.
Oops! I blacked out again!
Funny, I was watching television and then I was waking up. Maybe I was just tired. But I wasn't! It really pissed me off too because I was going to go down to Duane Reade to pick up my two last medications by 3:00pm, and slept until closing. Sometimes I do believe that my blackouts are in fact changeovers. Those points where the consciousness of you ends, and the consciousness of your Alter takes control. Could be. You never know.
Do I have an Alter? Of course I do. I have several writing this blog now, and the main event is an Alter called Hobobob. He's writing all of this shit out of his sick assed mind. When people ask me why did I write this and why did I write that, I have to honestly tell them that I don't have a fucking clue. That's because I didn't write this shit. I try sometimes but that damn hobo does it all. He sits down for hours cranking this and that post out at a million miles an hour. It takes me almost a day to do JUST ONE!!!
I know it's him, jumping up from the bed the moment that I fall flat from a change- over. I did it just a few minutes ago. I'm re-writing a short story for publication and then I fucking wake up in bed. Does that ever happen to you. You have NO KNOWLEDGE of getting up, going to bed, pulling the covers up over your head and resting your head down on a pillow. NOTHING. You're writing one moment and you are rising from the dead the second. And it always feels as if you slept for hours and hours and hours, but in fact, you look at your clock and it reads an hour. Although this afternoon I had a changeover of more than FIVE hours. My first one that was at least close to real sleep. But I know I didn't sleep.
That mother- fucker jumped up and started writing blog posts. I checked the scheduler. When I was taking the Zoloft, and it did nothing for my depression, I could barely make ONE blog post. Forget using the scheduler. Fuck it. But then, guess what? I look at the damn thing today and this fucking maniac has EIGHT posts scheduled to fly for this week alone. Now that's what I' saying. This psychopath has a whole lot on his mind and it's eating him up from the inside out.
I know how he feels. I'm feeling the same way. When I'm awake I can't do ENOUGH. I'm cranked up on crack, high octane. I'm pushing and pushing, doing more and more in this tiny room, or on the Internet. I'm writing for action to be taken in the state system, I'm hunting down doctors and therapists...oh and dentists. I'm filling up my appointment book with appointments. I'm going back to the WTC Mental Health Center to get looked at, and this time, I'm not getting off the Wellbutrin, which I'm calling WRANK, short for Wellbutrin and Crank. I'm wound so tight that I can't see being un-wound ever, ever again.
Case in point. I'm burning ass on my writer's dreams. I'm lighting a massive bonfire under my fucking balls. At present, I have EIGHT pieces of work, from Novels to Short Stories, out to publishers. If I have to, I'll build a resume of published short stories to put before my work when I send out my novels for their perusal. I'm not fucking around any more. Further I'm fighting the powers that be. The government wheels that spin so fast that they threaten to suck you in and crush you into jelly. I am after them with a real relish. I want my five pounds of flesh and I'm going to get it. No shit Sherlock. I'm on a roll, and my fat ass is going to win this. This year, I'm going to win and win big. Mark my fucking words.
Today, I just worked like a writer. Writing! Doing what it is that I do best. Doing what I fucking want to do, and I'm grateful that I can. I know that soon, very soon, someone is going to knock on my door and say to me that I cannot do so ever again, and that these past few years would just be a dream, a vacation, and the real job of survival, going from soup kitchen to soup kitchen and church drive to church drive for clothes will start once again. My sorry ass will soon be tossed back out on the street.
WHY? You ask. I don't know! I just know that you don't sit around and wait for the hammer to hit you over the head. You go out, look for anyone carrying a hammer and beat the fuck out of him before he even THINKS about using it against you. That's my advice to my readers. Just fuck up people indiscriminately, whether they deserve it or not. You don't have time in this life to sort out the good from the bad, the right from the wrong anymore. This ain't the 1700's. This is 20-he11. The Internet will steam roller you if you don't use it. People are going to be flying past us on their cellphones and dating their Ipads soon enough. We humans just move to fucking slow.
And that's what I don't want to do any more. I don't want to move slow. I WANT IT FAST! That's why I have to stay on my WRANK.
That's why, until it explodes my heart, I'm never going off my WRANK again.
Never.
HobobobSource URL: http://idontwanttobeanythingotherthanme.blogspot.com/2011/03/gimme-back-my-taken-away.html
Visit i dont want tobe anything other than me for Daily Updated Hairstyles Collection
Oops! I blacked out again!
Funny, I was watching television and then I was waking up. Maybe I was just tired. But I wasn't! It really pissed me off too because I was going to go down to Duane Reade to pick up my two last medications by 3:00pm, and slept until closing. Sometimes I do believe that my blackouts are in fact changeovers. Those points where the consciousness of you ends, and the consciousness of your Alter takes control. Could be. You never know.
Do I have an Alter? Of course I do. I have several writing this blog now, and the main event is an Alter called Hobobob. He's writing all of this shit out of his sick assed mind. When people ask me why did I write this and why did I write that, I have to honestly tell them that I don't have a fucking clue. That's because I didn't write this shit. I try sometimes but that damn hobo does it all. He sits down for hours cranking this and that post out at a million miles an hour. It takes me almost a day to do JUST ONE!!!
I know it's him, jumping up from the bed the moment that I fall flat from a change- over. I did it just a few minutes ago. I'm re-writing a short story for publication and then I fucking wake up in bed. Does that ever happen to you. You have NO KNOWLEDGE of getting up, going to bed, pulling the covers up over your head and resting your head down on a pillow. NOTHING. You're writing one moment and you are rising from the dead the second. And it always feels as if you slept for hours and hours and hours, but in fact, you look at your clock and it reads an hour. Although this afternoon I had a changeover of more than FIVE hours. My first one that was at least close to real sleep. But I know I didn't sleep.
That mother- fucker jumped up and started writing blog posts. I checked the scheduler. When I was taking the Zoloft, and it did nothing for my depression, I could barely make ONE blog post. Forget using the scheduler. Fuck it. But then, guess what? I look at the damn thing today and this fucking maniac has EIGHT posts scheduled to fly for this week alone. Now that's what I' saying. This psychopath has a whole lot on his mind and it's eating him up from the inside out.
I know how he feels. I'm feeling the same way. When I'm awake I can't do ENOUGH. I'm cranked up on crack, high octane. I'm pushing and pushing, doing more and more in this tiny room, or on the Internet. I'm writing for action to be taken in the state system, I'm hunting down doctors and therapists...oh and dentists. I'm filling up my appointment book with appointments. I'm going back to the WTC Mental Health Center to get looked at, and this time, I'm not getting off the Wellbutrin, which I'm calling WRANK, short for Wellbutrin and Crank. I'm wound so tight that I can't see being un-wound ever, ever again.
Case in point. I'm burning ass on my writer's dreams. I'm lighting a massive bonfire under my fucking balls. At present, I have EIGHT pieces of work, from Novels to Short Stories, out to publishers. If I have to, I'll build a resume of published short stories to put before my work when I send out my novels for their perusal. I'm not fucking around any more. Further I'm fighting the powers that be. The government wheels that spin so fast that they threaten to suck you in and crush you into jelly. I am after them with a real relish. I want my five pounds of flesh and I'm going to get it. No shit Sherlock. I'm on a roll, and my fat ass is going to win this. This year, I'm going to win and win big. Mark my fucking words.
Today, I just worked like a writer. Writing! Doing what it is that I do best. Doing what I fucking want to do, and I'm grateful that I can. I know that soon, very soon, someone is going to knock on my door and say to me that I cannot do so ever again, and that these past few years would just be a dream, a vacation, and the real job of survival, going from soup kitchen to soup kitchen and church drive to church drive for clothes will start once again. My sorry ass will soon be tossed back out on the street.
WHY? You ask. I don't know! I just know that you don't sit around and wait for the hammer to hit you over the head. You go out, look for anyone carrying a hammer and beat the fuck out of him before he even THINKS about using it against you. That's my advice to my readers. Just fuck up people indiscriminately, whether they deserve it or not. You don't have time in this life to sort out the good from the bad, the right from the wrong anymore. This ain't the 1700's. This is 20-he11. The Internet will steam roller you if you don't use it. People are going to be flying past us on their cellphones and dating their Ipads soon enough. We humans just move to fucking slow.
And that's what I don't want to do any more. I don't want to move slow. I WANT IT FAST! That's why I have to stay on my WRANK.
That's why, until it explodes my heart, I'm never going off my WRANK again.
Never.
HobobobSource URL: http://idontwanttobeanythingotherthanme.blogspot.com/2011/03/gimme-back-my-taken-away.html
Visit i dont want tobe anything other than me for Daily Updated Hairstyles Collection
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