Okay. You all know that I'm on Anti- depress- ants.
So, when you get hit with depression, you hope that the drugs you're on can pull you out of it, simply because you beat up on yourself. You do shit that is quite negative to you. Anything that causes you the most pain, you pursue. I pursue starvation, sleep deprivation, isolation, and RESCUE ME. A lot of people have emailed me and told me to 'STOP WATCHING RESCUE ME.' The problem is is that it causes me fucking pain and anything that causes you pain when you are depressed you pursue. Kinda like teenagers cutting themselves. It's the same process.
Then, when your depression hits rock bottom, and the pain is excruci- ating, you start to see suicide as an option. Normally, suicide is something that someone else does. It's like a last resort for the desperate. But after a depression that lasts too fucking long, it's an option that brings peace. A deliverance from all of the pain that you seem to enjoy inflicting upon yourself. You are your own worst enemy.
So, there was a knock on my door today. I was up all day, and finally went to sleep about 7:30 or 8:00 am and had this great fucking dream. I was made a federal agent by the government to find and stop a virus that made normal people homicidal. I mean, in the worst way, as only my diseased mind can imagine. I mean, the only way that these people like to kill their fellow man (and woman) was partial decapitation. You know, slicing away the head at eye level, or mouth level, sending the top of the head off into the air like a fucking, bloody frizz-bee. Yeah, I guess you can imagine that this was a fun job. I finally tracked down one of the killers. Well, he tracked me down. He took out a federal agent right before my eyes, the top of his skull, hair and all, launching off into the air with a sweep of a hatchet. I had my back to a door and turned around to open it so that I could escape, but the fucker was locked and the killer lunged upon me.
So I guess I should have appreciated the knock and ring of my door. It was about 11:00am now, so I got a few damn hours of sleep. I climbed out of bed and cracked open the door. Outside was the building administrator, Slick-O, Snow White and Doctor G. Imagine my shock. They were visiting me because they no doubt believed that I was swallowing the cutlery in my room. I told them that I was alright. Doctor G asked me to come downstairs and talk to her. Sure. So I got dressed and headed down to her office.
Dr. G broke it all down to me. I feel suicidal because of the anti- depress- ants. Can you imagine that? The drugs that are supposed to make you happy are making you a happy building jumper. I needed to supplement it with some Abilify to cut the suicidal ideation. She wrote me out a prescription right then and there, and I headed over to the nearby drug store to get it. So I'm taking Abilify tonight. It's supposed to uplift my spirits.
It's funny. I really don't have spirit. I have very little desire. I don't care anymore. It's not that I'm trying to be unique, or difficult, or defeatist. I'm really burned out. Like some executive that has put too much time in on the job. They can't do it anymore. Well, I'm burned out with life. It's not that I don't want to live...I'm just fucking tired right now. Fighting every day with the damn bureaucracy, with my mental problems and just fighting myself. I'm just tired, worn out, exhausted. So, really, really, really, from the bottom of my heart. I thank everyone for the encouragement, such as 'think happy thoughts' and 'go to your happy place' and 'get an enjoyable hobby'. It just doesn't work for me. Still, I love you all.
Yes, I tried all of these things and more. I don't find it a picnic feeling dismal, negative and just all around bad. I've been trying to change my outlook, I understand the issues involved and how my emotions affect me, but I have reviewed my limitations honestly and they point to the same thing. The only real solution for my dilemma is drugs and continued therapy. I need professional help at this point. Not that I am weak mind you, but seriously impaired by internal forces strictly beyond the control of just changing the way I think.I remember being in the streets, homeless and my therapist said that depression is the number one mental problem with homeless people. So, guess what? I thought I was feeling so shitty was because I had to sleep in a roach infested, concrete stairwell when it got cold. Or a fucking mouse infested portico on fair evenings, stretched out across park chairs. I thought that was the reason why I was do depressed.
Very little lifts my spirits nowadays. I think I understand why. When you're fucking tired, you make 'short lists'. You don't have these long, drawn out goals and desires. You have one or two good things...and you stick with them. Don't complicate your life, because it'll only tire you out more. You'll be like a child in a toy store on Christmas. You'll only burn your silly little ass out chasing everything that you see. I have short lists. Very short lists. They keep me sane, keep me within the sphere of the living. I don't want much, and the little that I do want is very difficult to obtain. But I'm even growing weary of dealing with them.
Well, maybe this Abilify will do something. It's fucking with my sleep patterns already (Yeah, yeah, yeah, sometimes it takes me days to write one blog post). That's a good start. Nothing tires you out more than sleeping only two and three hours a day. That takes a lot out of you. Makes you more tired and gives you less energy to handle doing anything. I like laying around and saying, "Fuck it" more than anything else.
"Well, you used to laugh at all of the depressing moments in your life," some of you point out. This is true, but realize that two things affect that. The length of my depression and pain, and the amount, both of which sets my state of mind. Some things are just too funny to pass up, and my Black Humor kicks in. It kicks in sometimes in a way so dark, and lately, darker that it is just not funny to others. Such as my dissertation on Jizz Cola, bitches, and assorted other black-assed humor. Sorry to fill all of you in that were so insulted and outraged by those posts and others (especially posts about tourists), but I was laughing my fucking ass off when I was writing them. Shit, literally pissing in my church drive pants.
I do post a warning message in the front of my blog, in case you didn't notice, and I make no promises of being politically correct. I think I've said this before. I also don't call this a 'happy blog' for shiny, happy people. This is a dark place, a mirror of my soul and life. Some days I feel significant pain, where tears flow, and I look at the cosmic loop of life, and measure it against the brittle bones of my body, the gelatinous nature of my eyeballs, the enamel of my teeth growing thin, and I laugh my fucking ass off. I roll on the floor in tears, sweat and guffaws to such an extent that I have to write something funny about it. Sometimes though, I hurt. Sometimes I'm negative and sad on this blog. Sometimes I'm angry and furious. Sometimes I'm suicidal. Sometimes I just scream out to the high heavens, shouting "Why the Fuck ME!?!"
So honestly, I don't see or feel the need to apologize about my feelings, mask or alter what I feel for the enjoyment of others, or even entertain the masses. I'm writing this blog to cut myself, and to let out all of my pain, whether good, bad or indifferent, humorous or negative, blowjobs or suicide (especially blowjobs). My content is like a buffet. If a post bothers you....if you find one that you don't think is funny or accurate (well, I've never come across ANY of my posts as being accurate), sane or politically correct, I think you should skip it. Go read another post. That post wasn't meant for you. It is for someone else. I don't believe that all of you come to read EVERYTHING that I write, although some do. Some don't give a fuck what I write because, like me, they take NOTHING serious. But there are those that don't like my posts in some places. So they just come to read the posts that they like, and skip the ones that they don't.
I have no problem with this. I think you should too. Pick out what you want to read. But I do warn everyone with thin skins that follow my blog...pray that your skins aren't all that thin. Sorry people, Hobobob is a rusty ass machine made up of jagged edges and fast moving parts. It'll only be a matter of time before you will feel the pain, or at least some of the pain that I feel. This blog works in the opposite of television shows, sports, or pop music. It doesn't cater to the masses. It doesn't even try. It never will. It caters to the whims of my dark soul. You are all invited, but it serves the needs of the HOST only.
But remember, all of my friends and those that became my friends by just reading me. Although I may be hard to read at times, I still love you all.HobobobSource URL: https://extravagancedeplumes.blogspot.com/2010/11/art-of-decapitation-and-mutilation.html
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