I know about AA and HP, but I need something more like a TotallyCluelessAndPoverty+A.
Youtube indi-artists, free music, made this little scanning blog video 100% cooler.
I still don’t know what to do.
In AA, HP means any spiritual higher power. I’ve grown to hate alcohol since before I even turned 21 and I’m now 33, but it seems I might should look up these AA meetings for something to do, because the treatment for mental illness enforced by an actual doctor and the law even backs said doctor, that treatment it damages my body and mind in a level reminiscent to my high school drinking years. (weight gain, diminished thought, stifled creativity, and all over permanent depression, from these intramuscular psych-medications that, God help me, I wish I could refuse.)
Hey Ben (Ikuta?). Everyone at the Faith Regional BHU, funny farm, really liked the book you recommended. It gave me something to muse at for three weeks while I ate about my Region IV’s expense, $40k per day worth of free food, like the average high school kid does, every day, in a school year (I ATE DOUBLE PORTIONS! woot!). Thankyou to my brother from another mother.
breaks down to biology
breaks down to chemistry
breaks down to physics
breaks down to mathematics
breaks down to simple math
breaks down to…
are you smarter than a fifth grader?
Here ^ is my remaining artwork that I kept in my 2 weeks of behavioral hospital. The missing artwork, I gave to hot young moms with my Facebook information, in hopes to make new penpals or something in future.
This is my real life will based on my poverty. This is not a threat. This is all the funeral my life insurance can afford. If you make my struggle a threat to your own life, then you are a retard. This will is me being responsible. Thorazine still does not cure poverty you cheeky twat!
UPDATE: July 24th – I posted one of my artworks to my landlord’s facebook, because she seems to have everyone in the community as a friend and I was like: sup, I’m struggling with mental illness, but this is what I’ve been up to, making comics this past 10 years.
In conjunction with one of these web comic panels posted to my landlord’s facebook, Bassett Nebraska Peace Officer Josh Severin on the local Rock County police (I’m not making this up) just took me to the mental hospital where I was locked up for two weeks. Actual grown adults, made MY blog and MY Facebook about themselves, a threat, as if they were playing some kind of Fox network live action cop drama. I really could have done without that in my life, right now.
Every single RPG Maker GIF here ^ represents one of my community contributions and/or bugfixes and script creations and MV html apps, aimed for RPG Maker MV for kids and developers alike. My volunteer hobby/job for the school year… I got the Google learn+tinker+create fever…
I’ve been banned from RPG Maker Web and this seems like a conspiracy.
Steam/Steampowered is already a notorious P2P cesspool of scams and phisher sites, and once received an F rating from the Better Business Bureau… Photobucket is the image host of Gaiaonline, and I’m not even going to begin to open that whole book of skeaze. Just google if you are curious about that horror story.
If this doesn’t make sense, I’m too angry about my ban to state all my assumptions. In retrospect it’s probably more of my mental illness. I’m getting too much $%&! in many other areas in my once functional life right now, to arse with this kiddy RPG Maker crisis, and I just want to sleep forever without dreaming… Hook me up and harvest my organs please…
“You use the Mogwai like you do with all nature’s gifts. You are foolish. You do not understand.”
R.I.P. my volunteer job. I’m disgruntled, but maybe I’ll do my own game some time and sell it on a more reputable medium like Apple Store. Steam is dead to me.
Will my dad die and leave me his corporation, because I’m the only bro who hasn’t left ship for free females?
Or will he get that mysterious John Deere 1944 logo mower blade fixed in time? The grass is growing, dude!
I’m bored. Don’t mind this…
Trivia: How did my grandfather Frank Jilg lose fingers? How many? Which ones?
I only know that Silvia Diane M.D. sells Curad silver sulfadiazine, because I’ve been walking a lot (feet blisters). The name sounds the same too, (silvia diane is a mnemonic device for silver rlrlrl diazine…). That’s how I remember.
Nice chilly winds from the Dakotas. I walked about 6 miles. It feels like a treadmill because I swear the grain bins never get any closer at my speed. It’s given me some time to enjoy my free Adult Swim singles MP3s. I listen to local radio too. Swimming pool lessons for your kids in Ainsworth or something. I went to an adult daycare in O’Neil in aughty 6, with an Amos who died from that town. He beat my second-hand-smoke-whale-of-a-brother-Dan in high school wrestling. Cool. Drug the good ones to death psychiatry. Not…
Here is an internet addiction meeting, Mac Speech reading recording for lazy readers. I only do this for my longest blogs.
I only put myself on the stand in this blog article, because I need to defend my stupid life for my conscience sake.
I’ve been told that people who don’t work are a burden on society. Many people who are disabled still work volunteer jobs. People who make a living wage might even do far less, in terms of variable value for the greater all, and are probably the bigger burden. I’m disabled and I live off of the far-below-poverty S.S.D. in my dead mother’s name, which would have been her retirement, and my own S.S.D. from the short period of my life when I struggled to even work, while having schizophrenia.
I have several full time jobs that I do for free. My dad’s ranch is basically in squalor and he can’t afford to hire workers after he pays all of his own income and property taxes. I work for him for free; he’s my only employer who never fired me for my bipolar problems. That seems to be my only purpose in life, after the first only purpose I had as being my parents’ child, which is basically being their cute magical talking pet to show off to everybody for societal status (a pet that really had no future, plan, or prayer). My dad pays the government more than the government pays me anyway, so it’s like to say I mathematically live off of my own dad as much as or less than you and government workers also live off my dad, and your personal taxes don’t even out to give me one red cent, because my income is all from my dad’s labor and taxes.
Speaking of government workers, like social workers and mental hospital people-torturers: they make a living wage out of the same money pot that pays the disabled people it’s supposed be helping with the below-poverty S.S.D. jack-squat. And I even got a letter in January that says the government is going to repossess any assets I own, or savings, that are worth over $200 this year. All I’m saying is that if 40 people weren’t paid to force medications upon me and all that money went to me instead, I probably wouldn’t even be mentally ill and dangerous to myself because I could afford a healthier lifestyle. Let my psychiatrist flip the crabby patties.
The math behind that paragraph goes far deeper than I can explain. All I can say is that you have to experience these mental hospitals and drugs and drug statements for yourself first-person. I’ll try to put a picture in your head about this anyway, if you can read it all or even want to. For starters: I have to take a shot that only makes me overweight and physically sick all the time, and I don’t even want nor probably even need to take this shot. It’s merely enforced from a decision based on 5 minutes of parliamentary procedure with the Mental Health Board of Region-4 Nebraska, strangers who all have an opposite world-view than me. My shot costs over a thousand dollars and they pay a nurse over another thousand dollars just to give me the one shot and they pay a doctor (with a doctorate in forcing you to take drugs for psychological things) thousands of dollars just to talk to me for five minutes a month (doesn’t help). After Trump got elected, Medicare sent me a letter recommending that I go on something cheaper, like Thorazine I guess? All three mental hospitals I’ve ever been in, in Nebraska: one is a refurbished maternity ward that was built earlier than the 1950’s, another is a refurbished building that doubles as an orphanage (home) from earlier than the 1950’s, and the state mental hospital, 14 buildings (building #14 is for sex offenders; I was in building #10 where the inpatient schizoaffective etc. are placed!), are the same buildings from the 1930’s and 40’s where they used to perform lobotomies and it even has its own graveyard where they would bury their own patients killed by lobotomies, because said patients could not afford plots in a real cemetery. Psychiatry is, and always will be, the ghetto of medicine, until more popular scientists disprove the dopamine imbalance theory that was invented by a pig farmer in the 1950’s (many scientists who aren’t in bed with Big Pharma already have disproved it!). The highest tech that a psychiatrist ever use in those places for anyone’s mental healthcare, still today, was an old-timey E.K.G. from the 1970’s, and it’s only to make sure that the medications that they prescribe based on a diagnosis made of 3-5 minute sessions of verbal questions, don’t screw up your heart bad enough to kill you. Big Pharma studies already allow them to screw up your heart and other major biological functions a little bit, for the good of your ambiguous mood and thought problem.
I could work for another (wealthier) ranch and/or do shitty graphics for an internet banner-advertisement graphics studio or whatever, to earn a more-honest living, but I don’t see the point. Those things are about as valuable to you as the things that I already do.
I’m like a spider among this human insect world. I do my own thing that seemingly benefits no other insect, but I assure you there is a place in insect society and the webs I spin are beautiful and valuable to me.
I also work for myself as my own caretaker, when others would have to earn a decent income to hire someone for it, or else force their own wife and children to do it for them, so they can come home to crap in a clean bathroom after working all day. I have no children or dependents and never will, and all while people who earn an “honest” wage might have already banged out up-to 4 hungry child mouths for society to feed for 20 years a piece, and those children will probably repeat this cycle and have up-to 4 children same, and that is a temporal burden that only grows exponentially. There is no government mandated law or even a biological law in human nature, scientifically nor nonsacrilegiously, that says you even need to have children in the first place, but that sentiment is for another blog article.
tl;dr “To an ugly troll who doesn’t understand beauty, a professional beautician might be considered a burden on society. A bible salesman is worthless to an atheist. Even every human in the whole world is worthless to a simple little rock.”
Those things aren’t for safe sex. They never had been. That’s like swimming in a septic tank with a raincoat. Those are for the actual only kind of real “safe” sex, and the only “safe” sex is chronic alone time self pleasure. Go figure. The lubrication in those things? The only aids you can get from this kind of sex is masturbatory aids. I’m going to die a virgin anyway. I like to think that the caveman artist of Lascaux never passed on their genetic heritage, but I will blog about this sentiment later.
I’ve been using these since high school for masturbation (wayback engine plug for freecondoms.com), and my mom confiscated them because I wasn’t “old enough”, so I stained the sheets karma yellow my entire high school years. (she did all the laundry, growing up)
That’s gross, but kinda profound, like go God sacrifice your own son, you know? I wish my parents made me a yellow stain, for just that one and only time, that they instead gave me a life sentence, burden of existence and perpetual pain of awareness, you know, life.
Holding a full load in your tiny epididymis is both pleasurable and painful.
So it turns out Columbus Telegram, falsely reported my Mental Health Board EPC (Emergency Protective Custody warrant) as an arrest warrant.
(the difference: arrested is when you are doing something illegal!)
I was EPC’d because I stopped seeing my doctor. He actually refused to see me because I wasn’t going to take my shot, and he refused to taper me off it. I have to see a doctor for my outpatient commitment.
Columbus Telegram, you’re paying off my credit cards… (me as Trump)
For the record: I’ve never been in prison nor jail, and I’ve never been arrested. I’ve been in a lot of locked hospitals, but that’s for my diagnosed illness and treating it; not a crime and punishment.
I found this when I googled my own name again. (I gotta keep tabs on some old cyberbullies spreading the phrase “hurf durf, it’s jake jilg” and I want to catfish them.)
I’m not really religious anymore, but I lay in bed, late at night, and try to meditate on stopping my life, willing myself dead, praying to God or Jesus or whatever that I can finally call it quits on existence.
I never gave consent to exist in the first place.
Life is doing life.
I think people should go extinct because they are philosophical zombies who create a life without knowing the meaning of life.
Right now, I’ve decided to pray this “kill me” message to my computer, because the computer is the source of my almost everything and all knowledge/wisdom.
The goal: die in my sleep and I never know about it. Awesome. Soon! Anytime soon?
My will to live has been on “empty” for about 20 years. It’s a big part of why I’m disabled. The first time I planned suicide was when I was 14 or so, wrote a note and tried to pull a belt around my neck for a few times only until the asphyxiation made me panic for air and I eventually gave up. I don’t even get emotional about it anymore.
I’m not writing this for shock. In all honesty, I want to die, or rather stop existing if it were possible: the wish I was never born, paradox. I’ll admit I’m a big baby, because I can’t handle the burdens of life, but not one person can correctly, philosophically, or even honestly, testify/state an actual point/reason/meaning to life, not even if you have the eugenic level of intellect to launch the Cassini–Huygens satellite to Saturn.
My only purpose in life was to be my parents’ baby, so I’m literally just a grown baby anyway. When you are grown, you are out on your own. This is true, even if you have schizoaffective disorder and a 70% grip on reality, and mood so wild that it’s a disability, like me.
I have a little more free speech on my obscure blog, but I’ve been locked up in the state mental hospital and/or private sub-acute facilities for announcing this fact inpatient.
Honestly, I’m not crazy enough to take my own life. I’m a big guy; in my youth I’ve drank toxic levels of hard liquor, and woke up not even hungover because I passed out and vomited it all up. If I tried to overdose like my mom did, at my size, I’d just get very sick and be in torturous pain.
With my luck, if I shot myself in the head with my dad’s rifle, I’d end up like the poor head-wounded patient we all lived with in LRC for 6+ months. He was a war vet, he hobbled around with a walker, and couldn’t speak English.
My “plan?” is to more or less, wait until the US population + economic conditions + civil liberties, get great enough to allow for “Right to die” like in the Netherlands. I predict it’s not too far away. We’ve had abortion for the longest time (which I don’t stand for), and that’s literally taking the life of a child, so next to that: a grown adult, burden on the state, taking his own life, by his own decision, and right, looks like pudding.
I had a surgery in October 2016, that made me realize euthanasia consultation, would be the ultimate best way to commit suicide. I don’t even remember falling asleep and there was no pain.
I wouldn’t really be leaving anyone behind. My brothers have their own families and they take care of themselves. Honestly our lifetime relationship has been nothing, but sitting in front of the TV and/or eating together like zombies. I have no children and never will. I have no friends.
Right now, in all 50 states, you are not allowed to take your own life even if you are terminally ill. I Googled it.
I saw this =>
news photo (recreated for copyright purposes) of a terminally ill cancer victim fighting for her own right to her own euthanasia. It really puts things into perspective though. There are people suffering terminal cancer and I’m just suffering from a verbally diagnosed behavioral illness, and the philosophical pain of awareness. Wow.
Wordy crap articles, because I’ve been too depressed to make art and cool stuff lately.
Sorry for all the selfies. I didn’t want my gravatars taking up all that space in the sidebar, but I didn’t want to get rid of my pretty face.
Basically what I’m trying to show is my yo-yo weight tendency. I lose weight off meds, but right when I’m feeling comfortable with my size, the cops show up with a warrant, because it’s illegal for me to be average weight because my meds are involuntary (outpatient commitment).
Every once in a while all the neighborhood dogs all start barking. There doesn’t seem to be anyone around; they love to bark at passing strangers and when the weather alert alarm tests sound they all start howling. I live in a small town; I can hear every little sound through the walls. I can hear my neighbor’s refrigerator. Lately at times, they just didn’t stop barking so I got curious and peak out the window. Is somebody out there? So I see this cat just standing there staring at the dogs.
Oh. It’s just a cat.
Still peaking out the window, I see that the cat that seemed stationary has now gone; I can no longer see it. The dogs keep barking, so my Spidey sense is tingling; where did that cat go? The dogs still see it, but I can’t, but sure enough it seemed to appear out of thin air in another location. I didn’t see it and there it was. It’s moving around, but I never see it walking. It just sits there staring at those barking dogs.
At this point, I’m as interested in this mysterious cat as those dogs are. I decided to take a picture of it. I got this blurry photo of the cat, but only about 16 barking incidents later. Every time I went to look through the camera, the cat was gone. This sounds stupid, but the cat is around those dogs for 10 minutes at a time and whenever I go to take a photo of it, it’s vanished. This Sasquatch-esque photo is all I can turn up for this blog article sadly.
My nephews and my cousin’s boys were randomly squirting me with squirt guns this summer, but I’ve seen my cousin’s girls target shooting at my uncle’s ranch using real firearms, and I just thought that was cool. Here is this illustration made in ComiPo to recreate what I saw, because I’m not a creep who takes pictures of kids. Watch out for the tinnitus.
On my webcomics blogs, most of the images don’t make a lightbox yet because I need to import them from the server upload folder into the WordPress media library. I did some using the addon Add From Server, but it’s real tedious. I can select them all at once, but the server application times out during run, so I’ve got to do them a few at a time. This isn’t much of an issue though because they aren’t really closer-inspection/lightbox worthy arts.