I have a disc filled with dirty things–I view its images clinically, as art; it no longer excites me.

Yeah, the site is currently FUBAR…. hopefully my genius ex-loverly will come through…..

Anyway, I detest horse-faced psychos. Here’s a pic that pretty much sums up her looks (her intelligence and worth are found on the ground behind that gorgeous smile!).

PS. I so wish I could do a side-by-side comparison….

PPS. Yeah, I know, I’m being an ass.  The Horse-Faced Psycho can’t help how she looks…

Just wrote the following on a message board:

The thing is, we all have our prejudices–it’s, as they say, “human nature”. However, most of us–or the decent ones of us–recognize the irrationality (despite whatever “evidence” we’ve obtained) of our prejudice and act and speak as if we didn’t have these thoughts. We understand our irrationality* and refuse to give weight to our bias because, intellectually and emotionally, we know we are wrong.

*Yes, I used the word twice….

A few months back I tried to “come out,” as a manic-depressive, to my family. One of my family members said, “So what? You take your pills and you’re fine.”

***********

I have a re-occurring dream where I’m trying to walk somewhere I need to be but my legs can barely move. In my dream, I’m afraid and embarrassed yet make jokes to those who notice me lurching and dragging my legs forward. Most times I fall and tell those around me that I’m “okay… just a muscle problem.”

Sometimes, awake, I can’t remember if it’s dream or reality.

Maybe if he were naked….

Hunky Gavin Newsom, Mayor of San Francisco, looking extra-hunky.

I’ve been, I guess one would say, obsessed with mental illness lately. Usually, I don’t think about it too much. Mental illness has always been something in the background like a freckle on the arm or a weird-looking toe; it’s just another small piece of the whole.

Yet, paradoxically, I have always regarded my illness as the source of my creativity and intellect.

Manic-depression has given me the gift of universal curiosity and desire to understand, if not master, a variety of subjects. Manic-depression has given me passion (which is angst married to absolute belief) and mountainous ecstasy. Manic-depression has given me the sight to see the smallest insect and the greatest language and the ability to write it all down.

Manic-depression has made me an artist.

How can I hate my creator?

But I do.

originally wrote this to a friend:

had to stop taking the drugs i’ve been on for the last ten years and the result was/is not good. i really hate the mental health system in this country. psychologists are worthless pieces of hack crap and, unless she is a medical researcher, psychiatrists are over-priced GP’s. the thing is, the entire industry is built on greed and denial. folks that are truly mentally ill have an organic illness and no amount of talk “therapy” is going to change the basic fact. i could spend every day for the rest of my life in therapy and it wouldn’t make a fucking difference…. the industry relies on the promise of recovery and denies the impotence of the psychologist (who, in my vast experience dealing with these beasts, is no better than a self-important snake-oil quack) and the organic nature of mental illness.

after learning that my insurance was canceled and not being able to afford the $400/month price of medication, I was forced to go off the meds. i haven’t been off in 10 years (since I was last pregnant) and apart from the hell of withdrawal (seriously, it IS hell), the symptoms of my disease flared up almost immediately. the local Health Department was no help. they wanted to charge me $300 a month for mandatory “therapy” and medication counseling when all I NEED is a doctor who knows his psych meds and can write the fucking prescriptions—see, this is what enrages me: would someone tell a MS patient or a diabetic or anyone else with a chronic disease that meeting with some asshole an hour or more a week for “therapy” will cure the illness? would anyone suggest that cancer (or whatever) is psychological?

the fact is, i have an organic disease. i need medication. i don’t need therapy. the psychiatric industry (mostly licensed therapists and psychologists) is the equivalent of modern-day phrenology and has an interest in keeping organically mentally-ill folks tethered to the lucrative pseudo-science of therapy. as long as we keep believing that we really aren’t “diseased,” we keep the fucking machine shitting out profits.

I want to tell the story, fuck, I do.

It’s not because I wish for justification. No, not at all. To come back, perhaps, but justification, no.

However, right now, the folks I love are strangers. I don’t know how it happened. I don’t know if I have the strength to trample the overgrowth.

Honestly, I don’t know if I even like them anymore.

Been alone too long. It’s easy to dislike. It’s easy to hurt so badly all thoughts turn to desire for oblivion. Better to dampen than to feel.

Yet I keep fucking feeling.

Wilde writes, “…yet each man kills the thing he loves…”

Freedom. Bliss.

I want to kill you all.

Yeah, been slacking. But hey, here’s a pic:

malfouka -n- Joe Prom 1988

sometimes there is no forgiveness.  no understanding.  nothing.

it is only naked self.

My brother brought over a monstrous zucchini—and I’m talking feet, not inches, long and wider around than one of my calves. For once I had no lascivious thoughts. In fact, all I was thinking was, what the hell can you do with a squash as big as that, play baseball?

Play baseball.

No sooner had the thought arose, I grabbed the zucchini and was crouched in a batter’s stance. Luckily, my brother had also brought over a bag of under-ripe plums. I tossed one to my disbelieving son and asked him to pitch. He did.

All I can say is, well, who knew how far a giant-zucchini-wielding batter could hit a plum…. I’m surprised the window is still intact.