Anxiety is like a sinkhole, you never know when you are standing on quicksand

We are all alone. But somehow this knowledge leads us to a belief that we are unique or special.

When instead we should consider the more dreary likelihood that are not clever, nor special.

We are tumbleweeds. We drag our scythe across the mythic culture of our minds. We plant the soil with seeds of our sinister being.

The brains tiny folds and twists found in the forebrain, the reason we can be human, are in fact also thought to be ditches, irrigating the hatred of 3 billion years of evolution on to consciousness itself.

The screams of our forebears will outlive us all.

The cancer can't return if it never left

I don't know about you, but I am damn confident that the cancer has returned.  I am having trouble breathing again.  But this time I really don't care.  I think this blog should just be thought of as a really long suicide note.  I'll keep writing and one day after I am dead you will come along and read it.

One day you are going to miss me and the next best thing to me being there is reading my blog.  

So this will be all you have, and you'll probably read too much into the stuff I was kidding about and not enough into the stuff I really meant to say and care about, but shit man, that's just you!  That's why you let me die/ that's why you never really cared about me.

Are you lonely. Too bad. I don't want my words to comfort you.  You really don't deserve anything nice to happen for you because in the end you let me down,  Just like society, just like me parents. Just like every woman who spread her legs for me.  You all suck and you never cared about me.

That's okay I guess.  I care enough about myself for the two of us.  For the three of us really.  It's just self preservation mechanism so don't judge me too harshly. When you are unlovable and weird you have to love yourself.

I am not sure when I got so unlovable, but I know that it's no coincidence that I stopped carrying about the world as soon as it stopped carrying about me.

I have to get a new doctor as I am 1,000 dollars behind in payments.  He won't give me an appointment until I give him money.   Some strange sensations are in my chest.  Feels like they are caving in.  I am sure that is serious.  But I have an appointment with my cancer doc in Sept..  Hopefully I live until then.

I am thirsty.  I need a beer. If you'll wait I get a few and then maybe huff some PLEDGE and we can get the party started.

Is it pure cowardice to just let yourself die?

I think so.  But then again, I have always been a coward so I don't see the reason things should change.  I never got my radiation done.  I have no idea if I am cured.  Everyone around me acts like I am cured just because I gained 76 pounds of fat recently.

Yes. I am fat.  You can be fat and have cancer.  You can be nice, you can be an asshole.  Nothing seems to matter as to who gets it.  Just random chance.  I think my gall bladder is fucked though.  I will need a new one.  Or maybe they just remove the whole thing.  I don't care anymore.

I think I used to be funny.  But I don't think I am funny anymore.  I don't know what happened.  But I am really not funny anymore.  It really sucks, because I thought I could always hang my hat on that,  But I bore the shit out of myself now.  I hear my flat 'try too hard' comments and I'm like..."Who the fuck are you?  Please shut the fuck up.  You are like SO not funny now."

What else do I have though guys?

Have you seem my fat face?  It's kinda sad.  I am old and no one loves me anymore.  

OLD people depress me because I am a victim of the society that I live in.  I want eternal youth.  I just want to be able to play a game of pick up basketball again.  But my decapitated toe and my lungs just say fuck you.  I give in too easily to the depression and give in to the momentum of  my life which is mostly not leaving the house.  Mostly it's just me sitting here alone typing on screens and typing into social networks and drinking beer and cola and smoking pot that makes me a bit wired and crazy and forgetful.  I am losing my keys tomorrow for sure. But masturbating to weed is nice and way better than sex with girls though i am thinking that sex with girls is something I miss.

Women are turning against me because I am loser.  The good women I mean.  I can't blame them.

There is a trashy skank at work who might fuck me.  Let's just hope I get her pregnant,  I need to start a family with all my sickness, all the nothingness that eats at my heart, all the cancer that stops and starts and spreads before me.  Let it eat away at me.  Let me wither on the vine like Social Security during a Republican's administration.

Donald Trump is my hero.

I said it and 

i wont take it back

grizzly mom bear 

protector

TRUMP CASTLe

Rescue me. 

How to be A Kool Kid

Start with a pitcher of blue Kool Aid mixed with meth. It will taste bad. Have you ever accidentally tasted comet® while cleaning your bathroom? A splash of shit, powder chemical, and chlorinated water splashes your tongue.

Imagine your drink tasted like that except you have poured a whole bottle of comet® into a pitcher. It tastes bitter, your taste buds will explode with dissent.

This is how we contemplate life. A pitcher of blue shit shatters on the bathroom floor. The jagged edges stab your wrists and forearms. Blood flows towards the toilet, towards the shower, towards the drain.

Here. In this misery, I feel your pain. I feel your uncoiled tentacles grip. Release me. Grip.

You can stir comet® all day and the shit never dissolves. You can stir Meth all day long and the shit never dissolves. You can wipe your shit on the toilet. You can smear blood along the rim.

You already know everything. Why do people search for the truth? Truth is easy to find. It's with us all along. It's the gut feeling we've always had. We aren't stopping anytime soon. We will always need bath salts, meth, beer and weed. We will always tell ourselves we'll stop. And we will never stop.

The brain pops like microwaved eggs on a plate Sunnyside up. The brain regrets and acts like it has nothing to do with you. Serotonin receptors ping pong a tell-all to any doctor worth his salt.

The bags below your eyes swell with fluid. Stings of pain run along your backside like tiny scorpions. You pop in and out of existing. Your brain works backward like a camera obscura. Sentences stay stuck in dark recesses. Words are forgotten.

The Kool°AID man stares through the wall. Shards of glass jump to the death from your hands. Cascades of sliver. Cascades of ice. One more puff. One more snort.

An ass crack runs down the wall. An ass crack runs against the floor. A blood, shit mess. This world. This world is a blood stained, shit, mess.

AN URGENT MESSAGE AND CALL FOR ACTION FROM THE MEN'S RIGHTS MOVEMENT

This is an urgent MEN'S RIGHTS MOVEMENT (MRM) ACTION CALL to BOYCOTT KENNY ROGERS. Kenny Rogers is an incarnation of Evil.* He is Lucifer. He is the deceiver.

Kenny Rogers stopped caring about men the day he wrote the deliberately deceitful song Coward of the County. The song, ostensibly a celebration of non-violence, is in truth a celebration of the myth of the violence-loving man.

The song begins it's deception by lauding the hero/coward for his "turning the other cheek" and for his "walking away from trouble."

But soon we discover that a true hero never walks away from violence. What the song really glorifies when the coward "turns to lock the door" is an apotheosis of destruction and fisticuffs. We learn that a real man is defined as a beast, and that in the end HE MUST fight in order to be considered A REAL MAN.

Can we only blame Kenny Rogers? Or is there a sinister plot somehow involving Hillary Clinton here?

Kenny Rogers penned the tune during the 1970's, a period of time when feminism was rampant, bras were burned, and Hillary Clinton was prosecuting America's best president before Reagan.

In addition to running the corrupt effort to destroy a great American, Hillary Rhodam Clinton was a well known figure in the CIA program that secretly dosed high profile American male celebrities with LSD. Perhaps this explains the deeply rooted feminism found in the Coward of the County...

Certainly, I find it difficult to understand why such a masculine specimen like Kenny Rogers could pen a song that would disparage an entire group of men...We ALL KNOW that FEMINISM has a profound and secret revulsion at all things male like beards and masculinity and it goes with out saying that the 1970's Kenny Rogers was a PROUD and MASCULINE man with a massive and proud (and one could say) REGAL beard and I for one would not put it past a feminist like Hilary to be jealous of such a beard and to secretly pine for such a beard for herself or to at least date a man with a massive awesome beard like Kenny Rogers has (and should we mention that he makes an awesome chicken?)

The MEN"S RIGHTS MOVEMENT also takes GREAT ACCEPTATION to the women who convinced KEnny ROgers to get plastic surgery as we all know that it is only the craven woman who in her vanity requires the scalpel and sword to beautify her. I see no other reason a man like Kenny ROgers would entertain the idea of plastic surgery. Perhaps his affiliation will Dolly Parton was used to inculcate this once great man with the hidden agenda of Hillary Clinton.

To sum up: Stop buying Kenny Roger albums. And did you know that Hillary Clinton was running for office? She's running for president to take away your rights as a man. It's open season on white males in this country and we need to get our country back from the bra burning hippies like Bill and Hillary Clinton.

May god rest your souls and have a very blessed day.

*{Not to be confused with the Sci-Fi Fantasy series of books Incarnations of Immortality written by part time pedophile Piers Anthony.}

For more information oN the Men's rights movement please watch FOX news and Bill O'r Reilly.

Delusion: An epiphany at Appomattox, or I am a work of art. I will not allow you to fat shame me. Even though I be male. I am worthy. I am something. Consider me. Love Me.

My best friend is leaving town.  Not that it matters as we hardly see each other anymore since she moved back in with her parents a few months ago.  She only lives about 40 minutes away, but it might was well be on the other side of the country.  But now I won't be able to say,  "I could always go visit."

I am all alone.  I guess I will be alone for a long time.  My brother may someday move close to me, or I to him.  We are both 40 and single.  Something is wrong with him though,  I think he has real problems getting close to people.  Sometimes I think of him as a person with Asperger's disease.  He doesn't.  But I haven't been able to diagnose his problems.

My problems are easy to diagnose.  I hate myself.  I hate my life.  I have no energy, no meaning.  I would hate to put that out there and actually expose a woman to that.  Also, I'm quite bad looking.  So no woman will have me.  Currently I am entertaining a neck beard.  Also, I refuse to bathe.  I have forgotten to brush my teeth,  change clothes, or wash my sheets.

Truly, things have gotten quite nasty lately.  I have only myself to blame. Not that my initial impulse isn't to blame others.  I'm a lot like all the women on Tumblr...I have expectations that don't match reality.  300 pound women don't get Ryan Phillipe.  Just like 239 pound fat guys don't get wispy photog models who read Proust and explain his connection to Marx to you.

It just doesn't happen that way.  I know I need to change the way I think.   I have been lowering my expectations.  Two years ago I dated a homeless girl who was beaten by her ex boyfriends.  She had several children that she often couldn't take care of.  I couldn't keep her interested.  Basically she knew she could do better than me, and she was right.

At least I have stopped feeling sorry for myself.  I don't waste time crying over my situation anymore. Instead I cry because television makes me sad, commercials and prime time TV is really great at manipulating my emotions.  Six, seven times a day I tear up. Then I pop a anti anxiety pill and forget.

Denial.

I'm in denial a lot.  Like Cancer.  I eat like a pig.  I drink soda again.  I eat at McDonald's. I don't get my blood tests.  I can't afford some of the medications I am on.  I am skipping treatments.  I have to borrow money soon.  I'll have to borrow from my mother.  I have never done that.  Not in my life.  Either that or accept my brother's generosity (charity.)  I hate doing this.  I hate my job.  But I need to get back soon.  I need to pay back my landlord.  I owe them 2,000.  Jesus.  I am an asshole. Just go back to work and make some fucking money.  These people are allowing me to sit here and type.  Why?

I have no idea why anyone would help me live.  I have never done a thing, never lifted a finger for anyone else in my life.  I am broke human being.  I barely qualify as a moral being.  I should at least kill for money.  Then at least my life would have meaning.  Then the evil that sits in my heart could be released,  At least the world would make more sense.

People could say things like, "That guy was dirtbag."  And it would be true,  Instead, everyone has to donate money to my cancer fund because I'm just some sad sack that got cancer too early in life.  When we all know that the Cancer has been there all along.  Eating away at me from the inside.  Destroying my will to live, causing me to sit here pondering death.  Waiting for it all to end. God gave me this chance.  HE said/ Romius/ He's your real chance now. Fuck it and give up.  Let me take care of this.  Stop being a coward.

 Come home to me.  

Near the end

Unlike you, I am very aware.  Overly aware of everything.  Even the nature of my breaths.  I imagine that is why I am altering my CO2 levels.  It is why I am literally gasping for air as I write.  Too much thought and we mess up the unconscious nature of our living programs.  The animal in us was not meant to take control of the process of living as with such detail.  Though the doctors and the television will doubtless tell us differently.

  

Why are you reading about me on the Internet?

Sometimes I like mayo on sandwiches.  But only on sub sandwiches, not on regular bread sandwiches. And not a lot of mayo, just a little. Too much mayo ruins anything.

I'm not telling you this because I want you to tell me how much mayo you like on your sandwiches.  I don't care if you like mayo, or mustard.

 I don't care if you like sandwiches at all.

Suicidal Musings:Towards a Theory of the Social Psychology of Poverty

I poured a glass of coke into a plastic 16 oz red cup that is generally reserved for parties by teens and college students.  It was actually my second glass.  The first coke is my coffee and the second is my breakfast.

Winter is upon us.  Outside it's cloudy, dark and dreary.  It's only 3, but looks like it's 7.

I just got a call that told me that my insurance has been cancelled and that I will need to purchase COBRA insurance.  I am sure that will be a huge cost.  My nurse that follows my case was the person that called.  Not my insurance company.  They were just not going to tell me apparently.  I'm calling them tomorrow to find out what's going on.

My debit card is expired which is good news.  It will cancel the paper subscription I have tried to cancel for over a year.

After my second coke I decided to go the store to purchase flour tortillas.  I buy the kind that are paper thin.  They expire on the 7th which means I will be eating lots of tortillas.  If you are from the north or simply don't have a lot of experience purchasing tortillas, let me tell you how.  Don't but the ones that are thick like cakes buy as thin as possible.  Thick tortillas are terrible and inauthentic. Abuelita would never make them so.

The line was long at Food City.  Someone had food stamps, but forgot their cash and had to put back laundry soap.  I waited for 15 minutes.  I did not have a basket and the weight of my few items grew heavy because  the chemotherapy and my inactivity has reduced my strength considerably.

Next I visited the Family Dollar Store.  I need a yellow marker for the online Marxist course I am taking.  Also a group of notebooks.  I get over charged for the college ruled paper but don't make a fuss.

The store plays Lorde's Royals in between telling you that shoplifting is a crime.  They have cameras watching and encourage you to say something if you see something.

Two groups of crack/meth addicts walk in.  Among the first group one blond woman in her late 30's or early 40's has a nice body.  Kept trim by her addiction I consider whether I would give her money.  Luckily I jerked off last night and my withered nutsack is only vaguely interested in getting released.  Money problems prevent me from spending on prostitution as well. I have no problem with paying for sex morally.  I think it empowers women. Prostitution is like an ancient form of Katy Perry.  Girl Power and shit.

Everyone at the Family Dollar store is poor.  Most do not try and hide it.  The checkout girl has rat hair swept up in a loose ponytail.  She offers a weary smile.  I think it hides an invitation,  Like I'm cute of something.  I can hear the plastic tubing of my TAC line rustling under my shirt.

I haven't bathed this week and my shirt has some kind of oil stain on it.  But I don't look any different from anyone else.  Most people in the store are out of fashion.  They wear ill fitting clothes,  They can't afford to go to laundromat.

Why must everyone look so sad?  Why must they look so poor?  Why are they drug addicts, immigrants, and homeless?

Why I am here? I guess I am one of them.  This idea makes me sadder.  I haven't had any pain pills or Xanax to counter their effects today.   I am susceptible to glomming onto their milieu.

Fuck it.  After I get my change I walk back to my car.