Some More Details

I woke up at some point on time. Like 8. But I slept in bed more. I got out of bed around 11.

People bother me. They go out of their way to fuck me.

There’s nothing I can do. The cops don’t help in this situation.

Another failing of the modern civilization’s justice system. It’s overly brutal, clumsy, probably not cost-efficient, corrupt, ist (racist, sexist, etc.), and cant’ micro-justice like is needed for like family disputes and other small incidents.


I don’t know, man.

No one reads this fucking blog.

No one.

It’s fucked.

I hate being influenced. In case you didn’t know. In case you didn’t know. I hate being fucked by you.

I’ll slit your throat. Fag. Die, justice, die. It is the morose muppet’s meal for the nightingale to be ass-raped.

Poetry. Bam.


I have schizoaffective disorder, depressive type. This means other people violate me by being very sketchy from miles away. I have some brothers who live in one of California’s many valleys. They moved out of the house where we all (parents and I) lived with them. It was an interesting time. Lots happened. If there’s any overshadowed and underappreciated thing it’s that so much has gone on in the last three years or so.


We never celebrated, but my dad overcame his schizophrenia.

He never acknowledged he had it. He was scared of the government. FBI and stuff. Typical paranoia.

Well anyway. It was really fucked, really bad. He was not so healthy in the brain.

And it’s just, gone. I don’t know. I am not here to cry at the moment. But if he has any reason to be happy, it’s that, and if anyone has an excuse to be happy, it’s him. He’s listening to a trance CD I made him. I, his son. My son made me an awesome dance album. Well. That’s what he would tell himself. Or a stranger. What innocent showing off of family love. Not to be haunted later on.

I feel like I don’t know people very well any more.

He doesn’t worry about stupid retarder shit like that.

What was my saying? Mama walked in on me blogging. Not porning but blogging. It’s my intimacy, blogging. you stupid I have to specify for retards like you. Fuck you.

So what was I saying.

Yeah I’ve got to toughen up. But my dad beat schizophrenia. He’s healed. He’s weird, alright, but he doesn’t moan on and on about the FBI anymore. No one has said a word about it. We are all scared of retriggering it. Like what the fuck. It’s such a sensitive system. It isn’t.

Fucking A.

The way I talk…

Well anyway. My abuse ghost is back. I have to huddle up and die in a quiet very out-of-the-way ball like an insect now, again.

Thank you very much. This blog post was a failure.

Fuck you.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s