I’m so useless. I don’t understand how my own brain works. What, did I even grow up in this dimension? It’s strange, reacclimating to real life. I guess that’s what drugs do to you. They make you weird during the recovery period because you’ve been gone for so long. There’s so much cognitive load in just a regular daily life day.

I don’t really have anything to say here.

But I also don’t have anything to do on my work computer. My senior hasn’t checked in on me. It seems like he should. I would, if I were him. He’s not the best senior. The way he explains things, explains them once and expects me to understand them. Goes too fast. Just not a good isntructor. But he’s a scientist, not a teacher. I guess that is a fact.

Still on hold for my prescription refill on the phone.

Conciseness. Concision? Iunno. I need to relearn the art. I just blabber on, don’t I.

What am I supposed to do?

Mom’s cook=–

Sorry, had to talk to the pharmacist. Refill should be ready later today. Mom is gonna pick it up tomorrow morning.

Really I feel kind of bad divulging all my secrets of my life on here, because a stalker could follow me and hurt my loved ones. I don’t know how that works. Should I stop? Am I addicted to blogging? Can I stop?

What do I do about work?

Even without the kratom addiction, I have problems in life. It seems it wasn’t just the kratom and schizoaffective disorder that were my only problems.

I don’t know what to do. I’m so often so helpless. I have a degree in biology. I studied some other sciences and engineering. I have a master’s in biomedical engineering, specializing in omics. What. I mean. I’m smart. But this is how the world treats smart people. Not saying I should be a member of some privileged elite. It just seems that I should be entitled to some basic form of opportunity or something, to utilize my skills. I feel I do not receive that.

The purpose of this blog. What is it? Maybe we should revisit some fundamentals, yeah. that seems like a good idea. Nowish. Soonish to nowish. We’re having existential crise, and when in existential crise, revisit the fundamentals. Dad is making us (me) an egg omelette downstairs, too. Kind of him. He’s deathly annoying. He’s a narcissist. Sad but true.

So, what is the purpose of this blog? I’d say it’s to vent, for personal reasons. But we can go for more. We’ve been going for more all along, and we just didn’t know it. It’s to fight for justice. For equality for the mentally ill. And therefore, by association, for all the weakened and downtrodden. It’s to fight for progress. Through argument with the devil and his messengers (republicans, for example).

I don’t really know. This is a big question. I’ll have to think about it for a while. Or maybe not. I mean I am under no obligation to answer it. So. Y’know. Maybe I won’t.

I get the sense that these ghosts read my blog from time to time. Ghosts of real people. Or, real people who do not leave a trace. There’s statistics, yes, but they don’t tell the whole story. I guess my imagination has to fill the rest in.

I don’t know. I don’t know why I’m here.

I’m tired. It’s only 10:30 AM and I’m tired. I need to go for a jog. I mean, I need to start jogging. So easy to say, right?

I go too hard on myself. I always have. That self-induced pressure can be crushing. I don’t know where it came from. Did my therapist know? A voice in my head says “Yes”. I don’t know what this means.

I definitely need some things to cheer up about in life. I don’t have much going for me. A paycheck, for underwork. Slavery, underwork.

So I buy myself some treats. Art postcards, donation memberships. Um. A new monitor. that one’s functional, for ergonomics, to fix my slouch. It’s not a treat it’s a medical tool because really this is inhumane my setup.

I go with the crudest bare necessities and less sometimes. It’s not healthy.

I feel like a lot of people know who I am on here. Apparently it’s easier to be quiet than I thought.

I mean that’s fine. No need to panic. I never noticed who was reading or listening anyway. I’m so caught up in myself.

But yeah, if you’re reading, thanks for reading.

Hard to tell what’s real and what’s imaginary from time to time.

Nothing too weird, though. No strange messages. No death threats. Just the routine and a twisted mind.

I’ll have at it. What does that mean?

I never stop, do I.

When is a good time to do so?

I don’t have activities for the day. Do people normally do? I AM EMPLOYED what the hell is this.

Sad. Very sad.

I hear the voices of people I once knew talking to me. Negatively. Disapprovingly. Like they fucking own me. This is why I don’t like so many people.

Even if it’s not real, it’s easy to believe it is. It seems real. Who needs proof, anyhow.

I want people to read my book and enjoy it.

But it’s kind of crappy. One poem in particular is pure gibberish. But it’s nice to know that even that crap can be published. I don’t know.

What am I supposed to do all day? I need to talk to mom but dad is hovering. I don’t want to talk to her around him. He’ll be a critical bitch at us. Narcissist, like I said.

I wish there was something to get busy with.

Let’s check our finances, I guess.

Count the coin.

Yes, I”m not broke. Did you think I was? I slaved and saved. Slave n save. The savings and loan bank of the century.

I need to cut myself off. I’m not making any cents.

Har har har.

But when?

I guess now.

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