Everyone in my lineage has led incredibly interesting lives, it makes me wonder why my life is so inexplicably dull. If it weren't for Katie and the Boys ("The Boys," of course, also includes all of my female friends) I think I would actually be a rock, sitting here before you. An incredibly intelligent, handsome, and debonair rock.
I took a few more pills, as soon as they kick in I will head off to bed. Right now I am going to go watch tv until they do so. Woop, I think they just did. Welpity welp, goodnight ladies and gents.

P.S. This addition was written at 2:45 AM

I toss around the phrase, "Worst headache I've ever had." all too often nowadays. But today, my friends, I can honestly say that I am having the worst headache I've ever had. I've taken so much pain medication and gotten so incredibly dizzy that I've thrown up, yet it still did nothing to even come close to easing my pain. I have 22.5 milligrams of oxycodone in my body right now, and my head still hurts like an army of rhinoceroses is running a thousand irritated jackhammers inside it.

My esophagus hurts like a bastard from all the vomiting, so even drinking water is painful now. I think today is a good day to kill myself, considering the circumstances.

Here I am at the end of another ridiculous day, filled with ridiculous things that my ridiculous mind could never express. Shall I unleash my atomic rage tonight, and destroy all living things in a maelstrom of fire and italian eatery?
I think I shall, I think tonight is the night.
The musical stylings of Count Basie and the chemical stylings of Count Klonopin fill my bloodstream tonight. These particular nights have been growing ever more frequent since my uncle died. I don't know if it is a direct result or if it is just happenstance. My mother told me I was grieving, I did not know to grieve meant to feel rotten with apathy.

I don't really have anything on my mind right now, but I don't think I ever really do. I wish that I could write the things I think are worth writing on here, or that I had the drive to write the things I think are worth writing in any case. Neither are so, therefore I just end up feeling useless and unintelligent.
Perhaps I will overdose on love and jellybeans, perhaps I will vomit up the blood of time!

It used to be that I could write for hours and not grow tired of it, never run out of things I wanted to squeeze out of my tiny mind. Those days, it appears, are gone. Now I'm lucky just to be able to think coherently.
I was talking to my mother the other day. I told her that I'm not as smart as she thinks I am. I had to tell her, I think she deserves to know.

Was it Portia who killed herself by swallowing hot coals? Man, what a way to go.