Tuesday, July 25, 2006 6:39 PM

i had gained 4 pounds when last i saw my psych, a week ago.  I just came back from the psych, i had lost 8.

I haven't had money, my mother has this nasty habit of asking me what i spend my money on, and since i hate lying, i don't have much of an answer, and then i don't get much money.  My psych. blames it on the herb, but it's because i haven't had any that i've lost weight and sit at home and do nothing but smoke cigarettes and lay in bed.

i know its more complicated than that.  (She also thinks the weed has made me paranoid, but i don't think i am, i really do think "they" are watching me--oh, they'll spend all that money to do it, but, no, god forbid they give me any.)  Maybe i am paranoid.

Regardless, i feel like shit and i do need to do something.  And though i knew she couldn't understand, few can, i told her i don't really like to smoke when i'm not happy.  I like to do it to enjoy life.  So, it's actually easier when i'm depressed to go without.

i don't know how long.  my only reason is lack of money.  And herb is the one habit that doesn't get hurt with money.  i mean, there's only so much one can smoke in a day.  I just have to be sure i don't substitute.  I won't.

i don't feel much like doing art or music or anything without it, so one might say i'm dependant on it.  One might.  But i know i can do mundane, boring things without it.  I don't want to when i'm in withdrawl, and i'll admit it now, i am going through a bit of it.  But after withdrawl passes, i'll be able to concentrate, i can't use that as an excuse, that i need it to concentrate.  i know i don't.

But do i like the "grey" me?  Not particularly, and probably once i have money, well, who knows, i probably will go back to it.  Since it hurts me only in the pocketbook, otherwise, it's better than the bottle, or any hard drug, (or tv or religion or televized religion).

Anyway, i need to call my psych to tell her i made it home safe, and that i drank a "nutritional energy drink"--you know, for old people and people with wired jaws, also good for the lazy and without desire.  i have no desire for food.  but i don't want my psych. calling my mom and worrying her, for apparently my psych's as worried about me as i am, and that of course is her obligation if she sees i'm a serious health risk.  i asked her what i had to do to keep her from calling my mom, she said call twice a day, and eat.

And i told her, i don't really want to go through this paltry bag here skimpy bag there any more.  i don't like to do it when i'm unhappy, but i didn't bother arguing or trying to explain it to her, when there was no need.  Even though i see it completely differently than she, i do think i need to go without herb.  For now.

So, that's the situation people.  Don't call me a fallen soldier of the cause, the only reason is cashola.  Grey days today, hope for greener futures.

Oh, and hope for the world to be a little less racist, would also be nice.  But we'll see.

In the meantime, probably won't be too fun.  Anyway, like i said, i got a call to make.

Tuesday, July 25, 2006 7:03 PM

Friday, August 4, 2006 1:02 AM

Ah, another grey day.

DEAR WORLD:

my captors have seen it fit to fit me with strings, and make me the puppet.  I dance with glee for the crowd, not for my captors.  I would be captive regardless, but i'd find these captors better than others, and i was sure that one day, all this string pulling my pay off.  That one day, i'd finally be ready to put on display, and i would, and i'd dance all day and all night.  And i did, for i was sure that was going to get me my freedom, or at least, a bit more clemency from these captors.

For they have put me to break stones and i beg for water, i get meat, but it's rotten.  Meat i work hard for, and thanklessly as usual, doing work i really don't care for, but i did it.  Only to go to the butcher and have my meat switched for worm-infested putridness.  And, oh, that's okay, for i am so hungry.  I'll even eat that putrid flesh.  But.  I figured, at least, after all this string pulling on rotten meat, i'd have a feast!  At least!  Something!

But no, my captors have put me on display, and i have sang for the crowd, for i feel it stronger and wider than ever before.  But do i get anything for it?  No.  I get the satisfaction of finally getting to perform with some people i admire far more than myself.  And i give it my all, 'til i had none left.  But did i get anything?  Was i even allowed to put out my hat or empty guitar case, the very least a street performer would be allowed?  No.

So, i hate to beg.  Well, i don't mind too much.  It's lying i really hate.  And i fear i'll have to do some to the person i love the most, and the only person i ever have to, and had to, and have.  And i fear she'll probably have to do some more back to me.  To keep up this charade, though i already know very well that my mama loves me, she loves me, and i haven't a doubt she wouldn't want me to spend this money on herb, which is exactly, well, one of the things i'll want to spend it on.

But as good as my word is, to the rest of the world, i won't spend it on coke or heroin, or any hard drugs.  Hell, if i have money, i won't have to worry about substituting for alcohol.  And i have my eyes set on a few, well, maybe one or a few, that are worth faaaar more than tobacco.  I just want enough to keep making music 'til the day that i die.  So, i'm only going to say this once more:

http://www.awbvious.com/message.htm

I'm sick of appealing to my captors, they seem to rather twist my strings, thinking i do better on rotten meat, who fucking knows.  They're acting like TOOLS, which is something i detest.  But whatever.  I'm sick of appealing to them, and i'm definitely sick of making my poor mother even poorer (or my rich mother, very slightly less rich, but with lies, not worth it).  Don't make me deal with lies, and i will continue with truth.  But i will do that regardless, just don't be like them.  Tools.

Friday, August 4, 2006 1:13 AM

Thursday, August 24, 2006 8:55 PM

Oh my avid readers...

Have i a tale for you!

A tale of woe.  Of degredation.  Of pain.  And ... happy ending???  Not yet, you'll have a cliff hanger, sorry.

And it ends in Orange County.  Once i pass this cliff, we'll see.  Will i glide to have a mocha with bruce willis and andie macdowell and we'll both talk about a movie that only me and conan obrien seemed to like?  (I really did like that movie, maybe it was just because it was the first R-rated movie i ever seen, andie macdowell's--or her body double's--breasts are not what make it one of my favs.)

A tale of tales.

Boy, interrupted, you might call it, except no one nearly as hot as Angelina Jolie was there (unless under HEAVY makeup, for who knows...)

Oh what a tale.  a tale to tell, a tale and a half.  a tale to soul music, that's what i'm listening to.

Bobby Byrd's I know you got soul.  He's got soul.  And Byrd, byrd, byrd, he's got an out of sight tune comin' out right now, i mean, really out of sight.

"Just keep on dancin' in your head."  Until you call the cops.

Oh, i got only one moral for you for this horribly long and annoying tale.  DON'T EVER, if you ever think you're on a reality tv show, EVER call the police.  NEVER.

NeVer~  ehu arlechaehkrac p.iNEVER.

uggh.

Liar.

Said i wanted to NOPE, i don't like the faker, i'd rather shake my money maker.  Tell 'em bobby.  Tell 'em James.  I gotta see James in concert, i just gotta.  He's the KING of them all.  Dancin' in the hall, see, i'm not an idiot.  I know.  I know i'm not pschytsophrenic, or however you want to spell it and call me it, i ain't.  I ain't crazy.  Just fucked with.  HARD.  fucked hard.

oh, but let's start back at the beginning.

hmm...  let's give you a soundtrack.

I think i should.  Don't you?

Let's do it.  after a cup of tea.  first of all, a cup of tea.  Then i'll give you a playlist.  Oh i miss my music so.

oooh, i miss my soul music.  Derek Martin, he's got Soul Power.  So that's where i am.  In a second i'll be hearing Sam & Dave Soul Sister, one sec.  Did i say sister, i mean Soul Man.  We'll start there, and loop back up by the time this is done.  i haven't written in so long...  i miss it, maybe i'll even get this whole horrid little tale out by then.  But first a cup of tea.  a time stamp, and a playlist.  You should get these songs, however you want, but just make sure you get some money to the people who made it.

i ain't got a dime, but you should.

give one.  or two.  Not just have one.

i'm so fucking poor, but i can write.  And that's a right i've missed too long too long toooo loooong.

Thursday, August 24, 2006 9:07 PM

Thursday, August 24, 2006 11:24 PM

So, i had an idea.  But that idea has passed.  Some othertime.

Let's try a quickie.

Naw, i'm tired.  Not even a quickie, just a synopsis.

I thought i was in a room with a magician.  A man i never met, but only seen on tv.  But i saw him.  I saw him, because i can describe his long sleeve (somewhat puffy) white shirt and dark slacks, as they reflected in my water bottle and microphone stands.  And i didn't think it would matter.

But then, later in that same night, i was attacked, or i felt attacked, in fact, i felt like i was raped.  Done in a very way to make me feel ashamed, but it shamed me not.  For i tell everyone, and anyone who listens that i was attacked to the point of rape, and i want the world to hear until that monster goes to jail.

Ooooh, sure, it could just be the meds being taken from me by the magician, and a dream that made it worse...  But i had pain.  real pain, not sensations, not in other places, but certain places, and i was sure i was attacked, oh i was sure.  But i was also "sure" at the time if i just yelled out, someone would stop him.  After all, how else would the magician know where i lived, unless someone told him, and that someone would have to have watched him.  So i assumed--wrongly--my cries would be heard.  My "this area is off limits" would be heard.

But it wasn't.  Or it was ignored.  And then as soon as i could i said "ask the others."  For there had to be others, it was too skilled a hand at trying to making me feel powerless.  But i had one power, one that was little consolation, but enough.  That unless he (or she--no need to be sexist, even if the proportions are str...

What, don't want me to blog about it?  Too bad,  i will.  it coulda been a mistake sure, becaues he faked my taking of pills, but like i care.  Sure it coulda been a dream, a dream i ain't never had before.  For i was in pain.  Pain.  Rape.  That's the word for it.  And maybe it's a misunderstanding, but i understand one thing.  There was one person responsible, one pair of "hands"--if you want to call it that.  On my "special spots"--if they be special anymore.

Oh it was infuriating, no one heard my pleas.  Why did my mom come to check on me now.  You want me to be quiet about it???  Tough!  I'm telling everyone, and until someone tells me the GODDAMNTRUTH, i'm gonna keep telling my story.  It's an abridged one right now, but i'm telling it.  I'm telling how i begged for mercy, and that's when it got worse.  How (s)he delighted in my powerlessness, and made it worse.

Oh, you didn't know about the rape?  Oh it happened to me, of all people, so...  You'd think someone went to jail?

Well, i called the police to make a report.  What happened instead is the man in blue--be he police or not--lied.  Outright lied, that i wanted to kill myself.  Oh no, i had no desire for any violence.  Just justice.  And then he took me for a ride in his car.  So i could talk to someone, right...

Or maybe just to start the incarceration.  I get attacked, but then i am the one who got to go from one horrid mental institution to another.  Telling me i'm, get this, schitzophrenic.  ME?  no, i may not have been attacked, it may have been a misunderstanding, one evil people will not reveal to me.  But i am not schitzophrenic.  i'm a victim.  you should hear of the hell i went through after i called the police, and perhaps i will tell more of it.  But it is late, and i want to sleep.

i got shuffled from county to uni to home, and outpatient places, and no one stopped this person.  No one's going to hold him/her accountable either i don't think.  I'd like to think it was a misunderstanding, but you tell me who, and i'll tell you if it was a misunderstanding.  As i have no ...

WHAT THE FUCK, why does my mom want to stop me now.  everyone tries to silence me, i will not be silenced.  i even said it aloud, i will tell teh world until something is done about it.  My mom says she didn't know i was blogging... Well, i did go to the bathroom a second ago, and i have plenty loud bathroom...  Oh, it makes me so mad, the lack of aloneness, the lack of dignity the lack of control.  she heard the bathroom, that's all, she's not trying to censor me, please tell me that much...  I don't know, i wanted to blog more, but i gotta go to sleep, my mother says.  MY mommy says.  THIS IS COMPLETE AND UTTER BULLSHIT.  whether it was real or not.  i committed no crime.  but the punishment, after my violation of my body, keeps happening.  and i must say to myself over and over, and over again, i will not quit, i will not be silenced.  For every woman, child, and yes, man, who's ever been violated like i have, i will not quit til my story is told, "you" keep trying to silence me, but it will not work.  you can give me millions, but i will not be silenced.  you can make me go to bed early, oh my mother used that tone with me.  That tone not appropriate for anyone 27 to hear from anyone.  But i will do as she asks.  And tomorrow i'll continue my story, i will not stop. I will not.  Till someone.  Not someones.  There can't possibly be that many  malicious monsters out there.  it felt like one person, one person who should go to jail with other sex offenders and be made powerless like i was (Fool i was for thinking someone would stop them, fool bigger to call the police, never never, so you know, never call the police if you think you're on a reality show).  Fucking bullshit she decides now to come and try to silence me.

I will not be silenced.  i was attacked.  and i must say so.  For every other woman out there, who's ever been made silenced, as i'm sure i'm not alone in this.  they should all hear me now.  Don't quit.  you know what happened to you.  You may not know how, or why, or even whom, like me.  But tell everyone, shout it if you must, but don't let it go.

For someone like who did what happened to me, will do it again.  He will do it again.  And since the magician i saw in my room, i can't help but think it was him.  But it could have been others.  All i know is, if you've been attacked, there is no way to "win" except to yell it, scream it, and get someone to listen to you.  For i will not keep this secret, that makes it shameful, that's the taking of power he/she wants (And fuck sexism rules, it was a he) you tell everyone and everywhere.  And together we can stop this shit.  And maybe your attacker will bunk with mine.  And maybe they'll both get attacked by someone else with the other sick fucks that deserve to walk with them.

I am not pschytsophrenic.  i'm not insane.  i was attacked, and i will not be silenced.  And this is not done.  But i will continue.  And damned them all who try to silence.  until i hear the truth, you are all culpable.  So, that's the gist of my story, not the most of it.  just enough to start.  i was attacked.  i don't know how, or what exactly.  But i've never had a dream where i'd ever felt /pain/ in those areas before.  And now, i will not really rest til he's put away.  But safe?  Yes, i feel safe.  so i will sleep fine.  But that bastard, i can't wait til he bunks with someone big and scary and willing to do to him a fraction of what happened to me.  why can't i blog?  Like i care.  Tomorrow i will.  You can't make me silent forever.  Bastards.  no amount of money, only jail time, and the proper sex-offender label will suffice.  it does matter who, but no one wants to tell me shit.  Except i'm a pschytso.  Well, fuck you.

it will not take my power.  cause all through it i thought, "you better kill me, or else, you're not getting away with it."  and he/she didn't, so you best believe this is just the first bit to hear of.  I have to go to some out patient care thing tomorrow, so my mom wants me to go, so i'll go...  cause i can't get out of here without money, and no one wanted to paypal me, so oh well.  more oc hell.  But i don't care, i just want that bastard in a place with others like him, and to have the stigma only people who deserve it should.  As a sex offender.  I want people to see him on the street and cross it, just to not have to walk past him.  I am very angry.

But i'm angry most of all for the cop who said i wanted to kill myself.  i never said any such thing.  If that guy was a cop.  All i know is, yes, there is more to this story, and yes i will tell more, but here something to give you, perhaps, a bit of indigestion.  And if you know the true story, and still won't tell me, well i've said it before, thoguh to who i know not, things can be editted anyway you want after all.  I

MY MOM says its been twenty minutes she says she has no idea about my blogging, i say convenient.  and i say, i won't quit.  you will hear more, soon.

Friday, August 25, 2006 0:01 AM

Friday, August 25, 2006 3:43 PM

I had to check out another out patient hospital today.  i think i'll be going to that one.  So...  How did this happen.

How did it go from me, ignominy, and happiness, to hospital/prison after hospital/prison.  The only thing that made it for sure not a prison was the lack of sane people.

Well, what the fuck, why not go chronologically.

And we'll call it:

AN AMERICAN IDYLL -- THOUGH I HEAR THOSE ARE GENERALLY GOOD STORIES

From what i understand, an idyll is a short (or long) romantic poem that usually ends good.  King Arthur, and whatnot.  if you believe some old sot name alfred, started with a lord, and ending with a tennyson.

But this idyll is nothing more than my fingers pressing like they must against very strong hard keys, keys of a keyboard who wants nothing to do with this story, no more than i do remembering it.

Sometime ago, oh, like around decemeber a little before things went really shitty. (Check out section 16 for more idea on that.)  I read some article on AP through yahoo news, something like that, also not worth fishing around for.

It seemed Mr. Simon Cowell, you know that guy from American Idol, that guy, yeah, him.  He was going to start a new show or something.  That's as much as i can remember remembering.  i decided i'd check out his production website.  (Right now, btw, i'm listening to Fats Domino, Blue Monday, part of my SoulRedux playlist.)

I went to that website, and was in the familiar writerly and churlish mood that makes me want to send someone an email.  Of course his email address wasn't there for perusal, so instead i just searched and searched and searched to find someone at least somewhat connected to him.  Usually the only email addresses you'll ever find belong to the webmaster, who is someone down right pariah status, so it helps none to email them.

i found an email through a bit of google and using site:theirproductionwebsite.  And i got the email address of a woman named heather.  Never met her, ever.  but i sent her an email, hoping maybe it'll get to Simon, since he's got this new show coming, supposedly.  i know i have talent, but i also know i have absolutely no...  MMM.

i'm now listening to gwen guthrie who died recently of cancer aids something like that, but i can't help but think she's singing to me.  everytime i say so, they say i'm pschytso, but i could just miss it so much.

Anyway, no drugs in my system, except useless ones being given to me ...  damn, she sounds like she's singing right to me.  Is that so wrong?

Anyway, i found a random...  (See!  Someone just said "yeah" now i don't remember that what so ever....  Whatever.)  Have i ever mentioned how unbelievably attractive Brandy is in person?  She is.  Damn, you should see her walk.

Her switch, rather.

i'm not pschytsophrenic.  i don't care how its spelled, i'm not.

I was at the top of the world when i last heard someone sing to me.  Now, i'm scared, scared to hear even the tiniest variance, even though it makes the song that much better.  Cause it sounds good, only spchytszo's think the radio sings to you.

anyway, i wrote an email saying something like, hey, i'm a genius, listen to my music, its underproduced, no good on its own, but you could maybe...  and that i liked black music, i say that a lot, cause i do.  cause white music sucks.  and the only reason i'll say that is my gay friend says "sucks" is not sexually specific, so i'll use it.

By the way, no, no by the ways.

I got no response from my email, not surprised, why would i?  i'm a fool, such a fool.   and i need a job (silhouettes are right).  i need money, i want to perform for the world, but fool fool fool fool, i ain't got a dime, i'm just a slave, slave to my parents fuck it.  parents being mom.

no caffeine, no cigs, no nothin', legal or not.  i drink water, it's about all that's safe in this goddamn world.  and if i was in SD, i'd be eating Bread & Cie's Rosemary and Olive Oil loaves.

Man...

So, no response, i send those kind of emails every once in a while.  Last one i sent was to the NAACP on July 4th, that time because i was seeing a hell of a lot of racism, and i think everyone should have a copy of "Lies My Teacher Told Me," by James Loewen, and also that someone should really explore those africanesque 9 foot statues in mexico, cause i tihnk it would be cool if africa "discovered" america before us pasty fuckers did.

But i'm getting ahead of myself (how would you do it?  you'd have to find their remains and then do that whole computer generate the skin or whatever thing from their skulls, but uh, i guess that's kinda silly seeing as it would have been like 3000 years ago or sometihng).  I'm getting ahead of myself since i'm not going to get to the end, i'm pretty sure.

 Have i ever seen American Idol?  A full episode even?  No.  i can't, the singers suck.  A lot, i never thought really about where the music behind them came from, had i, oh, one of a million things could have gone different.

all that i really keep in mind well is the many ways things i did could have been done differently, had i ...

fuck it, i need to record.  i don't care.  elephant feathers and all that.  i need to record.  even without, gasp, thc.  oh well, i need to, fuck them.  I.  Oh /I/ know why the caged bird sings, and that's why i will, just a bit, then i'll pick this up?  probably not.  but now seems good, since these are songs of work and being trapped.  slave like, you know.  i'll sing, fuck if it makes my mother or father feel good, i don't care, i hate them for keeping me here, but i have a hard time explaining why they should spend more to let me go home.  Oh, this isn't home.  This is just the prison of 19 years, that were nothing like the 3 weeks before.

So, let's record, and i'll come back maybe.

Friday, August 25, 2006 4:17 PM

Thursday, August 31, 2006 8:09 AM

All I want.  Is  my life back.  When i lived in San Diego--though that isn't part of the life i need.  But it was far from my mother's influence, but not too far from her pocketbook.  and i didn't need much from that even.

i want the life i had, which was i'd take 150mg of generic wellbutrin in the morning, then 150mg in the afternoon.  Then 100mg of zoloft at night.  (Though zoloft is now able to be generic, so i'd take that if possible.)  And only with those SSRI's would i then also feel comfortable taking the third necessary ingredient of thc.  Marijuana, how i miss thee.

And my cat.  of course.  who had the freedom i did, to come and go as he pleased.  In SD he had a nice large canyon to explore and enjoy and my imagination said he had many a fun time.  The weed he didn't mind, but he wasn't the kind to partake more than a communal, second-hand toke.  But it hurt him none.  No more than me.  No more than i did anyone else with my life that way.

I don't miss the not knowing when the money was coming next, or if it would.  No.  But that's not much different here.

i don't want my weed without my SSRIs, though.  i don't think i could take the "lows" otherwise.  There are 4 types of living situations.  Me without either.  Which is boring, but sustainable, since i am doing such now.  Me with just the SSRIs, i'm not familiar with this type of life, but i imagine it would, too, be boring, but maybe i'd be a bit happier, but unnecessarily so.  Me with just the weed, that wouldn't be boring, but perhaps a bit scary, since i'd dip even lower than normal for me, which is already below normal level of happiness on the coming downs.  That's a life i don't remember very well, but i also didn't start the daily weed until i was on the SSRIs.  Then there's the fourth choice.  The choice i miss, the choice i wish i could have again.

I never get bored.  if i get bored, i smoke.  When i come down, thanks to my ssri pillowiness, i never come down too far, and i still am happy.  When i get bored again, i smoke.  And i do art, and my life is good.  i'm happy with it.  Do i need it to be creative?  Who said i did?  Not i.  But i am not happy with my current life, and i would like it back, since i hurt no one.  And i lost this life, not because of it.

No, i lost this life because i did exactly what i feared i'd have to do 2 years ago when i started asking for donations that never came.  i signed a contract.  That allowed the attack, and me not to defend myself, thinking foolishly they'd protect as well as watch me.  Foolish.  For then came the police, another foolish call, then came the institutions, and that cost plenty, and now, now i'm back at home with no way to convince my mother to give me back that other life.  And no one is giving me any donations so i can have that old life.  it need not be in SD.  But that was a place it happened.  i really wouldn't need more than 10,000, i think, to get back to that.  But my donations to date still are 4 dollars and 55 cents.  my stomach hurts like i must move the bowels, so i'm off to do that.

Thursday, August 31, 2006 8:22 AM

Friday, September 1, 2006 5:00 AM

My cat's driving me nuts.  I have to keep him in because we're getting his shots tomorrow and a chip put in.

But it's not a far trip, since i'm already unsure he's my real cat.  When he came and laid upon my chest, i couldn't feel my left lung inflating.  Which gave me that horrible, "i'm in a coma, my left lung is deflated, i'm on a defibulator, and no one will tell me" feeling.

I can't take the meowing.  FINE, cat, if you don't just need to go to the bathroom again, i'll be looking like an idiot, but if i hear him meow FUCK.

Friday, September 1, 2006 5:04 AM

Friday, September 1, 2006 5:08 AM

Yep, now he's over the fence, in the neighbor's yard.  i couldn't take the fucking meowing.  it was too much, i can only take so much right now.

especially since i thought they'd finally take me out of my coma if i did some breathing through my left lung.  i keep thinking a nurse or maybe even my mother, since i felt like she was rubbing my head like it was needed...   "Okay, you only get ten," i say...

Since no one will be straight with me, for all i know, my attack, the time i felt someone not only assaulted me in indignant ways, but also almost suffocated me, involved puncturing my left lung.  Like i've been in a hospital or a special room (somewhere people could see me, maybe, before, i don't know, since the info must have gotten leaked to some right-wing nut-job who doesn't like the fact that i'm atheist, even though i practice more catholicism than your average priest does).  i want to call my friend D, since he said something about puncturing my lung when i tried this whole breathing exercise thing, the day after my attack.

i put a used, refused (that is tossed and untossed out of the trash) earplug in my right nostril.  i tried breathing in through my left, and breathing out in deep-sea-diver sounds.  A la aqualung.  i said in my outbreaths how much easier this would all be if someone would just tell me that i'm doing the right thing.  But i hear no such things.

Poor.  That's the problem with my delusions.  i almost rather be in a coma with little chance of getting out of it.  Yes, i'd rather someone told me that, than i'm delusional and poor.  My medical expenses alone have been over 10,000, my mother says not to worry about that.  She all but said, but didn't say, that they were going to be covered, my guess, by the show.  For they put me in this hell.  One way or the other.

Where is my cat?  He needed his freedom so bad, and i knew it was wrong, but no one would do it for me, and here i was hearing him whine.  i had to.  He's not going to come back though, i can tell, i don't blame him either.

But when he sat on my chest earlier, and still...  i think the guy in my out-patient group who wore an AMD shirt came up with this elaborate system, whereby, again, i was in a room, hooked up to gizmos, making entertainment.  I mean, that's a pretty sick thought of extent of people's exploitation for entertainment.  i know.  I told him i forgave him, since, after all, i bet he expected i was going to be protected as well.

Someone lapsed there, that's one of the few things i know.  I mean, more realistically, i was in my room, and the magician and i were two wild-cards from the show.  And he was the one who did some extreme accupuncture on me that no one could see.  Made me feel like i was suffocating, assaulted me, and, mind you, kept my mouth shut and voice from coming out when he was doing the worst of it.  Since i wasn't falling for his tricks, and i did see someone in a reflection of my water bottle and microphone stands.

i keep thinking my mother keeps waking up and keeps coming to my door to see what the matter is.  The matter is i have to be jailor when i'm begging most time for freedom, and i couldn't do it, and now i'm blogging waiting for my cat to come back in, that's what the matter is.  No mystery there, so stop openning your door and thinking about disturbing me.

i'm sick of being here.  i'm sick of being me.  i'm sick of worrying that i'm in a coma.

i'm sick of everyone trying to tell me that i'm having auditory hallucinations when i listen to the radio or my own songs and i hear live versions.  But i do.  i don't know why entirely, but i think it's due to whatever it is that people aren't telling me.  Like i can't take the news that i'm in a coma, that i was attacked not by a magician but by some nut who also killed my cat, and this cat is actually one found and trained by the wild-life expert who was also a contestant on the show.

Since i don't remember my cat having that weird blotch on his left forepaw, or ever doing a head wag like this one does at times.

twisted, i know.  but my mind is squirming like a toad, and i know it.  the ordeal i've gone through, gets tons of sympathy, but no money.  if i'm in a coma, tell me damn it.  if not, then i'm a bit overboard, yes, but tell me ...

i just can't believe i'm going through all this suffering alone, not any more.  The people from the show, they know my address, they'll know of this blog, they can't avoid it forever.  Someone will tell someone, they'll know the extent of their ...  Cat finally came back.  Mine, i hope, but who knows.  and by the way, i really did think that one person was a relative of the Originator.  Maybe she's not, but i really did think other things too.

And like i tell my new doctors, i want my old life back, with SSRIs and weed--but only both, i don't want any rollercoasters that can't stay above sea-level, which is what life with just weed would be--but if i had something else, it would be worth it.  love.  relationship.  wouldn't need weed then, i'd make that trade.  never thought i would, since i never thought i'd have to, always scoffed at the end of that seminal film about our ilk by the seminal artist of our ilk, about not loving herb as much as i do something vulgarly put, but really he meant love.

but i'm still in orange county, and i just said "no" to my mother through the door, she mumbled something, "my cat's back in my room, that's all you need to know," she mumbled again, "i have my earplugs in i can't hear you anyway."  I think she left.  i'm so sick of orange county. 

of course she came back.  of course she opened the door, "it's your respitor"--whatever the new drug is, i don't even know.  "No," i said, "why?"  "It's time."  "No it isn't, why?"  "It's been 12 hours, it is."  "Fine whatever," i took the damn pill.  And as she closed the door, "it's not like you'll obey or do whatever i ask of you anyway."  Obey wasn't the word i was looking for, "respect" is the word i should have used.  But it had been 12 hours, and my cat is meowing his fucking head off still.  and i'm still sick of all this shit.  yawn.  i still have to go to fucking outpatient later today.

whatever.

Friday, September 1, 2006 5:41 AM

Friday, September 1, 2006 5:45 AM

Fucking cat still meowing.  even if he isn't my original, i still need one.  he's annoying enough, though, to at least sure seem like my cat. at least.

Friday, September 1, 2006 5:47 AM

Sunday, September 3, 2006 10:32 AM

Another day without weed.  Another day without money.

I only have my ID and my AAA card--not that my mother has allowed me to use her car yet.  that's not even mine.  All these years of ...  Regardless, no bank card, no credit card, i have 11 dollars i know i can use, assuming i could get out of the house that long.  But what good is 11 dollars?

What good is this life i live?  I'm not sure.

Either i'm ridiculously famous or ridiculously unknown, and i only know its ridiculous that no one wants to tell me for sure either.  Ridiculously unknown, of course, means i didn't get assaulted...

Well, that's not necessarily true.  You see, i heard the music change, the week after they mentioned wild card opennings on the show i never knew if i ever made it on.  That's when i started celebrating, what i assumed had to be the end of all this bullshit.  i did it the way i love to celebrate life--but hate to do under duress, the kind where no one tells me shit.  with some herb and some good music.  and the herb wasn't real, it didn't seem, but the music was clearly different.

I mean, no one can impersonate James Brown /that/ well.  Some people tried, but it had to be him, i thought, for the most part--like when i didn't raise an objecting eyebrow.  Someone was so close, i thought it was the person who did all the Edwin Starr songs (since i know edwin's dead, someone had to be doing it in his place, but it was so close, i almost wasn't sure).  Almost.

So, i figured i'm famous, i'm probably not even in my own room, i'm probably on a stage with a reconstructed version of my room.  In particular the Paramount Studios lot.  i figured, what the hell, sing my heart out, by the end, i was sure someone would be real with me.  Instead it ended on the note of assault.  "Do whatever it takes to scare him out of his bed..."  That's not an instruction to assault me sexually, but who knows, that would just be a misunderstanding.  Still, that person shoulda understood that "whatever it takes" never means sexual assault.  And the fact that i was partly silenced during it...  i'm sure no one told him/her to do that.  if they did, then the person who was "acting under orders," well, wouldn't be liable.  But i can't imagine anyone said "silence him while you're doing it."  Or was asked ahead of time if it would be okay to go to that area.  Maybe they were, and if they (he/she) asked ahead of time to go to that area, AND if i could be silenced during it, THEN, the perpetrator would not be responsible, and the person who said whatever it takes, even that area, and silence him if you need to...  Then it would be the one who gave the orders.  But who would do that?

Or, of course, there's another scenario.  I was smoking, and magically after almost a decade, coincidently, the week after wild cards (which could clearly include me), i started having psychotic dellusions.  Then...  Then maybe i just pissed off my neighbors, since i recorded (scratch that, i figured, why bother recording when someone else is), since i performed day and night, at the top of my lungs, 'til by the end i could barely sing...  Maybe then someone in the neighborhood had enough.  Maybe him and some friends.  Maybe they shut me up really good, by, say, killing my cat in front of me.

That's perverse, but what have i to think otherwise?

And then of course raping me, and i couldn't believe that, because i'd rather believe i was on a paramount lot, stuck with a magician, fake herb, and a lot of good musicians.

i was thinking of writing some more of that screenplay, but it's too depressing of a story right now.  Since no one has told me jack squat about what happened to me.  i just hear weird, possibly live, music.  And my cat still doesn't seem like my own, even though we got him chipped, chipped like maybe i have been.

Someone in my out-patient group said something about 1 in 5 potsmokers who start late in life could turn out pscytsophrenic because of a gene many years after they start.  But that person didn't seem like a potsmoker too, like he claimed, but instead seemed a lot more like my friend stephen peppercorn (to use his blog alias).

We were talking on line recently, but i didn't feel too much like talking to him after his last elipses (that's just a convenient way of saying hello through instant message), he followed with an asterisk-summons-film-crew-and-camera-end-asterisk the next line.

Too soon for /anyone/ to make that joke on me.

I don't mind the music still being different, but i still wish ...  Didn't he ...  I'm listening to Bo Diddley, since only him can i imagine not being swapped with someone different, and he's the only one i can imagine being good enough to not fuck up any lyrics.  i had to check the ones i wrote, and sure enough, he ends "say man" with "what" and not a "what's that."  Or they fixed it before i could get to it.  it's probably "what."

Damn, being possibly pschytso is not fun.  Not fun at all.  But i'm sorry, but stephen doesn't even smoke herb, so i'm not so sure i buy his explaination.  i'm not having to buy anything, though, everything is bought for me, i have no money of my own, as stated.  And they're buying me anti-psychotics, so why even try?

i have no choice in the matter, choice would mean money, and still, i'm penniless.  Oh, well, i suppose i actually have 11 dollars, but really.  And that means i have to have a ... No, its only hamilton, that's not as bad as having to look at jackson's portrait, that old ethnic cleanser.

Greenbacks, dollar, dollar bill, y'all.

i'm now on the Ray Charles.  I thought jamie foxx was performing it for me those nights.  maybe now even.  he's a pretty good musician, after all.

i hate being in the grey room.  old and grey before my time.  yep, that's me.

have i told you my plan if i'm not crazy?

I'm going to get a house right smack-dab in LA, close to hollywood, maybe in the hollywood hills.  I'm going to buy the biggest plot of land avaialable, somewhere at least a hunderd times as big as this house in OC's plot of land.  And i'll build a 100,000 dollar hous on this 10 million dollar or more plot of land.  And i'll build a big giant fence, like Berlin size if need be...  Naw, just about 20 feet tall would do, and then sensors, and cameras, and radar, and a security team to watch that border and me, of course, so that if anyone got over it, i could go into the "panic room" in this one-level, 5 bedroom house.  Or if the radar recognized any low-flying helicopters.

Then, and only then, would i feel safe.  I think i might also contact CREST and see if i can't get some small endangered felines.  Thus this cat, who may or may not be my cat, and maybe my cat as well--since if i have all this money, i probably haven't lost my cat permanently, they'd just rather have an easier to train cat around me.  But if my original cat is gone for good, maybe i'll just get big cats like cheetahs or something.  They're endangered after all.  But otherwise, i'll pull an ian anderson, and maybe get some himilayan cats, or something.  Just cats, that's all.  I can still trust cats, i think, for the most part.  And then i'd have to have a security team and a wild-life team, possibly, but that's okay.  I figure if i live in a shitty house, no one would want to disturb me, except the true psychos, the ones i think i may not have been kept safe from.

Man, it's possible, you know, that i also got stabbed in the left lung because they thought i was a vampire or something, who knows with those.  Point is, i'm an easy enough guy to find, i would feel more secure, if i was paying the people to watch me, is all.  And if i'm famous, y'all can keep your voyeurism, it would just be more like being bobby brown then it would be truman show, is all.  I'm still honest to the core, so the only difference is i'd have money, but why not?  why can't i have some money?  It wouldn't make my life less interesting, i'd just be less freaked-out.

Because, again, i could just have been attacked by neighbors for singing so loud for like 3 or 4 days straight.

but occam's razor, i'm sorry, has me more on the side of fame.  And the only thing i'm sorry for, is that it would mean more anti-psychotics.  Hey, at least that scenario is better than they got me stuck in the matrix--i had to ask the guy from group if that was even possible.  He sidestepped out of it by saying we know so little about the brain, etc.  I conceded immediately it would be unethical, i said is it possible.  Then we talked about quantum physics a bit, and that was that.  but i told him, having not really paid all that much attention, to give me that red or green pill (though i think blue was the other color, not green) that would take me out of it.  Even if it meant i'd wake up in a hospital on a defibulator, and my cat was dead, and, i dunno, maybe my testicles would be gone.  Who knows, i just wish i didn't have to think of all the possible scenarios.

But that's what i do when i ain't got nothing but no sign of relief.  Okay, there was one sign.  The therapist who i really thought was actually the act we /all/ saw deteriorate from being ...  Well, he got it worse than me, that's for sure, what with that christmas tree comment.  Anyway, he said something about two weeks.   In my head, not verbally, but someone said that to me, i thought, while i was listening to that relaxation CD with the rest of the crazies in there with me.  (Who wouldn't be crazier than your average actor/actress, should this be a real conversation i had in my head.)  But it sure seemed real, and they said, or he said, or she said, i heard no voices, it was more like an instant message conversation in my head, and it could have been my friend peppercorn, all i know is two weeks was what i heard, i think, last friday.

Oh i so hope two weeks is true.  i don't want to be called or seem or feel crazy any more.  My dreams are all about being trapped in crazy scenarios, and they only end with the moral "drink more water cuz it's hot out."  i want out of this, i want that way out, too.  i want someone to tell me, yes, you have millions of dollars, and we found you a nice couple acres right in the heart of LA, that will only go up in value (unless the san andreas drops us into the ocean, is the only way i could see it being a bad investment, and then, well, i'm in the ocean who gives a fuck then).  You merely need sign the papers all set up for you.  And then you get your tiny house in this giant expanse, and we even got a security crew for you, since everyone who watches you is already totally in love with you, and they all feel so bad as it is for letting what happen that one time happen.  Since i'm a lovable guy, once you realize i'm truly that real.  So real, i don't even lie.

I think i may have a chip in my brain that makes me talk when i don't feel like it, but it never makes me lie, you just get to hear whatever is really on my mind.  "Really" i said aloud, why i do not know.

Now they made me talk again, but of course i just sung along with ray (or jamie, or whoever who)...  Now i even feel like recording a bit.  i think i might.  Of course, had i this home i mentioned, i would record all the time.  This time i just moved my lips, they didn't need vocals too, and i mouthed the words "i would record all the time" right before typing it.  cuz i would.  And i'd have famous guests come over to record with me if they wanted.  i don't remember all the words, see see rider has been recorded so many different times by different people, what do you want?  Jamie and i would first have lyrics to sing from, i think that would be good.  if i knew he was coming i'd transcribe them myself, or i'd just use whatever he had.  yeah, i feel a bit like recording.

Two weeks huh?  i sure hope i wasn't having an internal dialogue with myself, i hope i am shown the light well before that, or at least, it's gonna be a sad friday next week.

yeah, i'll do a bit of recording.

Sunday, September 3, 2006 11:30 AM

Tuesday, September 5, 2006 5:13 PM

Sigh, maybe i should just start calling this the grey room already.  I haven't been this grey in years.

i wish i knew for a fact that the contract runs out on the 20th.

But i don't.  I do have a new theory of how i was assaulted.  Didn't say it was a good one.  But:

Robot ants.

What if during the magic trick, one of the judges, one of them being very petty, i assumed it was justin timberlake, but i never did find out, and i don't really care either, except for the fact that, again, robot ants could have raped me.

Yes, raped, by robot ants.  You see, i have been bugged by bugs.  a flying bug, in particular, the fly.  I've had these flies, and spiders, and ants, and cockoroaches.  all kinds of bugs, in the period of time i've been, well, in my room trying to avoid human annoyances.  "Them" not being satisfied by my serenity of solitude sent a plague of locusts and their ilk on me.  To view me, i.e. a la bug-cam, or maybe just to spur me to certain action.  For some reason, i began to believe they were controlled by the judges.  one of those judges being timberlake, who i roundly criticized for being part of the music that apparently--to some--was an auditory delusion.  I don't know why i'd have such a bad singer in my delusions, but apparently i did.

Bad, of course, according to my delusions, not by his songs, to date, since none of them are any good for reasons not related to his singing ability, per se.  They're just completely soul-less, so it's not surprising that it sounds like a post-pubescent mousketeer singing them.  I wouldn't hold that against him, since i also do not like the music of the other judge, who likely is a much better singer, since i never get bad versions of female songs.  I only get bad versions of male songs, when, i assume, this third judge, who i assumed was justin, is on them.

Needless to say, the auditory "halucinations" have not subsided.  Today, it was most clear when i actually heard quite well in Chicago's "does anybody know what time it is" the background talking that should have been just that.  And earlier, during "that's the way i like it (uh huh)" by k.c. and the sunshine band, maybe it was just k.c. being thrown off by not having the sunshine band behind me, fucked up a lyric--or someone trying to be k.c.--why, i do not know.  it didn't make the song any better.  (But i have noticed a lot of white songs are getting better lately, either by new singers, or just the same singers doing it live makes them better--since they've all been so ingrained into my subconscious, they're all so stale until they redo them, then it's like, wow, i can see how this was actually popular in its day--for example, all the beach boys songs sound better.  Of course, i was almost sure of brian wilson being in the van with me today...  didn't look or sound like him, but he was annoyed enough with doctors and psych bullshit to seem like brian wilson.  and he did have a house near the beach, which he said he never went to--the beach that is--which all the more seemed like a brian wilson thing to say.)

But these are hallucinations, apparently, so that's why i have to take these pills, i assume.  But it's all voluntary, they say, not so voluntary if they really know what's up.

oh, but of course, if they are hallucinations, then they would have started before i got assaulted.  Hallucinations don't happen to me on weed--normally--like, ever.  but i could have have some hardcore wishful thinking going on.  As they were saying they were going to get wildcards just a few days before...  But that kind of coincidence...  Won't ever happen again.  So i'm not to worried about when i do go back to the green...  okay, i'm still a little worried.  But these songs...

I mean, all it takes is for someone to block all the true FM signals coming into the car, be it with my mom or in the carpool, and suplanting their own.  Unless k-earth really has decided to go live with all of its music, i really doubt that.

But robot ants.  Like i could have been going through the magicians trick, or maybe not the magician's trick, but regardless, i do remember well, when i was, oh...  Jees...  probably around junior high, i once got bitten by an ant on the testicle once, and that hurts like fucking crazy.  So, ants could have gone into places they shouldn't since they are robotic, and they don't need cameras, not if cameras are already there to help navigate the buggers.  And then they went into places they shouldn't, and assaulted me while i protested loudly, in such a way, that had to be assault, of a sadistic, molesting kind.  And they could have been guided there by one very petty musician who didn't like the way i kept noticing him getting on the mic and basically fucking up repeated, destroying the soul of the songs i liked...

But that could have been part of my own hallucination.  In which case, well, i'd have been assaulted by real people who just got pissed off at how i was performing my music so loud...  But i remember the attack so well.  i remember being in my bed, under covers...  i really don't see my neighbors (or someone called up by my neighbor(s)) deciding that would be the best way to get me to stop.  it got me to stop alright.

i wonder if the police didn't lie, for i know i never said i wanted to hurt anyone, including myself.  This whole time, no point did i ever say i wanted to hurt anyone else, i defy them to show me footage of that.  i do imagine, maybe, my saying how i am living entirely off the largess, which isn't so large, but i tried not to abuse it, of my mother.  And that would make me "gravely disabled"--something i'm still dependent on, so i would be again, "gravely disabled" if someone tried to toss me in-house again.

Which is why i'm not going to push the weed thing.  Not for a while.  It sucks my life right now, but if i don't get paid a dime, what can i do?  I guess hope that someone remembers my website, who also was involved with the taping of that episode, and knows there really was a magician in my room, to give johnny cochran a call on my behalf, so we can begin the legal proceedings.

Of course, come the 20th, if they manage to pay me, and show the footage, not necessarily of the night i was attacked, but everything before the attack, i'd really appreciate that.  As a one-time film student, if nothing else, i dislike the idea of that much unused footage.  i wouldn't consider it exploiting, since they'd be paying me.  Enough to buy a 10 million dollar plot, and put a 100,000 dollar house on it--it can look like anything you want, just gots to have all my stuff, and a panic room, that would be nice--and to afford security to watch the wall that encloses it, my entire area, radar, the whole bit, and me.  And then, if i had that security, i wouldn't be afraid to go back to the herb, 'cause they could protect me from myself, since apparently i may have caused all this to occur to myself.  and yes, that's something that makes me wonder about the herb.

It's too coincidental, is all.  In less than a week after they mention possible wild cards i start having hallucinations with thoughts that another possible wild card being in my studio (or a mock-up on the paramount lot).  But it is possible.  It's possible i'm still having only hallucinations to this day, in only one way, i.e. radio is playing for me, not to me.

But ants that rape?  That's seriously possible, you get bitten by one of those bastards in one of those ultra sensitive spots, and you tell me.  I had a nice mental image of the three judges, and me suddenly saying "could have been ants" since i was feeling stuff in that area earlier yesterday, and me saying "do it to him" and then him not being able to get back to the controls since the ants were forcing him out of his seat, as he was finally getting it happen to him.  Then i heard a helicopter, and i hoped it was one whisking him away.  That night i begged them to take him away from any of the insect controls, but i don't think would listen, and now, now i see how he could have used them to chomp on my nerve-sensitive regions, and do it like i mentioned before, how the more i pleaded, the worse it got.  Very sadistic, very much like an "old hand"--used to receiving or giving molestation.

all very sick thoughts indeed.  But that way, at least, it could have been an attack during the magician's act, which is what i thought it was at first, and not be the magician.  I never got a petty sense from him.  I did get a petty sense from that british guy, but not if he really was who they said he was, some newspaper editor who fought against an ultra-conservative media mogul who i'm too scared of to mention here even.  But maybe i've had enough effect that the ultraconservative, who's more just a big opportunist, that he switched camps, joined the liberal side, that would be nice.  Lay down in the bushes, you'll come up with a worse assortment of creepy-crawlers than i've had to deal with...

But who knows who attacked me--naw, i never got that bad a vibe from the guy.  I think he unnecessarily put us in an unjust war, but a molestor?  No.  An ex-mouseketteer?  Possibly.  possibly.

So, i blog, i blog since maybe someone does know the truth out there, about that night i felt i was attacked.  And they will contact johnny cochran for me, and they'll make sure he emails me.  Since they'll know whether or not this fiasco will continue past the 20th.  If its not going to...  Don't worry, or rather, wait, wait to see if they ever decide to give me some money.  Because money could make it better.  Not the attack, never.  But these horrible months since the attack when no one wanted to tell me anything.  That's the thing that can be ameliorated by money, money which i'd like to receive without legal proceedings.  But we'll see, won't we?  All i know is johnny will probably think of a much larger sum to sue.  'Cause if i'm not crazy, well, i think we can convince 12 men and/or women, that what happened to me was really sick and twisted, and maybe worth even billions in restitutions.  i'm not asking for that--not through legal means--just human decency means.  Legal means, well, johnny, that's more up to you how much you think we can get, after all, you'll need a percentage.  So, who do you want this to be decided by?  Hmm?  a judge, a jury, and a lawyer out to get a tasty bite out of that settlement?  Or do you just want to be decent and get me that place, and then i'll get me some herb, and i'll have security, and the music doesn't even need to change, hell, i might even be willing to sign another contract.  But it would definitely take millions to get me to sign another one of those.  Otherwise.  This blog could have been a much better shade a long time ago.  But i liked the idea of being watched, part of reality show.

Since i'm about as real as it gets.  real pain, though, requires real money.  And its been a painful couple of months.  And it all started with something really bad.  And that, that requires the knowledge of people being held accountable, and that, is not about money.  The time after, though, yes, that requires money.  Considering it has been months.  A lot of money.  Chump change to some, but certainly not to the 95% of us not so fucking wealthy.  Anyway, just more to think about.  i have to eat.

Tuesday, September 5, 2006 6:00 PM

Tuesday, September 5, 2006 6:01 PM

Oh, and the female judge?  All i'd want from you is a date.  We can duet, maybe, but that's all, no puns.  a simple, old-fashion date.  I had one once, and it was really nice.  No one may ever know about it, but it was nice.

Tuesday, September 5, 2006 6:02 PM

Thursday, September 7, 2006 10:28 AM

Thursday...  september 7th, 2006.

2006 hasn't exactly been my year...

"Good" news is that i may not be technically pschytsophrenic.  Instead severe depression, exasperated by multiple episodes/occurances, culminating in a psychotic episode.

But damned if i still believe there was a "magician" in my room.

I didn't notice the songs changing when i heard sinnerman, by nina simone.  it wasn't until i heard someone give a sigh of regret, that i went back from the bathroom and started playing it again.  it wasn't that time that i started to cry.  A cry of relief, of feeling special.  Though there were the fake tears i could have sworn were being put on my face by that magician.  Not those, which i suppose should have me feeling like a sinnerman.  But the one who put them there...  i was just feeling special, important.

Me and my stupid, well, not technically, mouth.  i had to write that the world was starved of the real, and that it was okay, that here, they finally got the contracted soul of a person who was/is as real as real can get.  Wysiwyg, that's me.  So...  What happens?

Do i say to myself, i don't want to be crying, so i imagine the tears are put there?  september 7th...  and i still have no idea when, if it will, be revealed to me.

Yesterday on the way back, i heard the "Foundations" 's one hit wonder "build me up buttercup."  But without the back-up, responding lyrics.  But i also decided to check the balance, fade, all that, and it was balanced all left and faded all front.  And of course they didn't play it again.

i'm right now listening to fats domino, blue monday.  i still have no idea what he says at around the 20 second mark.  but it sounds right.

is this the respirdol working?

i mean, i don't know much any more.  But i still go over the events of those nights during my episode, my psychotic reaction (count five--that's just the psychedelic group who sang that song).

sigh.  i can't write about it while i'm still in it.

but i can't think of much else.  There was someone in the room with me.  It was a magician.  It was /the/ magician.  It most likely was him to attack me...  Otherwise...  i dunno, nothing else makes much sense.

Visual tricks, i don't get those any more.  ...

Man, weed is just no good when you have to wonder what was/is real and what's not.  i've been so greenless for so long.  No question this is the longest i've gone without since i started.  For at least 5 years now, for sure.  It's been so long.

i need some money, i need to be famous and known by everyone, and i want to get paid for all that.  And i want the place i talked about, and my SSRIs, and...

maybe i should just get a job.  a typical boring, lame job.  someone was in my room, i can't help but think someone was in my room.  i don't want to go over the details again, but i have little choice when no one wants to come forward and say for sure what happened or didn't.

man, it's all so tiring, i want to go back to bed.  i sleep a lot.  i'm trying mostly just to get the days to pass.

In partial hospitalization program, php, there's all these people who seem like exes and not-quite-exes and old friends that don't live in orange county any more.  They escaped, i'm still trapped here, so they're visiting...  Or they're just people who remind me a lot of old friends and/or famous people.  One of them seems like the producer i was working with personally per the show...

i feel a bit like that little girl who knew better about santa claus and the miracle on 42nd street or whatever.  i don't need to draw the house, doesn't matter what it looks like, a couple of white cubes would be fine.  it would just need all my junk in it, eventually.  But it would definitely have to have lots of space.  and a security team that could also double as my following tv crew.  I always kinda hoped the tv crew i "imagined" was also a security team.

it sucks being me, for the most part, i think.  I wonder if or when i'm going to get paid.  if i don't ever, gees, did i go over the edge.  and boy did i tumble.

how on earth am i gonna pick myself up from this one?  I'm tired.  so tired.  even though i supposedly was asleep for all this time.  15 some hours.  sleep is safer than being awake.  i think...

something had to happen to me, i got the herb the same place i always do, it's safe.  only a new drug would i think capable of the horror i went through, but hey, maybe the magician slipped me something.  he was probably told to do two tricks, one, convince me i was high on herb (which i never felt), and two, get me out of my house (which i was never told).  For i would have gone out easily then.  But he got desperate, and decided to assault me.  it just makes the most sense.

even though that didn't get me out, and then someone rested with me at my leg, and i have no idea who, as my studio was flown back to san diego, or driven, or whatever.  Or i never left san diego, or i never went back, again, i'm still not convinced i hit mexico and then decided to turn back.

why did all this have to happen to me?  They don't, and this "they" is the people of the partial program, want me back on herb.  I tell them, though, i want my lifestyle back.  If i didn't have to worry about what was real and what wasn't, if i didn't have to fear that which is really fucking with me, weed couldn't hurt me.  I never meant to sign up for a reality show, by the way.  But it was all great as long as it was reality i could control.  No magicians being locked into a room with me.  Him having a huge upper hand in that i was no longer concerned with what was real and what wasn't.  i would just go with the flow, unless the flow was bad, and then i just had to put my feet deep in the earth, and the flow wouldn't bug me, i'd just wait until the flow redirected me.

harry belafonte is just such a great singer, it would have been great...  would have been.  Nothing is real as far as i know.  i just look for help, help doesn't come.  ...  i'm skipping ahead in my playlist, O'Jays, tell me about that money, money, money.

i'm so tired.  it's been so long since i've had my bupropion, a red bull, and a few bowls, and some breakfast, of course.  and then i could just sing, sing, and sing.  Sing a song to make me happy, like the O'Jays say.  My mother...  Living with my mother.  At 27.

i don't remember that "drink" or "drip" word.  But, music isn't supposed to be perfect.  i just never used to listen so carefully for the imperfections.  Maybe he was saying "drive" like "drive you out of your mind."  "Don't let money fool you."

"Save your, save your, soul."  "Don't sell it."  Yeah, that's so true.  if you smoke herb, never, ever agree to be a part of a reality tv program.  People who smoke herb, and do no other drugs, are people who have to actively keep themselves high, its an easy buzz to kill. You got to be in the right mindset.  Other, harder drugs, those are much more difficult to give up, since they've got such harder to kill buzzes.

Oh, if i wasn't in O.C. ...  If i hadn't signed that damn contract.  No one can read that damn thing in one setting, and you think if i complained even a bit, and wanted a different one, they'd care?  No, everyone has to sign the same damn thing, i'm sure.  But unless you got money to start with, don't sign to be a part of any reality program, not unless you can afford to really get away from it when you need.

if i also had just performed despite what people said.  When i was on the show, i said, can i do a little a capela, and the piers morgan guy said, no that's okay.  I should have sung anyway.  When i went to those venues with D, where they had wack deejays and wack acts, i should have sung once everyone was done anyway.  i should have just bust out into song--even if i didn't feel like it because the vibes were so wack at both venues.  i still should have.

i need sleep, i'm so tired.

Thursday, September 7, 2006 11:16 AM

Saturday, September 9, 2006 6:53 PM

Okay, so in group yesterday they told me that Johnny Cochran is dead.   I think i remember hearing that, before the fiasco, ergo, it's probably true.  I have a hard enough time keeping track of who I cover and whether they are still alive--a lot of times i cover them and then they pass on.  Which is why it sucks being no one, i'd have liked to know they heard my...  or at least knew of my, well, best attempts at flattery.

it's getting closer to the 20th, and that's not even going to be like christmas.  Christmas was when i got out of in-patient care.  Christmas eve got a bit confused, since i wasn't getting out the day i wanted...  Man, it's been so long since i've smoked.  This has to be the longest i've gone without since i started almost a decade ago.

i'm tempted to redo the home page, put in the "VOTE MOST VIABLE NON-REPUBLICAN CANDIDATE 2008" and change my weblong link to read "once green, now grey, way before my time."  i'd say i was older then, a la back pages, but i definitely feel older now.  (note, women who want me clean, your chance is now, once i go back to the green...)

Once i go back.  Seems so far away, and hard to imagine when i'll have the money and the freedom.  Smoking really helps one get over the guilt of wasting money that's not yours.

No, the 20th will come, and it will go, and nothing will happen.  And i'll definitely have to start thinking of an "exit strategy."  That is, from this lifestyle.  It is not an enviable one, it involves lots of sleep, and lots of wasted time.

So, like i said, cohran is probably dead.  So, instead, anyone who knows the truth, after this 20th, contact Shapiro (the other guy from the dream team--i know what he looks like, fair enough, that i can trust him, fair enough, otherwise i'd say just contact the defense team that cochran left behind.)  ...

I wonder if they plan on closing my ...  Nevermind, bullshit i have to deal with since i live at home.  It's amazing how near-prison can make the home feel like better than it used to be.  i never said anything about wanting to hurt myself or anyone else, i should never have had to go to jail.  i love my country so don't give me no patriot act bullshit as excuses.  The only thing i dislike is republicans who can't be moderate no matter what they want to be, the more visible, the more after election they're required to be far-right.  (Hence my most viable thing.  Hell, if we could get a bush to be a democrat...  Eh...  who would trust that?  But anyway, the most viable is going to be a democrat, most likely, so vote for him--or i guess her, but if it's a her, only if she's most viable non-republican candidate, let the polls say.  And if she is, every woman better get out there and fucking vote for her, you've got, like, the most people per minority to represent, something like half of the population.)

Anyway, anyone know about the magician and the night i was attacked, and how it had nothing to do with the weed i had, but involved real musicians playing music that allowed me to put with /just-about/ anything the magician or maybe even some purile judge.  (puerile? peurile? does it matter?)  If anyone knows about that night, then i beg of you after the 20th, you'll hear well enough from this site, please, please, please, and please once more, contact Shapiro, have him contact me, let's get this case together and get me some restitution.  For i can do nothing but plead for human decency.  For then i can rely on something more likely to really get attention and action, threat of legal proceedings.  But that's only until after the 20th.

And don't give up trying to contact me, i don't know how much power they really have over my enviornment.

So far i've gotten no email from anyone.  So that's just situation normal.  anyway, i'm tired.

Good news, at least, i can sleep as much as i want.  ah to sleep, perchance the dream team...  i hate being poor.

Saturday, September 9, 2006 7:18 PM

Saturday, September 9, 2006 7:18 PM

Oh, and feeling poor sucks too.

Saturday, September 9, 2006 7:19 PM

Saturday, September 16, 2006 1:23 PM

To blog.  To blog is to pass time.  My life has been grey for miles now.  It's very boring.  And worse, i'm alone in orange county, except for the family for which i left orange county.  as much as i love my mother--and five days out of the week, thankfully, it's just me and her, i still have to deal with (or avoid and thus deal with) my father on weekends--i don't like being twenty seven and living in my parents house.  (not that using my mother's money to keep my blog it's "rightful" color ever felt very mature.)

i need my own money, and a job, i'm down to only 2 days a week at the partial hospitalization program.  And writing about the partial hospitalization may end up hurting my chances of employment.  i realize that.  But i've also come to realize none of this would have happened had i not signed a contract that allowed hidden cameras, and a bunch of other stuff that could not ever be done to me without a signed 45 page contract that had me initial every section.  And to think they wanted me to finish this overnight.  Of course, knowing that if i complained about any part they'd just find a new contestant.  And i was already very excited to be part of /what i thought/ was just a talent show (since "talent" is in the title), and not a "reality" show.

Since my lifestyle is such that you need to have... Okay, was such.  That you need to be sure that no one is playing a trick on you, or you'll trick yourself without even knowing it.  And that, my friends, can lead to a very, very bad trip.

Saturday, September 16, 2006 1:44 PM

Friday, September 22, 2006 9:14 PM

How did the greenroom turn grey?  That's the question.

Well, it started with a 45 page contract.  Even though it was for a talent show, it had stipulations for hidden cameras.  And as soon as i signed it, that's when i started noticing things had subtly became very different.

For one, I noticed a girl who seemed a bit interested in me.  This never happens.  I initial all 45 pages, and it took me hours.  Then i go outside, and my car got towed out of the fast food restaurant next to the copy/overnight-mailing place.  This never happens.  The next time I go to the copy/overnight-mailing place, that same girl was there.  This never happens.  And then the weekend before my life started going from strange to majorly sucky, i saw the same girl working at a restaurant in LA.  I wouldn't have noticed her, except she was the first woman who's ever, even quasi-, quasi-flirted with me.

And it was only quasi-flirting, i just wasn't so sure of the quasi.  Since then i noticed a lot of people were suddenly interested in me.  Men/women/children/elders/everybody on the street.  Or in the stores, since the stores no longer had any of the familiar employees.  The few stores i would go to, suddenly each had a huge turnover, the employees were being replaced, i thought, by actors.  Everyone who ever showed interest, was an actor.  I felt very, well, important and special, it was kinda nice.  Except actors have insipid conversations, for the large part, and they always talk loud enough for me to hear their numbing chit-chat.

And then i started to notice the hand-bags.  Everyone on the street had a hand-bag.  Until i wrote about it in a document the sudden trend.  The next time i was out, the trend had suddenly reversed.  Then it was a lot of cell phones, they wouldn't even be talking in to them, they'd carry them around like, well, star trek tricorders.  Then i started saying thing aloud about how strange it was these people would walk around with the cellphone, not talking on them, just holding them in their hand, often pointed in my direction.  So, once i said something about that, then everyone was walking with fists for one hand.  And in those fists would be white cylenders--however that's spelled--i live dangerously without spellcheck.  I wouldn't tip my hand on those.  Until the day after my attack when i tried to get away by leaving the country.  But i got to mexico and i said aloud "i'm turning around as soon as i see a camera," and i hadn't yet let on about the white cilenders.  Sure enough, a few streets past ave revolucion, i saw someone with that white cylanders.  And, being on the edge of madness (mind you just the edge) i turned it around, and had a panic attack since i couldn't figure out how to get back to the estadios unitos.  In line to cross the border back, one of the "locals" very prominently gave the white cylander to the person who was selling beverages (each one was a coca-cola product), and the person selling beverages shrugged.  And i said aloud to "no one" in my car, "it's called a camera, you hold it in your hand, and point it at me."  After that, after weeks where i'd see them, no more white cylanders.

I would go out at 3 AM, normal hour for me.  And normally it was just me on the street.  But ever since i signed that contract, there was always three cars on the street, one in front, one in the back.  Sometimes the car would change -a la revolving trail- but always one in front, one in back.  I remember once i was on an off-ramp listening to a 2pac song, keep ya head up, but i was driving too slow for the car in front of me, and once it made a turn and it was out of sight, so did the music change.  in other words, not only were they there to film me, they were there to pipe in the music they wanted into my fm, of course, songs i like, since they'd be the songs i'd listen to at home.  Oh, and if i went into a all-night store, at 3 AM, there might be no one in there but the cashier--for about ten seconds, then for sure, people came in, and suddenly it was jumping with like 5 more "customers."  And I've never seen so many cars with those--so i've been told since i started noticing them--those little inch-wide camera lens in the bumpers so cars can back-up safely or something, according to my sister.  But still, i can't go a day without seeing probably one at least, and then there's those weird bumps on truck bumpers flanking the sides of the license.  Those could be cameras too, and not just for backing up.

So, basically, i thought i was a real-life truman show.  A world full of cameras and actors.  Like the Fantastic Four--no not the comic book characters, they're a sixties soul group--all the world is a stage.  But it never got so omnipresent until i lost my audition during the taping of the show, when i lost my audition after 10 seconds of harmonica playing to my own doowop back-up (which i did in one night, and asked twice for them to get me something by the band to practice with, and being an idiot, didn't insist on it, just said it would be nice to hear what they could do--which i realized the day of taping what they could do was way better than my stupid voice-for-instruments, which is just something i do because i'm poor and gotta do something).  I didn't even get out a full sentence of lyrics before i got the third buzz.  And then i asked to do it a capela, one of the judges said no, and i said could i at least put my vote in for one of the performers, who /i/ could tell had immense talent, but who was later cut from the showing of the episode, just like me.  And then they took away his second audition, so he got really screwed.  And my recommendation that i used my remaining 10 seconds on stage after the judge's "what was that?" basically did nothing.  In fact the two best acts, who were in fact african american, got cut from the showing, i guess they only need one or two acts for their quota.  While i was there it seemed so much more integrated, and on merit, something like a third of the contestants were african-american who got to go on to the next stage.  No one told us that doesn't exactly mean you'll get to go to the next stage, come air time, all the african americans were basically, well, let's just say treated wrongly, either unrepresented or misrepresented.  I blame the network for that, since it all seemed wonderfully integrated, while i was still involved.

Anyway, after my total of 30 seconds, which i wish were shown if for no other reason that i got to spell my stage name, which is of course this same url, and i could have maybe got some donations finally.  I'm thinking about a way to get my name out there, with out them.  I think i'm going to change my index page finally.

But anyway after my 30 seconds, i had a panic attack--which also i wouldn't have minded being shown if they also gave out my stage name.  Someone had to go to my car and retrieve my pills.  But i took my generic wellbutrin, since it was time for my second dose, anyway.  Once it kicked in, i had to do what i like to call a reverse klinger, proving myself sane enough to leave, when everyone thought i was section-8.  I cracked jokes, and was generally entertaining.  After that, i really started to notice the surveillance.

And not one to leave on such a note, i decided to write some emails.  And I'm pretty sure they were read.  Some parts made it into the show, like one of the acts was a guy who stands on one hand, and they were all "mesmerized"--but i thought it was just like a sub-par olympics act.  Sure enough, the same one who said i couldn't do my song a capela used, "this isn't the olympics" on the second time he performed, which wasn't nearly as "mesmerizing."  Anyway, point is, parts of my emails made it into the program.  So i knew they hadn't all forgotten me.  And like i said, the tails were all there.  Actors were all around me.  I was pretty much sure of it.  But i never got a chance to find any real evidence.  Still, i was convinced.

And, so, like i said, i watched all the episodes, as the only t.v. i ever watched during that time.  Before that i never watched any tv.  And after the episode.  /The/ episode, well, i was institutions before i got a chance to see any other episodes.  And now that i'm home, and by home, i mean that odious orange county, i still don't watch tv.  But /the/ episode is the episode that said what i had always hoped.  All three judges would get to pick two wild cards from any time during the contest, and i was sure i was going to be one.

And I might have been.  Well, see, i saw that on a thursday, then my friend, the one who told me about the audition in the first place, said he was going to perform in LA.  I had flaked on something else, i think it was his coming down to S.D., so i wanted to go regardless.  But I didn't know it was wild-cards.  No one told me, i assumed someone would.  And when i got there, well, it turned out he wasn't going to be the first to perform.  And, like i said, no one told me it was a wild-card performance--it wasn't until after that night that i remembered one of those performing that night from the initial taping in LA that didn't get to go further.  And i didn't think about the fact that my friend could have been a wild-card himself.  Anyway, the other acts were wack.  Maybe this is my musical preference/prediliction--i've actually been called racist for this--but i can't help it, african americans, by and far, make better music.  i've come to this conclusion, and that's why it's all i listen to, quote-end-quote black music.

So i wandered around.  And sure enough, my cell phone had to be dead on energy.  I went to another restaurant/performance place with hispanic music, it simply sounded better than the place my friend was going to perform.  I mean "white" music is sometimes so grating, i consider it noise polution, and these are very sensitive ears to such polution.  So, supposedly, i missed my chance to perform, since i came into the middle of my friend's performance, and he was last.

I was bummed about that, but mostly after the fact, since i really didn't know it was wild card performers, but now i'm almost sure of it.  Anyway, two days later, a strange thing happened.  I was listening to my music, and suddenly...  It sounded, for lack of a better word, "fresher."  But I hadn't realized it was live yet.  "realized" is definintely not the word.  But anyway, i went to the bathroom during Nina Simone's Sinnerman, and I coulda sworn i heard someone groan a bit of disappointment.  So I played it over again, and it was so fresh sounding, it sounded, live.  After that, i thought i was finally getting my wild card position when i was in a place of total relaxation, my own studio apartment in S.D.  But i noticed something about my weed, i wasn't getting high.  I'd keep smoking it, or thinking i was, but it wasn't getting me high.

That's not to say i didn't see "trippy" things.  Visual tricks, the kind that i never get from marijuana.  I thought, well, maybe there was a magician in my room.  That would explain these parlor tricks that were nothing like what i'd get from smoking herb.  I didn't really care though, I was getting to perform with /my/ idols, /my/ favorite musicians.  So i tried to smoke despite the magician, i thought he was messing with my paraphenalia, making it taste like the real thing, and thus they could substitute it with something that only looked like it, but thus not making me high.  The visual tricks were only slightly annoying, so i just tried to ignore it, and use simpler devices than my typical water pipe.  Of course, if there was no magician, then i'd be smoking the most marijuana i'd ever smoked in my life.  And I wasn't leaving the place to eat, i'd just smoke more cigarettes.  And mind you, i weigh now 155 pounds.  At that time, i weighed 128.  And i'm 6 foot 1.  So i was malnutritioned, as well as smoking cigarettes at the rate of about a pack a day, and then smoking the most ever.

Is that a recipe for someone so smart and creative as myself to out-smart myself?

I think so.  Since i think i out-smarted myself the most when during the end of the two days of singing, day and night, the trip went down-hill.  I'm still not convinced there was a magician, because before the night came, i looked into my plastic water bottle, and i saw a hefty looking guy in a white long sleeve shirt and black pants.  This was the only "hallucination" that wasn't like looking at my shower curtain rod and it was bent about 120 degrees a third of the distance from the left.  That was the magician I thought from the show.  Same body type.  Oh and in one of those emails, i wrote about that magician's act being racist, basically a modern day mistrel show.  So, this guy could have heard about this, and might have reason to harm me.  I dunno, maybe he was frustrated about not managing to trick me, but whatever.

That night.  I was assaulted.  Either it was with the help of a magician, or it was due to the mechanical insects that maybe one of the judges used.  Like i said, it could have been done with mechanical ants.  Not the suffocation part, though, that would have had to be done with the help of a magician.  But this act, where i was the unwilling, unknowing participant, that made the best experience of my life into the worst one, that just ended up to more horrible situations.  You see, i tried to get away by going to mexico.  But i had to go back.  So then i thought I'd call my friend, the one who told me about the audition, the one i went to see perform on the weekend before, i even filmed it with my camcorder, at no time did he call me down to the stage like he said he would.  Anyway, he would know the truth, i thought, so i tried to talk to him, but i kept hearing a beep, every time it seemed like he couldn't hear me.  It might have been a beep for a hypnotic suggestion.  I don't know, i just got really frustrated with him.  He couldn't/wouldn't tell me what was really going on.  So I threw my cell phone across the room.  That's as mad as i ever get, i've never got madder than tossing an inanimate object toward the floor.  wouldn't you know it, i broke it.  I couldn't call anybody then.  It still worked, but the display was gone.  And i needed to talk to someone.

So i did something i really regret.  I called 911.

I figured if nothing else, maybe i can file a police report.  Heh.  STUPID.  Since i was definitely looking disheveled, my room was tossed apart since i tried looking for the cameras.  These "police officers" instead took me to county mental health.  Except it was across the street from where i thought it was.  Regardless, it was super austere and horrible in many ways.  But i told them of my insurance, and thankfully was taken out of there the next day...  And put into UCSD's mental institute.  And i stayed there for two weeks.  Mind you, i wasn't getting any of my antidepressents.  I was just being keep prisoner.  Why?  Since there are three things that they need to put you into there.  One (which the police officer said was in my call to the police, though i defy them to find it in the recording) suicidal thoughts (i wanted to file a police report, can't do that if i'm dead), two homicidal thoughts, and three "gravely disabled."  Which since i have no money of my own, and am dependent entirely on my parents--still, to this very 27-years-of-age day--could justifiably be said.  I have no savings, i have no job, i've been asking for donations since 2002 and still have gotten only one 5 dollar donation to this day.  (http://www.awbvious.com/message.htm)

So, I spent two excrutiating (for a man who savors his solitude) weeks in there.  Excrutiating is perhaps strong language.  The food was good for one.  Now I'm in a partial hospitalization program.  The food isn't nearly as good.  But no more sharing rooms, only the volunteers get their own room.  My first roommate was the worst, sometime later, after a few other roomates, suddenly my glasses were stolen.  They did room to room checks, and my first roommate's toilet mysteriously was broken, from what i heard from another in-patient, so who knows.  it was hell--for a man who's never commited a crime (except for marijuana) since he knows he'd never manage anything but solitary confinement as far as jail would be concerned--i never keep more than enough to get me a ticket, and i wouldn't even if i had money.  But i haven't smoked in two months.  The longest I've gone for at least 4 years, perhaps since i started 6 or 7 years ago.

All i know is it could never happen again.  I went through the worst of it because i didn't fight back, since i just kept trying to protest expecting someone from the tv-show that i thought it was all part of, to stop it.  Now i know i'd have to get up and protect myself, especially since if it was the magician, using, say, accupuncture he could manage to make me mute.  And for a while i thought i was protesting through the corners of my mouth, which was otherwise being held shut, not by hands, but again, now i think, by accupuncture.  It just couldn't have been any shmoe off the street.  it either had to be a magician, or entirely an episode of my own imagination.  But anyway, its kind of a moot question, i'm not smoking any more until i have some of my own funds.  The only way i can keep from smoking, according to my own ethics, is that it would require again spending my mother's money on it.  And I can't ever do that again.

But it's not fun being grey.  But that's why it is.  I only have two more days next week of partial hospitalization program--it's kinda like school, it's not bad for helping with coping, and for coming to realizations like the one i made about how wrong it was (and it was) for me to spend my money on something i knew my mother never approved of, and for fighting things like procrastination (e.g. one time one of the therapists asked the question, which comes first, making a small step, or motivation to do it, i was sure that motivation was probably the wrong answer, but i said it was, and the answer is first comes the small step, the motivation comes after that, and then you can make more steps).  It's not as bad as being in patient, i get to leave, and go back to my solitude, and i can get by without it.

I just feel like i let down everyone who i was, well, maybe, a role model, someone who knew he had addictive personality, but kept it only to things that were safe.  But art is one thing, and writing is another, spending your mom's money on drugs is another not-so-cool thing.  Because i do know i can do both of those first things without the last.  But it's not so cool here, 'cause i can't just go into the car and go whereever i want, but it's still better.  Oh, for another thing.  I have my cat here.  and not having my cat might have been even worse than the roommate thing.  Anyway, how long with my blog stay grey?  I don't know.  i just never want to go into an institution again.  When i was in the institution, i was even diagnosed as pschytsophrenic, that's been rediagnosed as something like a series of depressing events leading to a single psychotic episode.  Because the former, might mean i'd have be to institutions for the rest of my life.  i feel so lucid, i don't know how anyone could diagnose me as such.  But they say a lot of people in the 20s only get rediagnosed into their 30s.  That's not going to be me.  I'll jump through every hoop.  trust me, it could be worse.  So i'll stay grey, but i never gatewayed.  Never will, won't substitute either.  So, maybe it's not greenroom, but i'll never call it evil.

Oh, clearly no cheque.  that's fine.  i think the contract said 4 months after the end of the show, that's maybe a few more months now.  i just want to say one thing.  I stand by everything i did, i have no regrets about anything, you can portray me however you want, but i stayed real.  And still am.  If i was followed, i meant for that to be seen.  The people who followed me did not do what happened to me.  so if there's footage, i want it used.  like the one date i've had in my life.  That was special, it came about two weeks before things went downspiraling.  you could even show the stuff after the downspiral.  as far as i'm concerned, i'm actual kind of happy i'm not spending my mom's money for my lifestyle.  With co-payments it may be a little more expensive than before my attack, but we've hit the most on that, i think, and now at least i can't cost my mom any more as long as i stay sober.  And she likes having her son back--which was only because my mom couldn't know how i really was at any time.  i was never a bad son, i mean, the marijuana doesn't desensitize you, but lying to your mother to pay for it, like i said...  Anyway, to be sung according to the song Colours by Donovan:

Grey is the color of my blo-o-og, when i'm sober, uh huh, when i'm sober, uh huh,
That's the time...
That's the time, I...

Hmm.  Well:

That's the time, my mom loves the best.

anyway, much love everyone.

Friday, September 22, 2006 11:52 PM

Tuesday, October 3, 2006 11:36 AM

So what?  You might say.  So what if you were indeed on a studio lot, and there were real musicians playing along with you?  So what, regardless of whether or not you were attacked?  After all, "you" might say, marijuana is a bad thing, and now you're off it, so what?

i'd say: well, the psychiatrist, at the partial program I just finished yesterday, says he wants to keep me on rispedol or respidol or respidal, whatever it is, with cogentin.  And besides making me a bit physically (but not mentally) fatigued...  Well, let's just say, i've gone 4 years without it, i could probably go 5--but during those 4, i was always able to do it, enough to satisfy myself--now though, not only is the desire gone, but the physical ability to finish what i intended to is gone as well.  I've only tried it a handful of times since i got out of the in-house program, and the first time, before i was on the respidal, i managed, since then, no go.  And boy is that unsatisfying.  oh, and there's a slew of other side-effects, like dehydration, twitching (which is what the cogentin is supposed to help, and does to a limited degree), and just a feeling of complacency.  Like, eh, oh well, can't dissatisfy what i don't have to begin with.

For a year they want me to take this!  I told them i couldn't guarantee, though i still intend to wait 'til i can truly say i'm not using my parents (aka mom) money, which could mean months from now, that I won't be going back to nasty-old marijuana.  I asked if there was any serious combination effects, and he said it's just like any new variable thrown into the mix.  I asked if i could get tossed back into program, if i ever say i have smoked any mary, he said I'd have to be symptomatic, like when i came in.  (Mind you, when i came in, i was also not getting any ssri's... they started to notice a difference only once they gave me back some of my ssri's.)  What I used to take: 150mg generic wellbutrin SR in the morning, 150mg generic wellbutrin SR later in the day, and 100mg of zoloft before i slept.  Now I take 150mg generic wellbutrin SR and 1mg of cogentin and 1mg of risperdol in the morning.  And 1mg of cogentin and 3mg of respirdol in the evering.

Respirdol has two uses, one as a mood stabilizer, two as an anti-psychotic--and its for the anti-psychotic they have me on.  But, of course, if i really was being followed, and i really was in a room with a magician, then i clearly had no psychotic reaction, and all i'd be suffering from was post-tramatic stress disorder.  Which is gone.  So i think i'm perfectly set to go back to my old meds, but, of course, everyone thinks I did it to myself, so I'm instead on this drug respirdal, or whateverthefuckitis.  I've even tried threatening with legal action, but i'd have no evidence, no case, without some witnesses.  And no witnesses have come forth to tell me what really happened.  I only tried legal action as a final card, the last in my deck.  Aparently, and not surprisingly, there is a part of the contract that i signed that said they weren't responsible for the illegal actions of one contestant to another.  However, this magician wouldn't have been able to hurt me, had he not been put in the same room as me (or a judge, i've still not ruled that one out, for i wrote some somemightsay inflamatory things about one of the judges as well as about this magician).  Now, i'd just like to be off this medication, and allowed back my old life in san diego, where my friends are, and where myself and my cat were most happy.

Sometimes I think, maybe i'll try again for that show, since i need money now more than ever.  Then I think, my life would have been so much better right now, had i not even tried out.  i still think i could win it, had i gotten the band to back me up, instead of using myself and my own vocals as instruments, which is all i can do considering my poverty.

So I wonder, how to fix this inconvenient lack of cash flow.  Nothing comes to mind.  Nothing that would allow me to do it entirely on my terms.  I've no desire to put my faith in anyone else.  Even my mother, gracious as she is, I can only put limited faith in.  For she still villifies my lifestyle (my old lifestyle) while everyone on both sides of my family and even my own sisters, i think, to an extent, live their lives mixed with what i consider much worse (but my mother of course doesn't): alcohol.  Alcohol creates chaos, marijuana just eats away at your pocketbook, because of stupid laws...  OR, it could be what led me to believe such things as a magician in my room.  Of course, after that experience, I know that with a few other contributing factors like a diet of cigarettes and red bull and water that can bring your weight down to 128 pounds, and a very strong feeling of a television show following you, if I start to sense a magician trying to interfere with my smoking, to let him interfere, and not smoke more and more, since i felt i had to smoke more to get any out of it.  But an herb buzz is the easiest buzz to kill...  And even if it seems dead, the body will still accumulate.

I just don't want to be called crazy, when i don't feel crazy...

A year.  A whole year of this drug, just because people were too scared to tell me the truth.  If anything I think my "threats" of legality may have scared people even more.  So, what, what if i get an anonymous letter with all the details i've not put in here...  Could I show it to my doctor and say, look, i'm not crazy, it really happened to me?  Would that save me from eleven more months of this respidol crap?  I don't think so...  a whole fucking year...

Tuesday, October 3, 2006 12:40 PM