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Goddamn it,
I'm not tired ENOUGH.

At least I have you, Internet. I guess we're gunna make up and be friends, hm? Will you suddenly open up new avenues of entertainments?

What's on my mind: I think this depression bout of late is a vitamin D thing; I'm running out, so, to conserve I'm taking less. I guess that would be a cozy enough way to put off the therapy option. I was sure as shit a lot more stable on 5 pills of D; 3 doesn't seem to be cutting it.

I think therapy will only really start to work if I find an attentive shrink, or something. Someone with a great memory for insipid crap. Linds is recalling details that usually bypass the average joe; that might be because we have similar manic issues, and she's really listening. Most people kind of get sick of my wah-wah self-introspection trips. (I called them Self-Discovery Road Trips, or something, at one point.) All this rambling about my life is a part of the aftermath of settling in to the function of a societal burden. I never used to talk about myself so much; I was rather private about things 5 years ago.

Maybe it started with gearing up to my insanity? I started noticeably cracking towards the end of high school. I scared the shit out of an ex once, telling him he was evil because he told me his secrets, and that opened up a door in the back of his head -- letting in evil. That's one delusion that I've always sort of played up. That was during my Special Powers Delusions time period. Friends -- when you're nuts, and all your close friends are, too, you end up feeding each other's ideas of being 'special'.

The difference between my delusions then, and now, is that I tend to be able to deal with them -- either by loading up on meds, or talking them out with a "normal" person. If it SOUNDS crazy.. it probably is.

Chewie, the stalker, is the sort of thing that sounds like the start of a delusion. Semen being left around the house, and rubbing-noise phone messages seems.. too weird. I don't normally accept my position as a victim; in this case, I'm treating it like an Agatha Christie novel. Analyzing possible suspects, prying my memories for clues.

Why do I think it's real? Because everyone I tell the story to freaks out. Me? I sit back and analyze their reactions. I'm not deep-down scared. I'm concerned about random details. Will he attack me with a knife? Aw shucks, I hope not -- I like my face. Will he rape me? Aw shucks, if he does, I'll have to take my blankets to the laundromat; I can't afford that. It's only really when I come home, and haven't left a light on, that I get a little jumpy.

This situation makes me think of high school when Cherish had an internet stalker. We treated him like a toy. Changed passwords to the accounts he broke in to, to things that we thought would piss him off. We jerked him around, trying to keep him talking. He knew a lot of word puzzles. He figured dirty talk would spook us. I'd throw on some headphones, a little E Nomine, and be random. He probably thought we were so stupid, provoking him. Personally, I think he's like Chewie -- a shit-disturber.

Is Chewie gearing for a confrontation? I've imagined different scenarios. Mostly, I think that I'll try to kick this guy's ass, if I get the chance.

A psychic once told me to expect Chewie to be someone I know. That leaves limited suspects. The "clues" I have so far are:
- Chewie probably lives in the building
- Chewie most likely a) lives on my floor, b)can see my lights
- a) because I have heavy footsteps; this theory explains the ability to get in to my place in under 3 minutes, and jerk off in my kitchen
- b) because Chewie has picked up the habit of phoning when I'm not home; I have certain lights I leave on for that
- Chewie is probably the culprit behind my missing black pens/mechanical pencils; this was surmised as a trophy collection, due to my lack of appealing underwear, and my abilities as a hack writer

I had 4 potential suspects. 1 moved out recently. 1 moved in AFTER the phone calls started (December/January). 1 I just feel lacks the gumph to be a sex offender. The 4th? He's a guy who's been kind of a douche to me since I moved here. The problem? He's gay; though, he always hints that Chewie's actions are the work of a duo -- he does have a boyfriend. Am I really so annoying that they'd pull this? I see no other motives.

We'll call these fellows Gay K, and Isa.

Gay K and I have been kind of distant, as of his move. He pulled a stunt to get money out of me, and we've been butt-hurt around each other ever since. We're like magnets, repelling each other. Around the time of the Dollar Store Incident, the Chewie calls DID increase, though. That was the peak of the frequency. I think it was something like 2-3 calls within 5 days. I'd come home and head straight for the answering machine.

I've never fully decided what the messages sound like. Chewing as the initial impression. Hence, 'Chewie'. I moved on to thinking it was a rubbing sound; this was concurred by the cop who listened to the first 2 answering machine messages. His assumption was that someone's phone was in their pocket, and dialed me. Methinks they're getting off, or something. The messages are getting progressively more odd. One had a childlike squeal. One had a typing-sound, and a mechanical roar.

I'm probably totally wrong. Agatha Christie supposedly can be solved within 15 pages; I'm always surprised by the culprit's identity.

I think too far out of the box.

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Circa 2010