The Obscure

No Batman could ever fill the shoes of ol' Mikely Keats.

Here I am, hopped up on clonodine, feeling like there is a sniper trying to assassinate all of my appliances and furniture from inside my head.
That's really all I had to say, back to the bedroom, under cover of darkness!

Good evening friends and countrymen! I've spent a long day lying around doing nothing except watch movies, and let me tell you, I am eggs-fucking-zausted. I think my mono is coming back, or I have some similiar disease that does many of the same things, because my stomache hurts and I'm more fatigued than usual.
But hey, who cares about that?
Yesterday (I think, maybe it was today, or the day before, maybe it hasn't even happened yet) I told Tim that I was only getting like 387 dollars from the insurance company for the accident I was in recently, and I was outraged. But then later on my mom had a look at the form and I guess somewhere else on there it says that I am actually getting a total of 814 or something. So that's cool. I'm considering trading in my truck and buying a new set o'wheels with the combined money, because I don't think my truck will last much longer. On the other hand, I'm very emotionally attached to the thing, I might just do some word-of-mout research on good but cheap mechanics and see if I might be able to get my machine up to code. It would be good to be able to drive legally again, I haven't had that pleasure in quite some time.
I feel like watching The Matrix, and I also feel like watching Mission Impossible, or Return of the Jedi. I will probably watch none of those, partially because I don't have the first two and can't find the third, but mainly because I'm really dead on my feet right now, and I'm not even standing.
Anyway, I hope you guys will forgive how poorly written all my posts are, occasionally I will go back and read one and grimace all the way through it because of all the grammatical errors. But I have gone on about my own personal philosophy about proof-reading at great lengths and I don't think I will do it again for a while.
Goodnight!

Do not put any stock in the previous post, it was inspired by thoughts of my uncle, who's death apparently affected me much more than I thought it did, and it continues to do so. That's all.

My nightmare is to be strapped down to a table, and force-fed small morsels of bliss.

A strange thing has occured in my psyche, it appears the pain that I constantly live with is overwhelming the small power of the psych meds that were doing so well before this new wave of mental strangeness hit me. Again I feel the urge to pull my teeth out and chew my own face off with them, again I feel the disdain for we with the audacity to walk across the face of this planet on two legs. Perhaps the root of my self-loathing is that I loathe humanity in general, and I know that I myself am a part of that humanity.
Did you know that I pray nightly for my oddities to disappear, for my suicidal tendancies to go the way of all flesh (a phrase a picked up from my mother at a young age), did you know that I pray most fervently every night that I might find tranquility in something? Yet every morning I wake up with the same host of problems, every morning I wake up with the knowledge that I am not a normal person, that I am an anomaly. Even without the mental problems I was born with I would be an anomaly, I am the only person in this great nation with the headache problems that I have, I am the only person in this soon-to-be annihilated country with the physical dependancies on the medications I am taking, and the only one who, even with a large dosage, can find only small relief. Perhaps it is time for me to eat a bullet, perhaps it is time for me to give up this futile argument I have been having with the cosmos for as long as I can remember.

Unfortunately, I have work yet unfinished. I have yet to put down on paper the chronicles of the Grabban Zee Babban, a character I came up with on impulse whose personality borrows much from that of the Maud'dib. I have yet to do so many things that I wish I had the drive to finish. Perhaps that is the real reason why I am not dead yet, why I haven't committed one of the many acts I have thought of that would end this farce I have been living since the dawn of my existence. I do not kill myself because I know that there is a slim chance that someday I may get my brain out on paper. I do not eat that bullet because I know that the brains I would splatter all over my walls could do much more if they remained in my skull, if only I could find a way to get the drive to use them.
Right now, I am manic. There are several ways to fight my particular brand of mania, most of them illegal. I do not think I shall indulge in those tonight. Instead, I think that once I finish writing this thing that I did not want to write but felt compelled to by some possibly other-worldly force, I will take some clonodine and go to sleep. That would be ideal.

What of the rest of mankind? What do they do when they feel the demons begin to take over their thoughts and control their actions? Do they ignore it? Do they not even feel it? Am I that much of an anomaly that I am the only one on this hunk of disgusting rock who feels the demons infesting my mind? Perhaps I am. My uncle would have understood. Whenever I speak of him I want to cry, perhaps the grieving process takes longer than I thought it did. I loved him, you know. Despite the troubles he had he always took time out to love me back when we would see each other. I remember when I was a child, he could pick me up with one arm and lift me up so high that my back would touch the ceiling. If only he had discovered a better way to silence the demons, if only that were so, and he could have lived to tell me how to silence them myself.

I am suddenly filled with rage, I suddenly want nothing more than to destroy. Who knows what horrible things grow and fester deep within the hearts of men? Perhaps I would be doing the world a service by giving into my madness and destroying mankind. I think I could do it, I think I could end the world as we know it. I will not tell you why I think I could perform this abomination successfully, suffice it to say that I believe I could. I won't, though. Instead I will spend my life trying to quiet the demons that surround me, that fill up my mind until their whispered words drive me temporarily mad.
I do not expect a single one of you to understand these strange words, but they had to be said; I would have preferred them to be kept private, but in these matters I have no choice. There is Another Man, you see. He hides behind those demons and manipulates me, and there is no way I can overcome him, for he is a part of myself.

Yes, despite my medications I am once again stricken with the strange insanity I have come to fear so intensely. Fear so intensely, yes, I fear. I fear this particular strangeness of self that I know is limited to me and me alone. And I suppose I must remain alone, for no one in their right mind could come to care for a madman of this magnitude. Raskolnikov feel in love with his prostitute, and they found a way to cleanse each other's souls in their love. But that was fiction, and this is reality. The truth of the matter is, after all is done with, despite the affections I may have for some of those close to me, I shall probably follow in the footsteps of my forefathers. I shall die alone and afraid, and the demons will not leave me until my very soul flees my body.
Why do I write these things? I ask myself this, every time I come here. I right them because I hate myself, and I believe that my friends should know why I hate myself, and they in turn shoud learn to hate me as well. I have no worth to society, I have no worth to anyone. I am a sad and lonely coward, and that is why, despite whatever intelligence you people may think I have, I will always remain the least of you. When I die they will erect my body as a statue before the gates of hell, and beneath me in flaming letters it will read, "Behold, he who is the least of you. Behold, he who is the lowest of the low."
Farewell, dear friends and companions. You're friendship and comfort, whoever small or trivial it may seem to you, is one of the few things that keeps my relative sanity in check. For that, I am enternally grateful.

Do not put too much stock in this post, as I said, I am in a manic phase right now. Or perhaps I have reached a new depth of despair? Regardless, it is not a John of sound mind speaking right now, hopefully next time, it will be. Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.

Well, it's 2 o'clock in the morning..ish, and it appears my sleeping pills aren't working too well tonight. Of course, I don't have work tomorrow, or "later today" so I don't really have my usual preoccupation with trying to sleep. That being the case, I took it upon myself to get some reading done. I finished "The Hunter's Haunt" by Ol' Davey Dunks, and then started and eventually finished "Dune" for the billionth time, of course written by the late Frank "Big Daddy Love" Herbert.

And now I am really tired, but I feel unintelligent if I go for too long without writing so I figured I'd at least put up a blog post so that maybe I'd get back into the swing of things, I haven't done any journal entries or anything in weeks.
But I don't really have much to talk about, it's hard to be creative when you are well-adjusted, that is the one thing I dislike about being on lithium. I mean, sure, I'm happy; but I am not coming out with all that angsty literary nonsense that pops out of me when I am depressed.
That's alright, though, I'm sure plenty of people can be both happy and creative, you just have to get into the swings on things, as previously discussed.

Whenever I am too tired and my body stops trying so hard to keep me from realizing that I'm a full-blown nutjob, I start to hallucinate. Right now I could swear to you that a woman is murmuring incessantly somewhere behind me, and someone far off to my left is tapping a spoon against a glass over and over again, like the are trying to propose a toast but no one is listening. There are other things, too, but I don't want you all to think I'm really really crazy. If you are deprived of sleep you can develop dementia. Sure. I'll bet it's that.
Right now, if I had a gun, I think I'd shoot myself in the head. It wouldn't even be because I'm suicidal, because I'm not--as I said, I'm well-adjusted now. It would just be an impulse, like when I hit myself in the head with a bat, or stab my couch cushions. It'd be funny trying to get into heaven though. St. Peter would be all, "Well, why'd you kill yourself?" and I'd be like, "I was out of poptarts."
I am out of poptarts, too. But that is nothing to kill yourself over. I am just saying that I would, if I had a gun.
Funny thing is, we have like five guns. But man, I'd have to go get them and load them and, man I'm bored just thinking about it. I mean, who wants to load a gun? Not me, I'll tell you that much. I mean, seriously! Who is loading all these guns that I've been hearing about? I can't think of a less enjoyable thing to do than that.
And that's the trick, mine compadres. That is why I am still alive.
Also, I'd feel guilty about my funeral expenses.

*Edit*

The Author would like it to be known that, several minutes after this original post was finished, he actually found some poptarts in a cupboard; but they were the crappy chocolate kind. The fact that he hated them made no difference to him, and he ate them in silence and in haste, lest the other occupants of his house awake and discover him devouring their entire box of crappy chocolate crap.

I fucking hate myself. There are highs, yes, but there are also lows; and the lows, my friends, the lows are so very, very low.
So here I am, thinking of doing that one awful thing. Here I am, thinking of all the easy ways I could put an end to this horrific experience that is the Life of a Sick Man. Here I am, throwing my words at all of you people like razor-sharp fucking knives, wishing that my thoughts could cut into the minds of the masses and clear the vision of all who are blinded by the lies and the muck and filth that so infest our society. Oh, if only you could see. You would be sitting right beside me, knife in hand, contemplating the same things I contemplate night after night.
It would be so easy. It is so close, but it is so far away. You can suck down the juices of my mind by reading the shit I smear onto this page, you can absorb all the convoluted, insane things I have to say, and you can think to yourself that you understand them. Who knows, maybe you do. God knows I don't. I write this shit and I don't have any fucking clue as to why. I write all this horrible bullshit and every fucking time I feel like crying because I don't know why I keep coming back here, I don't know why I keep on trying to expose the rotten part of my soul to you people.
I hope you enjoy reading it, but I've just now realized that writing it is killing me. Everything is killing me. But it is killing me slowly, and I think soon I may have to find a quicker way.

Ah, sweet, all-encompassing difficulties.
I can't escape them, nor can I let them come right to me. I have to make myself unaware of their existence, watch them slyly out of the corner of my eye, until the difficulty pounces on me and makes itself irrevocably apparent, I then will wrestle with it. Shortly thereafter, I will lose to it.
I have a difficult time administering eyedrops on myself. I don't know why that is, exactly, I guess my eyes are just a little sensitive. Having my blood packed full of lithium sucks all of the moisture out of my body. Eyedrops are a necessity. I know this, yet it takes me ten minutes of staring at the bottle before I can make the first eyedrop attempt, and another ten after that before the attempts are successful. I do not like putting things in my eyes. I don't not like even having eyes.

I was going to write a long spiel on here about nothing in particular, like I usually do, but I think my sleeping pills are finally actually doing their thing, so I'm going to go let my body sleep for 7 hours, and then I'll wake up so that I can go get more pills so I can become more dependent on more medicines. Soon, I will be nothing but a chemical, standing before you.
Goodnight, fuckers.

Bring your doo-doo, Bring your poo-poo.

I upped my dosage of one of my medications. I won't name which one because it won't mean anything to anybody anyway. Suffice it to say that I am incredibly zonked, and typing is very difficult;
I

Bring your doo-doo, Bring your poo-poo.

I upped my dosage of one of my medications. I won't name which one because it won't mean anything to anybody anyway. Suffice it to say that I am incredibly zonked, and typing is very difficult;
I

The Ambidextrous Universe.

One of the more terrible things about being the child of two of the most intelligent humans on the planet is that there is nothing you can do to quiet the constant noise in your mind. No matter where you are or what you are doing, something is going on in there, some kind of thought or idea that leads indirectly to another seemingly unrelated one, which in turn leads to yet another, and so on and so on incessantly. My brain is filled with strange and useless ideas about philosophy and backwards physics and "What if-isms." I have come to believe that my older sister's mind is filled with intelligent words, and descriptions of scenes and events that may or may not have happened, and how to connect them. In my older sister beats the heart of a writer. On the other side of the spectrum, I am adamant that my younger sister thinks in numbers. She won't show it, no no, but she inherited the mathematical mind and talents of her mother. That is evident from her interest in algebra at the age of nine.
But you see, where my siblings were blessed (or cursed, if you take into account the fact that we are all hopelessly depressive and find it difficult to actually use our talents for anything purposeful) with minds that, with depression overcome, could be put to great use, I got the middle-child's brain. I am neither here nor there, I was good at math in sixth grade, I was good at english in eleventh, now I have dropped out and am slowly losing my grasp on both because my real interest is in things that are not of this world. Perhaps it is the combination of a physicist's mind, a historian's mind (the occupations my parent's do not have, but should) and a over-zealous interest in fiction that makes me think the way I do; but instead of trying to accomplish anything with my unspoken theories on the way the universe works, I simply lie on the floor and let my brain's web spread out to create more of them, and keep them entirely to myself. Instead of taking the small writing talent that was passed down in my genes to write something, anything, worth writing, be it fiction or non, story or history, I stay up at night writing strange poetry and long depressing journal entries.

I tell ya', as far as brains go, I got the short end of the stick. I'd rather be as dumb as a post and have it be complete than to have the partial unusable intelligence that I have. Perhaps that is why I have headaches, there are too many useless thoughts in my brain, and no way to let them out.

Then again, I see where my parents are, I see where my siblings are. We are some of those many who should be accomplishing, and we are some of those many more who have great difficulty doing so. After all, isn't it part of the human condition, to yearn? And to yearn, you must have something blocking you from what you yearn for.
Like it or not, we are Man. We are cursed with logic, and blessed with illogic. We use these hands that should be feet as living tools to perform our tasks. And least likely of all, alone out of all of the living things that walk on the face of this rock, we stand on two legs. I say that a lot, I know, but I can't help but think of how strange it is. In a place where all things have four or more legs, we have two. Maybe the reality of it is simply that that uniqueness is what brings us our pain. All things unique in this world must die, a fish born with lungs must die, a wolf born with empathy must die, we are alone here; we should be extinct. It is the curse of logic that keeps us afloat somewhere between thriving and rotting; we could not live inside of nature, but we alone could leave it behind us and create our own habitat. Yes, we are alone on the Earth, we should be bones in the dust, but we tore ourselves out of that reality. We exist outside the rules of this planet, outside the rules of nature, as a God lives outside the confines of time and space. Perhaps that is what it means to be created in his image.
We can herd the other animals, we can breed them, we can genetically enhance them. We learn about how they function, we understand their thoughts. We mark which ones we will kill and which ones will live until their dying day growing fat on the farm. Are we as small gods on this planet?
If so, then it must be we, and not a higher power, that are not listening. It must be we who are allowing our people to feel pain, to grow sick and to die, to starve and to be mutilated by Evil. It must be we who are routinely sitting and looking on, in complete inaction, as large populations of our people are destroyed. Perhaps that power corrupted us long ago, and we are now cruel and bloody tyrants, ruling over our own destinies. Perhaps we are the cold, cruel, unfeeling God's that mother's cry to when their children are taken from them, who soldiers call out for when they lay bleeding on a battlefield, perhaps it is we who damn our fellows and are damned ourselves in turn. Perhaps we have even become the Devil, in our species' old age. Perhaps we have grown so twisted that we love our own malevolence. Yes, perhaps we will throw ourselves into that lake of fire, come Judgement Day.
Or perhaps this is all the bullshit that runs through a mind with too many thoughts in it and nothing to do with them.
I'd say that is more likely.

I had no idea what I was going to write when I started this post. Perhaps it is the new drugs that have got me going this way. Who knows? In any case, I apologize if you did not enjoy it.
I kind of enjoyed writing it, though.

Damn, sleep isn't doing anything for me tonight.

I was plum exhausted earlier. I hung out with Becca tonight until like past twelve, and by the time I got home I was ready to crash, but then I took a shower, and now I am wide awake again.
I probably won't write very much tonight, I do want to try and go to sleep, after all.

I am very confused right now. I think it is because I am starting these lithium and clonodine treatments. It's like my body is trying really hard to be depressed, and the drugs are fighting my body to keep me sane. I've never really experienced anything like this before, because normal anti-depressants don't work on me, maybe; and if anything ever does, it's too gradual for me to notice it. But right now I am popping up and down on a broken emotional elevator, and I don't know how to deal with it. I guess it's cool, I was in a fantastic mood this morning. The only thing that can really bring me down is the headaches, which are unfortunately as constant as ever. I get more painkillers in like 4 days though.
Oh and, hey, my insurance "payment plan" thing is going to work, so I get to keep my truck. Until it dies, anyway. Welp, I'm out. Bye bye birdies.

Up to the neck in human shit.

Here I am on another painful and excruciatingly long night. I got some new medications today, maybe they'll help me out. I took them earlier and for about an hour I was as high as a kite, which was alright. Then it wore off, and I am not sleeping now, so I evidently they are not yet working to their full effect.

I've lost my resolve, again. It's a good thing it's the weekend, I guess. I'm going to spend saturday lying in bed doing nothing. That's sounds cool. Then when I have to go into work on sunday perhaps I will feel a little less like killing myself or others.
I'm growing increasingly paranoid, lately. I'm finding myself practicing, so that I can pull a knife out from next to my bed and attack someone with it at a moments notice. It is just my delusions, but every night I lie awake thinking about how the world is crumbling, and I am going to be woken up by some fascist with a machine-gun, and I know I'm going to have to get that knife into his guts real fast or I am screwed.
Perhaps I am a sociopath, because I have always had this slight feeling of invincibility. People may die all around me, I can see pain and horrible things happen to everyone I know, and I will be deeply affected by these things, it will make me cry, it will break my heart; but I am the main character in my story. A bomb could go off in my house and I would jump out the window just in time and escape unscathed. Perhaps that is the way that all people unaccustomed to an actual life of violence feel.
And yet, at the same time, there is that feeling of how I want to take my own life.

Some of the pills my doctor gave me are incredibly dangerous. If I took five of them, it would pretty much be a death sentence. Luckily, if I were going to put an end to my life I would have to do it in some slightly more elegant way. A knife through the heart, or perhaps I would wrap myself in a tarp, pay some guy in some back-alley in Boston to box me up and mail me to some prominent politician, and cut my own throat while I was being shipped. Maybe I would write, "DO NOT OPEN TIL X-MAS!" on the box. That would be a pretty funny scene.
That was a long topic of discussion at work, how to kill yourself and then mail yourself to someone you didn't like. I thought it would be a good way to go, you could really ruin the maximum amount of lives that way with only one actual death. Very efficient, don't you think?

Our world is crumbling. I can't stand it, really, and not for the cliche reasons that most 18 year olds can't stand it; I don't take my feeble grasp of politics and pretend that I can have a valid opinion on the goings on of a society that has been running strong for two hundred years. It just makes me sad that our capitalism has gone bad. You know, that horrible, materialistic thing that most people hate? Yeah, that. It's not even that anymore, now it has grown twisted and rotten, there is too much politics and too many opinions about politics. There are too many rules and too many people trying to instate new rules to fix the problems the old ones made.
No, I don't want to stick it to the man. I'm just sick of being a poor, lonely, diseased boy who can barely afford the minimal co-pays he has to pay for his prescriptions.

We are a medicated nation, my friends. And fifty percent of our great nations medications are running through my bloodstream as we speak. Call me an addict, call me what you will. I've come to terms with the fact that no one in the world can understand the life of another person, and thus, no one in the world can understand my life, and what I go through. I could no more blame you for calling me an addict than I could claim to know exactly how you'd think and act in every situation.
I think I may be an addict, though. Not addicted to one thing, necessarily. But as my great and wise cousin Dan once said to me, "You are a pill-driven man."
And that's true. But let's look at this objectively, if I lived a hundred years ago, I'd be a booze driven man. For people like me, there is always something they need to rely on. I discovered at a young age that relying on another person is a bad idea, so here I am, sucking down pills like if I take enough I'll win a prize, because it is all I know how to do, and it is the only thing that quiets the demons that beset me at all times. The demons that I hide from all of you, except when I am writing on this disgusting website. Everyone needs to bare their soul a little. This is my way of doing that, I suppose. And if my posts are poorly written and unintelligible, then you folks can just assume that my brain was scrambled when I wrote it. It usually is. Who the fuck cares anyway? Nobody reads this thing, and I gave up on being respectable a long, long time ago.

I love you all. That's a strange feeling. It's true though, I don't understand what love is, but as far as I can tell, I am deeply in love with everyone I know.
I guess I'm not a sociopath.

And now this...

(Sitting On) The Dock Of The Bay - Otis Redding

Sittin' in the morning sun
I'll be sittin' when the evening comes
Watching the ships roll in
Then I watch 'em roll away again, yeah
I'm sittin' on the dock of the bay
Watching the tide roll away
Ooh, I'm just sittin' on the dock of the bay, wastin' time

I left my home in Georgia
Headed for the Frisco bay
'Cos I've had nothing to live for
And look like nothing's gonna come my way
So I'm just gonna sit on the dock of the bay
Watching the tide roll away
Ooh, I'm sittin' on the dock of the bay, wastin' time

Look like nothing's gonna change
Everything still remains the same
I can't do what ten people tell me to do
So I guess I'll remain the same, listen

Sittin' here resting my bones
And this loneliness won't leave me alone, listen
2000 miles I've roamed
Just to make this dock my home
Now I'm just gonna sit at the dock of the bay
Watching the tide roll away
Ooh wee, I'm sittin' on the dock of the bay, wastin' time.

Hey hey mama.

More terrible luck for ol' Johnny Jenkins today. Apparently when I filled out my W-2 thingy way back in the day I checked off "Student" and that registered me as exempt from most taxation. Therefore, I am getting no tax return this year. I was counting on that tax return to pay my car insurance. Now I can't pay my car insurance. So I am probably going to have to take my truck off of the road for a little while while I save up some money so that I might get a new insurance policy. Of course, there is a chance that I could work out some payment plan with the insurance company, but that doesn't seem really likely to me. We'll see.

That's really all I have to say right now, my head hurts and I want to die. Goodnight everyone.

So according to my doctor my life is pointless and will always be filled with pain and misery. Chronic migraines and Bi-polar disorder are the two most difficult things to treat, apparently; so I am going to spend the rest of my life suffering terribly from both of them with very minimal relief.
I came to a decision the other day. Instead of putting a nice big hunk of fucking lead through my brain, maybe I'll just do what I've wanted to do for a long long time now. If I play my cards right I might be able to escape my current situation with a bit of bread, and then maybe I could go on a road trip. I'll buy a month-long greyhound bus-pass or something and see what I can see.
Of course, I won't actually do that. I will just sit here on my scrawny ass and feel like shit all day long, wishing to god that I had the balls to drop all this petty, useless, arbitrary bullshit and go do something worthwhile with my life. And what a run it will be, I'm sure at the end of all this I will have a deep sense of self-satisfaction, knowing that I am the only human being ever to accomplish absolutely nothing at all throughout my entire life.

So... here I am again. I just want to give up. I don't want to have to try and be a person anymore. I just want to lie in bed and clear my mind of all rational thought, so that I might escape the tedium of my day-to-day existence.
It's a sad thing when a guy loses enough of his self-respect that he will write all this whiny fucking bullshit on a public place like this. It's a sad thing when I know full well that my Mother will read this entry tomorrow and feel shame, and yet I continue to pour my pathetic mind out onto this computer screen because it... it is my only real addiction. Some part of me likes to show off my insanity. Some part of me likes it that people know how crazy and depressed I am. I'd like to tell you that those rants I write sometimes, those long, angry literary screams that are filled with what my mother calls "raw expressions of rage and despair," the ones where I say that I want to rip my teeth out of my mouth and chew my own face off with them; I'd like to tell you that that was just poetry. I'd like to be able to say that I don't really feel that way, that that kind of thing is crazy to me. I'd like to tell you that I don't get urges to go outside with my big old Louisville Slugger and start spattering the brains of random gentlemen all across the pavement. I'd like to say all those things, but I'd be lying. There is a rottenness that I think lies deep within the human psyche, and I know I am not the only one who has to cope with it. I have never met a single person who could qualify as normal.

Tonight I think I may kill myself. This is the first time I have honestly felt that way for a number of years. Why? Fucked if I know, man. There is no point to my living, all living does is hurt me.
I need something. I need something now. But I don't know what it is; and I sincerely doubt all you fuckers have any more of an idea than I do.
Maybe I'll just go play with my knife. Maybe this time I'll finally slip and jam it into one of my eyesockets and put an end to this farce. But probably I'll just go and lie in silence for the rest of the silent time until morning comes, and then I will go to work and bury my self-loathing in menial labor for a few hours, then maybe I'll suck down some drugs and sit in a tingly haze for the rest of the day, until the night comes again and brings the ghosts back.
Michael is here. I concede the point. There is another man.

Nobody will understand these words, and I do not expect them to. I just had to say them, and I'm sorry that you, my closest friends who I have now isolated myself from, have to read them and wonder why I go on the way I do. Truly, I am sorry. But the other man is here, Michael is here, the Immortal You, and I no longer have any choice in these matters. Take it as you will, I don't really give two shits.