Rants and Musings

Tasty, nutritious, and... it'll make you feeeel goooooood.

:)

Well, that's about it for re-posting my deleted archives.

When I got to MT, @ October 29, 2004, I had stopped blogging. I got to MA, @ December 21, 2004. I started this blog back up again, once I caught my breath, in Jan. '05. I deleted all of the blog entries from May through October of '04, because... I was embarrassed, and angry.

So, there are '04 archives scattered throughout May, June and July of '05, if anyone wants to read them. Aside from that, there's April of '04, when I started this thing. Sorry for the mess.

These are my brain's MRI pics. (MS! The other white meat!)

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9
10 11 12 13 14 15

(Number 1 is from November of 2004. I'll add more pics as I get them.)

Just to make things more clear though...
Here's a brain without  MS and mine - with MS. (Both images T2 Flair w/o contrast)

Spinal Lesion

---

...and here are a couple of pictures of an actual brain with MS.


WARNING: These are really gross!

plaque 1

plaque 2


eeew!

I'll be forever perplexed as to why the "Book of Blogs" people chose this entry, over all the rest of mine, to publish.

------------------------- -----------------
Strokes
10/8/2004 11:13:54 AM


I suppose that there's plenty I could write about, but lately I'm finding it difficult to blog. I suppose that it's about spending the last 5 and a half years online... writing and writing and writing... I suppose that I'm pretty over it. Every now and again you get someone who gets something out of what you write, but generally speaking, no... at most, you can pat yourself on the back for being a good drumming chimp. It's just entertainment... drama, for other people.

Do I really care? Maybe a little. I'm sure that deep down inside of me I want people to care about what I have to say, but I can't care too much. I did that for a few years, and it did nothing other than make me want to hunt people down and shoot them. When you care, you put your heart on the line. Not a good thing to do with the Internet. My conclusion, after 5 and a half years? As quickly as possible, take it offline.

It's not real.

I argued that point, once. I used to want it to be real... to be typing back and forth with other real people... to believe the "I love you!s" and "You're family!s"... It's not real though. The words were, generally speaking, empty. News Flash: If only one person thinks it's real, it's called a delusion.

So, why do I continue writing online? I don't know. I think that right now it's just about killing time... and getting the occasional ego boost. There's nothing quite like hearing "you're right!" to give me a stiffy. Doesn't take all that much to make me happy, I guess.

In a while, I'll drift offline. I'll go back to pen and paper, and Word docs. The thought is a pleasant one. I don't even recognize my own handwriting anymore. My writer's callous is gone. It's sort of sad.

Instant gratification. That's what it's all about, I suppose. It used to be that I didn't care if anyone ever read what I wrote. In fact, I preferred that no one ever did. My writing was for me. It was an outlet. Then, I wrote online and people ooh!ed and ahh!ed... and the rest is history. More! More! More! Feed me! Feed me! Feed me! Stroke my ego! Harder! Harder! Harder!!!

I used to be able to get myself off just fine.

Sad indeed.

Well, that was a complete waste of time. All the appointment did was piss me off.

I'm scheduled for an MRI on Sunday. Fun. More brain pics. I'll try to get a disk again. My brain is vain. It likes seeing itself online.

Off to the neurologist today

ain't life grand

10/1/2004 06:48:33 PM


Often, I feel completely socially awkward... sort of like one of those little rocks in the Paxil commercial. Is it Paxil, or Prozac? One of the two. Anyway... sometimes I wish that I'd shut up a lot quicker than I do. I say things without thinking, then beat myself up for how I must have come across.

Often, it's easier just to hide.
------------------------- ---------------
There's nothing from the September archives worth re-posting. I was in high delusional mode... licking the sludge I was offered. There's a reason I've always feared September.

Yesterday was a pretty good day. A friend from Philly just happened to be in NH with her niece, and stopped by on her way home. It may sound weird, but seeing her made me homesick. No, feeling homesick isn't a good thing, but seeing my friend was, and feeling homesick helps to reaffirm my sense of "home".

I left "home" in '98. It was one of the bigger mistakes in my life, but it was unavoidable. I was playing in traffic trying to kill myself... sick with the brain stuff, and sick with the pesky little cocaine habit I picked up. Moving helped with the cocaine problem, but didn't fix the brain. It was one of those "all I have to do is really try" things. In, I think it was, the end of '98, I moved, got a good job, tried to get off disability. Lasted until, I think it was, April of '99. Had to stop working at the "good job"... tried doing some construction work for a while. That didn't work out either. Couldn't stop the head.

I ended up in the burbs, in October of 2000 (another long story). My definition of "hell". I stayed with a friend and her family until May of 2002, when I got a place. I had housing assistance, but it was still in the burbs. I can't drive. Getting anywhere was rather difficult. There were no sidewalks where there should have been. I was tired all the time. I couldn't stop the head.

I left the burbs this past October, lured out to MT by a psychotic, manipulative, abusive, cunt. My bad... I guess. Honestly, I was planning on offing myself on the train out there. I didn't know what I was doing, only that if this wasn't happily ever after, I was done, and I'd suspected it wasn't happily ever after for months. Once I put the notice in to my apartment complex... once there was no turning back... she started showing her true colors, but I was pretty stuck. I had to go. I had nowhere else to live. I thought I could tough it out... thought I could manage to become what she decided I should be. The second I stepped off the train, I knew that wasn't going to be possible though... and it only got worse from there. I only got worse from there. The stress pushed my little MS brain over the edge, and I ended up losing my sight in my right eye.

So, I got the diagnosis, finally. I tried not to panic when the doc said "I've never seen a brain like this." I tried not to panic through all of it. No matter what, never complain around the cunt. The cunt is the only one allowed to complain. When I told her the diagnosis, she got angry with me. Odd how both her and the cunt I came out of had the same response. Not Freudian at all.

So, there I was, in bumfuck MT, trapped with a psycho and her kids. There were only two ways out of there. Either go out in a body bag, or beg one of the friends I'd been required to dick over to beg her mom to house me. I begged.

The last couple of weeks there were hell. I somehow had to get (what was left of) my belongings and myself to MA. My half brother got me a train ticket. (I'll be paying him back forever.) I just tried to hang in there... to not say the wrong thing... to not push any of the psycho buttons. I had to get to the train station.

I almost went across the street to the Mormon church to beg them for a ride.

I made it. I talked to my friend, my brother, and my old therapist on the phone, until I had to give the phone up. I stayed in bed as much as I could... staring at the ceiling. I went outside and smoked and paced, when I could. Above all, I kept my trap shut. No matter what I wanted to say, I kept it shut. When I said anything, I tapped into the part of myself that loved her... the part that forgave her... the part who still blames myself for all of this.

She blew everything, at the train station. That little part of me, who still loved her, was pushed over the edge.

The last thing she said to me, before I got on the train, was "Tell me you don't love her."

After all of that... after destroying my entire life (even going so far as to return or destroy thousands of pages of writing and hundreds of photos, because she threatened to either destroy them, fight with me over them, or throw them in my face) in order to be with her... after having to prove to her over and over again that I loved her.. after all of it, it all came down to her wanting more reassurance. It all came down to it being all about poor her. After all of it, she still couldn't even trust that I'd rather be with her, romantically, than be with one of my friends.

When I got to MA, my head was still spinning. It took a few days before I had any desire to go near a computer... and quite honestly, it's really fucking rude to immediately jump online in that sort of situation.

When I finally did, there were multiple e-mails from her, each one more obnoxious than the last.

That's when she became "the cunt".

In the first few weeks, I left her phone messages... I made sure she had my number when I got a phone, being that I didn't know what might come in the mail there. I told her happy birthday, as I thought it might be the right thing to do... but that was it. Even her responses to the phone messages were obnoxious.

So, "The Cunt" stuck.

...and I'm still homesick.

Friday, August 27, 2004
Mourning Thoughts


Another morning, another cup of coffee.

My brain is tired. That has always troubled me... the fact that I can't turn off my brain. As close as I can get is being drunk, but even that doesn't work sufficiently. All drinking does is slow the thoughts down a little... quiets them.

I once tried to capture what my head sounded like. I had a 4 track recorder. I overdubbed until I had enough tracks to get close. There are always voices, and noises, and music, on the inside of my head, along with the noises that come from the outside. Sometimes it's louder than others, the inside stuff. Sometimes I can't tell if it's coming from inside or from the outside. Sometimes it keeps me up, because it's too loud. Sometimes it keeps me up because it's too scary.

I feel like I'm dying. I feel like I'm killing myself. I'm not sure that "integration" is supposed to feel this way. I'm not sure that there's supposed to be a residual mess to clean up. My mother emasculated me. My father could only laugh at tears. They both spoke with violence as their native language. They both walked on me. And so the game called "life" began. I'm tired of playing the game. I just don't know how to stay alive without doing so.

Another day, another cup of coffee, another beer for breakfast.

I don't want to think about it... everything I gave away... destroyed... Maybe, one day, I'll forgive myself.

------------------------- ---------------
Burning Desire
Wednesday, August 25, 2004


I have a lot to do. ...a lot to do which I don't feel like doing. My apartment is a mess. It's tough to have anal retentive issues while packing and purging. All I really want to do is hide from it. I wish that I could fall asleep and have those elves from The Elves And The Shoemaker come in and take care of it. What a messed up message to give to kids... just go to sleep and everything will magically take care of itself.

This task would be so much easier if I had access to a burn barrel.

------------------------- -------------------

You can't go back in time... but you carry your past with you. It shapes you... admit it or not.


I've been to the bottom. I've had those I love most spit on me. I've been locked away. I've been branded a freak. I've shit in buckets in abandoned houses. I've had doctors poke at my genitals as if poking at a dead frog. I've sucked dick for drugs. I've been fucked and kept a smile for food. I've slept under trash. I've had my ass kicked for my appearance. I've had my belongings given away, thrown away, and stolen. I've used my leather jacket as a pillow, and as a blanket. I've been mugged at gunpoint. I've had my head slammed with wood. I've had cameras stuck up my urethra. I've passed blood clots the size of my fist through an opening the size of a pea. I've been operated on. I've had bugs living under my skin. I've been cut, punched, slapped, had my hair ripped out, kicked, and stabbed in the back repeatedly. I've had friends and family die. I've lost the right to be around children. I've lost the right to be around family. I've had diseases. I've been in car accidents. I've been through a fire. I've been lost in strange places. I've been on Welfare. I've eaten in soup kitchens. I've spent evenings in Crack houses and late nights in Emergency Rooms. I've been to Rehab. I've had my skin engraved. I've had teeth pulled. I've broken bones. I've punched brick walls. I know what chains feel like while being beat with them, what leather feels like when it stings your skin, and what it feels like to get on stage in front of hundreds of people.

I know what it's like to have people trying to make a movie out of your core.



Thursday 08.12.04 [11:13 am]

Tuesday 08.10.04 [10:36 pm]

It's my nephew's birthday tomorrow... the one I'm forbidden from seeing... the one who's been raised being told I'm a freak by his pedophile of a father. I wasn't allowed to see my sister either, not after about maybe a year of their son being born. My sister "wasn't allowed" to have contact with me and she didn't protest a whole hell of a lot. We both did what we felt we had to do in order to have people love us and want us around. In her case, keeping her mouth shut was something she felt she had to do. Why she still keeps it shut, I don't know. Maybe she forgot what she wanted to say.

After my sister left the pedophile, I think it was sometime in '94 or '95, I managed to see my nephew once, by showing up at my sister's dorm room. The kid really really liked me, as he did when he was first born. I really really liked him too.

When he went home to his dad, and his dad found out that I'd seen him, all was not well. His father took him to a shrink to make sure that he really did like me, and that being around me wouldn't damage him horribly. The result was that my nephew forgot all about liking me. To this day, his "memories" of me are not good... and no one is trying to change that by telling him the truth.

Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.


Happy 16, Sean. Here's hoping you can rise above. I heard we're a lot alike. That makes me smile.

Sometimes, when my brain goes POP!, I wonder if it's my MS, or if it's just me being genuinely pissed off.

I wonder if there will ever come a day when the word "transsexual" won't be in the same category as "hot sexy pussy girls fucking like xxx whores, porno to the maxxx, mad cumshots, anal galore"

It is BEYOND infuriating, and BEYOND damaging.

Being "transsexual" is just like being a man or a woman, or a boy, or a girl, or male, or female. The word, a product of a small minded, binary sex/gender system which produces people who get off on anything outside of the "norm", is not, in reality, a goddamned sexual perversion, akin to shoe huffing! The word, a product of a small minded, binary sex/gender system, only exists because people can't get it through their idiot brains that sex, gender, and sexuality exist on a continuum. Mainstream society needs a binary word for easy swallowing. It needs a word to express "We're normal, THEY aren't", so if one is breaking the damn rules (something most people only WISH they could do, and so hate anyone who does), simply by being oneself, one is said to be "crossing" sex/gender lines. TRANS means "to cross", and SEXUAL [i]doesn't [/i]mean, in the case the word "transsexual", "fucking", it refers to one's body parts. "Transsexual" means that someone dubbed sex1 by society, is in fact closer to sex2, with parts stereotypically characteristic of sex1.

Yes, there's more to it than that, but shit!, for starters, can we please get it off the 'words that make you go "eeeeeew"' list? Kids are being scarred, and adults lives are being ruined.

Maybe, one day, Transsexual people will move all the way up to where Gay people are now. Yeah. It could happen.

Whatever... this rant could fill volumes. In fact, it already does... if a person has the desire to go to a goddamned bookstore or library, and chance actually learning something, the volumes can be found there... as long as it's not a mainstream bookstore.

ok, I'm shutting up

for now

original blog date: Wednesday 08.04.04 [8:18 am]

A few years ago, on my message board, the subject of "Goth" came up. The topic was raised by a guy about my age, who considered himself Goth. In my opinion, the label was perfect for him. True, my introduction to "Goth" happened in the rather unique early/mid eighties Philly Hardcore scene, so my concept of it may differ from many elsewhere, but in my opinion, what "Goth" is now is not what "Goth" started off being. My friend, who brought up the subject, was (and is) a real Goth. He still lives it. His Goth core is hard as nails.

This was my full reply to the topic:

---

As enslaved as I am to my memories... it just makes me realize how much of a masochist I really am. There's so much pain there... and so I cling... must cling to the nails, pick at the scabs, not let go of that which causes me to FEEL.

All parts of the world were different, I only know the early to mid 80's Goth scene in Philly... so... I can only speak from that perspective.

From what I recall, Goth started out a lot more "positive"... true, it turned into a fashion craze, just like "punk" and "skin" and "preppie"... but before it was a fad and fashion it had roots in something a lot more meaty. I think it started as a response to the bomb, actually. It was the basic attitude of, "well, we're all gonna die anyway, might as well have fun... do drugs, get laid, fuck the world and what it tells me is good for me. We're all dead anyway!". Actually, its roots are a lot more in line with what you just said about your current attitude. It's not giving up on life, it's realizing that it's already over so you might as well enjoy the time you have however you want to.

Although I had a "Goth" attitude and I wore a lot of black and also dyed my hair black quite often, I didn't really fit into the "Goth" group... my head was usually shaved actually, and my clothing was usually ripped or bloody, and not always black... Most of the "Goths" were not squatters or runaways... looking really "Goth" costed money.. more money than looking "punk" did anyway... whatever the reason though, the "Goths" were usually from a higher income bracket. Every now and again I looked Goth, but I was often mistaken for a "skinhead" as well. I was out of the closet, so to speak, as a Vampire and as a sexual mutant and as a masochist (...even earned the nickname of "Slasher" from the locals). In truth, I never really had a secure label... I had friends from many groups. We somehow met in the middle and hung out together, in a way, becoming a crowd... but in another still staying true to our individuality and some to their respective groups. True, we lived hard, but as well, we didn't break or change for anyone, no matter how hard they tried to break us... they couldn't change who were were, tell us how to act, what to wear, or what to believe in... and so, the term "hardcore" stuck. Many of us never called ourselves "punks", even though everyone else did... "Punk" became the standard name for "non-preppie" or "non-Jock". Even "Goths" were called "Punk". Among us were Adam, Jen, Andrea, Siouxzie and Catherine, the "Goths"... Ed and Laura, the "preppies"... Ron and Mike, the "metal heads"... Ben J., Kim and I, the usually bald psycho "punks" and the mohawked and/or dyed, spiky "punk" ones, Jeannie, Heather, Nicole and Pam. There was Mary, who was a cross between Goth, punk, and just plain psycho... we'd often drink 40s then see who could get down the stairs the quickest by purposely falling down them. There was John, the "skinhead". There was Ben W. and Josh, brothers who just looked pretty artsy and poor. There was Karen, a punker version of Grace Jones and also my girlfriend for a while. There was Matt, the out of the closet, beautiful male prostitute. There was Bill, the acid burnout, dealer, Vietnam Vet (?). I could go on for hours, detailing the entire face of the West Philly Hardcore crew during the years of '83 - 86... but that's not what this thread is about. This thread is about Goth, and about change, and about perspectives...

I think that as we age, many of our labels slide off... and we do our best to hang onto the ones we have pride in. I have my West Philly Hardcore tattoo. I'm proud of my roots, I AM my roots in many ways, no matter how much I grow. In my teens, I thought I had it all figured out... I knew everything. In my twenties, I knew that I had been wrong about knowing it all as a kid. In my thirties, I'm proud to announce that I knew everything from day one... I just needed to learn words to explain it all to others.

No matter how much I grow... I am who I am... that doesn't change... I just learn new words to explain who that is to everyone else. There are labels that stick, some that don't, and some that become tattoos. My "Hardcore" tattoo is permanent... physically and metaphorically. I will ALWAYS be a part of defining what "Hardcore" is, was, and always will be. I will ALWAYS be pompous about it and always inflict my standards on other people. *shrugs* It's one of the few things I'll never bend on... there's no, "well, if you're hardcore then I'm not"... there's only I'm Hardcore, period. If you want to know what that is, just get to know me. Part of being Hardcore is that you're a stubborn pompous ass about who you are and the fact that it'll never change because of society's standards. It's pride in the self (or selves, in my case)... no matter what that self happens to look like or chooses to do, feel, think, or what that self chooses to act on or do.

Hold onto that Goth label... the rest of the world honestly needs to learn what the fuck Goth is, was, and will always be... and I can think of no better example of it than you are (Jim Morrison is no longer doing interviews).

---

My core is hard. Does it have a label? Did it ever? Like Mary, I was a cross of Goth, punk, and just plain psycho. I was "Orphan Edge". I was the little, cut up, freak in a leather jacket which had a history. I was I was I was. In Philly, in Israel, in Kentucky, in the burbs, in school, on South Street, on drugs, at the squat, at the shows, in the Institute, in the gutter, in the bars, at work, at home... I was. I am what I was. I am what I am. I am what I will always be.


I'm Cutter.

This is what Nessie looks like:

Yes, it looks like she has snot coming out of her nose. I think that we have a lot in common (allergies).

Nessie is both friend and enemy. ...ok, not enemy. I just resent her a little.

We go everywhere together. She helps me out a lot.

I'd be all suave and shit, but... I'm too dependant on her.

Anyway... just thought I'd introduce you.

My brain is burning. It may sound crazy... but I can feel it. I've always been able to. I can tell when things aren't right... when it's rotting... being eaten away by this fucking disease.

...feels like my head is burning... like it's going to pop... like my spine is going to push through my head...

...like nothing makes sense... it's all abstract...

life through a tunnel

echoing

mocking me


eating my life away

The reasons why I started calling myself a Vampire (going back to 1983)

Blood lust - since drinking tons of my own as a child (about 6 or 7 or so)... (Vampire = blood drinker)
Reincarnation - had vivid past life memories from a very young age (at least 14) (Vampire = live forever)
anti church - I was violently against the church. Clergy sent me into a "rage". (Vampire = church = AAAAAAH!!!!)
solitary - I was always a bit of a loner (Vampires do not travel in groups, they're loners, PERIOD.)
ESP - (Vampires can psychically control others... hypnotize, seduce, etc.)
shifting (Vampires can turn into bats, wolves, other creatures)
effects of B12 deficiency - (Vampires are pale and have sunken eyes and receding gums... and not a lot of energy unless well fed... and CRAVE BLOOD)
slept in closets, under beds, anywhere safe and small (Vampires sleep in coffins)
youthful in appearance (Vampires don't age)
nocturnal - (Vampires = light = AAAAAAAAAH!!!!!)
dreamwalker - (same vein as ESP above)
Ability to blend although very different, and also very quiet in motion - (Vampires can turn into smoke... vanish... not cast shadow or reflection)
morbidity - (Vampires = death, undead, dark, etc.)
different than others - (Vampires most certainly are)
teeth - mine are very thin and sharp, and I have a strong jaw (fangs. duh.)

but... onward about it...

I can't remember the last time I ingested human blood, other than my own. My attempting to stop the practice came along with feeling/becoming more and more violent. It was, once, a simple craving for blood. To some degree, it still is. In fact, as I write this, my mouth is watering at the thought. I just felt that I needed to watch my step.

I started calling myself a Vampire when I was about 14. I took blood from those willing to give it. I drank my own constantly. Along with that, I was realizing other (Vampire-like) ways in which I differed from others. The term "Vampire" just made sense.

Today, even more so than with the term "Were", I feel that the label no longer applies. Although I've managed to find a few "Were-like-me"s , I've yet to find even one "Vampire-like-me&quo t;.

I've come to think that it's possible that my blood cravings are attached to the whole "Were" thing... it's a food thing, not a sex thing or an energy thing. Every last person I've met or spoken with who calls themself a Vampire gets things from blood and "feeding" from other humans that I simply do not get. Too, every other "Were-like-me" I've met has had the same "I want to eat/attack people" thing going on, as opposed to the nibble at the neck thing.

There is a "recharge" that happens after drinking human blood, but I can get that type of recharge from other foods too (although to a lesser degree). I don't need to drink blood for Psi-energy. It doesn't turn me on. It's not a ritual. It's just food... a "favorite food", so to speak... a food that carries a pretty potent recharge effect and satisfies something in me that little else can. It's like the difference between eating a PowerBar and a plate of Turkey. It's a food charge, not some sort of magickal, dramatic, erotic, mysterious, spooky ritual.

Does alive or dead matter with "feeding"? With "dead" things, like most meat you can buy, the charge is lesser than when feeding from (live) things, like human blood, but it's still a charge/recharge. I can't get it from lettuce though, only meat. Live human meat? Well... I have meds to take when that craving threatens to get the best of me.

The biggest problem has been that people revolt me. Syringe donors have always been my preference. I have no desire to smell the stench of most people. It's actually nauseating most of the time. Most humans smell worse to me than dogs do to most people.

The whole thing is tough to put into words. It is about hunger though. I used to call myself a "WereVamp", that fit a little better. I guess, at this point, I'm getting tired of all the labels. I'm just Jon who really likes drinking human blood, and often craves it to the point of it feeling like a "need".

The web has made me think a lot about labels... and has caused a lot of them once attached to me to slide off. I'm ok with that. In life, I've been a lone wolf, for the most part. I keep my distance. I stalk (in the legal way). I hunt (in the legal way). I generally get what I need... and want. Sometimes, it just takes a while, that's all.

 

---

Why I call myself a "Were" - the short version:

Werewolf - ManWolf - Mix of human and animal and/or one who shifts between the two. Me = Polywere - Many aspects - some human, some "other" - I shift between them, sometimes by choice, sometimes not. "Were" (also, to me) = Person who shifts between and/or is a combination of human and non-human animal, also the "modern" word for "Shaman". I used to explain myself to others as "having Shaman's blood". I learned the term "Were" online. It worked for me. "Poly" came in because that too made sense.

Wolf is my "primary". That is to say, most of my shifting, if it involves an animal, involves wolf. I used to have a lot of "wolf dreams" about 10 years ago... not so much anymore. Animal dreams (being shifted in dreams) has been happening all my life, but the really powerful wolf ones happened around 1993 or '94.

Aside from wolf, the most common are raven (maybe hawk or eagle... all I know is that it's a larger bird of prey), bear, I'm pretty sure it's some sort of cat (maybe panther, jaguar, lion...) and rabbit... although (honestly) I think I could shift to deer tick if I wanted to. Many of my shifts are rather vague. I don't remember a lot of details. I've spent the last 10 years or so doing intensive work in "controlling" the whole shifting thing. I've come to the conclusion that it's less about controlling as it is about accepting and "making friends" with.

I have a theory about "Were" being what humans are evolving towards, but there are holes in the theory so big that you can ride an elephant through them. All I can say for certain is that Weres are different from the majority of humans, in a big way.

Rules that seem to fit?

1. Above average intelligence
2. Trauma history
3. "Psychic" and or "Empathic" ability. (non-verbal communication)
4. Duality or pluralism of ego (?) involving non-human animal/s
(I don't want to say it, but I really do consider shifting to be a "requirement".)
5. Alcoholism
...no, seriously, I really think there really is something to it.


Jon's controversial theory of the decade?

All Real Vampires are Weres.

------------------------- -----------
The above written in March/April 2004

 

 

A rather loud thunderstorm served as my alarm clock this morning.

I like thunderstorms. I like the adrenaline rush that comes with them. Being struck by lightning, I think, is a lot like winning the lottery. It's either supposed to happen, or it's not. There's not much you can do to make it go your way.

I can't help but play the lottery and I can't help but want to sit out in the rain, every now and again...

It's the adrenaline rush of "what if..."



original date: Sunday 08.01.04 [10:34 am]

I'm wondering what happened to the "Hot Blogs" list. I haven't seen it in days.

I just wanted to post this...


I LOVE the (Showtime) show "Dead Like Me". Mason rocks!

I don't like it when I can't get my head to the place it needs to be in order to write. Sometimes, I think that I write easiest while hiding where people can't find me... in a book with a lock on it. Yet, here I am on an open blog, attempting to.

I remember, when I was about 10 or so, hiding in the bathroom. I think that the bathroom didn't have a lock on the door, and that alone freaked me out. I used to go in there, sit on the floor, in front of the door, and do my "rituals". I had a white box. It was an old white purse which had belonged to my (step)grandmother. It was basically a box, covered in white patent leather, with cheap metal chain as the strap. I removed the chain, and turned it into my personal box... where I kept my holy things.

Writing in my diary was part of the ritual, but too was reading/murmuring passages from the Old Testament... the ones you're supposed to say every day, or so I was told, in order to be a good person, safe from the wrath of God.

So, the bathroom was the place I went to protect myself, and express myself, thanks to my own back.

Sometimes, where you have to go in order to protect yourself, smells like shit.



original blog entry dated Saturday 07.31.04 [10:27 am]

There was a result from posting the "special place in hell" entry. There was fighting and manipulation and threats... in carefully selected words only the CUNT could come up with.

The result was that I had no place to write... and that I shredded THOUSANDS of pages of writing, and HUNDREDS of photos, before moving out there... even this blog was affected!... so that I wouldn't upset the CUNT ...so that I could prove just how true my love was ...so that I never gave the wrong impression.

When I got there, when all was irreversible, the CUNT threw words at me anyway... anything I said, anything I wrote... it was all fair game.

The end result?

The demon and I got the hell out of there, before we killed the bitch.

That I know of, there have been two people in the course of my life who have violated me. Yes, there were more who violated me, but in this case, I'm speaking of violating me in a specific way.

There are many things I've done throughout the course of my life, in order to keep myself safe and alive. The one thing which has, in all likelihood, worked the most effectively is my journal. My journal is where I can let the "demons" out, so to speak. The journal is where the serial killer in me can play. The journal is where the child in me can cling and cry. The journal is where the asshole can piss all over people. The journal is where the sick, twisted, mother fucker can break every law in the nation.

Taking the safe space of my journal away by entering unwelcome, takes the place away where the demons live. If someone reads my journal, then they see those demons. If people see the demons anyway, what reason do they have to stay in the journal? If a person looks into the pages of my journal, and sees me as a horrible person, what reason do I have not to be one? It's not that the truth is in the journal, and I'm living a lie. The reality is that I'm really a nicer guy, because I keep the bad stuff at bay.

I think that Stephen King's "Dark Half" had a concept like what I'm attempting to describe here, although I'm not sure. I only saw the movie, I didn't read the book. With writers like me, we often use the page to give that which is evil in us a home. Too, we use it to give our weakness, our doubt, and our fear, a place to be where it won't destroy our lives.

When I tell people... make them promise not to ever read my journal without my permission, I do it not because I'm attempting to hide something from them, or because I'm lying to them, but because I need that safe space. I need that place where I can let out the part of me which would cause harm if let loose, where it is safe for that part to exist. It protects me, and it protects those around me. It's part of my job. It's doing what I need to do in order to not kill myself, or anyone else.

Think of that which you fear most. That's me. That's what needs to live in the journal.

We all have a "dark half". I like to think that I'm a whole hell of a lot safer to be around, because mine has a home.

My mother violated that space when I was very young. She let out some of that darkness. In 1993, my girlfriend violated it. She let out more. There is a special hate I have for both of them because of this. All is not fair in love and war. There are certain courtesies you even give to your worst enemy. When you don't, then you become a demon, and demon wars are forever.

I am a very sick, twisted, dangerous, mother fucker. I live on the page. I live on the page because I'm also a nice guy. I live on the page, because the page is there for me to live on.

I tell people never to read my journals unless I give them permission, because pissing off a demon is not something you ever want to do. They will reserve a special place in hell, just for you.



original blog date Tuesday 07.27.04 [10:49 am]

(Entry posted, originally, as both a warning to someone, and as reassurance. I wanted to keep her away from my journals and again make sure she did not feel threatened by my ex. I regret saying that I "hated" my ex. I don't hate her. The fact that she read my journal though, that did infuriate me, but I forgave her. My mother?... that's another story.)

(edited/updated in Aug. '05, as it was a previous "what my deal is" entry.)

Being (mis?)diagnosed with mental illness since 1985, I've been shrunk so much, I can barely see over my boots. They blamed my MS symptoms on my being "crazy". They like to tell people who won't listen to them about which sex/gender they are that they're crazy. It snowballed from there. Everything was somehow connected to my "mental health history" and attached to my mental health labels. Every cognitive symptom, and every physical one. No matter how many times I told them "No! There's something wrong with my brain!" they never listened, and never looked at my actual brain. It wasn't until this past November that they finally gave me an MRI, as I'd gone completely blind in my right eye and was in a new town... no health records on file. Not that they didn't try to accuse me of just drinking myself blind (that was the second neurologist), judging me by my appearance, but they checked my brain anyway (after looking into my eyeballs). According to the Nerologists, I've had MS for, about, the last 20 years. My brain is pretty messed up.

I've recently found housing, in Massachusetts. I'll blog when I can, hopefully often, but please bear with my messed up head. When I flare, I flare. There's nothing I can do about it... and sometimes, I don't even know that it's happening. Your personality lives in your brain... your moods, your feelings, your intellect, it's all in the brain. My brain is damaged... extensively. Please keep that in mind, before judging me too harshly.

Often, I just wish the MS would kill me already. That says a lot though. I'm still alive. I haven't given up yet. I'm stubborn.

When all else fails, make friends with Captain Morgan. He knows all the answers.

extracted from my blog entry dated Saturday 07.24.04 [9:42 am]

"I can't" - a) momentary "can't" as in, "I can't lift 3,000 pounds" with my pinky." b) long term "can't" as in, "I can't jump off the Empire State building."

a = At the moment, I can't. b = at the moment, I can, but it will lead me to a dangerous place.

To clarify "I won't" - "I won't" is definitive. There's one meaning. "Won't" = will not, whether or not I can.

There's also "I don't feel like". That means I can, but won't unless my feeling changes.


It's rare I don't do things because I don't feel like it, but it is occasionally the case. Most things I don't want to do though, I push myself to do.

There are a few things I won't do, but they often change. I can be stubborn, but I often give in.

There are many things I can't do. Many of those things, like lifting 3,000 lbs with my pinky, are things that most other people can't do either, but there are also things I can't do that most other people can.

How do I measure what I can or can't do? I try. If I find that I can't, and I've tried repeatedly, I can't, and I don't give up easily.

I have two jobs. Don't kill myself. Don't kill anyone else. If something will cause or lead me to not being able to do my jobs, I won't do those things. I will say I can't do those things, because by my definition (definition b), I can't.

To define "I can't do my laundry today.":
I can put the clothes into the washer, put the quarters in, and do the laundry. Before, after or during this process the probability of my slicing myself to ribbons or blacking out entirely is 95%. To me, this translates more into "can't" than "won't", so I say, "I can't do my laundry today."

The reason why I'm on disability, is because I have limitations that most other people in society do not have. The reason why I'm not locked up, in the gutter, or dead is because I've spent 34 years learning what those limitations are, often the hard way, and I respect those limitations. I know how far I can push myself. I know where the line is. I push myself as close to the line as I can get on a daily basis. In the past, I pushed myself over the line repeatedly. This was not good. Pushing myself over the line is not doing my jobs. Going over the line will kill or hurt me, or kill or hurt someone else. I simply WON'T do that, if it is in my power not to. I can do my jobs. If I get to the point where I can't, I can and will ask for help from those in society whose job it is to help me. This is called "taking care of myself".

I cannot do what I cannot do. I won't do what I won't do. I'll constantly do things I don't feel like doing.

I will always walk the line.
------------------------- ---------------
That blog entry was brought to you by someone whose disability status was being challenged, and who was being told, in no specific words, that he wasn't doing things because he just didn't want to. Basically, being told that he wasn't disabled, just lazy... that all he needed was a little encouragement... just like an autistic child. Then there was the part about being scared to leave children with him because of "what if..." that he had to reassure someone about.

I'll stop here, because this will turn into one UGLY rant.

I was lured across that line I spoke of. I lost the ability to do my jobs. Now, I'm in the proverbial gutter.

I'm about to rant...


shutting up.

A year ago today, I was busy being lied to and used. A year ago today, there was something, obviously, wrong with my eyes. I sure as shit couldn't see things for what they were.

Don't know how many more archives I'll post. Reading back on them makes me sick.

I think that when this country (the US) started out, there was a possibility of being "free". That whole concept, though, is pretty much one big ol' floaty in the bowl. As close as one can get to actual freedom is being a "bag person" and even then, you depend on other people's trash.

It's sad.

(that thought led me to...)

During the end of 2004, I sacrificed A LOT of my "independence"... gave up a lot of what freedom I did have. I'm bitter. VERY bitter. The little bits of hope I do have are what get me through, day to day. The hope of getting back to some semblance of self-sufficiency is what keeps the blade from the vein. (Well, that and Stem Cell research, but that's a whole 'nother topic.)

I made a mistake, a BIG mistake. At the moment, that's how I feel. I can hope that, one day, I won't see it that way. I can hope that, one day, I'll see it as just another leg of my life journey. Not right now though. Right now, the way I see it is that I just plain fucked up.


I trusted someone. I took a chance, and lost. ...and fuck heartbreak, I lost the damn pot I was, very securely, pissing in! I guess that'll learn me to put my heart over my head. I'll not do that again. Next time, they can give up just about everything they own, move a few thousand miles, put out a few thousand dollars, push away the people they care for to make me happy, give up the ability to take care of themself by believing my line of bullshit about how I'll help them out, put themselves in a position of being completely homeless without me... and I can just go on with my life, changing absolutely nothing, but allowing them in my home. Maybe I'll let them use a box to sleep on, until I can get them to a store to buy a bed, once they save up some money, after I say that I'll get a bed before they get there, and change my mind a week or so before they arrive. I have a bed, it's not my problem, you know. Maybe I can do nothing but complain, but then attack them if they dare utter a sentence which even comes close to addressing one of their issues... Maybe I can speak relentlessly of the partner I've not yet even divorced... Maybe my first ex can suddenly show up at the door... Maybe, once I stress them out so much that they end up sick, I can get mad at them for even telling me that they're sick. Maybe I can manipulate them with sex. Maybe I can go sleep on the couch because I don't like the way they're psychically pulling away. Maybe I can ignore them completely. Maybe I can get mad at them for wanting to sit and talk with me. Maybe I can treat them like a child. Maybe I can punish them, if they get angry, by not allowing them to get to a store or a laundromat. Maybe I can take their money, and monitor who they call, and make them walk to the doctor over 6 inches of ice while they're blind in one eye. Maybe I can snatch their medical records out of their hands and throw a fit over the confidential information I read in them. Maybe I can accuse them of risking my well being, because they told someone that they weren't just a stranger in town trying to write a fucking book. Maybe, in the end, when they finally break, I can get them to take care of me because of my poor broken heart... maybe I can even pull up some tears and doe eyes to make them think that they did something to me... maybe I can force them to pick apart my character, so that I can throw the words back at them later... maybe I can twist the whole thing around into what I'm insecure about, ignoring the truth, and say that they were running off to be with another person.

Fuck. Who am I kidding? I am who I am. If I love, I love, and when I love, there's very little I won't risk or give. I'll take another chance, because I'm stupid like that. I've done it my whole life.

I can only hope that, next time, the person won't be such a damn psychotic twit... or that maybe, before I lose too much, I'll see the whole thing for what it is... and I'll remember not to throw away my parachute.

 

Getting close to bed time. Drinking what I think might be my last beer for the night. Miller Lite is evil. Tastes great and less filling. Right. That just means you drink four times as much. Not good for poor people. If you're going to go for a light beer, "Natural Light" is the way to go, if you're poor. It's cheap, tastes like shit, and burns your stomach. You don't tend to drink a whole hell of a lot of it, so it's much better on the (already skinny) wallet.

So, today was Independence Day. (Well, technically yesterday, but...) I have my own Independence Day, which is in the beginning of November. I think I understand the meaning of "Independence" better than most. I understand the cost of taking it, how difficult it is to fight for, and what the benefits are.

It's more than just a bunch of fireworks.


...and I understand those too.



original blog date: Monday 07.05.04 [3:25 am]

My head is racing like a motherfucker.

Anger. Hate. Ah... the spice of life.

I get off on being angry. If I'm not sufficiently pissed off, I'll look for something to get me there.

Hate Edge. I remember that whole thing... it was when the Philly scene was fracturing... splitting up... getting cliquey... Brubaker was doing the whole "Hate Edge" thing (perhaps in protest). I painted "Orphan Edge" on my boots... sounded better than "RunawayCore". That's about where I was at. It was all a bunch of bullshit... lines, divisions, divide and conquer... divide and fall.

Damn shame.

Once upon a time... a long, long time ago... things used to mean something.

Now?

I'm just looking for a rush.

G force
Sunday 07.04.04 [11:46 pm]

I've had people accuse me of "living in the past". I disagree with them. True, my past does affect me, but I don't live in it. If nothing, other than the present, I live in the future.

I worry.

A LOT.

I plan and figure and anticipate and plot until I'm completely frozen.

You can't move forward if you're that far ahead of yourself. It just doesn't work that way.

You can't jump from A to Z, without tackling the rest of the alphabet first. If you try, invariably, mid jump, something like "G" will jump up and bite you in the ass, sending you right back to "A".


One day at a time.

One hour at a time.

One minute... second...breath at a time.


Must remember to breathe.
------------------------- -----------

wish I'd been planning more, and breathing less

Through all of this, I do know that it could have been worse.

Much worse.

I think that this is an appropriate archive for the day:

------------------------- ---------------
Flustered
Wednesday 06.30.04 [9:48 pm]


Sometimes I can deal with not being able to get my head to where I want it to be, sometimes it just makes me angry.

I want to be able to write... to continue on with that little journal adventure I've been on, but it all seems so complicated. There's so much detail... there are so many stories... how am I to determine which are the most important? Sometimes I think that I should stop attempting to tell any sort of story... sometimes I think that I should just slap up random entries and see what it looks like. Pushing myself to tell the story is what makes this the most therapeutic though... it forces me to really look hard at things... to weigh them... to put them into perspective.

How can you know where you want to go, or if where you're going is where you want to be, if you don't know where you're coming from?

Why is it so important to me?
------------------------- ---------------

I'm sick

She took me there to be admitted, my monster.

I remember seeing her face through the little window as the heavy door closed. She was standing there... making fake sad faces, and waving at me.

It was then that the reality hit me.

I cried.

They let me cry for a little while, as they searched through my belongings.

Then it was time to get "settled in".


The first thing they do is strip search you and give you a physical.

That was fun for me. I got to watch the doctor's face go white when he saw what was under this boy's clothing.

That felt good... just so normal and comforting. Not humiliating in the least. I was going to just love this whole lock up thing.

It ended well. After I watched a 12 year old girl being tied to a chair because of throwing a tantrum, they put me in a room with a girl who had a thing for ripping her toenails out with her teeth, and told me that I had to cut off my mohawk.


It was Room 101.



originally posted 6/28/04

Justified.
Sunday 06.27.04 [11:48 pm]

Sometimes, words like "anger" and "bitterness" just don't work. They, in comparison to what you're actually feeling, feel like nice words.

"Hate" comes close.


The Dark Place
Sunday 06.27.04 [9:52 pm]

It was the end of September, 1986. I had just turned seventeen, and it was my brother's fourth birthday. I couldn't take not being around him. I knew what he was dealing with... who he was living with.

All the way around, I felt like crap... beaten down... face to the dirt. Helpless. Responsible. It was all my fault. I did this to myself. I was shit. I couldn't be there for my brother.

I picked up the phone and called my mother's apartment. I wanted to say Happy Birthday to him. Having split up with my step father (that's what happens when you sleep with your husband's best friend (or so the story went)), my mother was living with my brother. That made me nuts. I knew what he was dealing with.

Yes, I called... and yes, it sent me sailing over the edge.

I heard his voice, and it ripped my heart apart. It ripped my head apart.

I begged her for help. Explained how bad off I was, living in the squat. I wasn't that bad off, but I just wanted to be able to be there for my brother. In the squat, I couldn't be. I had to climb back into the mold... play the game... endure the torture.


I asked her for help.

What was the result?

A night or two on her couch, a week or so back at the squat, signed over to the city, stuffed into a "Youth Shelter", and then... BAM!

I was institutionalized.

Thanks Mom. You always did really try to help me.

Cunt.


Can't smile without you
Sunday 06.27.04 [4:58 pm]

Harold's doing ok. I just added some soil to his pot, to even it out where it has settled from watering. Since his moving, there are new shoots and everything seems just fine.

I like plants. It doesn't take much to keep them happy, and you can always tell when they're not. Sort of like kids.

Did I say this before?...

People always say how being a parent is tough, because kids don't come with an instruction manual. I say they do. It's called a smile.

These days, Harold has been smiling a lot. That makes me feel good.


Knock Out
Sunday 06.27.04 [2:22 pm]

I like watching sports. No, not all sports, but some. I love (NFL) football. I like tennis, especially Women's tennis. (NHL) Hockey, I like. College basketball can be fun to watch. I love watching Rugby. I'm not into the soap opera part though. I often see professional sports as "soap operas for men". It's the same thing... many guys know the history and stats for the teams and players, the same way many women know the plot lines for the daytime dramas... and they really can get worked up about it all. For me, I like watching sports because the athletic prowess is impressive, and some sports can be very visually stimulating because of the brilliant colors.

Playing sports? No. Not since I was very young.

When I was young, I was a little jock. I was really good at baseball, swimming, and running long distance, and pretty ok at most sports I participated in. Then, there was a little episode at day camp.

There was this boy, David. One day, all the kids had to be indoors because of rain. A bunch of us were in the supply room being kids, and David punched a punching bag and was telling me how much it'd hurt. I didn't believe him. How much could it hurt to punch a punching bag? So, he dared me to punch it as hard as I could. It was a dare. Of course, I took the dare, and punched it... as hard as I could.

oops.

It wasn't a punching bag. It was a gymnastics horse turned on its side. I broke my hand.

So, I spent the summer in a cast. I was not happy. No sports for me, and even worse, they were trying to make me do Arts and Crafts, which was for girls, in my young opinion.

I did the Arts and Crafts. I wasn't a bad artist either, but it didn't make me feel too good. I had enough issues with my sex and gender. I just didn't need the blow to my male ego.

Because of it all, something started changing that, my 10th, summer. I had to find another way to assert my masculinity. I did find it. Punching things. Getting hurt. Being "bad". So, the potential "jock" ended up becoming a "bad boy". It worked for me.

Well... except for the arthritis, the misshapen hand, and a body covered in razor scars.

Waking up. It's Sunday.

All days are the same, really. I have no such thing as a weekend. The only difference is in what other people can do, and how that affects me.

I think that every day should be a "weekend" for everyone. Life shouldn't be tedious with a break every few days. It should be relaxing and fun with the occasional bad or stressful day. Wonder who came up with the idea that life had to be more work than play.



original blog date 6/27/04

Dying is the only thing we have no choice in. It's the only thing we HAVE TO do... the only thing we really have no ability to choose whether or not to do, no matter what we want. No wonder people have such issues with it... and want to control it.



original blog date: 6/26/04

I don't know how I'm going to get through the day, but I want to. I want to not drink any beer today. I want to be able to go a few days without being all freaky.

It might be the alcoholic in me that's saying, "Why torture yourself? Why not drink if you don't have to?" Then, it might just be that it's a good point.

I don't want my life to revolve around beer. You can't drink on a Greyhound bus. It's a drug that works for me though. I've even had my doctor and therapist both tell me to drink. I've had my friends tell me to drink. It just works for me. It makes me calmer, more open, nicer, and funnier. The way I see it, it's no different than taking a daily pill. It just tastes better... and actually works. There have been drugs, legal and not, that I've been addicted to... and stopped for that reason. Too, there's a difference between drinking and getting drunk. There's a difference between using a drug and abusing one.

When something hurts me, or the people around me I care for, I don't do it. Even with smoking... I have a NON smoking room in my apartment. (I wonder how many non-smokers have smoking rooms.)

I wonder why people on Prozac aren't condemned by society.

...and I wonder why the abusive people who don't drink aren't factored in when people start pointing fingers.

I wonder why people blame the symptom, rather than the cause.

I wonder why people don't blame the person, instead of what the person consumes.

Abusive people are abusive. My mother didn't drink. My "father" did. They were both abusive fucks.

I'M NOT.


original blog date 6/22/04

Tuning in
Monday 06.21.04 [11:12 pm]

I guess that one of the main reasons I'm finding it so difficult to write about 15, other than the pain that comes flooding back when I think about it too hard, is because so much happened in such a short period of time. It feels like I could write a damn book just about that year.

I had an "awakening" in 1983. When I described it to my shrinkydink, I compared it to an old tv set... how when you turned it on, there was a flash, but then it took a while until the picture was clear. June 27, 1983, the tv was turned on. By November 5, 1984, the day I left home, the picture was crystal clear.

I often want to tell all the little details... all the stories and adventures. It's rare that I want to focus on the feelings. It's rare that I want to go into detail about what it was like living in that house before I left. That's the trauma part. It's like talking about being 7 or 8. I can talk about the fire, or the car accident, or my mother leaving, or my "father" leaving, or being hit, or what have you... but I can't talk about the way it felt. I can't get there... not without feeling it again.

Did you know that when my sister cried, my "father" used to stuff handkerchiefs down her throat to shut her up?

Never make noise. Noise will get you in trouble.


Hope
Monday 06.21.04 [10:02 pm]

I can only hope that tomorrow I can continue moving forward with a healthy knowledge of where I've been. I can only hope that if I trip and fall, the demons of my past and the demons of my future will devour one another. I can only hope that when the dust settles, I will have the strength to stand up, and face the present.


The point is
Monday 06.21.04 [3:06 pm] delete entry | edit entry

I don't know that I can do this. I keep picking up that yellow book and tying to read through the pages... and the rage builds and builds...

I don't know that I can keep reading it... I really don't know if I can share any of it. Why put my pain on display? Why open up and allow people to patronize me? Why set myself up to listen to people who don't have a fucking clue, attempting to share what they consider to be wisdom with me?

What is the point?

This is one of those days where I want to burn it all... every last word... every last memento of my past... every last thing that can hurt me....

I'd have to burn myself though, and a lot of other people around me... and they say you're not supposed to do that.


I don't know what
Monday 06.21.04 [1:12 pm]

I can't concentrate... can't get there...

Interesting, I'm stuck at the same exact point in therapy. I think that it's sometime mid '84... maybe earlier though. There was a lot going on with me. Abuse and past trauma aside, the sex, gender, and sexuality stuff was becoming more and more of an issue. It was all confused in my head, and there was no one there to help me figure it all out... and no one to defend me.

I was a normal 14 year old BOY who came from an abusive, traumatic background. It didn't matter what was or was not in my pants, under my shirt, in my gut, or in my blood. I was normal. That was the whole problem though... to them... I was an "I don't know what". That's what she said... the night before I left, right after telling me that I wasn't allowed to do music anymore... word for word, "I have a son, and a daughter, and an I don't know what!"

I remember how the words cut into me... it was like being hit in the head... no... the heart with a bat.

Steel shutters slammed down around me... I nodded... and agreed to everything they'd just told me I was to do. Then, I went upstairs and replaced the books in my bag with clothing, and talked with my sister. She cried and cried. I explained that it was either this or "jumping out the window", the metaphor for killing myself.

In the morning I played it cool... accepted my bus token money, and left for "school". I remember walking down the driveway, turning around, looking up at the house and saying, out loud, "...and I ain't never coming back."

...and it began. My life. My real life. The path of undoing 15 years of damage... of un-brainwashing myself... of educating myself... of surviving.
_________________________ __________

This stuff is fascinating, knowing what I know now.

Sometimes I'm angry. Other times I'm REALLY angry.

I don't know when the anger will go away. Maybe never. Maybe when I get another place to live and can adjust my medication dosage.

Don't worry. I take plenty out on myself too. While pointing fingers, I often visit the mirror.

I guess I'll stop deleting entries for a little while. My brain isn't too clear. I go back and forth on regretting the deleting I already did.

I wish it was easier to delete comments though. I have to comb through way to many pages of comments to find the one I want to delete. Some of them, I should have deleted on the day they were posted, but I didn't. I'm too nice sometimes.

- Cutter (10:42pm 2/6/07)