February 25th, 2015

2013, cyd, new

Major hates bitter stuff.

Oooh, way to start a day. Hump day. I tossed and turned until I was coherent and coordinated enough to stand up at 4:30. and got up and had a cigarette and coffee. Doc pulled up an hour early at 5. He had a massive oak dresser in the back of the truck. We brought it in. Then we went and got the companion piece. Done in white laminate and butcher's block with brushed steel handles. We put it in the truck, rescuing it from the rubbish pile.

Then we get home and I try to turn on the computer. It turns on fine, but my trackball doesn't work. I unplug it, as it is a USB thing. Still nothing. I restart the computer, nothing. I do everything I can think of. Then I pick up the track ball and take the ball out and look it over and still see nothing wrong. Until I put it down, and notice that the wire is very short. Upon careful inspection, yes, it has been chewed through. MAAAAAAAAJOOOOOOOOOOOOR!! That's $60! I can't afford to replace it! I'm using the infrared mousie from the drone laptop on the back of the Kindle as a mousepad. This is an untenable situation.

I can't do art or photo processing like this. I guess it was just meant to be. Like the audience participation on the art project. 410 viewers of the explanatory page. Nothing. No, "your poetry sucks", no, "this is a joke, right?", nothing at all. Crickets. I've only gotten feedback on my poetry to my face, and it led me to believe I was some sort of savant. Makes this all the harder to understand.

I can't talk to Doc about it because it's "just the stupid internet". That's what Kelli calls it, too. The don't realize, they both leave their houses on a daily basis. They may not like the human interaction they have, but they have human interaction. I don't. I have this box. So maybe it is stupid, but it is all I have. Yet another thing that people just don't get about me. Well, the two humans in my life. And the list grows.

Doc has been raining down hugs on me. It really makes me uncomfortable. I used to love his hugs. I just don't want to be touched. I don't want to be conversationally engaged, I'm glad he's taking a nap.

What am I going to do about the trackball? I guess nothing. Doc is already making a horrible noise about having to pay $140 for my doctor's appointment and whatever the cymbalta's going to be. My check went to water, trash, and rent, and one Burger King breakfast sandwich. I realized a couple of days ago, that I am not going to be able to be my own patron on this art project, so I added the materials I will need to my amazon.com wishlist and now link to it from the fabulousdisaster.com/writing page. It gives away part of it, but not all of it. It hints at some of it.

I can't believe that cat. I have to de-wire anything in his reach today. That is going to be fun, we have wires all over the place. I just don't want him to get zapped. So far, he has not chewed through anything with a strong current running through it. I don't know how to stop him. Oh wait, I know, get that stuff at the pet store that they hate the taste of and smear it on the cables and wires and such. Problem solved. Major hates bitter stuff.
2013, cyd, new

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2013, cyd, new

And when I say "real", I mean "undiagnosed"

This mouse isn't going to last the night. I'm bound to throw it across the room at some point. My couch is a big futon, so when it is in seated position, the seat part is at an angle, the butt being lower than the knees. Fine for sitting. And using a laptop, and a trackball. But in no way good for using infrared mice. The stupid fucking thing slides all over. I've tried getting it into position and then turning it upside down. then it presses the buttons randomly. No, I am better than this mouse. I am bigger than it. I may not be smarter than it, likely it was fucked with by the NSA or some shit. But I will prevail.

I sound so brave as long as you don't ask me to walk the dog. I just can't do it today. My precious Cymbalta has worked its way out of my system completely and all this Wellbutrin I'm subbing for it is only good for is making me pee when I sneeze or cough. *thumbs up* I am so fucking terrified of everything right now. Doc finally got the clue last night as he was leaving. Which is why he came home early today. I am in a bad way. I am calling in sick to existence. Goddamn, my brain is a complicated piece of tissue.

Oh, and allow me to state for the record that my poetry is fucking awesome! Someone out of nowhere today favorited a tweet of one of my videos on youtube. One I haven't posted on my site yet. I stopped what I was doing (listening to Social Distortion's "Don't Take Me For Granted" over and over), and followed my link and listened to it. Fucking piece was awesome. Delivery even better. Why did I ever doubt my poetry? Just because no one on this planet likes post modern poetry, doesn't mean mine isn't the shit, which it is. As I say this, wee little seeds of doubt start dancing about in my head because I've not gone and read last night's poem. The first in a year. Since I went back on Cymbalta.

So I know now that it's the Cymbalta that is stripping me bare of creativity with words. With any fucking luck at all, this art piece will come to fruition regardless of the psychotropics dancing around my bloodstream. And, as I thought, audience participation is necessary because I am just too close to the written pieces. I want to pick all sorts of lines. And I would spend more time narrowing the field down and fussing over what is meant to be just a component of the pieces, not the all consuming part. In many cases, it won't even be seen, because it will be inside the pieces, and they won't be easy to get into.

Okay, I took the dog for a walk. We even went the long way. The Truck Guy's dog ran over to say hello. A boxer, I think. Cute, but mean. The guys apologized and complimented me on my leather jacket. It has chain mail covering one shoulder, an addition I made about 7 years ago. It's a cool as shit leather. Which is why I was so freaked out when M stole it. And why I was so relieved when he gave it back. I've been through more with that leather than with any other person or item of clothing that I know of. Though I do have a Z. Cavaricci shirt that I've had since 1989 that has seen some shit. I still wear it. It's called Droobie. Say what you want about the style of that brand, the clothes hold up.

Guys, why does my 15 minutes continue to evade me? I expect much less from it than I did a decade ago. A few phone interviews, some written pieces. Maybe some live performances on a darkened stage to hide my teeth. Some fucking audience participation. I have worked through some stuff. Here, live. And the burden of noticing is entirely upon the few of you. And that's not fair.

I thought I found friends on twitter, the #StopRush crowd. We had common interests. And they were right there when I got hacked, but once they found out how mentally ill I am, they all deserted me. I think I'm going to unfollow the lot of them tonight and let them get on with their crusade. I don't care enough about Rush Limbaugh to work for people who abandon me when I need them. I don't attract assholes, I allow them. No more of that shit.

I feel like shit. I don't deny it. I will likely regret some of the things I'm doing once I'm medicated right again. Who gives a shit. Kelli's right, I care too much about people who could give a shit about me and don't care enough about me. Giving my efforts to people to connect, and I get the same shallow garbage I got all through school and work. You're everything when they want something from you. But if you want or need something, fuck you, man, you've got a lot of nerve. And how dare you be mentally ill and want to play with the real people. And when I say "real", I mean "undiagnosed".