EDIT: Seconds later, I realized I had to change some of the jQuery because it acted differently on my server, than in MAMP. It’s working now.
I already used this thing to make this ^ paper blackshirts skull out of four sheets of A4 letter paper, for my black curtain.
Just print “scale to paper” from Preview.app
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.
Was I manic? Why is my place clean? I just noticed and had to take pictures, because after being at my dad’s dump of a house for dinner, this place looks like the Hilton.
Walk was on the goals board today.
So, I went for a walk and I think I got revved at and shouted at by a jerk, but I’m not sure because this is my home town and it’s a peaceful country town. I also just came out in artwork (why not Wednesday), but it’s funny, because my family (or anybody) won’t even read this blog and I’m in the closet like an iron dungeon. I tried to come out once, just for the thought of it, and I did six months in Richard Young Acute Behavioral Unit.
Like it or leave it? This ^^^ (my old place <<< or this?) I can’t decide whether to trade my dad’s corporation for a computer… or work?
I also went for a walk out on dad’s land too. I saw some wild roses in full bloom. There was a little white piece of ripped tarp next to it, for whatever reason. I wrapped the plastic around the thorns and picked the roses. I put them on the spot by the lake where my mom left this world. I didn’t get any thorns in my hand. The lake is a bit higher in spring so I got my socks muddy. This just felt like something I had to do. I’d like to believe that it’s some kind of portal, for lack of a better word. I just don’t know. Who really knows when or what? I didn’t have my digital camera with me.
I shouldn’t say this, but I thought about putting spurge flowers on it too for the bad times, but think about the good times, you know? Some day I might afford some concrete, one bag at a time, to fill those tires like stepping stones.
Mtn. Dew gives me dry heaves. That’s been going on lately.
It’s easier to quit pop off meds. This ^ is my last can. I’m gonna be sick 🙁
I’m not even a sodaholic.
I crave all kinds of sugar and weird crap when my brain is deprived of its natural dopamine and serotonin from Abilify Maintena and other involuntary medications of quackery.
Deficit => Anhedonia => Demand
And this is psychotropically true for things that cause a brain to have dopamine while it’s being antagonized or blocked, taboo things or non.
How do I know this ^ ? I’ve analyzed my dang self for over 14 years of these involuntary meds.
I’m mentally ill, but they treat me like I’m not sentient.
I’m the true scientist on dopamine theory, because I actually take these involuntary psychotropics. The literal hog farmer who invented dopamine theory can tranquilize an angry pig with it, but your psychiatry doctorate is illiterate to what is actually going on. It’s like you only watched the movie and you squeaked-it on the quiz about the book, and that is the origin of your doctorate. That’s a literature test analogy. These doctors who merely see me for only 5 minutes a month and only make small talk, are drug-pushing illiterate Nebraskan Christian quacks.
I took my rock baby to see my mom’s grave on Memorial Day.
I call mom “guardian angel” in the title, because around the time after she died, I was told that I now have my own angel, by my grandma, who since is also now in heaven. Grandma also gave me an angel pin to remind me of this, and I wore it all the time, until it broke, but sure enough she gave me another one to replace it. It looks like Icarus. Rock!
Last night I had a dream that it was my birthday (I just turned 33 this month) and mom was there, but it was like she never had died. I wasn’t shocked to see her and I didn’t even remember her dying. She was taking pictures of me with a cake.
She died in 2009. I finally cried for the first time in 2012 and it went on for days. I can’t really describe the feeling before 2012. Now in 2017, I might be at acceptance. (though I mustered up a tear typing this)
So this has been going on since December. My right arm hurts. Some weeks it’s not noticeable, but suddenly I’ll wake up and it’s super sore all over again. I’ve been getting my Abilify shot in the left arm because my right is so sore, so I don’t think it’s about the injections. However, this could be cogwheel dystonia. Seems something serious to talk to my prescriber nurse about.
I’ve seen this before, last summer when I was in Telecare, Bellevue. Two other patients there kept complaining about their one arm hurting. It’s usually a thing about Haldol. I had better hope for Abilify, because it’s technically not neuroleptic, though you wouldn’t know it from reading the usual antipsychotic side effects in there.
My motivation is also dead. I’ve been real good lately, investing my time in some computer work. I’ve spent a week converting the canvas-drawn Window elements in RPG Maker MV into DOM elements for design purposes. It’s been real fulfilling and I didn’t think I was going to stop until I get it finished, but last Sunday my arm was super sore again and my motivational high is gone. Since then, all that I have had the determination to do is nothing; I’ll sit at the computer staring at nothing, clicking the mouse in the dark. If I didn’t know any better I’d say I’m receiving covert and heavy neuroleptic injections in my sleep and in my right arm. Abilify 400mg didn’t give me any cognitive/motor problems, and now I’m only on 300mg. Somebody is moving my shoes around too. I leave them in front of the door so I know if the door has been opened. They are definitely being moved. I’m going to have to set up my security cam DVR.
My Twitter is flushed full of crap, and I keep posting nonsense on obscure message boards because my mind is absolutely blank. I don’t have a valueble thought in my head. My game projects are sitting right there on my hard drive waiting for me to work on them and I’ll just open and close the documents. What fresh hell is this?
May 27th, I had an awesome day… I cleaned my apartment, did some artwork, and went for the first walk since October… my arm doesn’t seem to hurt anymore. I did pushups for the first time since summer 2016.
-=bump=- EDIT: May 29, 2017
Today I woke up my arm hurts again, and my motivation is also dead. I need to get it checked out, because it feels like an injury. The deep sadness feels pharmacological. The problem with covert meds is that I don’t know who to sue.
This month I’ve covered in blog that:
It’s illegal to take your own life (die by choice).
It’s illegal to not take care of yourself. (dangerous to self)
And now I will blog about:
It’s illegal to not work.
This guy ^ is a caricature of me because I am a huge leech. I live on disability for a verbally diagnosed mental illness. All it took, was me saying “yes”, to a psychiatrist asking: Do you hear voices?
I don’t expect anyone to build/maintain my car, house, and roads, and/or educate/feed/health-coverage, my kids (don’t have any).
Talking about me, I must be disabled because I see no point in life, and if I even took after the average human person of the majority, people would be extinct because they would never date, marry, and mate, work on schedule, or even talk to other people.
I work for my dad’s ranch volunteer, and live off of SSD – Social Security Disability. It only seems to work, because even with my so-called illness, I can’t seem to get fired like other jobs, because I have unlimited absent days and somewhat no deadlines and my dad makes up the schedule as he and the seasons go along.
I feel like an abomination and a chimera that I even must eat or take any human animal needs from others, but if it were up to me I would have been peacefully euthanized at age 15, and the world would still get on, because people die all the time, and the world eventually gets on.
My depression is invalid. You probably have just as hard of a time as I do, but you tough it out more, and I take that for granted.
Just taking some more portraits of my little rock girl. I think she’s a mythical clay golem, because it appears that she built a fort. So I have to do the daddy thing and snap some photos of my baby. If this sounds or looks weird: I have a doll for this, and you probably gave birth to real human kids simply for the same kind of showboating. I think that’s weird. My baby doesn’t even have to watch me die, because she’s an artificial parody of what everyone else in my generation is doing, and my baby is only to be ironic.
Her name is Hauvu. I named her after my roommate who didn’t speak English. I’m shy, and he didn’t know English so we didn’t have to talk. She looks like him too. I gave her the name the day I carried her home from Earl May’s.