This is another in my series of “I had nowhere else to put this”.

Cookies for dinner. AGAIN! I fucking love being an adult. To think that there was a time that I couldn’t eat what I wanted…. Like, my parents told me I couldn’t have cookies and candy for dinner. Man, it’s probably a good thing that I’m not a father because I would let my kids eat whatever they wanted for every meal. Then I would end up at the hospital with some judgy doctor asking me questions while some fucking Helicopter parents who are there because they want to discuss the “merits of not getting their child vaccinated” with their physician stare at me like I’m some abomination.

So when the doctor is asking me why I let my kids eat whatever they want I point to Mr. and Mrs. Helicopter and I say: “Hey, you see those two nervous wreck assholes over there that are so anxious about fucking up their kid that they are making the next Jeffrey fucking Dahmer? I don’t want my kids to be like that pencil-necked little puke. That kid is so pathetic that germs are going to bully him. My kids are going to be his boss. That kid is going to be so straight and narrow with his nose to the computer screen, he will work 12 hours a day out of a fear of not paying his bill two weeks in advance. My son is going to stand around the water cooler telling the middle management how he’s nailing some poor bastards wife on afternoons and weekends while her husband isn’t home and when that kid over there looks around to hear more of the story my son is telling, my son is going to scream at him to get back to work. Which that kid over there is going to do. Then, when he does my son is going to tell those other management pricks ‘That’s the guy’ and laugh hysterically as he outlines how he intends to increase his hours and give him the minimum raise this year. Then he’ll mention how he steals his sandwich out of the break room fridge everyday but doesn’t even eat it, just throws it in the garbage.”

The doctor will look confused and the Helicopter family will look appalled. “Oh, I forgot to explain why. Well you see, my kids will get sick and get their stomachs pumped and that will be the worst thing that has ever happened to them.  Then I’ll explain to them it was because they made bad choices. They ate candy and cookies instead of healthy balanced meals. Then I’ll explain that there are always consequences to bad choices. Also, when you make bad choices you have to live with the consequences, take your lumps but then rise up from them, not dwell on them and move forward. Move past it and learn from it. Without hesitation and without fear.”

“So old Pencil-neck No-needles O’Helicopter over there will get polio and his legs will shrivel up as he sits in front of a computer and my kids will stomp on everything in front of them like dinosaurs.  They will have no fear, they will take risks and yes they will make mistakes, but they will come through smelling like a rose with confidence.”

Then the doctor will probably either call or consider calling child services and the Helicopters will ask about boosters for Pencil-neck.



I somehow managed to get lost along the way.  I did what I all too frequently do and I lost focus on the primary goal.  My objective is to manage my disorder and the emotional imbalances that come with it.  The problem with that being that I am and do have a wealth of emotion.  I am passionate.  I extend my care and concern to others.  I am affectionate.  In fact, it is this feature that assures my therapist and myself that I am not a psycho/sociopath.  Though, a caveat to this is that sociopaths can be made…  Especially if their emotions are dissociated, abused and in all other ways scrambled.  I’m not far away from antisocial personality disorder (ASPD) and share many of the traits as seen in this previous post (the post in that hyperlink also has another hyperlink to a related post, which is on the same subject and one of my favourite so we can see there is a theme here).

I put myself out there and I like to believe that it is give and take.  That the love and care that I give will be returned to me.  That my nearly boundless consideration will be appreciated and because it is that it will come back to me.  This is rarely if ever the case.  In fact it is becoming downright aggressively hostile how I am absorbed from like a fountain and not even so much as pissed back into.  And there it is.  The crux of the entirety of bipolar hypo-manic dysphoric  phase shift.  You care SO much that when you realize that the same care and love that you send out will never be returned, you snap.

It isn’t unreasonable.  It really isn’t.  Being thoughtful is the basic minimum standard in any relationship.  My wife couldn’t do it.  All you have to do is pick up a phone, send a text.  Even if it is meaningless, let me know that I am being thought of and that I am still in the loop.  Let me know that you are going out…  So I can make plans too, or I don’t wonder what the fuck happened to you.  My ex Zoe was extremely selfish in this regard.  She had the nerve to ever complain about anything I did or did not ever do for her… What did you ever do for me?  I even did all the work in bed…  Idiot.  Anything I did for you should have been taken as a bonus and you should have thanked me profusely for it.

So once again I find myself investing more thought in another person that I am in myself.  I want it to be a loop.  I want it to go out and then have it come back to me.  I want to say sweet things to her in the middle of the day and know that it will come back to me at random.  Which it never will.  There’s a thing about stuff of this nature, if you have to be told to do it then it is meaningless.  You are only fulfilling a preordained task or obligation in order to satisfy a request.  You are only going through the motions.  A programmed meat robot acting out the events without a will of your own.  You need the desire and inception for it to matter.

It was these things that drew her to me in the first place.  What she doesn’t seem to understand is that there are two sides to it.  That you earn it.  That you are there for it, you receive it and make time for him.  That you return these thoughts, surprises and gestures.  That you think of him when he is not around and let him know.  That you, yourself are considerate in little ways.  That you keep him filled in and let him know with texts that you are thinking about him always.

I have been confused as to why she even wants me in her life lately.  I mentioned it to her and she seemed really upset but that actually confused me because after that I didn’t hear from her again until the next day.  even then we spoke some throughout the day, she was elusive as per usual these days and then from diner nothing.  I doubt I’ll hear from her until close to noon tomorrow.  I don’t know what has happened to her but I want the Kali that I fell in love with back.  The one that never stopped texting me.  That sent me a picture every half hour at the latest.  That was always trying to think of ways to see me.

I didn’t really come to this post to complain about her.  She is a wonderful woman and I really do love her.  I came here to declare that I need to work harder on myself and focus less on my relationships.  Focus less on external distractions.  When those things sort themselves out they can be a part of my life again.  In the meantime I have some housecleaning and creativity to get underway.  I’m only afraid that by the time that others are ready to be all in I might be too busy to be able to focus on that.  Or just too far out.  I guess this is how life goes.  It’s all one big sordid Greek tragedy.


Edit: I have a serious problem with the lack of communication.  It has been a theme in my past relationships and has always turned out to be a sign of a deeper issue.  We live in a communication rich era.  It is too easy to communicate in a myriad of ways: Text, being the easiest and quickest, but also, call or email are quick and simple.  You can facebook or facebook message too easy as well.  So when there is radio silence from someone I get really, really suspicious immediately.  Like, it drives me fucking mental.  It has always served me well, this instinct.  My wife decided to fuck off to her girlfriends for a weekend of binge-drinking without telling me and sure enough she was leaving me.  This is only one example of many.  Could I be over-reacting?  Sure, but I doubt it.  It really takes little to no effort to show someone that you care by picking up your phone and texting literally something so simple as: “Hey :)”



Here’s a strange question: Why?
It’s considered socially responsible and well-adjusted of us to desire order and peace. But, why? There isn’t a thing that man has done that isn’t the result of conflict. We outright declare that much of our progress is made through an arms race. We are taught that a story cannot exist without conflict. Conflict defines us whether we agree with this concept or not. “The Greatest Generation” is so called due to their triumph over not only the great depression, but the great war(s most specifically the second). So why? Why then are we so opposed to that which molds us, advances us and defines us?
Have we stopped to consider a world absolutely free of conflict? This is no utopia that you propose. This is the societal equivalent of a lifelong waiting room. More and more people, making more and more art, needing more and more food, taking more and more land. Until the art is bland and pointless and evokes no response. Images scraped over by dry blank eyes. Ears incapable of telling the difference from one song to the next. Until the land is too full of people to grow crops or livestock. Yet, we will be ingenuous and usurp all of this. We will find a way to grow food hydroponically, indoors. In labs. We are mostly already here. We will eventually develop a soma that will allow us to cope. Big pharma is halfway there. We will write stories. Imaginative tales of conflict that will frighten us back into shape. None of us ever having to struggle our entire lives, grateful that will will never have to.

We will know no satisfaction in a conflict-free world.  There will be no triumph, no sense of accomplishment.  We will be spoonfed meager goals which we will efficiently and effortlessly complete so that we may report for another.  Never once will we take away any glory from this.  To throw our efforts into a giant mill and watch it ground together with the labours of an infinitesimal number of others.  Indistinguishable.  Insignificant.  Undefined.  When we die there will nary be a comment about our exemplary performance.  The fine example we had set for all others to aspire to.  We will truly all be even.  Equally disregarded as merely another life in a sea of mediocrity.

Not only should we not fear nor shy away from conflict, we should embrace it.  For above all other things it is this which raises us above our peers.  Makes evident our outstanding nature and challenges others to surpass it.  The meals that we earn taste all the more sweet because we know that we are solely responsible for having them to enjoy.  So too is the victory earned through conflict.  We cannot sit idly by resting in the sheltered glory provided us by our forefathers.  We must go and take our own.  Carve our own path.

Be diplomatic.  Why?  There is no need for diplomacy if there is nobody left to argue with.  They say: violence doesn’t determine who is right, only who is left.  Why?  Is this intended to dissuade me?  The result is the same; minus one challenger, plus one delicious victory.  Yet, it doesn’t end here because a victory for you is tenfold in the eyes of potential challengers.  One conflict quells a potential dozen.

So, here is a strange question: why?  Why would you crave an empty world lacking in ways to challenge and define yourself?

Skipping Stones

I have been profoundly busy yet again.  I feel like not maintaining this blog with any consistency defeats the purpose.  I am still in the same relationship and find myself truthfully a little… stagnant?  She is a wonderful girl, she really is.  A fucking blessing.  Really.  Anyone would be seriously lucky to have her in their lives and yet here I am feeling kind of stale.  I know that it isn’t her fault.  It’s more than likely my disorder.  I love her.  She is super sweet and nice to be around, yet it gets to a point where for whatever reason I just want to be alone.  I simply want to have my own space.  The worst part being I only see her on weekends… So it isn’t as though she eats up all of my time or anything.

I catch myself thinking about my ex on occasion.  I confess that I do miss her in the way that you miss someone that you’ve loved deeply.  She stopped loving me about a month into our relationship.  I find it incredible how women can shut that off entirely and permanently.  Their total lack of sentiment.  It is a male trait only, women do not possess this I am certain of it.  I still, to this day, love every woman I have ever loved.  Even the ones who have wronged me.  You can rest assured that there isn’t a woman that I have loved who still loves me.  No more than a friend at least.  I’m still friends with a fair few of my exes.  Which is a feat seeing as I have difficulty making lasting connections with people.  I guess once you’ve been inside someone…

I caught some news about my ex and I guess she has taken up with a guy who is associated with drug use.  No surprise there, she likes sketchy guys.  She seems to have a thing for putting her children in jeopardy.  And she was worried about ME.  I could laugh but I am so used to the logical inconsistencies of this woman.  I swear she wakes up and throws darts to make decisions.  Oh, and she is a manager at her workplace.  No joke.  She can’t seem to make one reasonable decision in any aspect of her life that makes any bit of logical sense and yet her job is to make decisions for a living that affect the jobs of perhaps more than a dozen people.  It’s laughable.  I guess that’s why there is a lawsuit being leveled against her in that capacity.  She used to gripe about it and expect me to commiserate.  I never overly agreed with her but this seemed to upset her so eventually I just nodded and agreed until she stopped talking.  I knew she was wrong.  I genuinely hope that she herself seeks professional psychological assistance.  She really does need it.  I say this because I care about her and I want her to be well.  She should be taking medication.

Moving on to new and important things.  I have moved and now live in a house with some friends.  My room is spectacularly decorated.  New queen sized bed, Calvin Klein sheets.  The room was small so I had to be super clever with furniture selection and layout.  I went to college for art with the intention of going the design route (which I never finished) I’ve demonstrated in my room my knack for it.  I am quite chuffed with myself.  The colours are masculine without being tacky or typical.  It is very modern.  It makes for a very good sexual experience as while it is masculine it is not uninviting to women.  The kind of manly women desire like a straight man who is well dressed.  There are no sports knick knacks or posters of scantily clad women on the walls.  Though there will be tasteful nudes from a friend’s art show soon.

My motorcycle has yet to be touched due to lack of funding.  I have had no time for that nor archery.  Vacation is coming up.  I intend to lay low and have a staycation with beer and maybe some creative writing.

Just a short update to keep the boulder rolling for now.

Poorly defined.

There is an idea of a Patrick Bateman, some kind of abstraction, but there is no real me. Only an entity, something illusory. And though I can hide my cold gaze, and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our life styles are probably comparable, I simply am not there.”  – Patrick Bateman from American Psycho, by Bret Easton Ellis.


I have spoken in the past of my poorly grafted frankenpersonality and my social mimicry, now it would seem that it is time to revisit this subject.  Because I truly believe at my core that I am empty, a hollow shell of a human-being with nothing of substance inside to offer.  I have been asked by my therapist, Lilith, to make an exercise of it.  To determine who I am.  When I was a teenager, around fifteen I think I wrote two poems and coined a term for what I believed myself to be.  The term is the title of the first poem as follows:

Never Man:

I am the reflection of a paperback novel,
I am poet type casted as a murderer.
I am an act but not an actor,
I am blessing under cover.
I am a fact but not a factor,
I am a lesson as a lover.
I am a demon on vacation,
I am the product of experiments.
I am your roaming free spirit,
I am the bearer of an evil eye.
I am the season of winter,
I am a psychological sneeze.
I am an antisocial nocturn,
I am a black and white collage.
I am never going to happen,
I am Theodor Geisel’s biggest fan.

You know, I was probably more clever and switched on then than I am now.  That kid has me figured out.  He was utterly correct and still is.  The second poem is a continuation in the negative, titled the same, part two!  As follows:

Never Man II:

I am not an artificially intelligent ego,
I am not a self inflicted sacrifice.
I am not among the socially profound,
I am not a hedonistic daydream.
I am not the product of our society,
I am not the echo of an afterthought.
I am not without a sense of tragedy,
I am not going to wait for life to happen.
I am not a reality addict,
I am not interested in what others believe.
I am not going to allow myself to delegate,
I am not the conductor of routine ritual.
I am not a dissipating disappointment,
I am not your enemy.

Oddly enough I think I’m working against the grain on the second one.  I mean, yeah I may not be those things but I am slowly drifting toward them.  It looks like I need to shape up.

The Neverman is poorly defined and has been since.  Nothing has changed.  Dysphorian and Jack are one and the same and both are a middle shade of grey.  Sure, my behaviours may land in the extreme but are they all that defines me?  Almost.  I have few hobbies.  Few friends.  Few relatives.  No pets.  No mate.  No accomplishments, unless you count surviving depression but to what end?
There are always soft skills.  I can undo a bra through a shirt with one hand.  While mixing a martini with the other.  Just kidding.  About the martini, the first part was true.  I’m fashionable.  I’m fashion conscious, tapped in to changing trends and I advise others when the situation arises (sometimes when it isn’t even requested).  I am a very fine cook when I have the required equipment at hand, owing to an endeavour that I never saw through to the end.  I refer of course to my culinary experiences.  I haven’t finished any schooling, I hold no tradesman papers and I have no certificates.  I am not an angler nor a hunter.  I am a novice archer.  A promising novice archer at that.  So am I defined by an antiquated skill with an obsolete weapon/tool?  I am not Dysphorian the archer.

I hold it true, whate’er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
‘Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.

Canto XXVII of In Memoriam by Lord Alfred Tennyson,

I have abundantly loved.  If such love is lofty and I have ascended, my descent was equally thus and tragic all the more.  My heart is an icebreaker.  Carving through tundra ice shelves until run adrift on craggy sharp rocks and dashed.  This is where my lust takes me.  I have a passion for women that cannot be sated.  I pursue them with the intention of no more than a sexual encounter.  Instant carnal gratification.  Alas, my foolish heart becomes mired in the ice, carving away at the austere exterior of a woman I only just met.  A woman fascinated with Jack’s boisterous and charismatic nature.  They are quite taken with me right away.  I will be honest here, I usually go through the motions because I don’t have the heart to be mean, I lack a killer instinct as I’ve mentioned in the past.  I cannot simply walk away on them and while I am physically attracted to them there is always the chance that we could carry on sleeping together…  Then it happens, I begin to fall in love, my own lust and passion becomes legitimate emotions, feelings of attachment.  As this is occurring, little by little she begins to lose interest in me.  This is why my longest relationship has lasted 2 years.  The rest of the time the plan mostly works, I meet a woman who is in it for the ultra short-term and she calls it quits before either of us becomes invested.  Win-win.  There are pros and cons to this.  Pros:  I understand female sexual anatomy better than about 99.99997% of the standard male population, I’m very pro-women out of an organic relationship with femininity and I usually put the seat down when I’m finished.  Cons: I will grow old alone.  Are we defined by our relationship with a spouse?  I’m not even sure that monogamy is natural to humans.  So no, we are definitely not defined by our partner, those come and go, die of cancer, cheat on you and leave, or just betray you because they don’t like the fact that you are depressed.  If you rely on other people to define who you are, I think you need to do some soul searching.

“We are what we repeatedly do.  Excellence, then, is not an act, but a habit.”  – Aristotle

I’ve held many jobs.  This and nothing more.  I’ve never had a career nor a vocation.  I’ve never been truly passionate about anything other than the feminine form and the destruction of dislogic.  I cannot abide the spread of misinformation and falsehoods which grows alarmingly contrary to what you would believe given our increasing connectivity.  You would imagine that with breakthroughs in science and technology we would have become more enlightened and have been able to disseminate this information more effectively to the masses.  One would like to think that the population of Earth would be better informed and able to detect myths and fallacies.  However things are going the opposite direction.  The religions of the world are doing their best to confuse and obscure the truth from the masses.  They are actively attempting to sabotage and even shut down educational and scientific research programs in favour of religious teaching.  There are conspiracy based “concerned parents” clucking like Chicken Little over the sky falling about every little thing from drinking water, vaccines, what our food contains to GMO’s.  None of which is remotely a concern to anyone.  At all.  In fact, the opposite is true in every case.  They are rallying for a worse planet.  People who are free of disease, with a virtual limitless supply of clean drinking water, plenty of food and places to live. These people are actively attempting to reverse all of these by combating science and replacing it with prayer because that’s working so well everywhere in the world that this is the case.  So I am in the habit of trouncing this whenever and wherever it crops up.  I am also in the habit of finding myself on/in/under any or all attractive women I can find who are willing to do so with me.  I don’t know that this makes me excellent by definition but my fourteen year old self is giving me a high five.  Good enough.  Again, not sure if these are viable ways in which one gauges or qualifies themselves.  They are traits, but defining?  Distinctive, definitely.

Self improvement is masturbation.  Now self destruction is the answer.”  – Tyler Durden

from Fight Club, by Chuck Palahniuk.

I put effort into appearance.  For the sake of women.  For the perception of responsibility and competency.  The clothes often do make the man.  I go out of my way to present myself well.  I exercise as a matter of course for my current occupation.  I am in good shape.  I am no body builder but I am fit.  I am naturally attractive and I take steps to preserve and highlight my features in order to accentuate my natural allure.  I am man pretty.  So much so that as I have mentioned in the past teenaged girls have remarked on my appearance.  I don’t know why but I consider this a big deal, if young women still find you attractive then you must still have something.  This being said however, and for as much as I love being appealing, I think that improving yourself is mostly a self-indulgent exercise.  Not saying that you shouldn’t do it.  As I wouldn’t tell you not to masturbate.  However, this is all that it is and nothing more.  Now, getting to the heart and fun of things is when you tear it all down.  The act of ruin is what I excel at and infinitely more exciting.  There is something that becomes giddy and effervescent inside at the thought of binge drinking (possibly doing drugs, I won’t lie) and sleeping with random women.  Like the thrill of throwing yourself out of a perfectly good plane.  Or perhaps more extreme such as Russian roulette.  In any case the thought of going so wild I might never come back sometimes is all that gets me through.  Life is so dreary, it requires chaos from time to time, otherwise what really is the point?  I am not entirely certain how this defines me though I am certain that it does in a fairly big way.


I who am dead a thousand years,
And wrote this sweet archaic song,
Send you my words for messengers
The way I shall not pass along.

I care not if you bridge the seas,
Or ride secure the cruel sky,
Or build consummate palaces
Of metal or of masonry.

But have you wine and music still,
And statues and a bright-eyed love,
And foolish thoughts of good and ill,
And prayers to them who sit above?

How shall we conquer? Like a wind
That falls at eve our fancies blow,
And old Maeonides the blind
Said it three thousand years ago.

O friend unseen, unborn, unknown,
Student of our sweet English tongue,
Read out my words at night, alone:
I was a poet, I was young.

Since I can never see your face,
And never shake you by the hand,
I send my soul through time and space
To greet you. You will understand.

To A Poet A Thousand Years Hence, by James Elroy Flecker.

It saddens me that poetry is a dead artform.  I blame slam poetry.  I blame New York.  I blame the same people who are watering down our education system.  Don’t get me wrong I love a good rapper, KRS-1, Mos Def and Eminem are all extremely talented poets.  There are also many others who are very good except to be fair a resounding majority of rap is murdering english and making people at large moronic.  So is pop-country.  Not country music, pop-country, there is a huge difference.  Merle Haggard is alright, Johnny Cash knows what’s good.  This modern bleating that is essentially pop music with a steel guitar and a twangy voice can fuck right off.  Also to be fair to everyone else my poetry wasn’t the finest.  I was a blend of Pablo Picasso  and Salvador Dali in English free verse.  I would sometimes blend words for evocative imagery and flow rather than logic or even cohesive ideas.  I left meaning to the reader sometimes at other times I lead the reader and if they didn’t follow I didn’t care.  Once a poem is written my concern with it’s perception and interpretation is over.  So when I say that I was Picasso/Dali I am not boasting, I mean that I adapted these philosophies and techniques, their style and attitude and applied it to words in English and did so quite organically.  Poetry used to be a very large part of who I was.  For a time I was inspired to write and I am the very picture of the tortured, struggling writer.  It isn’t that I don’t have the ideas, more really that I hate them and by extension myself for them.  I don’t doubt that they are better than a majority of what is out there but I hate myself before I even write them down.  I do not take even constructive criticism well.  When I am actually proud of my writing if someone doesn’t like it I pretty much think that they should die instantly for being the stupidest person ever.  I’m actually not kidding.  Not even a little.  I wouldn’t dare to believe that I am a poet.  Or that it is even a badge that I wear.  I’m not published, it is hardly a defining feature.

So who then, am I?

Lonely Morning:

Like shadows christened in your kiss, a gesture only you could know, like sighs that follow laughter.

A winking eye captured in darkness, like squinting at intruding light which rapes the wholesome breath of day. Clouds are forming in your brow, the cigarettes that follow sex; in this we share a single truth.

Lie to me; I prefer your hasty words. I’d rather that I didn’t know what wrinkles lines into your lips. Drying saliva marks your neck with glossy memories of me, which last much longer than the moisture.

Christened shadows awoke your kiss to sighs I breathe into your flesh. Is this the truth we share? Only to hide it from ourselves with lies? You are the sighs that follow my laughter, the sex I smoke away.

Dysphorian, original. Age 16.

My pale, languid sixteen year old body made a canvas of several girls and spat forth this.  Even then a lover and thinker.  Perhaps I was pretentious or a little bit too ambitious.  Maybe I was ahead of my years in so far as my experiences and reflections.  Who can know?  All that we can know is that it is obvious that I was gifted, troubled, alone and hypomanic. I keep hearing from people that I can’t let my disorder define me. This is horribly unhelpful advice. In many ways it’s at the very core of who and what I am. My compulsions, reactions and impulses fueled by it. And I own it. I’m not ashamed of who I am anymore than a leopard is ashamed of its predatory nature. I am what I was genetically predisposed to become. I am raw potential and capability. I am an alpha. An apex predator. So when I hear people complaining to me about my nature, about my behavior. When I hear people telling me that I need to fit in, I feel like a wolf being asked to fit in with sheep. I was born resplendent. So why relegate myself to mediocrity?

So who am I? How am I defined? By what significant feature am I marked? My journey. Upon reflection, what might be considered an identity crisis was only a perspective readjustment. You see, the definition of self isn’t a static picture. No person is ever complete as you are perpetually working toward a more complete you whilst discarding aspects of yourself no longer useful to you. Identity is a process. I am defined by my struggle, so in a way I actually am my disorder. Jack is as much me as Dysphorian. This is not to say that I’m good where I am or that I’m done. Far from it, I have lengths to go and many more trials yet to face. I am defined by the obstacles that I face and how I react to my challenges.

In short dear reader, I am a leopard. The spots won’t change that’s true and I will still be a stealthy and cunning predator. Though I may have to adapt to a new environment to learn to overcome. Accept that I might no longer be the apex predator in these parts and maybe even learn to work in a group in order to survive.






There Are People


There are people.
There are people waiting for a bus.
There are people mired in self doubt.
There are people waving to their loved ones.
There are people giving advice.
There are people learning to cope with inadequacies.
There are people taking the train to Copenhagen.
There are people learning to ride a bicycle.
There are people who work two jobs and have two mortgages.
There are people adjusting to the emotional reaction of sexual activity.
There are people who take communication for granted.
There are people who have faith.
There are people who are making mistakes.
There are people who blame the government.
There are people who need more love.
There are people who are flying a kite.
There are people who forget which fork to use in the place setting.
There are people who use Verdana bold.
There are people who drink American beer.
There are people who waste time on things that don’t exist and spend none on those that do.
There are people who are late for work.
There are people with cancer.
There are people who laugh from their very soul.
There are people playing music all around you if you’ll only listen.
There are people stuck in traffic.
There are people desperately trying to save the lives of the impoverished, presumably so they can be miserable longer.
There are people who make food from dirt.
There are people who slide on sidewalks in the rain.
There are people who went to CBGB’s
There are people alone and lonely.
There are people in the great land of China.
There are people who have children accidentally on an overpopulated planet then fail to raise them.
There are people posing for pictures in pre-nuclear apocalyptic ignorance.
There are people.


I’ve had a fire lit under my ass lately with regards to writing.  If I seem to be shirking my blog it is more than likely due to the fact that I have bigger more productive things to focus my writing efforts on.  Not that I won’t be writing here, only that my creative endeavours will be taking priority as they are more rewarding.  I will have a continued need to drain my mind of all things bipolar.  At present I actually feel super anxious.  I have yet to face the music at work and that has me really on edge.  With a hyperactive creative mind I find myself unconsciously concocting super-dramatized scenarios that are not in my favour and incredibly unpleasant.  I really do not look forward to going back to work.  There is no amount of drugs that doesn’t match a sedative/lethal dose that could make me feel more at ease with returning to that cess pool.  I have been able to distract myself by focusing most of this energy on creative writing however so it hasn’t been totally terrible.

I’m working on some high fantasy which I was super self-conscious about because I felt as though it was trashy.  It is the standard elves and goblins Tolkienesque type schlock.  Though, after going through amazons top selling list I feel much better about it and myself.  The puerile garbage that people fucking read these days disturbs the ever loving fuck out of me…  It gave me fuckloads of confidence, then at the same time stole a fair amount from me.  Sure, people read total abject fucking trash.  Yes, they are likely to read my shitty, high fantasy epic wading in the sea of other medieval fantasy junk out there.  Sadly, mine more than likely won’t stand out.  Nor if it does will it be appreciated for it’s style and the originality that it does present.  Bah, why do I overthink it.  All I really need to do is shit out a book.  Any damn book, good or bad and get past it.  Move on to the next one and so on.  The reason I am writing this particular story is because this is what is coming to me, I am simply following the idea that is coming to me.

I want to read more as well and I never was one to read much fantasy.  I always found it rather dubious and simplistic.  It never occurred to me that there are people out there that have a difficult time being creative and so the very simple concept of making shit up is complicated to them.  Here is all of fantasy in a nutshell:  Invent a race of people that is like humans with different dimensions, repeat as necessary.  Make some good, make some bad, make some neutral (these ones choose a side for the grand final battle).  Invent a system of magic, base it on colours or elements.  Maybe numbers or symbols, perhaps seasons or something completely whimsical, you decide!  This is fantasy after all!  Decide who can wield magic and how complicated that is.  Pick an underdog and make them the hero, everybody loves an idiot that triumphs despite being totally useless in all other ways (Frodo, Harry potter, Luke Skywalker… all really shitty heroes that were totally useless and haphazardly chosen for no real reason *destiny*).  Big scary, all-powerful bad guy.  A band of puckish, rag-tag good-guys.  A journey.  A battle.  Win.  ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ…  I mean, this shit was cool when you were six.  If you hadn’t figured out that all of the big stories that you ever read and watched on the silver screen were one story by the age of twelve you are a tad stunted.  Or perhaps you hadn’t read Tolkien by then… Some kids are slow.  I forget.  Aside from all these things that they have in common they share another thing:  They do not have a female protagonist.  Or better still, protagonists.  Or better than this yet:  Anti-heroines.  Which is what my property features.  Strong female characters on the fringe or completely outside of society ultimately doing the right thing.  Throat-cutting, head-butting, heart-piercing, arrow-loosing, man-tracking, nose-breaking, ass-kicking women.  I’m rather excited about it.

I will be putting a fair amount of my time into that.  Hopefully I will come up for air now and then and things will improve for me.  Maybe with any luck this recent event at work will get the ball rolling toward that transfer I was looking for.  I doubt it but one can always hope.