The Obscure

Fuck!
Gotta' write somewhere.
The bloody red sun of fantastic L.A. Scores of whores all cheap and frisky, give me a few more shots of whisky.
Why do I write these things? Why do I not just type out the stories that constantly run through my brain? Because I have drunk a lot of wine and I'm feelin' fine, gotta brand new zabzeebaba.
Young Dudes, I wanna hear you.

I suppose that was all just so much hot gas, sometimes I have to write a lot of violent nonsense to regain control of my mind. Tonight though, what a night! Here I am with a glass of wine, about 500 cigarettes, and devilish good looks.
When I take stock of the world (you know, like I do), when I really stop and look at all the horrible things that build up the fabric of this place we live in, I realize that I am--with all things said--no better than they. I want to give up, dig myself a bed of earth, sleep for a few centuries and see if I can stand living any more the next time I open my eyes.
No better than they. They. How strange that such a word can cause such a violent upheaval of emotions in the human heart. We automatically take a simple word, such as "they," used in a certain context, and every decent human being across the planet will be able to understand to whom you refer. Those faceless ones, those monsters of sin and decadence. Those vile and disgusting users and perverters of the human condition.
It is a sad few who realize that we are all, in one way or another, a part of "them."
For isn't it said, as the Late Great Jesus Christ with Sweetness and Spice was once quoted, "He who is without sin, cast the first stone." I do not think that that is as much a statement for the quality of forgiveness as it is an astute aspersion on the human character. I myself could criticize a good eighty-five percent of the people I know for sins of a most deadly mortal nature, and yet I myself got my drinks, I got my kinks, and I got my thinks, which are by far the worse of the trio; my thoughts, dripping with dirty sweat, unnecessary blood, the stink of my vile nature.
Every human being in the world has those three things as the great obstacles in their lives. I know I made it sound silly, but being silly and a little drunk I can't think of any other way to say it. We got our drinks, our kinks, and our thinks. We have our substances, every substance great and small can and will become a problem for someone, we have our sexual dysfunctions--for there is no living person on this rock who doesn't think in the least about sex and isn't a little strange in the sack--and we have our thoughts, our thoughts which elevate these first two vices we all share into areas that common discussion between fifth-grade losers with their stolen momma's rum have left unplumbed (that really is saying something). Without our disgusting minds the addictions and perversions that we all have would be as so little chaff, or whatever.
Yessir, there is no man or woman on this Earth without sin. Perhaps it is only personal character, but instead of making me think that we are all equal in our need for forgiveness, it makes me think that I am a run-down, drugged out, freaked out, oversexed piece of shit, and I deserve hell.
Of course, being a christian, I have to also observe that we all deserve hell, and consequently all are equal in our need for forgiveness.
But we are all horrible shit-heads, that is some food for thought.

On another note... I don't have any other notes.
Fucking A, man, what have we come to? Our legacy for our children will be stories of infidelity, substance abuse, our kids will lose faith in life before their chance for living can ever come, because we are a generation of failure. We have no great wars, we have no revolution, we have no eras of new thought, no renaissance, no devout persons of religion.
We have money. We have sex. Not the lovely act of sex between a man and a woman, not intimacy, we've got some nameless chick's ass jiggling in our face every fifteen seconds on television, we have more porn coming our in a day than books in a year, we got some dude who will refuse to put a shirt on for anybody regardless of the temperature so that he can stand there with his thuggy looks and steroid pectorals. And his goddamn hat.
What do I got? I got a million billion words about how I hate my life, how I love my life, and how the whole world should go to hell. I have a blood alcohol level of .25
I have a twisted body and a shattered mind.
Isn't that an archetype for humanity, ladies and gents? We bitch, we get soppy, we hate, we get high, and we all fucking lose.
No moral, I'm just bitching and getting high. Bye ladies!

"The time has come," the jackass said, "to speak of many things. Of wrath, and sin, and manly love, subterfuge and rings. Of why my beloved loves me not, and whether broken shins will sting."

fucking A, I am losing my touch.

Tonight, of all nights, lands me here. The thoughts whirling around inside my skull are oppressive and distasteful. I don't know how to spell.
A long long time ago, in a washing machine very close nearby.

No thread, no thread at all. It is because my mind is not working like a normal person's mind does, it is on two tracks, hurtling through the shadow like a meteor trailing flame produced by the consumption of human souls. I should write things that challenge me, I know that much, but tonight is not the night for that, tonight is a night in which I loosen up the wheels inside my brain so that I can once more write in a fluid fashion. I enjoy splattering my thoughts on a page, the draining sensation is very pleasant. Too many words, too many words, I say! The shining golden web that glitters, it extends in all directions, it reaches every juxtoposition merely seconds before logic finds it. I do trust you are doing well.
I can see all that there is to see, now. I can see all that is or ever was. I will not remember it come sunrise, but the insanity reaches deep into my soul, the insanity stretches it's ice-cold fingers and punctures my heart. Where do I go to from here? Everything is going to be all right.

So I was wondering what strange things have occured within this strange black hole we call life, what seperation of church and state does require of us fealty?Strange days, indeed. Five hundred years ago I gazed upon the body of my most beloved. She gave her last breath in the defense of the sanctity of human life, ironic that she was willing to die for it, more ironic, I was unwilling to save her.
Up and down, side to side, right to life, gliding snide; snipes and jibes and he coaxes our hoaxes, front and back, dead railroad track, cars and bars and feets of strength, misery drawn out to longest length. I give and love and shove, I shove life on others who lack the strength to grab it for themselves. I do not understand the things I see or feel or hear or think out here, outside my body, outside my soul, where should I go when the places I once called my own no longer welcome me?
Where should I go when I no longer wish for my home?
Where should I go when I forget that I have a home?

Time exists, this I know, but my concept of it is skewed. Of course, I am an insane man.
Love your suit.

Strange days, strange days.

"Wise men at their end know dark is right
Because their words have forked no lightning, they
Do not go gentle into that good night."

An end to a life of pain and despair, then. A toast to misery, it waged quite a war. My hands have been bound with the words of a cruel god, they have been freed by the dark and masochistic laughter of the nemesis.
Spinning yellow and watery damnation, words I've written more times than could be counted. Madness burns in the eye of the beholder, my eyes shine like beacons in the dark.
So what price is paid for the ability to sacrifice? What coin could purchase quiet rest? How do you measure the worth of slumber, our daily reprieve from the onslaught of consciousness. My conscience has been hewn, a blade bound with barbed wire pierces my heart, I waste my gin on the wound to keep it clean, much as I pour it out on my mind to keep it numb.
And my talent! Oh what talent, to be so bold without such substance. Seen from close my words are dust, illusion sewn to keep the faceless mob from devouring my soul. Long steel sabers pierce my jaws, stuck in my skull as bloody tooth and blackened thorn. In street and alley what strange toungues are these? Roars of bachannalial jubilation in my ear: Voices that once ill-fated Gomorrah knew.
Sin and sinner, sin and saint. Two letters separate the lauded from the infamous. What man is so pious he has not the black pit we all bear? The cavern hewn so deep in sandy soul, rife with brown recluse lovers, bloodsucking lust, and great winged temptation, with fire for eyes and lonely defeat for jaws.
And you! Clever Garroted Man, with blind white eyes and bloody leer. How often have you been accused for speaking the truth seen in the depths of the individual christ? How often has it been the truth itself, that pulls so deeply into your flesh, that gives away your bone to rot, and your mind to happy madness?
I hang here from this gnarled dead tree, my throat ripped out and clean bones breaking. History is an ocean of rotting jism, crusting spittle, and blood from a virgin's womb.

The immortal, gaining confidence at last--to break my mind and stroke my skin--peers down into my reserved grave of fire, and pours more drink in me, to slake my thirst.
The wound has been open, now less it festers. I splatter the pus on paper, the buckshot sprays my brains out onto the epitaph for my unborn children.

Sorry for my uncensored words, and for the theft of those of Thomas and Aldritch.

No sleep, and a pocket-full of miracles.

My life is a series of pains, pains that few of us who call ourselves human will ever know; yet I am thankful. I have so much to be thankful for, while I can make my ruined body do the puppet act that it does at the behest of a variety of chemicals, I know there are those who cannot move at all, or cannot think, cannot hear, feel, or talk.
On my good days I rejoice in that I am alive.
On my bad days I want to set a fire to this fickle world.
It is quite a shame, I rarely have any good days.
Quite a shame, indeed.

And their victory that day was subdued, for all the people knew that the king grieved for his son...

I have been as a stranger in a strange land, behold, as a wild ass in the desert I go forth to my work.
Words spill out of my thoughts much too fast, it has always been impossible for me to control them. Who would pity me for this thing? I, the son of a line of mad brilliance. I take to heart the love inherent in the minds of all humanity, but I find no comfort there.
Feelings spin out of control, and I try to cling to their backs like a spider monkey wrestling a rabid gorrilla. What God would give me strength or solace? I, a Man who is too much of a worm to raise a knife even to end his own misery.
Time makes a fool of me, I have come into my age and this age a century unready. What devil is so evil that I am tormented so? I, who have tasted time and escaped with a child's soul. Satan laughs and lines up his torments, when I get to hell it will be as nothing to this life.

Nor Man, nor God, nor Fallen Angel has comfort or place for a dead-man walking; and that has been my state since I first pressed a knife to my breast all those years ago. If I had only the balls to plunge that same knife into my heart, and be released once more onto the great wheel; perhaps it is not that on this Earth no divine comfort nor friendly company can save me from my misery, perhaps it is only that I am unwilling to carve my own place out of time and space and make my own fortune. What is it the faithful say? "God helps those who help themselves."
And still I feel if I give up the ghost my spirit will go wild and free to join in the ranks of the faithful.
That's right, let the boy's constant grief gnaw at his vitals. The Age of Man has work to do.

Life does love to throw you low-blows.

I haven't written anything in quite a long time. Lately my life has turned into a strange maelstrom of great things and terrible burdens. It is strange how often those two seemingly very different things can be related.
"I have been as a stranger in a strange land."
Yes, I think that adaquetly covers my life up until recently. Living from day to day by the skin of my teeth, stricken with illness and thoughts of suicide, gobbling pills like if I sucked down enough I would win a prize. It is strange how detached from the rest of the universe one can find himself when stuck in those straits for as long as I have been; man is an island unto himself.
Now though, things are different. At least they are sometimes. After such a long time of misery, loneliness, and pain, even the sporadic solace I am now getting (very unexpectedly, I might add) is like a kindness specifically tailored for me by the gods.

A Brief Interlude for Murder (Coffee).

My meditations of late have been filled with distraction. I have prayed to my God for release, and after a fashion I have gotten it, but I still deal daily with pain more potent and unrelenting than any I have ever felt. I am now almost out of medications, which means I get about three or four hours of peace every day, and it will remain so for the next 6 days. Still, there is solace, both in the fact that I am no longer always alone with my pain, and that the company of my solace does something to relieve my pain, and much to make me happy.
My head has been crushed by the hammer of unforeseen circumstance, and my heart has been pierced by a needle of golden light.
Farewell, sloth.
Farewell, tree.
Farewell, cloud.

More frightening things than usual abound in these strange times...

So my doctor has given me a few new prescriptions, well, only two, actually. The first was dilaudid tablets, those of you who know of my exploits at the various emergency rooms I have visited will know that dilaudid is one of the most potent painkillers legally usable, essentially it is heroin, used for medicinal purposes. It is a mark of how worried my doctor is by my strange new symptoms (and a mark of how intense my pain is) that he gave me a prescription for six 4 milligram dilaudid tablets a day. I am supposed to take them two at a time, which means I get 8 milligrams of the drug in me at one go. If you know anything about narcotics, you'll know that the usual dosage of dilaudid is 5 milligrams, and it makes you as high as a kite. Of course, that is in it's liquid form, and it only lasts for like half an hour. In tablet form it is less intense, and it lasts for about 4 hours, but it is still the strongest painkiller legally prescribable by a doctor without a federal permission slip signed by a senator passed by a notary public.
It isn't powerful enough to give me much relief. That simple fact is very frightening. I have an appointment with my neurologist on friday, I am supposed to be getting more answers during that appointment, but I may just get more questions, and have to endure more tests.
The second prescription, which took me by surprise, as I didn't know such things could be prescribed, was my brand new ergnonomic four-legged cane. I was using this crappy wooden one for a couple of weeks, and it didn't provide anywhere near enough support, I fell down several times, each time causing my already mind-boggling pain to spike so much so that I almost passed out. I think I actually did pass out from it at one point, several other times, I vomited.
All in all I am having a really hard time of things nowadays. I hope when my answers come, they aren't the kinds of answers that would normally warrant this much pain. I hope, more desperately than I have ever hoped for anything, that it is just some simple, reparable nerve damage. Because if it isn't, I'm in for some trouble.
Goodnight, ladies and gents.

Neurological Exams

I went to see my neurologist on Monday. He examined my MRI and deduced that there actually isn't anything wrong with my spine. Then he made me get like a pint of blood drawn so he could run an enormous amount of tests on me and check me for different diseases or syndromes. He is one of the best doctors I have ever worked with, if anything it seriously wrong, I trust him to catch it.
There was one funny thing about the appointments, though. Apparently my problems could be symptoms of advanced syphillis, which means I would've had to been infected by it somewhere between 10 and 12 years ago, which means I'd be about 8 years old when I caught it. I thought that was worth a chuckle. He tested me for pretty much everything that anyone could ever have, so I think soon enough I should have some answers.
As previously stated, in my last post, this pain is pain beyond anything I have endured in my entire life, and I was a very accident-prone child. A broken bone would be welcome, if I had to trade that for this. I'm almost breaking bones several times a day as it is, my leg is too weak to hold me up, and therefore I keep falling down.
I digress: the pain. Today I am going back to see my primary care physician, I am going to ask him for something better for my pain, or a higher prescription of percocet, or something. I am going to ask for oxycontins, given the amount of percocet I am taking right now, I don't think that taking oxycontins will kill the pain any more effectively, but the level of relief that it gives me will be long-lasting, so that I have that same level of relief all day. Or I might just ask for more percocets, I don't really know yet. All I know is this is something that is hard enough to deal with already, seeing as I have no idea what is going on, and being in completely constant, unbearable pain is a bit too much. Adding injury to insult, if you will.
Anyway, it's no use worrying (although I don't know if any of you are) I don't know what's up yet, as soon as I do I'll put it up here, and until I do, the only thing worth wasting brain-power to worry about is how I'll deal with my pain-level, andthat isn't anything you guys have to worry about, that's purely my problem. So, in short, there is no need for concern on anybody's part. There is a damn good chance that my problems will all clear up within weeks, and I'll be fine. We shall see, I suppose.

Panicking.

I didn't think that the prospect of going to the neurologist in order to find out what is wrong with me would make me nervous or frightened. In that, I was very wrong. I felt fine until I woke up this morning and realized that today is the day to do it. Every minute feels like it is dragging by so slowly it is almost going backwards, and in my head I keep on seeing Ackill saying, "Sorry son, but you have an extremely rare form of MS and we can't do anything for you." or, "I'm sorry to say that you have arachnoiditis." or, "You have a tumor."
Something along those lines anyway. I have to go see him later today, and I am trying not to be scared, but there are so many things that could go horribly wrong, so that I am petrified.
I can only assume that everything is going to be alright, that is what I keep on telling Elena. She is taking this whole situation harder than anybody, especially now, since she is just as housebound as I am, she has the unwanted pleasure of seeing me at my weakest, suffering from my infirmities; a thing that I used to try to hide from her, because she worries about me quite a lot, and she has enough troubling her as it is.
The pain, although I wrote earlier that I am well-acquainted with pain and can therefore deal with it, has reached a level higher than any other pain I have experienced and, to my increasing displeasure, seems determined to remain at that level. The pills I take block out the pain some, but even with phenergan they only last three or four hours at the most, and I simply do not have enough to make it through every day without wanting to shoot myself. It is pain beyond anything I have ever endured, including breaking bones, the aftermath of different surgeries, and the worst headaches I have had.
I am frightened, in short. Very frightened.

Strange Days Have Found Us...

I went to the Doctor yesterday. Apparently the muscles in my left leg have begun to atrophy, so it is not a simple neurological thing that is wrong with it. He suspects that... well, there isn't any easy way to say this. He suspects there is something wrong with my spinal column, perhaps a growth. It could be that we have been looking in the wrong place for the source of my headaches for a long, long time. If it is cancer, well, it must be pretty slow-acting, because I've been dealing with this for three years, and I do not believe that my headaches and the problems with my leg are not interlinked. My reasons for believing otherwise are quite simple, my leg hurts more when I have a bad headache, it gets flares of pain when my head gets flares of pain. Therefore, the problem with both of them should be one and the same.
As I said, if it is cancer, it is very slow-acting. I am a little concerned that it might be, because my dad got atrophy in some of his muscles and that was the first sign that he had cancer. But if that is indeed what it is (and the chance of that is very low) they should be able to zap it pretty easily, because, as I said, it is slow-acting, whatever it is.
It is a mark of the severity of the situation, though, that I now have a prescription for four ten milligrams percocets a day. Because the doctor said he would never give me more than thirty milligrams a day, and he had to go back on his word in consideration for the amount of pain I am in. I thought that nothing could hurt worse than some of the headaches I have had thus far, I was wrong.
There is a relatively large chance that this will turn out to be a cyst or something benign, because I don't have a lot of the symptoms of cancer, so it would have to be a strange form of it if I had it. If it turns out to be a cyst, there is a good chance that they could just drain it, or remove it, and all my problems would be over.
Whatever it is, something is fucking with the nerve-lines in my spine. I have to get MRIs and go see some neurologist and get an EMG of my leg. If you pray, pray that I will find answers, and that the answers won't be as terrible as they might be. If you don't pray, I would ask that you make an exception, and pray for me anyway.
I am not afraid, I do not think it is my time to die, and I doubt I am going to lose the use of my legs or anything like that; and pain is something I have a very intimate relationship with, so there really is nothing happening here that I can't deal with, but the support of my friends and family would help me get through it, even so. I can no longer walk without a cane, regardless of painkillers, so if you see me I will look weak and enfeebled. That is because I am weak and enfeebled. I do not have to tell you that I do not like looking that way to anyone, my close friends especially, but right now I have no choice, and what small pride I have I will have to put away for a little while, whilst I deal with this new developement.

I do believe things will work out to be ok, it is just hard not to think pessimistically. I didn't think things could get worse, and they have. The pain is almost more than I can bear, but I have ways of dealing with it. The worser part of this is not knowing what exactly is wrong. I am going to get tests done on friday, I suppose I will post again then with the results. I love you all, and I hope to see you all sometime soon. In light of this recent developement I have realized how much I have isolated myself from my friends. I did it partially out of neccessity, but that is no excuse. I don't know how many people still read this, I decided to post everything here because I didn't want to talk to everybody individually about these matters. I will see you all sometime, hopefully sooner rather than later.
It will probably turn out to be no big deal, so don't worry about me (I don't know if you were going to anyway, haha) I'll be fine.
See you later, large monitor lizards from the Galapagos.

Can words describe everything? Can words, in fact, describe anything?

It appears that my weird headache syndrome that does not exist according to medical science still has a few surprises in store for me. My left leg is slowly becoming lame. I've known for a while now that the left side of my body suffers more than my right when I am in the grip of a headache, but now my left knee is stiff and painful, and my ankle cannot bear much weight without collapsing under it's pressure. Hobbling around with a cane is something I am still not used to, I'veonly come to rely on it over the past couple of days, but I sincerely hope that this is a face that will pass. Not least of the reasons behind this hope is the fact that I simply cannot drive a standard with a game leg, and I hate driving automatics. I want to get a cane with a cushion on the handle, too, although that will make me look even more old-manly, because I have to put so much weight on it that it hurts my right hand terribly after a little ways a-walking.
I have not much else to say, except goodnight. So: Goodnight, and a pleasant morrow to you all.

Son of a BITCH!

I can't get to sleep, I hate it. I'm in too much pain to sleep, then I take something for pain and my body, being pain-free, is suddenly filled with energy and a longing to go out or at least use some of my muscles a little. I am out of my sleeping pills, I took a huge dose of seroquel and it didn't do a thing!
Furthermore, what little writing ability I have seems to have atrophied since I signed up for this whole fucking college deal. I've written several essays thus far and they have all been utter shit. On top of that, my headaches are now at the point where I am actually taking a few weeks off of school, without having even completed an entire week yet. Four days, four days was how long I could go before my body cracked.
I hate being a fucking cripple.

It seems so often that I write of the terrible awareness mankind has of it's own existence, but then, it is that terrible awareness that keeps me up at night, and that sometimes brings me here. Give a man, a gun, one bullet, and 24 hours alone during which he would contemplate all the dark corners of his soul, and I'll give you a corpse. After all, it is only medications that keep half of our society from killing themselves, isn't it? And the other half is kept from killing us by only the threat of consequence. If you do not fear, or overlook, the threat of consequence, you very rapidly commit murder.
I am a man, I have a gun, I have a bullet, and I have had a lifetime to contemplate are the dark corners of my soul and have found nothing to my liking. My hands are tied with medications, my fingers peeled away from the trigger by the chemicals coursing through my blood. Give me me, unmedicated. Again, I will give you a corpse. Whether it be my own or not, I cannot be sure.
I have the unmistakable air of a madman. I shall go do what madmen do best: sit in silence and think about how crazy the world is.
Goodnight.

Funny Funny Chico

Hello everyone. I don't know why I am writing right now, except for that I have little else to do. I WAS going to go to the Roger Waters' Show tonight, but I am having a really bad day and, being low on painkillers, wouldn't have been able to manage it.
It's cool though, I have all of tomorrow to sit around and do nothing. I have two essays I have to do for school, they actually look like they might be fun, I think I will post them on my blog, and the writings that they are based on, of course, so that they make sense.
I am sighing inwardly as I realize that I do not have anything else to add. Sorry to give you such a short, unfulfilling post, but I do what I can. Goodnight friends.

I have grown to live and to love under a shadow of despair...

Ah, always one for the melodrama, is that Johnny Colón. That line is an excerpt from something awful I wrote a long time ago, but then, everything I write is awful, and it all seems to contain lines like that, doesn't it? That is a saddening thought.
My younger sister is back in school, she was thinking of dropping out, but didn't (thank god!) I still maintain hope that she'll graduate the normal way, not like the rest of we Colóns. Well, I think my dad graduated normally. Oh yeah, I remember, it was something like this: he had full credit in everything but phys-ed, and he needed it in order to graduate, but the teachers liked him so they gave him full phys-ed credit and graduated him after he carried a puerto rican flag in a single school parade. Something like that.
My sister is taking a class called "The History of Jazz," and it is being taught by Mr. Anzovino. Mr. A, what do you say? I wish they had that class when I was in school. Not only that, but she'll get extra credit if I take her to jazz shows. Mr. A really is the only music teacher I would think qualified for that kind of class, if anything he is over-qualified. I think that he knows that her having me as a brother will make it kind of fun for her, which is a thing she desperately needs if she is to make it through the year. School is no fun if you don't have any fun.
Now me, when I was in school, I had to make my own fun. Or make fun of others. We didn't have any fun classes (except computer science, that was fun, but that was just because the Doc was a mad mathematical genius, it would be impossible to not have fun in one of his classes if you liked computers at all). So anyway, I just had to skip classes and go to extra lunches (and play far too much hacky-sack) and essentially treat the school like a playground just to endure the fact that I had to attend. And here Elena gets some cool courses I would have killed for, and she's barely even seen a classroom in the past two years!
I tell you, it's a crying shame. I always miss things by the closest of shaves. Then again, there is the very large possibility that the class actually did exist, but I, in my haste to flout authority and have fun running around with my mismatched group of hyper-intelligent friends, accidentally ignored it. A very large possiblity, indeed.

Tomorrow is the day I get my painkillers refilled, which is something like a holiday around here. I am hoping the Doc (the Md kind, not the mad math kind) will give me a demerol shot, I've certainly been feeling reliably miserable enough every day so that I can count on requiring one, but who knows what the future holds? I'll find out in something like nine hours. Goodnight, nightingales and such.

Piercing my heart is a golden dagger, that is God.
Piercing God's heart is a golden needle. That is me.

The doom-criers have landed on the barren soil of my mind, things spin out of human control and we await that doom. When it will come, only God, the Devil, and the dead know. It is not that final doom, spoken of in hushed tones in that good book we christians like to call "The Good Book," but it is a doom nonetheless.

I spoke in my last post of being terribly aware of my own existence, the pointlessness of it, the meaningless of my life. This awareness has grown, rather than lessened, over the short course of time between that post and this. My hatred for our species has doubled, my own self-loathing has, if anything, trebled. There isn't any honour in being a child of the mind; but it seems there is precious little honour in anything nowadays.
Tonight my awareness has reached some sort of culmination, if it goes any further I do believe I will end up very dead soon thereafter. My best idea to solve the problem was to get drunk. Standing up, falling down drunk; drunk so that I could skip hours of time, one moment lying in the backseat of some girl's car, and the next, sitting on the stoop with someone I do not know, telling them all about how Socrates had everything wrong and thinking (in my drunken stupor) that they were listening or did, in fact, actually care.
My second solution (seeing as I lack alcohol, girls with cars, and innocent victims upon which I would spout all of my backward philosophy--but mainly the alcohol, had to get drunk without any vino, boyo) is to stay up late, read way too many books so that I have the thoughts of others crowding my mind instead of my own thoughts, which are growing dark and frightening, and to smoke enough cigarettes to give the family that lives next-door emphysema from the second-hand smoke. It's ok, though, the guy who lives next-door has cost my parents several thousand dollars and is about to cost them several thousand more. He has it coming, I will spare the children.
My third solution is to eat a bullet. There isn't really more to that one because it is kind of a Final Solution (reference to mass-killings, ain't I clever?)
But I think it is the second that will be getting my attentions tonight, just like the night before, and the night before, and so on into infinity. Except for the occasional bout of luck whereupon I do manage to get drunk around girls with cars and wayward philosophers, my life really is that dull. I suppose it's the dullness that gets to you, and it is the lithium I am going back on (keep your fingers crossed, that I don't die from it!) that is bringing my frustrations out, but who gives a damn, really? In a couple of weeks all of the emotions I haven't expressed in the past year or so will have poured out of me (onto my close friends and my family, unfortunately) and then I will be a regular (if slightly depressed) ol' crazy backward philosopher--and I'll be in college then, so I'll be perfectly normal. Angsty and full of too many unsupported words. I'll fit right in.

I smoke two joints in the morning
I smoke two joints at night
I smoke two joints in the afternoon
'Cause it makes me feel alright.
I smoke two joints, in time of peace
And two in time of war.
I smoke two joints before I smoke two joints,
and then I smoke two more.

Goodnight television, goodnight light. Goodnight all that other bullshit that guy wrote that one time.
I was observing to my mother (because, as previously mentioned, I have made myself to much of a shut-in to observe anything to anybody outside of my immediate family) earlier today that this world we live in is composed of lines and strings. There are lines that we do not cross, and there are strings that hold us where we stand. Then there are those people who decide that they do not want to acknowledge those lines, or who have the luxury of not being tied down by any strings. Those people are free, free from the confines of our society, free to do as they please, go where they please, with who they please. I once thought that perhaps one day I would be freed from my cage of social lines and strings, but it appears that every time I get a glimpse of freedom, another line or string stretches out from the horrible glutinous mass, that monster we call "Civilization."
Tonight is a night unlike any other night. Why? I do not know. I am fully aware of things I hadn't even contemplated until tonight. Horribly aware. I can see into the distance, I can peer through time and space; and what I see there terrifies me. I long to die, to pass beyond that final thin veil, but what would await me on the other side? Shadow and flame.
I am insane. The fact that I can recognize my own insanity shows that I am not quite insane enough yet to act upon the insane impulses that crowd my every thought and emotion, but I am a madman nonetheless. I hate with a fire, I would vomit down the throats of mankind, had I the proper stomache contents to give each one their due. I love with a horrible, clinging love that will not release me, despite my enormous hatred of myself and, being brutally honest, pretty much everything else.
I have never had any good fortune without a little bad fortune mixed in, and the good fortunes I have had have been few and far between.

Yes, tonight I am aware, terribly aware. That is the curse of mankind, to be aware of our own existence. If only we could learn to be ignorant of it, to live out our lives like a worker bee: short, and meaningless. Instead we must be aware of the fact that our lives are indeed short and meaningless but it is our lot to endure them and know them for what they are. Tonight I am terribly aware of my pointless life, tonight I wish to end it.
But unfortunately for all considered, I am a coward. I will sleep tonight and dream my troubled dreams, and tomorrow I will wish that I could have overcome that cowardice and put a bullet down my throat when I had the chance.
It would seem, my friends and brethren, that ignorance truly is bliss, and that this bliss is denied to even the best of us. Therefore, I can never hope to obtain it, for I am among the least of us, scraped up from the dregs of the human masses and slapped together in a horribly mishappen body afflicted with illnesses that (according to medical science) don't exist. My cowardice keeps me from peace, so I cannot say I am sorry I don't have the will to cut my throat or eat a bullet or swallow all the pills in my cabinet, because although my vile hatred touches upon all things, it is myself that I hate the most.
Fuck eternity.

Strangeness in the dark.

I am finding myself thinking thoughs unthinkable, if that is in any way possible for anyone to understand, which I highly doubt.
I am unutterably bored. There is nothing I can do about it, however, having lived the life of a total shut-in for as long as I have now.
I feel like I have that emotional concussion swelling inside my skull again, but I cannot figure out any coherent way to let the pressure out. Let me please introduce myself, I'm a man of wealth and taste. Right now I feel like my brain is numb, like my mind has lost all of the potency it once had (which, as you assuredly know, was not much to begin with). It feels like I've suddenly had anchors strapped onto the bottom of my every thought.
They struggle in the briny deep
Those things that are my mind's to keep.
Though they struggle hard, they yet shall drown
With no would-be rescuer to be found.

Bats in the belfry. Belfrey? Who cares. However it is spelt, I don't know what is so wrong with bats being there; but then one must wonder why a bat would be inclined to be there in the first place.
I found my broken heart, and sent it
To the person who might mend it
But when it was returned, by post
I found the mender was a ghost
No mended heart to be found
Without the care of my love around
Dead and gone, or as good as such
I find her absence works as much
As the death of she or I
Still I mourn it, by and by.

Dunno what that means, as I said, my brain is pretty well scrambled today.
I don't really have much that I can say, though my mind is filled to the brim with thoughts, none of them I can articulate. So I will leave now, good-day to you all.

It was a pale grey morning, even the sky looked as if it felt like crying...

Those are the kinds of flowery words I can never pull off right except by accident. It just so happens, that this morning I awoke with those words in my head, and they do seem to match the day nicely, so I figured I would put them to some use; because, after all, if we don't use the gifts of words we sometimes recieve, we will eventuall degenerate to the level of dumb animals. Not that I don't think a lot of humans are dumber than some of the animals I know, or that the occasional quadruped will be far cleverer than us all, but I am not the one to make these judgements. as far as I know, I'm smarter than most animals and would like to remain that way. Whether this is actually true or not, remains to be seen.

Many hours later and much further run over by madness...

It is very late, and four times out of five my fingers don't hit the keys I am aiming for, nevertheless I felt the urge to come here, and unload some of the heavy burdens of my mind until such time as I choose to pick them up again.
I want music, but it is quarter of two in the AM and I think playing music just now would be rather rude. I want percocet, but then I always want that, which isn't really an encouraging thought, but at least I am not sending them up my nose. If there is one thing you can say about me, it's that I know when I am addicted and I know how to get within an inch of destroying my life through that addiction and never cross that line. It appears there are lines everywhere, if you know where to look, and that there are no lines at all, if you look at it from another place. Too unfortunately for the majority of mankind, we choose to acknowledge the lines, and recognize those that don't as madman, bewe accurate on that count or no.
Out of time and out of mind, one should never feel that way about himself, yet I do. Unneccessary to the process, a cog that has no place to fit into the machine, a man worthless not only to himself, but to the rest of poor, pitiable mankind as well.
Soon now, soon, I may find myself eating a nice, rare, hunk of lead. Goodbye Johnny, goodbye johnny's unthinkable incessant pain, goodbye sanity of most of my family (or at least, goodbye to another portion of it.) I wonder what would happen, if I did take that final hideous step in a long succession of hideous steps that have led me to this one. Would I go to heaven? I don't know, I'm not sure I believe in it, there is too much hell and not enough heaven on this earth to thoroughly convince me of it's existence. Hell, now, there is a belief that is impossible to ignore. If you spend your life being utterly miserable and hating yourself and humanity with your every waking breath, then it would just fit that pattern of human existence that once you die, you get to spend an enternity in a worse situation. Then again, I am not so bad a guy, I shouldn't go to hell. At least I think I shouldn't, maybe. And I suppose it stands to reason that if there is an actual hell than somewhere in some time or place, there is an actual heaven; difficult to believe, I know, but I am being as logical as one can when discussing these things.
Oh well, it won't be tonight, at any rate, so I have some time left to ponder the meaning of my existence before I cook myself up a hot lead sandwich; and who knows, between now and then, there may crop up something to live for!

Here I sit, on the eve of the funeral of a good man I barely knew.

Death does a strange thing to a person, regardless if you are the person who happens to be doing the dying. Even the death of a person I barely knew, a man I've met maybe all of three times in my life, but who's existence had become something of a tangible aspect of my reality, has affected me in a way I would not have previously thought possible.
Everyone has encounters with death. Death in the family, death of a friend, or a death in the family of a close friend. Everyone knows, to a certain degree, what it is like to be touched in a personal way with that one universal and irrevocable loss; even if it is only by the absence of that loss that one comes to fear it so.
The death of a family acquaintance, or a teacher, or a man to whom you used to deliver newspapers, this is a manner of death that is quite unique in it's effect on the living. No, you do not neccessarily mourn them in the deep, heart-wrenching way you would say: your father. But you are nevertheless touched by it, someone who once was there is now not. Someone who once laughed, once cried, was once hungry and certainly at some point once was full, is now simply no longer there. They do not exist in our plane, that connection has been severed, in that one and only universal and irrevocable way that it can be. The person you knew, respected, understood, liked, perhaps loved, is gone. No more will you see them in this life, though you may laugh for eternity with them in the next.
Though your soul may not cry out with loss, and though you may not experience that hard physical ache that accompanies the more tangible death of a close loved one, a part of your mind will always stand back and wonder; wonder, of the infinite things that have been torn down along with the life of the person you were never close enough to to mourn effectively. I wonder, how many memories did this man take to his grave? I wonder, was the life of this man bright, did this man know his soul? Was he afraid when the time came, or was his faith as such that he could look into eternity with a smile on his face? Again, I wonder, if this man's story died with him, if his words will never again be heard, if we all shall never know the truths and beauties he has seen, the glories he has experienced, then is that not truly enough to mourn him as he deserves? Should we all not feel his departure as if something was taken out of our own souls to help cushion him in his eternal resting place?
Death, it would appear, is the one and only true constant in this world. You can say other things are constant, but that does not definitively make it so. Are we sure we are held here by gravity, or is it that some living will emanates from our every molecule and crushes it against this rock? No, the only true constant in this world is death. Oh, I suppose it has different forms in different context, but even the tallest and mightiest mountain, over time, will succumb to the laws of this world and slowly crumble, until there is nothing of is but it's basest molecules, floating in empty space. Do you feel it? That all-encompassing knowledge that you are, slowly but surely, winding down? That, in fact, this whole world, in one way or another, is winding down. Sayeth the Dead God, "In the end, entropy wins all."

I certainly feel that way this evening. Goodnight, friends.

Happy Birthday to Me, boys and girls.

Man, what a long, boring year it has been. That's all I have to say about that, moving on!

My mom went into the hospital the other day with severe stomache pain. At first they diagnosed her with having a hole in her stomache, then they said she had pancreatitis, and then they actually checked and found out that she has a small, easily taken care of ulcer. Right before we found out that it was an ulcer and thought that it was pancreatitis (which, despite what the doctors said, we knew could be much worse than her just spending a few days in the hospital not eating anything) I went to the hospital myself with a terrible headache, no doubt induced by the fact that my mother was in the hospital with some as-of-yet ill defined disease in her stomache or vital organs. What did they give me? Three hours in a dark room before I got to see a doctor, and then a bitch of a doctor who gave me two roxicets and said, "That ought to hold you over til' your refill." and gave me a long lecture about how I was handling my pain. You know, one of those doctors who think that every patient they have is a moron who has done absolutely no research into the needs or chemical reactions of their bodies. One of those doctors who give you pretty much no help and then try to charge you for it. It was a fucking waste of time, and I told the nurse exactly that (a very attractive, intelligent, and kind nurse; who unfortunately had the duty of giving me a shot in my ass muscle). She said that according to the texts the medicines they were giving me were the best things for migraines, I said that I had read all the texts and tried everything that the texts indicated, finding nothing that worked without almost killing me in the process, and that the doctor wasn't giving me any help at all. She looked very upset and said, "Well, I hope you feel better." I gave her my thanks and then left without signing the discharge papers. I'll be damned if they are going to charge me 50 dollars for lying in a bed not using their electricity, getting a lecture, and getting drugs that I could've very easily gotten for nothing if I had felt like going in a less legit direction and talked to some of my contacts on the street. I could've gotten more effective ones, too, but I prefer the legit way. I do not like to accept or smuggle stolen or illegitimately gotten drugs, be they neccessary to my health or not. I do have some scruples.
Oh, what a tangled web we weave.
They didn't even give me an anti-nausea med. What kind of doctor does that?

Anyway. I'm working a lot more on "The Chronicles of Heck." I've come to realize that that writing, like many others I have started and then found myself unable to leave incomplete, has begun to become something of an obsession for me, and I am not surprised. It's just such a large undertaking, longer by far than any one piece I have written thus far. But the story compels me so, I find myself unable to resist creating more of it in my mind, or creating more social and political overtones to it, giving it more depth, more structure. Even did I not write the story, my mind would be completely consumed by it by the time the summer is out. The urge to give a figment of your imagination an element of humanity is an urge that I doubt any one with any creative muscle could ignore; and I, the bi-polar pill-popper with a few loose wires firing off short bursts of incongruent thought inside my already pain ravaged brain, I can ignore that urge least of all.

I guess I have nothing else to write. I am nineteen now, it'll be exactly two more years till I can legally by alcohol. God help us when that time rolls around.

The Cosmic Equilibrium

I am a strange person, totally manic. There is nothing that can be done for the boy, leave him be.
Drums in the deep, my friends. How profound! Here I am, here I sit, with my skull that's full of shit. Can't see up, can't see down, I can only look 'round and 'round.

Now for the terribly depressing introspective part of my hackneyed word-jam. Bad luck follows a man wherever he may go, and it's close friend good-fortune is never far behind. Lock your car keys in the car, find a five-dollar bill, use five-dollar bill to buy new crappy pair of sunglasses, but they are greens, I haven't had a pair of greens for a while, I suppose it is a fair trade, three hours sitting in a parking lot in exchange for a pair of crappy green sunglasses and a night at my favorite Aunt and Uncle's house.
I was all set-up to write a long, long piece of shit right now, but exhaustion can melt one's mind; so I shall go smoke the last ciggy-sag of the night, and then I guess I'll go to sleep. Goodnight, friends and countrymen.

I feel as if I've lived each day of my life in an inescapable stupor.

We're all mad here. Quaint saying, isn't it? I'm out of money, I got some paperwork from the disability people today that I suppose I have to fill out by monday morning, maybe, in like another three months, I'll start having money again. I wouldn't count on it, given my luck.
I'm getting my wisdom teeth pulled out in a week or so. I guess that's a good thing. One of them is troubling me, so why not just yank out all four, just to be safe?
I feel very lucid right now. It is unfortunate how often lucidity and excrutiating pain go hand in hand. (It is unfortunate that what we find pleasing to the touch and pleasing to the eye are seldom the same.) My concentration does wax and wane a good amount, one second I can focus on anything of my fancy, remember the day, date, year, and time all at once. The next second I forget everything but my first name, and half of the time I get that one wrong, too. Then, the flashbacks. I'll remember some obscure thing that happened to me three years ago, and I'll think, "I wonder what would've happened if I had spoken exactly what was on my mind at that precise moment. How much of my personal history would've changed? How different would I be?"
To my indescribable sorrow there is no way to determine any of those things, save some kind of time machine. But then, I would have to have some version of myself to stand aside and be a casual observer, unaffected by the ravages of time.
I think I have multiple personalities. I think only one of them believes this to be true. It is he who is speaking now.
I am totally fucking crazy. I hate it when I realize how goddamn nuts I am. I'm giving up on living, there is no fucking point to it. I realized this a long time ago, but it has only dawned on me how true it really is now. My life is pointless. Completely and utterly pointless. I help no one, I have no goals to accomplish. All I have are dreams and hard-ass fucking headaches. I'm done trying to be something. It is all pointless.

Wayne the Main-Brain McClane

Time is fucked up, huh? I'm sitting here right now, simultaneously feeling dread that I am going to have to wait something like two months until anything happens to me at all to change the current rut my life is in, and being very annoyed that enough time has slipped through my fingers that I'm already on the brink of losing the insurance on my car, or having to empty my storage room. I think about how long it has been since I haven't had a headache, and how excruiatingly quickly I have currently burned through my headache medication; which in turn makes me face the prospect of spending two weeks sitting pretty with something ugly gnawing on my brain, with none of the pills I've come to fucking loathe to sooth me. Strange days.
When your short-term memory is as messed up as mine, you lose all concept of time.

I can't really think of anything else to say right now. Like I say, anything in the world is as confusing as hell if you give it any thought.
Goodnight.

Arrakis Awakening, by the Princess Irulan

I am not in the mood to write, nor do I have anything going through my mind which I may write about; yet, I've found that some of my best stuff comes out of me when I am in a totally uninspired state. Unfortunately, some of my worst stuff comes out of me under the exact same circumstances. We'll just have to see how this goes, if it is terrible, then it will be nothing but a waste of my and three or four other people's time. If it is good, it will still be a waste of my and three or four other people's time, but I can be slightly more satisfied with the time I wasted on this particular evening.
Sometimes I have the audacity to call myself a writer, I don't mean to do this terrible thing, it just pops out of my mouth. I spend a lot of my time writing, so I suppose that title could fit, but I hold the idea of actually being a Writer on a very high pedestal. The things that I write are no more than angsty descents into my own psyche for the purposes of emptying my mind of the things that burden it. I do not think that is actually "writing," I don't know what one would actually call it, but I think the actual profession or calling of "writing" is more than that. Hence my reluctance to call myself a writer, hence my desire to waste an entire paragraph describing this constant floundering in the deep pools of social inaptitude.
Earlier today I ran into my ex-girlfriend. By "ex-girlfriend" I mean the girlfriend I had before my most recent ex-girlfriend, the break-up with whom devastated me in ways I hope never to experience again; and by "ran into" I really mean "walked by with a nervous smile and quick wave."
I wonder if one can ever truly be comfortable around someone with whom they were so physically and emotionally intimate with during their pubescent years, only to have it broken off. My personal experiences aside, a purely philosophical question. Your first serious boyfriend or girlfriend, a relationship grown a little too serious and then broken off for any variety of reasons. Can you truly ever see that person again in the light of just another human being, carving a life out of this rock like every other human being that you see every day? Or will the light shining on them always have the slight tint that shows that that person know some of your most intimate secrets, and you some of theirs? Extension: Can one truly be friends with any "Ex" the way they can be friends with someone with whom one hasn't shared any deeper level of intimacy? Does sharing the illusion of love with someone forever change whatever kind of relationship you may have had with that person in the future? Or is that just for those of us with a heightened sense of their own social and romantic failures?
Following this line of thought, what about (and pardon the expression) "fuck buddies?" Where is the line drawn between romantic physical acts performed under the illusion of love, and the consummation of lust between two people otherwise unaffiliated except perhaps through the bonds of platonic (yet occasionally sexual) friendship?

There is nothing in the world that is not as confusing as hell, if you give it any thought.

Goodnight folks.

God said to Abraham, kill me a son...

I have a bad sunburn. The occasions when I have any sunburn at all are few and far between, so all you honkies should relish them.
Honkies.

I got the urge to write something, while I was trying to sleep just now. I don't know what exactly there is to write about, though. I have nothing of personal interest to discuss, except that I went to see a neurologist today, and, like all neurologists, he decided (without giving heed to anything I had to say on the subject) that I should go off of all painkillers immediately and start taking some obscure medicine that I've already tried, and that should SURELY fix me right up.
Prick.
For the twenty minutes that I was in philosophy class before I got kicked out for no good reason at all, I was told that to discuss or argue something philosophically, one must search not for truth but for logic. That makes perfect sense, if you think about it. What the fuck are they? Aphorisisms? Whatever. The point is: say I wanted to walk towards the lamp in the corner, and I walked halfway, and then walked halfway, and then halfway again, and again, and again, forever... In theory I'd never reach it, I'd always be halfway there. In practice, even on a molecular level, we are just too damn big. Eventually my molecules would come into contact with those of the lamp, even if I couldn't feel it.
Then that brings up other questions, like, if everything is composed of atoms, and atoms kind of float alone in clumps and stuff like that, how can we know that anything is really actually touching anything? I mean, maybe everything is just kind of floating there, imprisoned by gravity and equilibrium. Cool to think about, eh?
I guess I am done here, goodnight folks.

I was sleeping very fitfully when the thunder woke me up. I don't know how one could sleep fitfully with a double dose of sleeping medication in their system, and I don't know how one could be as awake and as lucid as I appear to be right now with that amount of pills running through their blood. Yet, here I am, typing away seemingly pointlessly, seeing as I think that the power is going to go out again soon.
I don't have much to type. I think tomorrow is the anniversary of my uncle's death. No one in the family is taking it well, least of all my father. Then again, he should be the one taking it the worst.

Horseflies have invaded my house. I suppose since the ghost of my uncle is sucking away at the soul of my family, it is only fitting that we should have some physical manifestation sucking away at our blood.
The realization that the anniversary of the death of my namesake is tommorrow has taken it's toll on me. I was trying to figure out why I was feeling so depressed and angry and... forsaken, all at the same time. Now I know.
My uncle used to use a salt-water fishing rod every time we went fishing. It was a very small one, if you actually used it to fish in salt water and you caught a striper or something, you'd be really hard-put to bring that fucker in. But he would go bass fishing and trout fishing in lakes with that thing, and I tell you, if he got a bite, one good yank and the fish was his, no matter how big it was. Lake-fish just don't have the same pull as ocean-fish.
I noticed the other day that his rod was no longer in it's place. It is gone. Gone where? I do not know, and I will not ask.

I wrote about my last experiences with John briefly, soon after the last time I saw him alive. He told me that I looked cool. It was the only thing he said to me. He said, "Is that Johnny?" and my father told him I was, and he looked at me and said, "You look cool."
Fuck me, if he thought I looked cool it was only because I had a hat and sunglasses on to block out the light because my head hurt like a fucking bastard, and I was wearing a leather jacket I think, because whenever I have a bad headache I get really cold.
I remember his funeral. I couldn't look at him, he looked less real then when I saw him on his hospital bed. I had to pop three or four perks just to remain lucid throughout the whole thing, and four or five klonopins to keep myself from shaking out of my chair. My cousin Tom had to drive me to the burial. That was the day I took up smoking. He had a pack of Newports, and I kept asking for them, and he kept giving them. The next day I bought a pack for myself, eventually I switched to Reds, but all that is inconsequential. Where the irony lies is in the fact that I have hurled myself head-first into all of the things that took my beloved uncle's life; and what did it take for me to hurl myself several furlongs into the sea of Self-Destruction by way of Poor Maintanence of the Body? Why my uncle's drowning himself to death in that very sea, of course.
I suppose I am going to visit his grave tomorrow, with or without my family. I don't even know where it is, exactly. But I will find it, and I will say a little prayer for the dead man who could have been a great man, the man who held the bottle for a short while, until the bottle held him; and I will say a little prayer for myself: That I should never be a slave to a substance, and that I will not fear the terror that comes by night, nor the arrow that flies by day.

For those of you sick of hearing about my uncle who died, well, you could've gotten a third of the way through this post and quit reading. For those of you who think I am making a mountain out of a molehill, you can fuck off. You weren't there, you didn't see it. One of the best of us, the best of us, murdered by a drink and a lack of the will to stop the drink from being poured.
Goodnight.

I don't think anyone reads this anymore, surprisingly that thought does little to suppress my urges to write here.
I am now much of an openly emotional person. I discuss my emotions with people ("Hey buddy, I've been thinking of killing myself lately, I was wondering, gun or knife? Whattayasay?") but I don't really show much emotion. If I am happy and pain-free then I get excitable and act kind of crazy, although I've beeen in that kind of state fewer and fewer times over the past year.
Being the kind of person who's only real noticeable emotion is sadness (you don't really see it, but I suppose my family does.) makes me also the kind of person who doesn't usually put much stock in holidays, I forget birthdays all the time, if I have money I buy my friends christmas presents and if I don't have money I... don't. I say, "Hey, I don't have money but I'll draw you a christmas/sometimes birthday-comic sometime." and I never draw them, because I am always too depressed to work on my drawing skills, so then when I try to draw a comic it comes out like a piece of shit.
The only notable exceptions to this are if I end up have some influx of cash that happens to coincide with someone's birthday, christmas, and, of course, Mother's and Father's day. I used to be bad with these holidays, but then my respect for my parents grew. I think it was Mark Twain who at one point wrote, "Sometime between my ages of 11 and 21 my father turned from an ignorant fool into a wise man." or something like that. I read it in the health-room door in high school. I have never thought that my parents were either ignorant or fools, actually when you grow up with parents that have these dizzyingly high IQ's and hyper-powered intellects and stuff, you realize that they are an anomaly, and it is you who feel like the ignorant fool (if you are wise enough to see it objectively) and rightfully so, because parents, be they parents with super-powered intellects or just regular old Joes (who might know a lot about engines that you could learn from them if you tried) and Janes (who might know how to paint a great landscape, or may have a secret to cooking the perfect cake, and you could learn those things from them if you tried) always know a little bit more than you think, they always understand just a little bit more than you think, and, a few stragglers aside, they can show you the road to "happiness later in life" be it through mistakes or experience, if you are wise to try to learn from them, of course.
That being said, and me having parents with dizzying intellects and so on, I would like to thank my parents, especially, on this day, my Father; it is his day, after all. It was they who showed me the way, the path I must walk. I know I haven't been appreciative of that fact for most of my life, but remember, I am an ignorant fool.
So, a big thank-you to my parents (I'm sure my mother will read this, she always reads these), and a Happy Father's Day to my dad. Since I don't have much money and I've run out of skill with ink and pen, it's a cheap DVD and a "Happy Father's Day" that I have to give; and I am giving it, a thousand times over. Being raised by parents with dizzying intellects may not be all it's cracked up to be, but it is certainly interesting, and, as I said, they can help you find the path. So I will say it again:
Happy Father's Day, Pop.

So I applied for disability today. Fuck me, it feels like I lost some kind of a war. But I have come to the realization that, if my headaches are bad enough now to warrant (at least) monthly trips to the emergency room, and they suck away enough energy that I have about half an hour a day in which I can do anything besides lie in my bed and watch that mind-sucking thing I love so much that they call a television, it would be damn near impossible for me to hold any kind of job. I don't know how I lasted as long as I did with the job I had.
At least I will have some money coming in (god-willing, there is a good chance that I won't get accepted. I could always appeal though.) if this follows through. It just makes me feel really weak, you know? I had to swallow quite a bit of pride to make that phone call, and I am going to have to swallow a great deal more when they call me back to get all the information on my disability. Luckily, I'm pretty sure my mind will be completely wiped out by pain when they call back, my phone appointment is two days before my percocet refill, and they way my headaches have been, I have me running out of percocet some 6 days before my refill. Of course, after I "run-out" I will still have the 5 percocets I gave to my mom to dole out to me one at a time, but I am going to avoid using those as much as possible. But the point of the matter is, if my mind is wiped out by pain, I will just be rattling off the information they want without much thought for what I am doing, hence I won't be thinking of pride, at the time.
It's a hard fucking thing to swallow though, that I am so physically weak now that I couldn't even sit on a stool and say, "How may I help you?" and "Thank you, have a nice day."
For those of you who are reading this, my close friends and family and all, that is the reason I have been so isolated lately. It's not that I don't want to see anybody, or that I am too depressed to go out of the house, it's the headaches. Recently they have hit a peak that I couldn't even fathom before. I thought they were bad before, right now the pain is so bad that I could take ten percocets and three phenergans and I'd still have a bright flare of pain behind my left eye. I just can't do anything except lie in bed, and occasionally come out of my room (out of sheer boredom) and have conversations with my family. I see Tim and Erin on Sundays after church, but half (actually, almost all) the time I can't sit all the way through church, they lights are too bright and the sounds are too loud. Then they come over, and that half an hour of energy I have is quickly spent and then I just kind of lie there like a slug, and then Tim leaves, and Erin usually stays late, and I don't have the strength to do anything but make small conversation.
So, friends and countrymen, please don't take offense at my frequent absence. I am sorry I couldn't go to your party, Darcy. I am just in a very bad way right now. Only physically, too. Mentally I'm alright, occasional suicidal thoughts aside. I'm on this new drug that seems to be doing a job on that. But physically I just can't fucking do anything.
Which brings me back to my original point, I finally realized that I just can't do anything, and now I am trying to get disability. Apparently since I live with my parents, if they accept me then I'll only get two thirds of what I would normally get, federally. Which means I will get about 401 dollars a month from the federal government. I don't know what I would get from the state government. If I lived on my own they'd give me something like 109 dollars, but it doesn't say what they'd give me (if anything) living in my parents home. A hundred dollars a week, essentially. Well, 50 dollars a week, after I pay car insurance.
I think I might trade in my truck for a motorcycle, or maye just a smaller, more fuel efficient car (that is legal to drive). I'd like a motorcycle, though, I'd like that very much. Keith brought up the point about what I'd do with it in the winter. I guess maybe I'd drive my parents car in the winter or something, I don't know. That's why I was thinking about getting a smaller car instead. Ah well, who cares, I have a car now, and it kind of runs. I need to change the oil and the transmission fluid though (it's a standard, but it has a hydraulic clutch, so it still needs transmission fluid).
That's all I have to write right now, I suppose. All that I want to write on a public place, anyway. Good morning, America, "The Land of the Free," heh.

Oh yeah, I did my assessment test thing at school, and I got a course book. I think I shall major in English and minor in Russian Studies. The Russian Studies minor is all the Russian courses I would want to take, anyway. So that is cool, and the English Department is fucking HUGE. I got very excited when I saw some of the classes, I really can't wait to take them, which is a new feeling for me, because usually I hate classes and things of that sort. But the campus is beautiful, the courses look amazing (some of the capstone ones are like... the entire reason I wanted to go to college in the first place, but I thought I'd have to learn that shit on my own while taking classes to improve my knowledge of authors and writing and stuff), and as far as I can tell, everyone there appears to be nice, which is strange. I'm sure that notion will implode as soon as I step foot on campus as a freshman, but who cares, really? It looks like it'll be a fun time.
Anyway, goodbye.

It's morning-time in the Colón house. Which means coffee, bleary eyes, and morning jazz which, this being our house, I don't have to keep on a low volume.
I'm on this new psych med, it makes me feel a little funny right after I take it, but I took it last night, and right now I feel pretty good. I'm so unused to feeling good that I didn't notice it until I tried to describe how I was feeling and realized that it wasn't it's usual "bad". It took me a little while to remember what there was to feel besides "bad," but in the end I figured it out.
Apparently Katie and Tim might be coming by my place today, that'd be cool. I finally actually cleaned my room, which I'd been putting off for like half a year.

Man, I really can't believe I'm going to college. I mean, actually going! Up until now some part of me has been sure that something would go horribly awry and it would end up being an impossibility, but I even have the finance part of it almost worked out, because my father got a raise that puts my parents just over being able to pay for my schooling and their mortgage and utilities at the same time; according to my mother, anyway. So now what I have to do is try to take some of the pressure off of them by getting some scholarships or something.
You know,they actually accepted me before they got my high-school transcript? Yeah, they said I was accepted "conditionally" until they got an official copy of my transcript, and the condition was my GPA had to be at least 2.0 (which it wasn't) or I wouldn't be accepted (which I was. We deduced after a short phone call that they must actually want me quite a bit because they still accepted me even after they looked over my transcript, which looks more like a prison record than a transcript to even the most gentle eye; and it definitely does not contain a 2.0 GPA, if memory serves it should have been something like a 0.8).

I don't have much more on my mind right now. I'm writing more in notebooks lately than on here, I'm trying to actually write things instead of just waxing whiny on a website every day. I'm not doing very well, but I am trying. Goodbye ladies and gents, and have a wonderful (if strangely cold) day!

An Astounding Turn of Events!

My my, hey hey. Rock and Roll is here to stay!
Man, here's how it went down. The day before yesterday, I go to the doctor (to see what he could give me) and this time, unlike any prior times, I went to see him entirely unmedicated. Not even tylenol. I haven't done this before because I primarily really dislike being seen when I am in my worst headache state, but in this case it was necessary.
Being entirely unmedicated and also being in the particularly bad way I have been in lately, I was unable to drive myself or really talk that much. So my mother drove me and told the doctor about all my worsening symptoms and he gave me a neurological exam and finally bit the bullet and gave me enough medicine so that I can actually function for about 14 hours out of each day.
So that was cool.

And Then!
I got accepted into UMass Boston today! They accepted me before they even saw my high-school transcript, I later found out. I guess I must have made an impression or something.
I'm a lot more excited about this than I thought I would be.

So, as far as John's life is concerned, I am physically well, emotionally great (but still depressed, somehow), a little mentally daunted by the "actually going to school" thing, but all in all, I am feeling fine like wine m'ladies. Fine like wine.