Viewing The Rum Diary (with an old friend Johnny Depp depicting the work of Hunter S. Thompson) was a good time to be had…. alone, and by alone I mean with an elderly couple and two additional elderly men on a chilly, quiet, and rainy Friday afternoon.  I’m not exactly sure what that type of equation equates to in the quantum of generational gaps, taps, and slaps.  Mostly I just conclude that no one knows or even notices real writers at work anymore.  And so it goes.  

 And for a multi media message for no reason or purpose:

What have I got to hide from here anymore.  Perhaps nothing, in essence everything. 

This is log one, from psychology session 1.3.  

(I’ve detracted psychiatric sessions 1, 2 because after 30 minutes I was already being prescribed brain corrective antidotes.  No, thanks.)  

It turns out I have multiple, constraining, sometimes debilitating mental issues keeping me from being a “functioning” part of society.  I knew that already, it’s blatantly obvious if you take one look at me, or get the rare chance to say two words to me.  It was for the benefit of the unexpected reader.  Do I really even want to be a part of a rotting society?  Not really.

I’ve slipped through the cracks of my own self worth and it’s going to take extremely painful and uncomfortable measures to get myself anywhere in the same vicinity of the tracks, let alone on one of them.  After all this time I didn’t want to believe I had to pay someone to talk to me.  Seems irrational, useless, a waste of time.  Yet, all I do is waste time and resources, how is this any different?  Years of suffering has lead me to becoming a living rock bottom analogy. Asking for help apparently takes me 7.9 years, roughly estimated, seeing as substance abuse is allegedly not actual life assistance.  

Whether it seems pointless to you in the end or not; if what you aren’t doing is killing your very being, take a chance at it.  This perception, although true, makes the, “you’ll never know until you try” line rise annoyingly to the surface. 

At least I was able to reach out for once, somewhat, since I don’t think anyone will ever hear the whole story.  I can barely stand having the memories, let alone speak of them.  

For my week’s task, I am to write where I would see myself in 5-10 years…. IF there were zero limitations restraining me from obtaining said dream world.  And boy will it ever be a figment of my imagination.  Yet, I really just see this as a note defining my failures: making my definition of success an impossible feat.  We’ll see.

Any of you have a no-holds bar fantasy life to speak of?

I’m a dreamer not an achiever.

This fleeting life continues to throw me for a loop.  I’ve got nothing to give, the smallest will to live.  Tomorrow who can/will I be?

Once again, it shan’t matter; President Obama is too late, Jihad Osama has had almost ten years to deliver out his drugs, demise, and dollars.  Quit trying to win votes.  And by win, I mean lie, and by lie I mean deceive such homely Americans, and by deceit, I mean; credit will be given where it is due, not to who said it was done, which it, as in it: the war, isn’t done. Think again; you voted, your fault.  You chose not to vote, your fault.  You didn’t revolt, your fault.  Free is free, right?  Yeah, didn’t think so.

- JERMIX

daydreams:flashbacks::_________:withdrawals

I’m not a new person, nor will I ever be, except of course with the perfect chance that I collapse into some sort of brain injuring coma and return with half of my conscience and all of my function, then I might be new in a recycled sense.  And so it goes.

Our eternity begins THIS Saturday.

-JERM IX

I think it’s pretty safe to say, in the most conceited, self-centered, narcissistic way imaginable:  if you’ve ever loved me, felt for me, or been with me in one way or another, you reached your peak of some kind of greatness.  I hate that that’s how it seems, but from what I have conjectured it’s ringing accurate.  Then again, they can beat me in the sense, that they could quite possibly make you continually happy.  That I can’t do, for anyone, including my ever-growing selfish self.  So perhaps, that’s what all of my wantons wanted. Not a challenge, not inspiration, not an escape from reality, or a creatively brilliant, yet mindless lover, nor a masochistic good time, or a party on mars, just some kind of joy, which I can’t offer. I fished out the low-lies and became underground.  I’m afraid I’ll have to fabricate my own ecstasy, if I can’t get it from substances.  Self-restraint will forever be the hardest road I’ve ever gone down.