My last cat joke ever. I promise.

Robin Williams likes to talk a lot about cats in his stand up comedy.  He does a lot of hissing and scratching miming.

I don't do that kind of thing.  Mostly because I don't like animals.  Though I do talk a lot of about kittens.  Like how useful they are to science and stuff.

Now I know you animal rights activists will get all upset at me.  Some people get really disgusted by my joking about animal testing.  Even though right now there is some scientist somewhere experimenting on cats.

I can't stop picturing Robin Williams as that scientist.  He's bending down to talk to the twin kittens. He is applies mascara to one kitten before trying to calm down the other kitty.

"I have no idea what's going to happen here."  He says to the control kitten. "He could be okay."  He tries to reassure Control Kitty with his voice.

"Really?" Control Kitty replies.  "Nothing bad at all?"

"Possible side effects include: dry mouth, anal bleeding, itchy eyes, blotchy skin, projectile vomiting, and loose stools." robin deadpans.

"Great!" exclaims the Control.  "You had me at loose stools! So glad to have 'volunteered' for this.

Uzbekistan spies, the singularity , and AIDS

I met a beautiful Uzbeki woman the other day.  At first I was quite astonished that she appeared so interested in me.  But then it came to me.  It was so obvious!  Of course she is a secret double agent programmed by KimJong il to assassinate me via nanotechnology robots infected with AIDS which will take over my brain and force me to kill, all because I know a Lady Robot Scientist who is hard at work destroying humanity by allowing the singularity to come about from the Robot Apocalypse.

I have no idea who to trust anymore.  Nor any idea what I should do.  At least we can take heart that the one redeeming quality in the North Korean Peninsula is that the great leader is trying to do everything possible to stop the robot apocalypse!

Even if it means killing me!  I understand the sacrifices that warriors must make in war.  If I must die, so be it.  At least it will be at the hands of the stunning Uzbeki woman dressed in all white.  And at least I know my death will save millions, maybe billions.

I stand ready Great Leader!

Instruct me! Death to the singularity! Long live humanity!  Long live Kim Jong Il!

Last night I went drinking at Muggshots. I drank alone because my female pedophile boss decided to ditch me to be with her cat instead.

So I drank alone, and the bartender closed the bar early, and I drank only one beer, and then I had to pay an extra charge because they had a minimum charge for credit cards, and I had no cash on me.

So I cursed my luck and started hating cats even more, but then I saw a cat eat a bird on the way home, and I remembered that I hate birds more.

Follow me on Twitter

If you aren't following me on twitter, you really should be.

twitter.com@romiust

Make me wish upon a star.

I think they should have a make-a-wish for fourty year old men who failed at life.  Why should children who are going to be dead in six months get all the fun? After all people like me will probably live for years more, appreciating the one moment we got in our lives that actually worked.

It's all dripping out of my ass

My ass has become a mustard factory.  I am producing about two pints of mustard yellow liquid a day.  If there are any takers just bring your containers over to my toilet and partake of the most foul smelling explosion of frothy mixture your fetish will allow.

Now that we have got that out of the way, I am looking forward to Thursday.  I have breakfast with my Caribbean Queen, lunch with the EXGF, and I am celebrating the FRO's birthday with him and married lawyer and the X man.  So it should be a big day for me!

The pill makes me do it

I float in the clouds.  I am sanitized, baptized in the chemical love of anti-depressants, so I am less anxious. I have less of the strange bodily sensations that have been such an omnipresent part of my life for the last 7 months.

Because of the pill I am making small talk at work.  I am discussing the most inane things with customers.  Sometimes the customers actually grow tired of listening to me.  They walk off when I am telling them how much I love the particular brand of peanut butter they are buying, or I am regaling them with stories I find on the internet about giant boxes of lucky charm marshmallows that can be bought.

I am sorry about all that.

But the LexePro does not make me happy.  It just eases the misery of living.  It allows me to peak my head out from under my shell.  It makes me at times chatty and social, far more than my regular self.  But I guess I that is a price you will just have to pay if you get in my line.

I have noticed that customers seem to respond to my cheery self more.  I seem to perk people up and brighten there day when I ask how they are and seem genuine in my concern.

The pill makes me do it.

I smile and my voice has this sing song gay sounding tune of clerk friendliness which for some reason doesn't annoy me all the time I do it.  It's very strange.  Well not very strange.

It hasn't changed me.  I'm not really that interested in you.  I am able to tolerate your small mindedness if I can make a crack about it, or steer us to a topic that interests me.  Like cell phones, or the like.

I do have to report that I'm still pooping yellow.  I still have week bowel movements.  The recurring diarrhea hasn't gone away.  I've also learned that my triglycerides are 453.  That's like super high.  I have to give up soda and eat whole wheat.  Plan on doing that anyway.  I think my prostate cancer screening went okay.  So no cancer.  I must have some infection in my belly, because I still have bloating, tenderness, cramping and the recurring diarrhea.

Also, Sexual dysfunction is back.  I have a history of not being able to orgasm on  anti-depressants.  I will ask my doctor about Wellbutrin. I have heard that adding it to Lexepro can make your sexual dysfunction  go away.  We will see!

I had some stories about funny customers, but I forgot them.  I had a long post that got erased accidentally, and then blogger went down so that added a lot of time in between me writing anything down.  So, sorry about that.

Well you folks are caught up, except you missed how I wrote a story about the evil physician's assistant and how she was actually a cross-dressing transvestite pedophile and her adventures abducting children for the Bush's.  It was freaking funny.  But it's somewhere in the electronic quantum trash pile that we call blogger.

Much Love and Peace.

Romius T.

I get a prostate exam and Xanax, also meet the doctor girlfriend I have always wanted.

In addition to talking to me about her yoga, she asked me if I though   I was intuitive.  I agreed that I was.  But then again who says they aren't?  She told me a secret about herself that she had never told another patient (I won't reveal it) so I felt like we bonded a bit.  If she hadn't stuck her finger up my ass you could have said it was a great first date.  Actually, come to think of it, that might make a great first date.

I'm going back in few weeks for a general physical and exam from my actual doctor.  I am supposed to get my lab results back as well, I got tested for prostate cancer and other blood work.

I should mention some positive things.  My ingrown toenail is feeling better.  I think the antibiotics were working on it as well as the cellulitis.   The swelling is down and I have stopped bleeding from my toe every day. I need to get that looked at as soon as all this other stuff calms down.  I'd like to be able to go swimming or to the beach (or just wear some flip flops.)

I hope I won't need additional antibiotics for that!

Other than that I feel okay.  I am still having some occasion stomach cramping and pain.  But it is quite light and not so bad.  The only thing left is bladder pain and some difficulty in urinating.  That's been going on for some time.  Since the 26th.  Maybe it has something to do with the squishy things in my testicles.  I am having the M.D. check them on June 1st.

Tomorrow is therapy.  Looking forward to that.  Someone to talk to for 50 minutes that has to listen to my shit and pretend to care. Just like you guys.  Only I don't have to pay you!

Told the ex-internet girlfriend about my diagnosis of Diverticulosis and she was like, "I bet you were excited to hear that you have a real disease to talk about!"

I was like, "Oh please!"  Internet GF is getting marred this week.  Congrats Internet GF.  Not that you read my blog anymore!

p.s.

To the doctor at the ER that misdiagnosed my rash.  Go suck it.  My  ENTIRE ass is inflamed.  My thighs have some mighty nasty looking shit on them.  This is not just a fat guy rubbing his legs together.  I's take a pic but I don't want to gross you guys out.  If you want to see just Google psoriasis.

Love,
Romius T.

Cinco de Mayo and the curse of humanity

Happy Cinco de Mayo!

I have blogged before about Cinco de Mayo.  If you haven't read that little treat I suggest you do so!

I am going to celebrate Cinco de Mayo tonight with some friends from work.  A bunch of us are getting together at a local Mexican bar and eatery to eat tamales and drink margaritas.

I don't get to drink yet as I am still taking a powerful antibiotic that prohibits me from drinking alcohol.

So I am going out to a bar and not drinking and hanging out with a bunch of people I only know because I work with them.  I think I am turning into my idea of my dad from the 1970's.

I am not even sure I like these people.  Most of them are too young, and too stupid to talk to in anyway that goes beyond shop talk.  Making fun of customers and complaining about our crappy hours, pay, and benefits.

I stopped making friends years ago.  That's not true.  I never really started making friends.  In my whole life I have only made like 6 or 7 friends.

I don't count most of the people that most people count as friends.  I think friendship goes deeper.  Friends are family.  And if you are not family then you are not a friend. You are an acquaintance. Not that there is anything wrong with that.  It's just seems to me that too many people conflate the idea of acquaintances and friends to me.

I'm getting old and making new friends is too hard.  My old friends from high school don't talk anymore.  We've known each other for more that 20 years, but we have all grown apart.  We all live our separate lives.  Some of us have families, others of us have shrunk away from going outside, some of continue on partying like we are 20 year olds. (Sometimes partying with 20 year olds!)

So what happens in ten years when I am too old to party?  When my age starts being the only thing people notice about me.  "Who's that?"  --"Oh, you mean the old guy?"

I'm not sure.  I think as we age we grow apart from the world.  Men at least do.  We have trouble maintaining relationships and nurturing them. Already I feel myself going down this path.  The internet and connectivity of the social networks filling in the gaps, but not providing any real substance of human connection.

I guess it's important to disconnect from the world so that leaving it doesn't seem so painful.

I remember my youth.  When things seemed fresh, new, powerful.  Feeling would rise up in me.  I wanted to conquer the world.  Now I want a comfortable chair and something good to watch on TV.  I want at least one more Super Bowl for the Cowboys.

Is this really all there is?  I am so terrified of dying, but as soon as I feel a bit better the old dread of my life as a stale piece of carpet comes flooding back in.  I remember that I don't enjoy anything anymore.

Oh well.

There is something growing in my testicles.  I guess I will have to have that checked out.  It might be causing all the problems I am having with my bladder, the painful urination, the difficulty in peeing.

I probably have ball cancer, or prostate cancer.  Some kind of cancer.  Because the antibiotics aren't stopping the diarrhea.  They aren't stopping the the crazy colors.  And I forgot how I have had week shits for years.  I forgot how my bowel movements have been changing color with the frequency of a kaleidoscopic.

It won't be just some microbial  infection, because things never work out easy for me.  I'm not complaining, really.  I am resigned to it.  I had a pretty good run.  My life was a hell of a lot better than most who have ever lived.

It's when I think about that I get really depressed for humanity.  My god.  What a curse to be human.

Back in the land of the living

I think I finally learned my lesson about getting sick and doing nothing about it.  Like a commenter who said he was "glad I finally started fighting the entropy" I am glad I am finally taking action.

I scheduled a couple of new appointments with my doctor.  I have a physical with my primary coming in June.  (It takes that long to see my primary.)  I was a little disappointed in that. I'm not sure what the point of having a great doctor (so I have been told) if I never get to see him.

I put in another appointment to talk to the PA about my anxiety and panic attacks.  I wanted to talk to the doctor before my next therapy session.  That session is on the 9th.

I still have recurring diarrhea.  I am still taking the Flagly for that.  I am sure I am getting an increase in panic attacks from it.  However I stopped taking the percocets.  I was worried that they could increase the likelihood of seizures.  The antibiotics I am on can do that as well.

The auras around my panic/seizure/anxiety has changed again.  I am still coughing and that starts them, but sometimes I get white floating dots in my vision and then I get even stronger waves of stereotypic reactions, etc.

I should mention that I went back to the ER again on Sunday night.  YeS, AGAIN.

And the ER lady PA was not happy with me.  She was quite dismissive of my concerns.  I was still having the recurring diarrhea and I thought I saw red streak.  The red streak turned out to be nothing but a skin irritation which (she did not say) may have been caused by some mild dehydration.  I am trying to drink more Gatorade, but I am finally getting sick of it.  I think I have Gatorade fatigue.

It was pretty humiliating to sit there and be scorned by a health care professional  for wasting her time.  It was one of the most embarrassing moments of my life.  My panic attacks have taken me to the place where I have become a nuisance to people.

Of course I think the doctor was pretty insensitive.  Instead of taking 5 minutes to discuss with me her concerns over my wasting her time she just rebuffed my questions.

How about tell me why I was wrong, show some clinical concern about why I am doing this...

Either that or hide your contempt a little better, because you chose not to address the fact that you think I am malingering, or an idiot.  Man up and tell me to go to my primary for most of my concerns and stop using ER services.

Not that she should care.  She still got paid.  My insurance company should be the pissed off people in this scenario, not the person benefiting from easy diagnoses and fat paychecks.  And secondly, it was a slow night. I got in to the doctor in under 2 minutes.  There was no one in line.  And the ER was basically dead. So fuck I probably gave you something to do for the first time in an hour.

I could tell she felt a little bad about her behavior because after she left to go through my chart again she explained that none of the tests she could run would alter the course of treatment I was on and she did so with a softer voice and more professional demeanor.

Now that that's over I am still taking the Flagly.  I am getting sharp nerve damage pains every once in a while.  Mostly I am not bothered by it.  The weakness in my lower extremities is better than when I was on cipro, but is still there in my right arm.  I am having a  difficulty in sleeping and I am sluggish and tired.

I went back to work yesterday.

I was hurting in the belly area from all the stretching and standing  think.  I was also really tired around the time to go home.  I am still not eating solid food.  I did have crackers and spaggettios when I got home.   I am drinking Gatorade and meal replacements.  My weight is down to 203 from 220 over the course of the last 15 days.  I guess that part is good.  People have noticed the new slimmer me, it's encouraging me to start a healthy diet when I recover from all this shit.

After I recover from all this I will be close enough to my weight goal that I will be getting bitches left and right.  I can stop blogging about anxiety and doctor visits and start blogging about all the tits that I am sucking on.

May Day. I talk talk therapy, and my latest ER trip. I type this for you even though I am having a crazy ass anxiety attack. And I explain why I think the underclass needs to rise up.

TALK THERAPY

Is it okay if your therapist thinks you are crazy?  My therapist was like in shock when I told her that I had 3 or 4 panic attacks every week.  She was aghast. "That's a lot."  She said.

But she believed me.  She didn't give the look that I usually get from doctors when I describe my symptoms.  Though she did say that I had been reading on the internet and stuff, because I knew all the terminology of anxiety.

I described how sometimes I depersonalized in the mirror.  That sometimes my hands look small compared to the rest of my body.  That my face dissolves when I stare at it.

"Those are massive panic attacks." I was told.  In other words she said they were on the extreme side of anxiety.  I'm not too certain how much experience my therapist has with such extreme anxiety.  I think she expected that I would have panic attacks every few weeks or something like that.

If I had panic attacks only once a week I wouldn't talk to a doctor about it.  For Christ's sake I was walking around and standing on my feet all day at work for over a week with a god damned flesh eating virus attacking my system, and it took me until my leg had swollen up so far that I couldn't walk on it before I even visited a clinic.

So there would be no way I would go see a shrink just because I had the occasional debilitating anxiety attack.  No.  I have those every day.  I have several every day.  I live with a coat of anxiety attached to me like Food Network TV star Paula Deen had dipped me in buttermilk and dropped me in bread crumbs to fry up some Twinkies in.

I get panic attacks every day baby.  I got one right now.  I'm convinced that I am septic.  I have a low body temp.  I have blue hands.  Blue hands mean I have low blood pressure, another sign of septic infection. Of course the blue hands came after I took a percocet.  I am sure percocets can cause this, though I just looked it up and now I am not sure.

That news has sent me into a near panic.  All I can tell myself is that I would be sicker if I had septic, right?

I mean I am not running a fever, my diarrhea is still here but not as bad as a couple of days ago.  My breathing is normal, I'm not confused, but I am restless I hardly slept last night.

 Again that could just be the anxiety which happens to have the same symptoms of many diseases that are harmful. (kinda fucked up? because it really messes with anxious people like me.)

I'm not feeling much pain either.  I hope I'm okay.  The death rates for septic are crazy.  15% and higher.  That has me really worried.

Everything is not all bad.  My leg is looking better.  Slowly healing up.  

Over all I like my therapist.  She seemed to be fine with adding medication (she's not allowed to prescribe it) and she wants me to get a clean bill of health from the doctor before she says I don't have things like epilepsy.

She wants to have another session soon.  She did not get to know much about me.  We talked the entire session about what I am dealing with right now. She said she'd like to spend the next session finding out more about my background and things.

I feel good about the plan as she set it up for me.  Like she is guiding me through a process rather than mearly reacting to certain symptoms that I show her.  Unlike how I feel when I go to the ER or to the regular doctor.

I feel like I have to be the one to figure out how to find a neurologist, an internist, etc. And I have to be the one to come up with my health regime. Does anyone else feel like that?  Do you feel doctors discount your feelings, symptoms, etc.  Even though you are the only person who knows what if feels like when you are healthy and when you feel off or sick?

Doctors are great.  Modern Science is a miracle of our own making. But we still need to feel like we have a human connection in order to feel safe.

THE LATEST TRIP TO THE ER
For instance it would have really helped to have my doctor go over my tests with me after he got them back at the ER last time.  Tell me what's wrong, or what's good.  He just said "most of the tests came back ok."  What the fuck does that mean?  I got a X-ray, CT scan, (my third in a week) numerous blood cultures, fecal and urine tests.

The doctor  didn't even wait for the fecal test to come back before he sent me home.  My guess is no one will look it up to see what it is.  I have to call or go down there today or tomorrow to find out my results.  I am left in limbo.  I am still waiting results of  blood culture from my primary.  No one has called back.  It's infuriating to me.

So I sit here and type away trying to ease my fears by writing them down.  I have this horrible panic that I am dying.  That there is doom right around the corner.  I feel like no one understands what it's like to be this terrified all the time.

People want me to just snap out of it.  Suck it up.  but believe me if were at all possible I would.  I hate being like this.  I'm really not that kind of attention whore.  But sometimes I feel like going to the ER and saying I have chest pains just so I get checked out right away and feel the security that several hovering nurses can give.

One of my nurses recognized me.  She said she was going to have to start giving me my own wing or something.  It was funny.  But scary.  I don't want to turn into one of those patients that is seen as a malingerer.

So far, the nurses and doctors have not said that.  The nurse told me it was a good idea to comet to the ER when I ran a fever on antibiotics.  I was also having chills, nausea, stomach pain.  It cost my insurance company more than 3,000.00 for the last visit.  My share was over 100 dollars.  I can't really afford that.

I paid about half of the cost and I am racking up bills.  I have spent 400 dollars this month on medication, doctor and emergency room visits.  I have no idea how I can keep up this pace.  I am flat broke.  My income is shitty.  A fourth of my income goes to the crooks that bought my student loans.

What am I going to do in the future?  When I get old?  How do people pay for surgeries when they make minimum wage?  It's disturbing.

I realize I have made bad choices.  It's pretty late to turn my life around.  So what do we do with people like me?  What about people in my situation that have no IQ or have emotional problems or kids? How the hell do we really expect people to take care of themselves?

RISE UP UNDERCLASS, YOU HAVE NOTHING TO LOSE BUT YOUR CHAINS!

The answer is I think we don't.  Mostly we let the underclass suffer and die.  We don't care because mostly they stick to the barrios and ghettos and mostly they shoot themselves and stick needles in their arms and usually take no for an answer when they stop us in front of Target begging for change.

The only way the rich and upper middle class will ever change, will ever consider giving the underclass a real safety net is when we make it uncomfortable for them.

If you got kids take them shirtless and coughing to marches in front of hospitals and congressmen.  Vote.  Rise up.  General strikes are needed.  Take the violence out of Harlem.  Show the rich that our social contract is void.  That the current situation is untenable.  Be DRASTIC!

Otherwise turn on the MMA fights and wait to die.

Dry Panic

There is  a dry panic setting in me today, despite the percocets.  I feel like I am doomed to die soon.  I woke this morning to more pain in my back.  The pain is not overwhelming, so that's not why I am worried.  It's just that the pain is not supposed to be there.  The Diverticulosis is supposed to have gotten better by now.

"A couple of days is the usual recovery time."  Said my doctor at the ER.  But it's been a couple of days and I am not better.

I was going over my hospital discharge records and I noticed that CT scan cleared me of inflammation of the colon, of the appendix, of the gall bladder.  All good things.  But for some reason, even though we did two CT scans, the doctor was unable to see the bladder.

He did not order a third CT scan even though I came into the ER complaining of bladder pain.  I also noticed that I did not see anywhere on my chart a complaint of bladder pain.  Despite the fact that I told the nurse specifically that the reason I called off my vacation and went to the ER was that I was experiencing bladder pain.

At the very least I am certain that there must be some inflammation of the bladder.  I have frequent urination.  I have painful urination.  It could also be there is a a puncture in my colon that has melded (a fistula) into my bladder which causes pain from the feces draining into areas that it should not.

This morning I had chills.  A sign of infection.  A little diarrhea.  Two times, but then it stopped.  I took a perc to calm down and take the edge off my pain.  Percs can give you constipation, which maybe hiding another symptom like drug resistant diarrhea ( a side effect of the antibiotic I am on.)  More things to worry about, folks.

I am thinking about going to the ER later today if the pain is still there.  Maybe have another CT Scan.  If I wait and go the doctor appointment tomorrow I think they will just tell me to wait and see if   it gets better.  I am sure a regular doctor's office doesn't have access to a CT Machine.  Either that or they will ask me to go to some other office that has one.  Another visit.  Another co-pay.  More wasted time.

I'm quite worried that I will need surgery to repair all this.  I have no idea how I'm going to pay for this.  I have no idea how I can live without going to work.  Worse, if I miss work, my insurance coverage goes away.  (A neat little trick to make sure that really sick people don't get coverage.)

You got to love this country.

A big FUCK YOU to all the Republicans out there that say that in Europe and Canada they have to deal with rationing of health care.  So do we.  Only this country rations based on money, access to good jobs, etc.  Not rationing based on reason, like who is the sickest etc.

We get what we deserve.  We let these fuckers fuck with us.  We let them try and gut the clean air act, we let them give millionaires tax  cuts.  We let them sock it to the poor and elderly.

Why?  Because we all want to be Donald Trump one day.  We are the morons in line at the grocery store with two carts of groceries and 20 dollars in cash wondering why we can't afford to get everything we want and then getting indignant as soon as some one points out the folly of our situation.

When will we learn?  Never is my guess.  The same guess as the ruling class every morning when it wakes and pours itself a big bottle of $2, 000.00 wine.

They laughing at us.

Bottoms up assholes!

I see a light at the end of the tunnel. (This is your hero on Narcotics. Legal ones at that.)

I'm back to blogging again.  I know I took a while off, so most of my loyal readers are probably gone.  But I have noticed a few of my die hard readers are still here.  I want to thank you for sticking around when there was really no reason to.

I think this blog is moving into the uncomfortable realm of reporting my first person view of my hypochondria.  I apologize for that.  But I will try and keep it interesting and light hearted. A big bonus goes out to those readers who wonder what it is like to have general anxiety or panic attacks, if you keep reading you will find out.

I can tell you that it sucks.  The fear and dread we live with is not something that you can simply snap out of.  Believe me, if that's all it took I would.

For the first time in my life I am actually going out in the world and taking charge of the things in my life.  I am getting help.  I am changing my lifestyle to manage some of my illnesses.

For instance:

I now get up once an hour and walk around the house for a few minutes.  I read that sitting all day is bad for people.  It's especially bad for people who have been diagnosed with Diverticulosis.

I am changing my eating habits.  I am eating more fiber than I used to.  I am committed to making some dietary changes that are palatable to me, but which can be of help to me.  It will require some sacrifice on my end.  I will have to give up things like eating WhataBurger 6 nights a week.

That may not seem like a bad thing or even a big deal to you.  But many of you have lives.  You have things that interest you.  You have support systems and lovers and things like that.

I really don't.  I have no joy in my life.  The few things that actually give me joy are killing me.  I enjoy reading and the internet.  I love going out to eat at fast food.

I need you to understand this.  One of the very few things that get me through the day are eating fast food burgers and surfing the web on my laptop.  I day dream my way through work by thinking about these things.  I substitute having a real life with these preoccupations.

Why must I preoccupy myself in such a way?  I guess because I don't have much of an imagination about some things.  I can't think of things that can entertain me or add meaning to my life other than these things. I know what you are thinking. I am a small human being.  And I plead guilty to such accusations.

I think what gets me in trouble with you liberal types is that ruminate on things like meaning and the big picture.  Therefore; I think you think that I ought to come to the right conclusion.  That service to others is how we deal with our feelings of doom.

But not me.  I just can't fake that shit.  Intellectually, I can agree  with the idea that to escape our self preoccupations we need to focus on others.  But that answer is totally unsatisfying to me emotionally.

I remain a captive of my ego-mania.  My self concern.  This is not selfishness.  I hate selfishness.  I am not a selfish person. It's not so much that I am selfish, more like I'm a child, in the sense that I don't come equipped with a view of the world that is outside of me.

Speaking of that.  If I had lost the leg from the MRSA then I would have at least been able to get some pity pussy.  Don't you think?  Girls, do you fuck one legged men?  You should.  They ain't got it easy.

But I don't get pity pussy.  Even though I am pathetic.  I live in this weird world were every one feels sorry for me.  Somehow they all believe nothing is my fault, and in most cases there is nothing I can do to help myself.  But at the same time everyone believes the contradictory notion that somehow I should be doing better.  That I should be better looking.  More successful.

Actually I am pretty sure that's not true too.

The weird thing is that nobody notices me. Which if you like my personality on the blog seems weird, right.  Like I seem very outgoing and crazy.  Certainly worthy of some double looks.  But in person I often lack charisma.  It takes a long time for me to work my magic on you.  I am like a visiting parasite or virus.  I can lie dormant for years, then melt your insides like flesh eating virus.

And bitch.  There ain't no cure for me yet!

Diverticulosis sucks (and don't ask me to pronounce it.)

I have Diverticulosis.

It's a crappy thing.  If you want to know what it is click the link.  It's what links are for.  Hyper-Space man. How long have you been on the Internet that you don't know these things?

I missed my vacation.  I was supposed to go see my Mom and my brothers in Florida.  It would have been a great time I think, even if not it would have been nice to see them.  I haven't seen my family in a few years, but lately since we all got on Facebook I have been communicating more with them.  Since I actually talk  and interact with them now I miss them.

Before Facebook I never talked to my family.  I'd  call them every few months at most.  I talked to my Mom once or twice a year.  My Mom for god's sake.  Most people think that is pretty crazy.

I was all set to go.  I had my e-ticket.  It was bought and paid for by my dear Mother.  She squandered 281 dollars on me.

But as you know I have had a lot of health problems lately.  Not just worries and anxiety about possibilities.  But actual real problems.

I contracted cellulitus on my leg.  I have had the infection for over 2 weeks now.  It still looks pretty gross.



That's bad enough, sending me panic and anxiety about going on a trip thousands of miles away.  But the morning of the flight I woke to some pretty intense bladder pain.

I had been having issues with frequency and stream control, but with the added pain in my bladder, the need to urinate constantly, some back and spinal pain and pressure, along with stomach cramps I felt like not going on vacation.

I called my mother and explained.  I think I sent her into a near panic attack.  She called my brothers who called me and hoped to talk me into going out.

I did not.

Instead I spent the day in quite a bit of discomfort.  It was hot in my apartment.  90 degrees inside without the A/C on.  I was seated on the toilet all day.  I was drinking tap water that was stored in old Gatorade quarts that I leave in the refrigerator to get cold.

I took a nap around 4pm.  I woke up around 8.  I was dehydrated.  I felt like I was running a slight temperature, even though my thermometer did not agree with my assessment.

By 8:30 I had called a taxi cab and was being whisked away to the Emergency Room at St. Something or another Hospital.

At the ER I grabbed one of those plastic bags for nausea.  A couple of times I almost threw up.  I went to the bathroom after a young Indian and nearly lost it.  He must have some kind of health problem because the smell in that bathroom was like nothing I had ever smelled before.  I was retching before I made it through the entrance.  I had to walk my way backwards with my nose all the way into the plastic tubing so as to catch a different scent.

Eventually I got seen by the doctor.  A NP with bad,  stringy hair from the 1980's.  I talked her into checking my liver and urine.  She ordered a CT scan after pushing on my stomach and detecting a flinch.

The CT tech was a big ex trailer girl with tattooes. She forgot to check if I needed a contrast CT and gave me the regular CT.  Turns out I needed the contrast in order to discern whether or not I had problems in my gall bladder or appendix.

I got the second CT scan and waited.  A few hours drifted by.  I was the only room without television.  But I listened to a few podcasts on my phone.  (I brought all three spare batteries and a charger with me.) I watched some YouTube videos and busied myself with Twitter.

I began to experience some more pain and was offered some relief.  The nurse was about to stick me with some Morphine when she asked about my allergies.  I mentioned Morphine and she quickly set about getting me another  pain medication.

She told me the pain med was 4x stronger than Morphine.  I believe it!  As soon as she gave it to me my face was flushed.  I experienced a sharp pain across my neck and face.  It felt very strange to be given pain medication only to have a reaction of pain? and intensity instead.

In fact I may not have experienced pain so much per se as intensity.

The pain mostly disappeared.  I got a few closed eye visuals and a few spontaneous giggles.  The giggles made my belly move and that actually hurt more than anything.

Around 2:30 the PA told me that the doctor had taken a look at the chart and found that I had Diverticulosis.  The PA asked if I knew what that was.  I told her I had never heard of it.

She explained that it meant I needed a better diet.  One with fiber.  That I could get inflammation and quite a bit of pain from my colon having pouches.  The pouches could catch things in them and get infected.  When this happens the colon is inflamed and the pain would be even greater.  She did give me some good news that my liver and urine samples came back normal.

And luckily my colon was not inflamed so there was no need for surgery.  I was told to take it easy.  Not eat.  Take anti-biotics.  They switched me off Cipro.  I got another antibiotic.  The Cipro was making me feel terrible anyway, so I am glad to be off it.

Sucks that I am allergic to so many antibiotics.

Spent 20 dollars in cab fare there and back.  Spent 60 dollars at the ER.  I was so hopped up on drugs I forgot to tell them to bill me and I just paid it.  If they bill me I never pay.  Just the way I am.  I can't afford all this.  Remember I make under 300 dollars a week.  If I am spending 200 dollars a week on hospitals and medications and gauze I won't be able to make rent.  I figure my insurance paid 250 dollars so the hospital made all the money they needed for that visit.

No freaking TV.

But I did get a prescription for Perks.  Perks handle anxiety as well as pain.  I took a perk today and it stopped my panic attacks.  It eased my general anxiety.  I took another 5 hours later.  It eased them again.  I have not taken anymore and I am feeling pretty good (at least about anxiety.)  I still hurt in the tummy and back.  The pain is not as bad, and the nausea has gone away for the most part.

I hope tomorrow relief comes form the Diverticulosis.  I want to go back to being normal.  I want my leg infection to fill in.  I want to be whole.

Tomorrow I call the psychiatrist.  I will try and get a PCP as well.  Big day for me!  I just want to stop living in hell.  Maybe I will.

Blood, Sweat and Anxiety

I should change this blog from the Self Help Center to the Helpless Center for contracting MRSA and Anxiety.

I am currently battling a vast infestation of bacteria which has left a rather striking gap in my upper side of my calf.  I've been taking all kinds of antibiotics.   I have been having all kinds of terrible syndromes from them.

Back around the 12 of April I saw a small red bump on my leg.  Within a few days I was walking in terrible pain.  I stuck it out for a few days at work, but the redness got so big that it scared me.  Also the pain standing on my feet all day as a cashier gave me another incentive to finally seek medical treatment.

I have insurance through my job, even though it's not great insurance it offers me the opportunity to get seen.

On the 15th I went to the local clinic by my work.  They treated me, but because the P.A. did not have the tools to do open the wound and drain it, she simply prescribed some antibiotics and suggested treating the infection with warm towels.

I followed her directions, but a couple of days later the infection was getting no better.  I decided to go the ER because I don't have a primary care physician.

At the ER I was greeted by a dismissive nurse who wondered, "Why are you here?"  But the nurse that cleaned my wound and the P. A. that drained the infection were really kind and professional. I was given some iodine and told to soak the wound 3 times a day.

Two days later on the 20th I went back to get the infection checked and have my packaging removed.  I was ordered to get a second, smaller package inserted inside the infection and ordered to take another antibiotic.

I have separated out the course work of antibiotics from this timeline because it deserves it's own treatment.

I took Bactrim on the 15th,  within 3 doses my neck was very stiff.  I had back pain, terrible headaches, I decided to go back to the clinic and get the antibiotics switched.

On the 18th  I was placed on DEOXy Hyclate.  A terrible drug for me as well.  Nausea, loss of appetite. In addition I began to have nerve damage.  Tingling, and burning sensations on my right arm and leg.  Terrible headaches, migraines   Photosensitivity. I had closed and open eyed hallucinations.  

My doctor chastised me for being upset about "yellow diarrhea."  A little diarrhea is not so bad, I was told how I had a serious infection and that there were very few antibiotics that these infections responded to.  In addition to the DEOXY I was prescribed CIPRO.

I decided to go back on the DEOxy hoping that the nerve damage would be temporary.  I began experiencing tinnitus as well increased nerve damage on the 21st.  I was taking benadryl for some rashes that the antibiotics were giving me.

On the 22 nd I went back to the clinic and was told to just take the cipro as I believed it offered fewer side effects. I had a yellow tongue and some considerable lower back pain which I now identified as coming from my spinal cord.  It might also be a symptom of an intestinal infection that I caught as a secondary effect of the antibiotic work ion my good bacteria.

Of course it is hard to say when one symptom showed up as a result of the antibiotics.  It is possible that the lower back pain has come from me sitting all day.  It is also possible that my anxiety (which has gone through the roof throughout all this is partially responsible for some of my internal subjective experience.

Things I know for sure.

I have had diarrhea, nausea, loss of appetite.  I have had migraine headaches.  I have become sensitive to lights, I have had trouble focusing, a general cloud and fogginess over my brain.  I have tingling and burning sensations in my lower extremities and my right arm.

None of those symptoms are result of fear and paranoia.  I can't say for sure which of the drugs gave me which.  But I am betting that Bactrim and the DEOXY reacted against me.

MY anxiety is so bad right now that I can't go more than 5 to 30 minutes without getting a head rush.  My head then sways to the left or right.  I get pins and needles in my brain.  Brain Zaps like when one stops taking Effexor.

I am also coughing.  I have a runny nose.   No fever.  When I cough ( a new aura) I get the convulsive movements.  Sometimes both of my feet "jump" in opposite directions.  I have stereotypic movements.  I was walking around in circles.

I don't know if that is epilepsy or withdraw from the Ecstasy that I haven't used in two months.  I have heart palpitations.  Severe anxiety.  I focus on death.  I think I am dying.  I image that all my symptoms must mean that I have liver or renal failure.

I have a  crappy headache right now.

I think I am leaving out something.

I haven't even mentioned the myriad of other ailments that I need to get checked out soon.

But I am most concerned to see this infection go away.  (IT LOOKS LIKE IT WILL)

Next the seizure like symptoms that are associated with my panic attacks and anxiety.  If this can't get fixed soon I will crack.  I can't go on with all the dread living inside me.  I need to get it fixed soon.

I am seeing a psychologist and psychiatrist when I get back from Vacation.  (YA I AM going on vacation, can you believe that?)  Mom is flying me out.  I have spent all week off work dealing with all this.   I can't wait to get off the antibiotics.  I need a god damn Valium or something.

I am worried the CIPRO will cause me to have difficulty breathing.

I realize I am awful when it comes to dealing with my mortality.  I can't handle the prospect of dying.  Hopefully all this gets settled soon.

Back pain still is here.  So are the headaches.  So is the anxiety.  Numbness and tingling in my arms and legs is less painful.  But still there.

I will be getting a PCP when I get back.   I have one picked out.  I am happy about this.

I called the drug/mental health hotline at my work to get a number for the shrink I will be seeing.  I cried on the hotline telling her all this.  (Just the mental health stuff.)

I guess I am depressed and lonely too.

But who would date the mess I just described?

I wished I could just be held and told it will all be okay.

I'm sorry for being weak like that. But I guess I really am.

Some people will take a look at this and say.  Geez it was a fucking infection.  Get over it.  MRSA happens all the time.  I get it at the gym 3 times a week.

I understand your sentiment.

I just lack strength.

I am useless like that.

No one will me miss me when I am dead anyway.

I am very thirsty.  I am going to sleep now.  Good night dear friends.

My last blog post got 1 billion hits, so this probably won't be much different.

File this blog post under things that should not be.  Here is a picture of my infected leg.

I have this strange desire to touch my infection, and then rub my eyes.

The infection has actually gotten a little better, even though your only comparison is a picture I tweeted the other day where the size looked much smaller.  But the entire leg was swollen and hard from the swelling.  The swelling has decreased quite a bit.

At first I was prescribed Bactrim. I did not handle it well.  I can't take most antibiotics as I am allergic or I have strange reactions to the medication.  The doctors look at me like I'm from outer space when I describe tales of panic attacks, hallucinations, insomnia, minor convulsion like movements, stiffness in neck, headaches.

The physician's assistant tells me that my symptoms are "probably caused by the infection," but she went ahead and adjusted my medication anyway.

I don't have a primary care doctor, so I end up at clinics and ER's and things like that.  I have no history with the doctor and they don't know me well, so they just assume I am crazy I guess.

I mean I am crazy.

I am having panic attacks daily now.  They are even getting worse.  Sometimes I don't recognize my hand or foot as belonging to me.  Even though I know they belong to me.  It's like I am getting an inside view of my fucked up brain when it hallucinates this shit, just so it can prove to me that the data it's working on is real.

I get it brain.  Your shit is real.  How about working on fixing the part of the brain that knows that my body parts really belong to me?  Then maybe we can stop the panic attacks that wake me up at 7 in the morning.

I jump out of bed spreading blood and puss everywhere.  I see closed eyed visuals of swirly jellyfish.  I swing my fists madly like I am getting attacked by something from Pandora.

My emotional life is a mild state of anxiety at all times.  I go hopping from one panic attack to the next.  Dreading the next one.  Sometimes getting caught off guard if it's been a few hours of "feeling baseline."  Not that baseline to me is anywhere near normal of a few years ago.

All my friends seem worried about me.  That write and tell me that I seem to be falling apart.  They know 80 year old men in better health.  I have let all my problems fester.  Now like the wound you see before you, it runs deep buried into my living tissue.  And now it seems to only want to rot from within.

There is stinky pile of puss, fuming away at my insides.  There is a rabid attack force of celulitis set upon me.  I await necrosis.  The ultimate in self destructiveness.

There is so much infection in me on any normal day that I bet the antibiotics are wondering where to go first.  Should we attack the infected ingrown toe nail from 2 years ago?  Should we go after the sebaceous cyst on his scalp?  What about the cancer in his testicles?

"Fuck that!" I bet the antibiotics say.  "I mean we are just for anti-malaria."

Wait didn't I read somewhere that anti-malaria antibiotics are horrible for you?

Whatever.  I'm tired of doing battle.  I am losing it anyways.

So broke I have to break into my penny stash.

I think Qwest must have double dipped my account.  Bastards.  And of course the phone company has no service people on Sunday to answer questions for me.  So if you walk past a dis-shelved man and wonder why he is letting blood roll down his leg.  Now you know why.  Fucking penny machine counter was broke.

p.s. send gauze and tape, also antibiotics that don't give panic attacks, but are strong enough to kill this vicious infection, plus some Valium or something for my nerves.

I blog again. I bet when I don't it feels like someone vomited a bucket of boredom into your skull. Also, I add some grocery store etiquette tips to make this thing worthy

I'm holding in a shit while I type this.  Nothing new there.  If you don't hold in shits they get all over the place.  With my weak bladder and my AIDS infested liver I leak shit like your paraplegic boyfriend does.

Though at least he has someone that will change his colostomy bag, all I've got is a girl who texts me to ask me the name of the author she forgot I told her.  Poppy Z Brite is the answer.  And she writes vampire novels, or at least she did a few years ago,  now she writes cook books or something set in New Orleans.

If I have a crush on you I will stop everything I am doing an reply to your text message.  You should be fucking grateful, but I doubt you are.

Here's a idea for you the next time you find yourself in a grocery store standing in line at the check out counter:

Finish your shopping BEFORE you get in line.  People, I really hate it when you just wander off to collect that gallon of water you forgot to purchase even though water comes out of your tap for free.

I have a few more rules for you even though I know you think the rules don't apply to you, which is why you are pushing a cart full of groceries through the express lane and making jokes at me.  At least you are trying to calm my anger.  That's a good thing.  I think you can tell that I am close to losing it, and you might be the thing that sends me off the cliff.

If so I guarantee I will find you outside when I bring the AK 47.  You better damn well believe that I will blow your fucking head off.  I hate people who think the rules apply to everyone else but them.  But you have always been like that haven't you?  That's why you masturbated in your girlfriend's yogurt.  Just to show her who's boss.  Nothing sicko.  You just needed to convince her that your the dominate one in this relationship.

Here is my second request.  Learn to fucking count.  If you can't learn to count use a calculator,  if you are too lazy to count or use a calculator you forfeit your right to question the addition properties of the register (which is a fucking counting machine yo.)

I promise you 5 + 2 + 1 = 8

I don't give a fuck if you don't believe me.  You are not entitled to an "opinion" about what constitutes a number.  8 has a objective reality that exists outside your opinions.  You owe me 8 fucking dollars, now pay up or get the fuck out of my line.

A lot of cashiers can't count.  So if you see the pretty little girl's face squish up in a manner denoting perplexity then go ahead and be confused together.  But I assure you the machine does not ADD incorrectly.  If the prices on the products you purchased reflect accurately then I assure you the machine has ADDED them correctly.  Never seen the machine add 2 and 3 and get 6 like you.

It should be noted that I can add however.  I am bald, ugly, fat dude.  So you can bet I have seen every episode of the original Star Trek series, that I gush over women who wear Princess Lea buns in their hair, that I haven't been laid in 5 years, and that if we are talking Mathematics below finite that I am pretty much know what I am talking about.

I can do multiplication in my head. Yeah!  That's right asshole.  My head is like the calculator function on your cell phone that you refuse to learn how to use.  Some guy took the time to teach your phone to do all kinds of tricks that makes it way more smarter than you and yet you fail to learn to use something that could make you way smarter looking if you used it.

Here's another tip.  Look in your wallet before you buy stuff.  See how much money you have.  Did you bring money?  Do you know the password to your Food Stamp card?  I know why don't you wait until you are in line with a bag full of steaks, kool aid, and beer before you call your fat white girlfriend with the big ass and 3 kids from 3 different dads to ask her what the pass code is on her her EBT Food stamp card that I pay for with my taxes.

I can't remember the last time I had a steak.

I find that to be bullshit sometimes.  As fucking liberal as I am.  I can only imagine what the conservative assholes in line are thinking.  Something like "at least buy a fucking condom with some of that cash."

"No, you cannot buy beer with food stamps asshole,but yes you can buy regular stamps."

--And no you can't buy regular stamps either, Jesus.

I will never stop being your Hobo, no matter what I say

I'm like the original Charlie Sheen.  My prose was blowing you away years ago.  You were feasting off my tiger blood, and we were #winning, and everything seemed great to you. You thought it would never end.

I bet you still don't understand why I left you.  Sure, you understand that you were never enough for me.  That I have always  had plans to jump ship and head off to bigger waters.  You get that I hate being a big fish in a little pond.  But for some reason you thought that you would have access to me for the rest of your pathetic lives.  

How wrong you were.

Why?

Because I just came up with another million dollar idea.

It involves a paper bag puppet of baby jesus and Youtube and is sure to make me a millionaire. 

As soon as I am rich I will forget all about the little peons that have supported me over the years.  i'll forget about the 5 dollars the drug monkey once gave me for writing about Ethiopians.  Money I never cashed in, because I was too proud to take money back then.  Not now.  I will take all your money if you want to give it to me.  I will sleep with your underage daughters.  I will stick my dirty pinky finger in your peanut butter- just out of spite, because I am fucking hobo.

I'm a fucking hobo, but I wear my hobo on the inside.  I don't hop trains.  I take showers and get grossed out by too large spiders.  I will only touch your spider if you offer me some Xanax afterwards to calm me down.  Also, I will flirt with your girlfriend when you aren't around, because there is a possibility you could kick my ass.

I only fight kids, girls, and midget (and fellow hobos if we are both drunk on fermented malt liquor and getting pissed about how long the bus is taking to show up.)

So just take that into consideration the next time you stop by this blog and you don't see me updating it.  You should understand that my brain has stopped working.  That my attention span has wandered off.  It's playing meth games with porn stars. It's raping women in the bathroom, it's MTV cutting away to strangulation videos.  It's searching for decapitation videos while I strangle my own neck.

I don't have time anymore to write.  I lack focus.  And the only thing that keeps me alive is wondering about what the next mobile device I will own looks like.  Will it have 3D?  I am sure it will .  I think we all need 3D capture on our phones.  That way when I choke the life out of you, it will be like your parents are in the same room.  It will be your last bonding moment together.  Frankly, I can't think of any more "real" moment you have ever had with your parents than the one they will get watching you suffocate at the hands of some chubby 40 year old molester as he snuffs the last breath out of you.

You owe me for that. 

It's the Day after Valentine's Day, so I can stop being nice to you and start telling you how I really feel...

I woke not to the sound of my alarm, but to the sound of a distant lawn mower. 1:30 pm and the hot February Sun is poring in through the curtain less window.   I try to open my eyes, but my head is tingling too much from last week's illegal drug use.  Forget it.  I'll go back to sleep.

I'm sorry.  I'm cranky when I don't get my REM sleep.  I'm like a starving grizzly mother bear and you are a like an amateur documentarian that Wener Herzog is going to have invent a 3 dimensional personality for.  I'm going to eat you for breakfast and you are going to be like,"You are so fucking beautiful, man!"  

That's just nature's way.  The big and the hungry eat the meek and the curious.  And sometimes their girlfriends. 

It's the day after Valentine's Day.  I don't much give a shit for Valentine's Day.  Romance has always bothered me.  I have been told that I am least romantic person in the world.  But that's not true.  The least romantic person in the world is the guy who duck taped you inside his van and then laughs when you scream in pain as he slices off another hunk of your thigh for breakfast.

On the other hand, I don't buy cheap grocery store flowers or pre-molded heart shaped boxes of chocolate for you on the way home from work.  That hardly makes me a bad person.  At most it makes inconsiderate.  At best it makes me a hero when I donate all the money I would have wasted on flowers to S.h.a.r.e. or some other charity that keeps African children from dying from dysentery.

Speaking of dysentery.  I guess photoshopping a couple of staving children's bowel movements onto your Valentine's day card was a little "tasteless."  Sorry.  I can't help myself.  For a second there I thought you were going to enjoy your day and if you know anything about me by now it's that I can't stand anyone around me having a good time. (Unless I am drunk.  I guess we know why you became an Alcoholic. I just assumed it was all about meeting plenty of tattooed covered dick with intimacy problems.)

I digress.  This isn't supposed to be about you.  It's supposed to be about me.  Or about the readers, or somebody else.  But mostly I don't care about those things anymore.  I care only about my swollen heart.  It wants to beak again.  

Only thing about that?  I've noticed that is there is almost nothing left to break.  My humanity dissolves 

 like the gallon of water you pour into your busted radiator cap every time you get the urge to come pick me up.  I'm not sure why you need me.  I guess a shrink is too expensive.

p.s. to the little girl who cried when she dropped the christmas globe that was 90% off , you clumsiness in full effect you watched the glass fall and shatter, spilling water all over me. your big droopy eye, full of puss,stares... accusing me of  letting it break.  it's not as bad as it seems....

it's worse.

A woman loves me, a woman scoffs at me, a woman gyrates on me

There is a customer at my store who is love with me.  She asked her mother to ask me out on a date, because she is too shy to ask me herself.  Before she asked her mother to ask me out -she inquired to some of my co-workers if I was single. I bet she would like it if I asked her out for some coffee.

I don't have a car, and I don't like coffee.

Her mother showed me a picture of the woman before she asked me if I would like to get her daughter's phone number.  Her daughter had short blond hair that flipped up at the ends. She looked to be in her late thirties and was slightly overweight.

Her mother told me that she was aware that I was single and "since her daughter was single, would I like to get her number?"

I don't want your daughter's number.  She is not my type.

"I like them pretty."  I told the co-worker.  "I can't help myself."

I jotted down the phone number the old woman gave me.  I had to ask her to repeat the number twice.  I'm not sure why it was so important to me to get the number correct as I never intended to call her.

I told my ex-girlfriend about the woman.  She seemed unruffled.  She asked when I was going to go on the date with the girl.  I said, "never."

The ex-girlfriend called me her friend.  "Sometimes I go a long time without seeing my friends."

I don't want to be your friend.  I have way too many friends.  I don't like most of them.  Those I do like come over too often, or they ask me to do things for them.  Then they tell me things that are supposed to make me care about them.  And all this makes me uneasy.  It makes me guilty.  It fills me with fear.

There is something I don't like about the woman that loves me. She is a regular customer.  We have short discussions when I check her groceries out.  She is always smiling at me.  There is some twinkle in her eyes.  She seems grotesque to me now.  So happy.  So jovial.  I am the answer to all her problems.

I'm at Rocky Point Catina.  A woman is gyrating towards me at me.

She is petite, under 5 feet tall. A Mexican, she is wearing a skirt so short that it barely conceals her tiny panties.

She is overtly sexual.  Strong, thick black hair down to her waist. Amazing eyes that are wide with youth and vigor.

"Are you here alone?"  She asks.

"I am."

"I am with a friend." I also try and tell her.  But it is loud and my words do not work well when I am sober and being grinded into by a sexual beast.

She had been dancing by herself.  A practice of art that the ethnic woman of today has mastered.  They shake their booty.  They decide which man to rub against. It is a feminist dream come true.  A dream or a nightmare.  The woman are all about sex, display, and power.

The men are just happy to watch, to be chosen, to know we have fooled them into playing our game of casual sex with no feelings.  The men sit back because they know they have won.

Stephanie has been ignored all night by the men.  Despite the fact that she is one of the best dancers at the club.  Perhaps the men (all negro) have no interest in Mexicans.  She is a nice looking woman though child like in size.

"How old are you?" She asks  She pauses her ass shaking to look up at me.   Her eyes are ablaze.  She has mastered the turn and stare.  Her hair flares out magnificently.  She looks like she knows she is being filmed for MTV.

I told her I was 39.

"What are you doing here?"

"I was at the bar."  I tell her.

She goes back to humping me.  A few minutes later I am high fived by a brother.  He winks at me.  I wink back and high five him.  I shove my hands in the air.  I am confounded by all the movement my partner is making on my genitals.  I am slightly aroused, but know instinctively that too much arousal is bad, (but that some  is good.)

Stephanie finds my penis and squishes it back an forth between her butt cheeks.  She uses me a stripper pole.  She writhes up an down on my body.  She is showing off for all the other men.

Her friend has a hold of her arm.  Her friend has had enough of Stephanie showing me a good time.  But for some reason Stephanie is stubborn.  She has wanted to dance with a man.  She has wanted to grind.  She has wanted to hump.  And I am content to let her.  So she rewards my patience.

A few minutes later and Stephanie decides she will attempt to attract a younger man.  I wander off to the bathroom.  The restroom is strangely empty despite the fact that the club part of the bar is packed with sweaty black men and woman.

None of them are in the restroom which smells heavily of pot smoke.  The amount of smoke is obnoxious.  It is patently obvious what everyone is doing.  They are all smoking week.  I make the racist observation aloud that "this would not be allowed in a white bar."  In a white club.

If you are white you smoke weed in your car, or at your house.  Everyone knows that at the club you snort coke.  You don't smoke weed in a club. It's lower class. But maybe pot is why everyone here is so relaxed.  I am my usual clumsy self and I bump into a number of large African-American men.  None of them get angry at me.  None of the show even the slightest hint of resentment or annoyance towards me.  Some of them apologize for my mistake.

On my way back from the restroom I notice Stephanie is alone again.  She has her rear end pointed out.  She is waiting for a man again.  I think about going over to her.  I think about getting behind her and mounting her.  I think about telling her I am sorry for not having a car.  That I live just a few blocks away.  That we can walk there.  That I will offer a cab ride home after we are done.

"I am 21."  She tells me.  But I don't see one of those paper bands they place around your wrist when you can drink.  I think she is 18.  She must be at least 18 I tell myself.  They check ID's here very carefully.

But I don't tell her anything else.  I just walk out the door.  I leave the club to go get a pizza and a coke.  When I am done I walk home alone.

I am still Awesome.

I am all kinds of awesome.  I am chowing down on bite-sized snickers bars.  The candy is wrapped like Christmas presents.  The shiny, silver packages are reminiscent of New Year's Eve celebrations.  I feel all glitzy every time I eat one.

So I ate like 50 of them today, and I am feeling glamorous as fuck.  I guess you could say that I feel like a gay man does every day.

I am tired of customers.

I have decided that customers are like pigeons.  They are capable of learning things, but only if we put them in Skinner boxes and jolt them with electric current until we see the behavioral outcomes we desire.


I had two days off from work and I did not do shit.

It is cold as fuck in Tempe.  Cold as fuck in Tempe means something like 35 degrees.  Which to some of you is sunbathing weather.  But whatever.  For people like me it is time to stay indoors.

Of course being indoors does not help me as much as you might think, I don't have central heat in my apartment.  Instead I have two portable heaters.  One of the portables stays in my roommates room.  He keeps the damn thing plugged in all day, and I can hear it churn on and off even after he has left the house.

If I plug my heater in at the same time it will pop a fuse.  So I go without heat, because that's just the kind of sociopath/serial killer I am.  The kind that makes sure his roommate is comfortable.  I always think about other people, it's my downfall.

I haven't discussed my recent anxiety over all things electric, but I guess now is a good a time as ever.

I was nearly electrocuted when my landlord tried installing the hot water heater himself.  I was checking out the A/C gauge (located on the opposite side of the wall from the hot water heater-about 1 meter away) when the landlord switched on the power from the main switch outside.

I got a loud pop and a fireball that rocked me into the wall and had me freaking out and jumping out of the hallway.  I waited in living room feeling dazed and confused as nearly being killed caused quite a bit of consternation on my end, though my landlord had no problem touching 240 volts of electricity, he continued to short out heating elements over the coarse of the next few days before finally getting the heater to stay on and function properly.

Note: I did not say that he grounded the wiring properly.  Just that we have hot water.  Hot water is nice, but I fear walking down my hallway out of my room. I am certain I will be electrocuted from some improper grounding of the hot water elements.  If not that I expect to awaken to the smell of sulfur and flames from the electric fire in my hallway.

Do not worry about me.

I have begun work on tying several bed sheets together in hopes that I can make an escape from my second story apartment before the flames engulf me.

I am certain that my anxiety stems from this VERY real situation.  I am not certain how REAL the following account is however.

A few days after the electrical explosion I was sitting on my bed and smelled something burning.  It smelled like rubber being burned, or perhaps sulfur.  After the smell I noticed a head rush, and a pins and needles tingling in my head.  I began to panic assuming the hot water heater was discharging electricity or was catching on fire.

I got up and rushed out of my room into the hallway.  As I got close to the heater to check on it I began to feel pounded.  I screamed and fell to the ground.  My knee began to shake and  it pummeled back and forth striking the ground at a high velocity and rate. I could not stand up.  My first thought was that I was being electrocuted.  It was all I could do to scream out for my roommate to run out the house.

I managed to hop into the living room from the hallway.  I recall being quite frighted.  I was unable to get my barrings.  My roommate kept asking me questions, "What's going on?  What's wrong?"  But I could not seem to respond.  My head was cloudy.  My knee was in pain.  And my only impulse was to get the hell out of the living room and some place safe from the live wire in the hot water heater.

I must have made a terrible racket as I left the apartment.  My downstairs neighbor heard the commotion and opened his door just as I made my way down the stairs.  I was discombobulated.  In my frantic state my worried neighbor offered me his cell phone so that I could dial 911.

I offered him and the operator my story and fire personal were dispatched to my place immediately.  The fireman once there were understandably confused, and in my disoriented state I was unable to give much of an explanation.

I did tell them I smelled something, was shocked, felt a seizure like jolt in my brain and leg, and was now worried that the electric power might be still live.

The fireman offered to check my vitals but did not push for it.  Despite the fact that I was clearly in disoriented, had difficulty with train of thought, and had just offered up details that sound a lot like a mild seizure.

They informed me that I had no burns, so they did not think that I was in any danger.  Further after inspection they found nothing alarming about the hot water heater.  The water worked and they were not shocked going upstairs.

I thanked them for their due diligence, apologized for bringing them out, and took them up on their offer to cut the power from the main fuse board.

Over the course of the next few days I began to have panic attacks.  Anxiety as high as I have ever experienced.  I began to have moments of depersonalization.  I could stare into the mirror and forget that I was staring at myself.  I would begin to punch myself in the face.  I would show my penis to my mirror image.  Masturbate. While masturbating I would get  the idea to cut off my testicles.  I took clippers and pressed into my skin until blood began to stream from them.  Luckily I would climax at that point which would bring me back to reality and put and end to my desire to harm myself.

As one might expect I began to become alarmed by my behavior. I went to the emergency room where I was informed by the attending physician that I should stop doing ecstasy.

He further noted that my vitals were stable.  And that he would in, "no way add to the soup of chemicals in my brain by giving me anything."

I described to him my possible seizure.  My stereotypic behaviors, along with my firm contention that I was suffering from "more that a mild case of Serotonin syndrome." He concurred that it was highly probable that I was suffering from Serotonin syndrome, but he reiterated that would not treat Serotonin Syndrome at the ER level.

My physician let me know that his belief was that I was having  panic/anxiety attacks.  "I don't think you are suffering a panic attack, ---You ARE!"  With that casual dismissal he had had enough of me.  He suggested that I seek behavioral health therapy from an affiliated hospital.

My retort was that psychotherapy was of little help at this point, and that I did not need a 12 step program to give of the party drug E.

"It's not heroin, sir.  I am not addicted."

My doctor then explained that he thought that I sounded quite intelligent, and that I should take the time to seek some mental therapy as "it's not just psychotherapy" that he was offering.

I recall thinking that the doctor was impressed by knowledge of stereotypic behavior and Serotonin Syndrome.

Eventually I relented to his pressure to see a psychologist and to get some referrals to his affiliated mental hospital, but after waiting an additional hour or so with no show from the behavioral side, I decided to leave the ER.  I made my way past the receptionist who whisked me along with a simple "you are free to go."

It's been 2 weeks since then.  I've been very ill, though it was just a cold.  Mentally, I have been gradually coming back to normal.  I smell the burning rubber less frequently.  I can look for quite some time in the mirror without problems.

My masturbating to rape, chocking, rough sex, and strangulation videos is waning.  I no longer feel the amphetamine like high when women stare at me, or when woman moan in pain on porn sites.  I orgasm normally.  The intensity is now like one would expect from a 40 year old male.  Masturbating today is hardly worth the effort if I do not wait a few days in between tugs.

I am still anxious about electric appliances.  I refuse to plug in my portable heater because soon after I see the red warning sticker light up.  In addition, as I have said,  I have had the fuse pop several time when I have plugged in the heater which has caused my quite some consternation.

I was not feeling anxious today....

That is until I came home and all the lights in the house were off.  The living room lamp had burned out.  The dining room track lighting had burned out.  The kitchen florescent light would not come on.

I took charge of the situation.  Bravery not always my strong point I still felt I had to do something.

I changed the light bulb in the living room.  I went from one of those good for the Earth CFL's to the old fashioned incandescent.  The bulb burns strong and produced 50% more light than the ecologically sound bulb.  The florescent bulb in the kitchen spontaneously started working again.  Though it flickers eerily.  I assume some kind of reminder that it wants me dead.

The dining room light stopped working after a bit, I assume the incandescent bulb does not fit or work with track lighting.  I hope.  The bulbs in the bathroom also flicker eerily even after being replaced.

I find my home to no longer be a place of comfort.  I think it a death trap.  I am positive we need to have the place rewired.  I will die in a fire.

But perhaps not.  I am a light sleeper.  Hopefully I will smell smoke, or feel the discharge of electricity and make my way out before thousands of volts surge coarse their way through to stop my beating heart.

At least I pray that it will go that way.

Peacocks, electrocutions and seizures...OH MY!

It's nice to know that even a few people still want me to write.

I wish I had half the skill it takes to be even a decent blog writer.  I want to able to write like one of my favorite blog writers, Alecia.  I think her voice would go well with all the craziness in my life right now.

She also encourages my writing, which is nice.

Though I bet she watches NASCAR  just for the crashes.

So much has been going on.  So let me fill you in.

Almost electrocuted while installing a hot water heater.*
Mild seizure from abusing Ecstasy.*

Got a girl.  (Well kinda.  It ain't official as neither of us is into relationships.)

The new gf lives in the ghetto.  To get to her house I have to navigate through a virtual modern day land mine.  I have to avoid onerous canines that look both dangerous and sickly all at once. I imagine the same kind of dogs can be found huddled in packs in pleasant sounding places like Somalia.  In addition to the dogs, I must dodge roosters, chickens, and the neighborhood peacock to get to the guest house behind her parents home where the gf lives

That's right, I just said I had to dodge the neighborhood peacock.

(Lets call my new almost girlfriend M.  She is the old GF from my third best post ever. )

M. invited me to dinner and asked me to drop by around 6.  She was "into cooking now" she said, and she wanted to show off all her new culinary skills.  When I arrive she tells me she has to go pick up her other kid who is at her father's house. She suggests leaving me alone with her son because father # 2 is a real asshole and will start shit with her if he sees her with any other man. [read all about him and her in this post.]

M. leaves to pick up her daughter, though before does that she stops at a friend's house to get high, after getting high she goes grocery shopping.  Because a bitch is going to get hungry after getting high, am I right?  She finally gets back around 9:30 loopy high and slightly drunk.  Her sister and friend stay over until 1:30 in the morning. I think you sense I am not getting laid again.

You are correct. I don't.  I do almost get to third base.  Does fingering labia count if there is no insertion of digit into vag?  Ladies let me know.

I know what you are thinking, I'm a natural born sucker.

I sent her a text 2.5 hours in to her adventure saying, "did you get lost?"  She replied that she hoped I was not mad at her for leaving her.  I told her, "we'd talk after she got home," but we didn't.  She does not like me to get/stay mad at her. Though I guess she does like me as a babysitter.  I'm such a nice guy.

The following day on the walk to the bus stop she explains to me that "if you are going to date a girl with kids you have to be prepared to watch them on occasion."

I suppose she is right.  I am sure there is some added responsibility when  with you date a girl with kids.  Though I am not exactly sure how inviting me to dinner** at 6 and not having dinner ready for me, but instead taking off to a friend's house to get high, and then do some errands without even asking me beforehand is really part of the responsibility I took on.

Here is the part where I describe my babysitting skills.

Her son is so attention starved it's kind of sad.  The Kid was ecstatic to have a male in the house.  Sat right next to me and was rubbing his MERSA/Chicken Pox all over my Droid with his grubby little infested hands.

Then I played video games with him for 2 hours.  I hate video games.  And I really hate playing video games with 7 year old kids.  When you play video games with little kids you have to play the way the kid wants to play.  Which basically means he gets to kill you, over and over again, and you have to take it.

The next day I had a fun talk about all this with the Ex-Internet Girlfriend.

She wants to start a Facebook profile and add me as a friend in order to make all the girls on the internet jealous of me.  She is going to create a profile using a hot "girl next door" looking photo and talk shit to the NEW/OLD GF.  I think she even wanted me to change my status to "in a relationship with this fake profile.

Very funny stuff.  Talking with is how I want to relate to a girl.  We never have strange pauses in our conversation.  We never run out of stuff to say.  She actually makes me laugh.  She's really funny. I wanna date a girl like the EX Internet GF/only I think she would have to be more of an alternative chick.  Less conventional than the Internet ExGF in order to get past my inability to be a "real man" in the  world.

You know the whole "I don't really take care of business" attitude that has me at the age of 40 lost in a dead end job, nursing the gangrene on my stubbed toe for two years, avoiding my hot water heater for fear of getting electrocuted, trying to survive on only three fourths of my salary (the rest getting stolen from me by loan companies) bus riding, overweight, balding, insecure, borderline personality disorder, panic attack having, seizure having -from simple recreational drug use- one day suspension getting- and only one more tardy away from getting fired, loser self.

Who am I kidding?  What alternative chick is into that?

I bet I am wrong to hope that if a girl dyes her hair strange colors she won't give a shit about things like stability from her man and instead they just want someone that makes them laugh as we freeware are way through the garbage for dinner.

p.s. Hippy chicks, please inform me if you too desire stability, and some form of conventional masculineness from your men.  If so, I assume this puts me back on the path to getting duck tape and storing a hot sorority girl in my basement.  Or putting up with white trash women who cuckold me-  without me even getting to jerk off.

*That's a whole fucking story.
**She did end up making me a sandwich with mayo.  I hate fucking mayo.

p.s.s. Stay tuned and I will write something about the panic attacks I keep getting.  How I am dissociating and punching myself in the face while trying to stab one of my balls off.  I mean I finally get why crazy people decide to chop off an arm.  Not that I was ever going for knowing about that feeling.

Happy Thanksgiving: An Epic Poem from Romius T.

Everything is empty
and everything
you do
hurts me
in my
soul

and
"we're not
running
a special on turkeys" I tell you
because I think you're an asshole.

but at least I can see
down your shirt
when you bend over
you
skeezer bitch...

It's getting worse

I might have had a "mild" seizure last night.  I was convinced I was electrocuted (that's a whole story.)  I called the fire dept.  I am having panic attacks that last all day now.  I did E a few nights ago and on my birthday which was last week.  I think my brain got fried.  I think that's why I am paranoid and having electric shocks (Serotonin syndrome.)

The End is Nigh

Nigh means near, right?  I am not writing in the blog right now (or anywhere else for that matter.)  I was going to write a post about it on my birthday, but I never started it.

But if you still check the blog daily, or weekly for new stuff you might want to be even more sporadic.  I am not sure when (or if) I plan on writing anymore.

In case I don't- let me thank all those folks that stopped by and gave a shit.  Thanks.  Really!

I'm like a "mean" David Cross?

I'm like a mean David Cross?

How is that even possible?  David Cross is like the meanest person on earth.

He has a giant swimming pool full of drowning kittens.  An entire swimming pool, full of kittens.  He has giant tubes that connect to the pool that dump kittens into it by the hundreds.  Hundreds of kittens at a time into a giant, swirling 20 foot tall hot tub.

As soon as the pool gets full of kittens he floods the pool full of water and turns on the heated  water jets.  Then he just sits back in his chair (after a hard day's work of screaming at little old ladies leaving bible school) and watches as the poor little creatures jostle around  and drown.

Now answer me this?  How in  the world am I anything like David Cross?

I don't have a pool or anything.

Dog days of Summer

If you have come here hoping that I have awoken "Kant like" out of my days of slumber, then I have bad news for you.

I am not sure if that day is coming.

I don't know what to tell you folks.  What I can tell you is that I am not even checking out my blog stats on a daily basis.  Nor even a weekly basis.  I can't remember the last time I looked them up.

That is heresy to every blogger I know.

Perhaps we should no longer call me a blogger.

I make a decision I am sure I won't keep.

I have decided to forgo anymore E for the next two months.  I am hopeful that after a period of rest my brain will return to normal.  If not then I guess I will join the ranks of the millions of you who choose to never read a book.  Who watch Jersey Shore and drink Tequila in the morning.

I drink for medicinal purposes only.

Alcohol is the only drug that quiets my brain.   A heavy night of drinking slows down my Central Nervous System to the point that I feel almost like my self again.

I am on my third beer tonight.  It's 4am and I have to work tomorrow.  Most people would not be drinking right now. But  doing things most people do has never been anything I have  been good at anyways.

Note to self:  Identify and enumerate things  I am good at.  Write the list and stick it in a bottle.  Throw out to sea.  If it comes back then you truly are "gifted and talented at something."

Secondary note to self:

Do not drink contents of said bottle as most likely they will be contaminated with oil- slash- irritating chemicals designed to break up oil.

Note the use of spelling out slash whilst making use of the physical dash.  Note that that note is not that interesting.

To quote a friend of mine that I have never met,  "They aint all gotta be epic."

Is there other big news?

I recently added the Chinese Android Rom MIUI to my Droid. The Rom kicks ass.



Things I have noticed about the ROM.

• Much quicker than stock.  I was not overclocking my phones computer processor and my phone was quite snappy.  
• No app drawer.  Big flaw in my mind that was almost a deal breaker.   I added Launcher pro, but hate Launcher pro mostly because on my droid it usually ends up seriously lagging along with some serious redraws.
• I love the advanced notification bar that gives one the ability to toggle gps, wifi and the like.
• Totally dig the lock screen that gives you three choices as to where your unlocking will take you.  Text, Phone or Home Screen.
• iPhone like. But what the hoohey.  
• Some cool wall papers.
• There is a lot of other cool stuff, but you don't care.  

Note you need to be "rooted" in order to apply the rom to your phone.  I do not recommend that you void your warranty and I am not responsible when you brick your Samsung Alias trying to put this kick ass rom on your low tech messenger phone.

Go ask mommy for a smart phone.

Maybe I will give away my phone in some kind of super contest.*  I think I would get more hits for doing that, than if I suddenly was able to write like Kerouac.

*I will never give my phone away you jack-asses.