At the edge of your peripheral vision. They’re making fun of you again. Or is it paranoia? Same net effect, really. Permanent brain damage from smoking too much pot in grad school has left me with a mouth twitch that makes me feel like I’m giving a blowjob or like I’m a fishy fish. It’s very uncomfortable when you’re on a tennis court with two men in their forties. The partner was okay though. Okay enough. To pass. I first got that twitch after smoking pot for a while, so I’m pretty sure that’s where it came from. It’s been without pot for maybe three or four years now, and it’s still there. Hopes for recovery?

Cars say hello to you as you drive past them or they drive past you. Skizophrenia. So it goes.

The voices of children in the distance, from the swimming pool or parking lot. I hate it. It irks me. They read your mind and vocalize your thoughts. No more privacy.

I should tell all this to my psychiatrist, but it’s just such a hassle. And switching medications only to be disappointed again, risking severe skizophrenia in between, just isn’t worth it.

What’s more poetic though. Having a mental disorder or living a happy life? I know which one’s more popular, that’s for sure.

Riddles on facebook when I’m not supposed to be on facebook at work. Drudgery reading. I finished the protocols except for one we’ll likely write up when we do the procedure again to remind me of how it’s done. Work is work. But it isn’t even. It doesn’t feel like work. I don’t go, “Ahhhh, I worked hard today” at the end of it. It’s just nervousness. I’m worried that I’m going to get fired for smoking too much. For misappropriating company time. I’m worried I’m not creative enough with regards to the science. I’m worried and anxious and nervous for no reason whatsoever. Meds provide slight breathers. Need to up the dose see what happens. Boom, cowboy. See you later asta la vista Steinbeck etc.

I want to stay here longer, but not enough words are coming. I suppose I can just sit here and wait.

Or maybe I should just go to bed.


Feeling a little better today. Not as dreadful, but still somewhat despondent and anxious. Productivity at work is not as great as it could be. I’m a little surprised that the meds are already taking effect, but very pleased. Looking forward to increasing the dosage to a mid-range therapeutic dose two weeks from now.

Boss went home sick. I’ll probably leave a little early today, no one really cares. I see people hardly at their cubicles. Building’s like half empty by 4. So that leaves about an hour to go. I feel better but still anxious. I’m glad the medication started working so quickly.


Some writing:

He was slightly black

He gave back my money

I balled him on the head

And out spewed the honey


I’d stay on these meds voluntarily even if this was as strong as they got. It’s much better even now. Hopefully increasing the dosage yields even better results!

Even facebook and twitter kind of leave me despondent. They’re really shallow. If I were a better person I’d have more to write about but I just leave it at these brief notes. Sigh.


Trying to write these protocols at work. First half of the day brain functioned. Now it’s mush and my inner baby just cries each time I take a look at them. Also, my perfectionist/OCD side just looks at the blank template and is like, “Shit, we have to make it ugly before we can make it beautiful? No way!”



I think the SNRI is taking affect already. Just one day after beginning the meds. I have high hopes for this one, particularly once we increase the dosage to a mid therapeutic dose. Really felt a serotonin rush on the drive home. It was really nice, and I didn’t even need to smoke for the second half of the drive. I would like to feel like that all the time. Like I’m in a dream. Rounder focus. Looser being. Very pleasant. Unfortunately I got more anxious once I got home but I think keeping on with these meds should help.

The care ride home, I knew it was serotonin b/c I’ve rolled before, and that is a serotonin dump. This was similar, though much weaker.


Either I go too hard on myself or I have bad habits. I was a good student in college. But I do remember that work was nonlinear. It was some screwing around interspersed with bursts of insane productivity (for the writing–the reading I usually got to as soon as it was assigned). I am wondering if that screwing around with bursts of productivity is allowed in the work place? Are you supposed to be working ALL THE TIME, is it a bad habit that I have? Or is it alrights, as long as the work gets done? And who is going to answer these questions anyway…

Yes, I’m coming to accept myself as a person with anxiety, who is not productive. I feel bad about my lack of productivity, but then I tell myself, “It can’t be helped.”

“It can’t be helped.” That’s my new motto.



NobodyHere is still my favorite website. I need more art in my life. It’s like the only website that resonates with my brand of existential dread. It understands me.

Facebook is just this plague of NORMAL people ENJOYING life. How despondent.


Anxious again. I played tennis today. It didn’t really do anything for me. Just a little fuzzy yellow ball to focus on for an hour and a half. Felt confused after, wasn’t sure if I felt alright or anxious. No I’m definitely anxious. I’m scared the psychiatrist is going to give me SSRI, that I’m going to have to wait a month for any effects. Modern medicine is still so primitive. I felt alright later yesterday, after my severe lethargy and anxiety. That was nice. I’d like to feel like that all the time.  I suppose I will just have to tell the psychiatrist what it is. That I’m often anxious, that it reduces my quality of life, that I take lots of herbs and they don’t seem to do anything.

So miserable. My life is utter misery.


At least, I think I’m coming to accept myself as not productive. It can’t be helped. If I have anxiety and there’s no treatment for it, that’s not my fault, and as a natural  consequence I won’t be learning a computer language or mastering my French or writing that much or reading at all. It’s just how it is. I think I’m coming to accept that.

I don’t know. I don’t know how to do it. That’s about it. And it’s too short. It doesn’t take up all my time. I need it to take up all my time. I need more than I can handle–in a sense diametrically opposite to that which is current.


Almost time to not be conscious again! Sleep, that is. Somehow I’m able to sleep, despite the anxiety.


So tired. Combined with anxiety. It’s great. Had a bottle of vermouth this morning. It didn’t do much. I don’t know where to turn anymore. If the medication doesn’t work I’m fucked.

If I lived on my own I would drink every day. Three drinks minimum. But I live with my parents, and they want me to be “healthy.” So strange that health often goes in contrast to happiness. I thought health equated with happiness? I guess I just don’t get it.


Feeling a little better now. Less lethargic, still a little miserable but survivable this round. As always, I have no idea why, which scares me. My fate is so out of my control. It’s really scary.

So bored. I don’t like anything. So awful. I’m just a defective person.

Under a veil of authority, he swam perfectly to the other side of the creek.


Drinking to relieve stress again. Two large glasses of dry vermouth. Hopefully I will be prescribed anxiolytic and then I don’t have to drink anymore like this, which is harmful to liver.


However far away,

I will always love you

What ever words I say,

I will always love you.

I will always love you.



Okay. Here we go.

I lost a stray the other day. T’was overcast like a casino in a nightmare. We held pairs each of us and lost on the flop. Who knew nuts were so hard to crack. Time for enlightenment. Time for inspiration. We hold the key to the sacred treasure, underground at the bottom of the Ocean in the Marriana’s Trench. It’s a bit of a dig but what fashion statement isn’t. Help those scientists out; vote Bernie. Be little or be strong, we share amusement when the happy penguin falls down the ice slope. It’s a meme, you mother. Be tall when you stand with your compatriots. We shall never forget you. What technologically, semiconductor-imprint society could? One in a billion that we don’t live in a simulation of an advanced civilization. And all that pain built into it. Cruel, when you think about it. Thank you, Elon. Be brave, be brave like my mother. Love can stop the most powerful of atrocities. I love you, and I hate you for being so foreign. It’s a natural stop on the washing machine’s life cycle with bleach and a bit of sour lemons to scent the fabric. Timed well, as well as the automobile’s belt or engine block. Heat wave, heat wave, no need to be a knave. Sincerity in all it’s mightiness, sweltered shinto tobacco. It’s custom. Trust me. It’s under your trousers, you numb-skull. Find your belongings before we  get lost in the trip! Fountain of youth and all that. Slower this time. Perhaps begging for a morsel. A strawberry. Tulip-fingered men heaving heavy equipment away because the road work is done and now we have clean, neat, lanes to position our extended persons–thank you, autotechnology–into. We all fit, oh what a miracle math is. We all fit, trust me. On the shoulders of hippies, oh runaways, oh vagrants, carried your mystic love of life to the end of the rainbow and paint me like one of your French girls. Auctioned off at a million pounds. The end-all be-all of fame and fortune. Hollywood blockbusters. Slugs in the neighborhood. Feel their slow crawl in the garden explode from the heavens. Hospital in ruins, and what, from a pesticide infestation! Don’t be lost, young lover. That’s all I can say to you. This comes from the soul: time is nothing. Deliverance is nothing. There’s nothing standing in between you and success. But there’s also nothing standing in between you and a despondence hallowed out in a skull from hell. We withhold our truths for Reason. But Reason will only get you halfway there at the end of the day. At the end of the day, say a prayer, be little and be nothing. For nothing weaves fate no worse than the best of them. It’s a timeless muse, it’s a hospital stay, it’s HomeStar Runner on a Friday. Be happy, or I will personally maul you.


I’m so useless. My work ethic is awful. I kind of am writing these protocols to help other users using our systems. I don’t know how well they’ll work without testing them on some guinea pigs. Our conjugation protocol was tested once and it seemed to work alright, with some clarification. Just sort of shuffling through the scientific literature, documents, and e-mails like a stack of cards. Too antsy to stay in one place too long. I will definitely complain about all this with the doctor on Monday. Hoping I can take Monday off but we’ll see what the big boss says.

It’s just all so hopeless.

I don’t even have anything to say. It’s just blank melded in with a fucked up wire mesh ball of shit venting toxic fumes. What is this thing?

Talked with a co-worker about a problem. We came up with an interim solution (herr herr pun). It feels good to socialize with co-workers. Makes me feel socialized and productive. I only wish it could last longer. They’re such short conversations. He’ll double check some of my numbers to see where a concentration error arose, so we’ll see. On Monday.

I’m such a piece of shit. Gosh.

I’m really banking on the doctor Monday fixing my life. I’m just going to tell her all my problems and we’ll see what she does. I’d prescribe myself an antidepressant, an anxiolytic, and an aderall analogue (aderall didn’t work) for myself all at the same time, but I don’t know if there are negative interactions.

I can’t read anymore. It’s a real handicap. Maybe I will have to get a job that doesn’t involve reading.


Iron Chef is a total fucking scam. The taste tests weren’t blinded! So much bias.

And I’m home and once again have no idea to do with myself.

Guess it’s time to hit the bottle.

Here’s to a healthy life of alcoholism.

I don’t know. What do you think? Waste of time? Complete waste of time? Three times is the minimum. It’s a diarhhetic. It makes you convulse. It loosens the hips. Treat yourself well, we all do. It’s important to stick together. Feel the flow and loose yourself in the wind. Wind up like a paper doll, mechanical. She was an android. She was too polite. Too friendly. If androids were real, she’d be an android. I left her years ago and still wonder where I’m going. I could say things. I really could. But it’s hard to find the flow in a rock palace. Her magic was alluring and enchanting. Is it really so hard to believe that our elements were incompatible? Timing along the jelly row. Feel hard, feel like it’s tough to be out and about. Feel on fire. Skin underneath the Earth. All that molten venom, seething. We sleep sound in our world. It’s alright. I swear it’s alright. Very tempting to spray another lawn or send out a distress signal for those wayfarers who go where we have gone. It’s a pretty landscape. It’s time to move on. Be yourself, and I’ll be myself. We have a passage, a vassal, some mandalas (learnt that word today–who cares). Be courageous. See all the ads imprinted on your retina. Be kind to strangers. It’s who cares for who, it’s time to let go. Be aligned in your self. Be with one. Be it all or be nothing. I never let things pass this far. It’s a habit, I know I’m not good in that sense. But we all lend it some credence when its time has come. Fun noodles, fun fetti, fun little pink lamp shades on the windowsill adding flavor the architect imagined would be compatible with his form. So one says, it’s not about form, it’s about atmosphere. So he says. Another famous name went to Morocco and edited the native music to suit his tastes. Inauthentic, but spiritual, and according to the radio station, “A dive into his psyche.” That’s paraphrased but true. Don’t let me down, you mother. Help with a canvas, pin-pointed GPS coordinates of the lost treasure. Feel free to shut it out when the windows need to be closed. The next rave will be even better than the last. It’s all about lashing out. Feel your force and be in tune with the rhythm. It’s all about being something that wants to be somewhere where there is a vibe that doesn’t clash with the attitude attributed to your hard-working, well-paid lifestyle of depression and belittlement. Your co-workers love you, so who is to bother? Be paid. Be paid. Be paid. Don’t feel it under pressure, just work and stay alive. It’s all to come. After life. We know there’s nothing other than an energy that permeates the universe. Feel at one with it. Commandment number five: He who bids higher than the highest bidder has a vendetta with fate. Feelings numb, time to resolve. It’s out of our control but we have to do something about it. Little steps in the wrong direction are what we risk; is that not equivalent in magnitude but diametric in goodness to progress? It’s a timeless treasure. It’s time to move on. We want you so so so so so so so so so so so so so so badly it hurts. We hope you will show us your favorite tattoo so we can buy it for you, all expenses paid. Expansive metaphorical vacations to the rain jungle. Interlude now. And stop. And the red signs mean something because that’s how we were indoctrinated. I hope you like it and I hope you phone your local news reporter. This story’s HOT. Like pancakes in a winter gridle iron toasted to perfection. Lick that sauce, honey, cause it’s HOT. Like fire ants in the crotch, or an LED light proclaiming that Yes, the sound is indeed on and working. Favorite music? Grunge rap. Tailored for it. Couldn’t say where or how. We went on adventures and I think that’s all there is to it. Natural daycation spots found haphazardly. Wee-woo, down the waterfall we go. It’s an interesting thing, to be so little and so fluent in spirit all at the same time. It’s an interesting phenomenon. I hope you agree.


Friday I’M IN LOVE. La la la la la. <3


I feel like all I do, whether it’s writing or work, is slave labor. No more freedom. No more disguise. Just slave labor.

Finished the bottle of gin. We’ll see who’s a slave NWO! Hahahahamuahahaa.

I opened my window not least of all because I wanted to hear the trumpeteer playing from down the street.


I feel so lost. I feel bad. I’m never happy, never comfortable. Maybe it is depression? It’s less anxiety and more just bad today. Maybe an SSRI would be appropriate. I don’t know what the psychiatrist is going to do in 4 days. And 2 of those days are weekend days. Hallelujah. Though I don’t enjoy my free time, either, but at least I can lie in bed.

Just read the employee handbook. They say you’re supposed to stay as long as is required to achieve your employee tasks. Does that imply that if you finish early it’s alright to leave early? It was in the context that sometimes you may have to stay late without excess pay if you have things to do. But it seems like it could go the other way around, too, the way it is worded. Guh.


Well what can I say. I’m tenacious. I keep living despite the paranoia and anxiety and bad vibes. I don’t know if that’s laudable or not. I feel so at whim of nature. No control over my state of being. I can’t believe the psychiatrist appointment waited a month. She must be the only one left at that office. Some supply and demand needs to rectify that situation.

I think I’ve decided that I don’t like my job. The paranoia. Stupid antipsychotic doesn’t work perfectly. THINGS AREN’T PERFECT, GUYS. Boo hoo. The last time I felt at ease was in Sherriff’s jail. That is the truth. I felt calm and normal and comfortable there. As soon as I went home with my family I felt anxious. Isn’t that weird? Am I a bad person? Defunct?

A calming thought is that I’m working for the money. Who cares how it goes, who cares how you’re doing. It’s work. At the end of the day you’re just getting paid. If they aren’t investing in my training or giving me enough work, that’s their problem and their fault. I can survive.