Alien: Amiss -- 11:18 PM

And the alien did decree: "fuck you, spellcheck, wherefore art THOU?"
11:18 PM - Thursday, Jun. 24, 2010

Before the nonsense, & After the bullshit.

INSERT HAMMERBOX-IN-MY-HEAD WITH UNKNOWN TITLE HERE

Tick, tick, tick,
I'm a little calmer now.

Eegah. I am so fucked.

I hate to force my friends and family in to starring roles in my path to recovery.. but, let's face it: I need some kind of help.

I'm drowning in my solo slug-out with a losing battle against depression/insanity. Continually, I'm told to have willpower. To isolate myself more, as a temporary stop-gap.

Well. I highly doubt that I had willpower last night, or the wits not to drown myself within my 'soothing bath'.

I learned something about myself last night, as I careened toward the kitchen, hellbent on stabbing my left wrist to death. All those quaint little imaginings of a quiet bathtub ending? All those notions of leaving an easy mess to fix? No, no. Those aren't how I really am. I'm a manic maniac; I'm gunna fucking kill myself. It won't be poetic. It won't be genteel.

It's gunna be uglier than any story I've ever coughed out.

Karl the serial killer is genteel. I am a drugged psychopath. I will stab my arm in to a bloody pulp, and die all alone, coated in my own hacked flesh.

I need fucking help. This is beyond the point of stoic jovialities. This is past alluding to, coyly. This is getting in to Serious Therapy grounds.

My doctors (yes, even dear Dr. Y,) have this quaint notion that ONLY I CAN STOP MYSELF -- weee--EEEe-oh. With my brilliant mind!

Yeah.

What mind? Oh, you mean the one finding more reasons to die, than live? The one addicted to the computer? The one convinced that I am a plague to modern society?

I don't belong; not here, not anywhere.

My Hicks book confirms my hope that he was a guy like me, a little lost alien, visiting in hopes of finding enlightenment and acceptance. Granted, he was a lot less unmotivated; he had balls, moxie, get-up-and-go.

I'm a lunatic preaching to Bic Mac worshippers. I'm unpredictable, usually destroying my own progress; who needs censorship, if you dare not even distribute?

I'm sizing myself up against Hicks. I fall short a lot, but we parallel a little.

This Hicks book is my new Trigan Empire. My comfort book. The book of honesties and morals. Chuckles, reminicenses (fuck you, spellcheck, wherefore art THOU?), you name it.

I need whatever warm-fuzzies I can find in the world right now.

Little No-No comes over tomorrow; Mom's poached me for the next couple of days.. just in case, you know? When No-No is here, I'm gunna soak up his feel-good baby magic, and try to store that little bit of relief for the next fuckup.

Ho-yeah.

Before the nonsense, & After the bullshit.


Navigation * Profile * New * Old * First * Random Credit * Host * Design	And the alien did decree: "fuck you, spellcheck, wherefore art THOU?" 11:18 PM - Thursday, Jun. 24, 2010 Before the nonsense, & After the bullshit. INSERT HAMMERBOX-IN-MY-HEAD WITH UNKNOWN TITLE HERE Tick, tick, tick, I'm a little calmer now. Eegah. I am so fucked. I hate to force my friends and family in to starring roles in my path to recovery.. but, let's face it: I need some kind of help. I'm drowning in my solo slug-out with a losing battle against depression/insanity. Continually, I'm told to have willpower. To isolate myself more, as a temporary stop-gap. Well. I highly doubt that I had willpower last night, or the wits not to drown myself within my 'soothing bath'. I learned something about myself last night, as I careened toward the kitchen, hellbent on stabbing my left wrist to death. All those quaint little imaginings of a quiet bathtub ending? All those notions of leaving an easy mess to fix? No, no. Those aren't how I really am. I'm a manic maniac; I'm gunna fucking kill myself. It won't be poetic. It won't be genteel. It's gunna be uglier than any story I've ever coughed out. Karl the serial killer is genteel. I am a drugged psychopath. I will stab my arm in to a bloody pulp, and die all alone, coated in my own hacked flesh. I need fucking help. This is beyond the point of stoic jovialities. This is past alluding to, coyly. This is getting in to Serious Therapy grounds. My doctors (yes, even dear Dr. Y,) have this quaint notion that ONLY I CAN STOP MYSELF -- weee--EEEe-oh. With my brilliant mind! Yeah. What mind? Oh, you mean the one finding more reasons to die, than live? The one addicted to the computer? The one convinced that I am a plague to modern society? I don't belong; not here, not anywhere. My Hicks book confirms my hope that he was a guy like me, a little lost alien, visiting in hopes of finding enlightenment and acceptance. Granted, he was a lot less unmotivated; he had balls, moxie, get-up-and-go. I'm a lunatic preaching to Bic Mac worshippers. I'm unpredictable, usually destroying my own progress; who needs censorship, if you dare not even distribute? I'm sizing myself up against Hicks. I fall short a lot, but we parallel a little. This Hicks book is my new Trigan Empire. My comfort book. The book of honesties and morals. Chuckles, reminicenses (fuck you, spellcheck, wherefore art THOU?), you name it. I need whatever warm-fuzzies I can find in the world right now. Little No-No comes over tomorrow; Mom's poached me for the next couple of days.. just in case, you know? When No-No is here, I'm gunna soak up his feel-good baby magic, and try to store that little bit of relief for the next fuckup. Ho-yeah. Before the nonsense, & After the bullshit. INSERT STUFF HERE	You Missed: DISCLAIMER WHO TF IS ALL THIS??! * INTRO, 2 * NAQ Backlog: Domicile : Infested - Wednesday, Jan. 08, 2020 Badly type text - Wednesday, Jan. 01, 2020 Yet another other entry - Sunday, Dec. 29, 2019 Damn near died - Sunday, Dec. 29, 2019 Boom Shalacka Lacka? - Saturday, Dec. 28, 2019 Circa 2010