astral tales of the absurd

11/17/2025

It is almost the one year anniversary of me slopping together this website. Another year of life pissed down my leg. I am thinking of graduating from neocities to hosting my website somewhere else to force myself to learn about file transfer protocol. I am trying to tell myself that I should celebrate that I have kept working on this, and kept writing here, and stuck with it, instead of jumping from one thing to another like I usually do and have a million starts but 0 finishes, but it doesn't really feel like anything to celebrate, just makes me feel cringe and embarrassed to re-read it all, but still there is something where nothing used to be. But maybe not every act of creation and manifesting things from the folds of our minds into reality should be celebrated. Maybe sometimes that is how god feels about me, his little changeling. I have always been pro-creative, in favor of making new things, but what was god thinking, if there really is one from whose hands I was pro-created. Pro, my foot....he used the student-grade supplies on me. Our potter, who arts in heaven, misshapen is thy clay. Maybe I slipped by the quality control department while some angel was on a smoke break.

Babycakes has been trying to venture out into the world more around the real people, but it only makes me feel more lonely and convinces myself that I should go wait in some forest for the fae to come and take me back. R. said once that he was afraid of fairies; maybe that is why he never liked me. I keep thinking about him and can't get him off my mind. I always thought we would have been good for each other. I have always wanted to find someone hot and strong and more tough than me so I would feel physically safe and could finally relax, and I'm pretty sure he could probably kill someone with a mere flick of his wrist. Definitely someone I would want around in the 2030's when K. gets out of jail, if I am still around then, hell, if any of us are. And sometimes when R. smiled he looked like a young excited boy and it made me think he would be a fun playmate for my inner child. And it would be good for him to have someone soft and innocent to take care of, but I think one of the things about me that scared him was my softness and the sensitive tender parts of me that I don't try to protect like most people, but instead splay out to the world on full display and dare it to touch them. I like to think we both had the same philosophy: that hearts were made to break, but he wanted to prevent it at all cost and that it makes us weaker to be broken and then have to heal, but I risk it all without fearing the breaking and think it is in the healing from what hurt us so bad we didn't think we would survive it that we are made stronger by our scars, after all, it is way more hard to carve through a thick keloid of tissue knitted back together than virgin skin. Or maybe I am reading too much into it. Or maybe he was repulsed by fatties and didn't want a sexy heifer. Or maybe he was just a jerk. It is inconceivable to me but i guess some people don't want love or friendship to begin with. I don't know. I will never know. He wouldn't even talk to me, so of course he would never tell me. All I know is he wouldn't even attend to me when I was a student in his martial arts class and started having a flashback; he just told another student in class to deal with me while he walked over to work with the student he called his star student, (which I always wondered if calling someone his star student made everyone else feel like shit like it did me too, and why would I even want to be with someone like that instead of someone who called the whole class his constellation of stars) and he never even tried to apologize and it was the exact sort of neglect which inflamed my every primal wounding. I wish I could take a coat hanger and scrape the last year or so out of my mind and heart, and forget it all and get on with my life. Everything with R. and the art center has been one of the rare times when the scars were not worth the resilience gained in healing from the hurt, but I guess that when I feel strongly and sadly about something, I should be glad because that means it was something I cared about and it is never wrong to care. Or maybe the wounds have not fully healed yet and are still oozing every time they break open again, and I will feel differently when they finally stitch together for good and stop seeping. I told my friend that I would come back and start to volunteer again, to try to get experience for a job resume to try to find a job, but the more I think about it, the more I realize what a lousy idea it is, that I need to set a boundary that I am not going to go back to where people hurt me again and again without trying to apologize, I almost think the victim in me craves to go back for more pain and abuse and neglect. But I am telling her no. I want healthy love anyhow, with people who are willing to work for it like I am fighting for it, even fighting myself for.

I wish I could scrape my latest social event out of my history too; I am pretty sure I might have hurt a presenter's feelings with a question that I was interested about but asked in the most autistic way possible and it probably seemed flippant and rude and then I realized I should apologize and tried to join a conversation with him to apologize and probably sounded rude again and felt like the real humans gave me the "go back to the woods, changeling" look after I said the wrong thing. And I never want to hurt people and he seemed like a nice person who talked about how important it was to find good people to be around, and I want to be a good person with other good people. I don't know if the real humans sit around and do post-mortems of their every little failing either; I will have to inquire when I meet some. Sometimes I feel like the loneliest person in the world watching from the periphery as other people relate to each other in ways that make them feel understood and loved so naturally and easily and when I try to my brain is just think,think,thinking of weird stuff and extraneous details and gets stuck on little things thinking, thinking thinking, of how dust settling in light is like confetti or tadpoles swimming, and how tadpoles are like sperm and maybe sperm are the confetti of life and what a strange party it all is, of the unequal curves of a cupid's bow, of the acne spots on a decollete and what it would be like to feel her breasts and lips pressed against mine, of a glorious smattering of a headful of helix curls like little unzipped dna, of why corduroy is measured in wales, as i'm carried away on some inner monologue about how corduroy is said to be the cloth of kings, and how purple is the color of royalty and Victorian green is toxic, and how arsenic sounds like absinthe and absinthe is made from wormwood and wormwood is the name of the apprentice devil in the Screwtape letters and how can you stay in the present moment talking to the real people when your brain is out in a meadow chasing butterflies and jellyfish with spongebob? I have been thinking about critical theory and Lacan and how we relate with the big Other, and how our senses are the basis for all empathy, so maybe there is something wrong with the way my senses process detail and maybe the senses and detail processing has something to do with mental illness, but my therapist says we will work on ADHD and getting my membership card for the pre-natal Tylenol lovers club once we get the cptsd sorted because it can all overlap and we need to wait and see.

Speaking of overlap, I am wondering if my lovely to me but repulsive to most everyone else hanging apron belly is not contributing to my PGAD, it has been so annoying and physically painful and gross, bad this last week or so, an itch to scratch and scratch that I could scratch so much and rub myself down to nerve and bone and I could probably scratch the itch of it to my death and still itch. When I lost all the weight this summer it seemed to be a bit better, but I've gained a little weight back and my belly is changing again since I've started back on my meds. I have never talked to a doctor about it, because it is fucking embarrassing and I doubt anyone around here has ever even heard of PGAD, much less knows what to do about it, but it is another weird sensory thing that is driving me insane; i wonder if our brains are like computers and can only process so much at once. I guess it didn't help that I recently saw someone at one of these writing events I've been going to who I'd like to bite my cheek, but unlike the plaths love story, I want my other lower cheeks bitten and a happy ending. I feel so awkward though, and have basically given up after all the stuff at the art center, and I am a weirdo and a mess anyhow and nobody nice would even want me if they knew about all the nude pictures of me on the internet which may still exist.

I have been telling people about this website now, and put it on my contact card zines, and even gave one to my mom (hi, mom, if you read this, don't be worried I am not a danger to myself or others haha) so maybe I will have to clean up my act here and be a bit more reserved, stop talking about my genitals so much, I am such an oversharer, and it alienates people. I always used to imagine that maybe earth was not my home planet, especially with the ersatz hours that I keep, that maybe days on my home planet were different lengths, and that someday the aliens would come and get me and take me home to where I wouldn't be so lonely, but now I've been imagining myself as a changeling and fae baby, I guess it is probably just another way to keep myself miserable thinking of forests, which remind me of R. and my dad, and J. and how I learned to subsist on whatever scrap of affection or attention that people, especially men, would give me.

But after all the emdr this summer, I'm beginning to see that I shouldn't have to beg for attention or love or kindness, and that I don't even need attention or love or kindness from others anymore because I'm an adult now and I can take care of myself and I deserve to take care of myself in the same way that I take care of the other people I love. Maybe I can stop imagining love where there is none, and instead, maximize joy in the friendships and love that I have now. I just wish I had more intimacy in life, I guess, someone I could tell all my weirdest most terrible secrets and to engage in all my erotic obsessions and compulsions with and do the weird sex with, in a healthy way that made us both better people. Trusting other people is an erotic thrill to me. R. said once that he didn't trust anyone, and I told him I don't either, which I really don't, but as a result I've just lived knowing that humans are animals that we can never trust to not bite us, and that we might as well trust everyone if we don't trust anyone; my family says that I am too trusting, but I think it is more a case of faith, that I know people are just people and we're all unreliable, and everyone eventually hurts you or betrays you somehow and you just have to have faith in yourself that you will find a way to deal with it. And I've learned that it is not like I am a child anymore trapped under the rule of the people that hurt me and keep hurting me without doing anything to try to change, that if someone doesn't apologize and work to do better, I will leave them and I don't go back. And that is an important thing to learn.

So, I guess this year of life hasn't been pissed down my leg. I made this website, which isn't much, but it has been something, to me, and I matter, and I started the emdr and have made a lot of progress in it, and I'm dreaming new dreams for myself and I have learned to walk away from situations and people that make me feel bad and who don't want to put in any work to change or help me feel less bad, and I've realized that I need to take care of myself like I am my own safe and loving parent or trustworthy life partner and lover or my own best friend, or my own poppet and pigsnie, because I am.

I will have to have a bit of a party for myself on the 23rd, maybe some sort of creative retreat or adventure because all that is definitely worth celebrating. Maybe I'll make some paper, and say a prayer over it about the magic of new beginnings and not giving up on them, and then use my enchanted paper on which to write a new world into existence.

10/30/2025

I looked at this on my phone and this website is NOT optimized for mobile, and looks terrible on the small screen of a smartphone, so I am going to have to work on that. I have been terribly depressed, especially since getting my breasts squeezed and hurt. It was a grey day today and I stayed in bed until 5 pm. I haven't been wanting to do any essential functions of sustaining life, like eating or drinking or breathing. But my warm baths are still a comfort, so that is something to hang on to. I am trying to arrange to go to some writing events around Ohio; there is a conference coming up, and a publishing event. I got some bus tickets to them and am hoping to find a way home from one, since a return ticket wasn't available. I want to find a job and start making plans to move somewhere with better public transportation.

I need to update my creative business card zine and print some out to take to the writing events with me. My body hurts so damn bad, and I've been in relentless pain since my gout has been hanging on for a while. It started in my big toe and is in a couple more joints now, my thumb, an elbow. I should probably go back to the doctor and get some steroids for it, but they always have mental health side effects, and I don't want to upset the applecart of my psyche, so to speak. It is a stupid trap, since mental health problems causes physical health problems, and physical health problems contribute to poor mental health. There is some sort of physics to it, you need to add something to the closed energy system to disrupt the cycle, to break free from the rotational intertia. I am hoping I can get some supplies this month to refinish some chairs I've acquired, and I need some new glasses because my prescription has changed and I get headaches everyday because of it. I am thinking of trying to flip some stuff online to get some new glasses. I haven't made enough from my SW to get a payout yet. I need to start getting up before the day is over, i just feel frozen in static. Like i have given up and have ossified to life. Like frozen ground in winter that no coulter no matter how adamantine can penetrate. i should find my SAD light and set it up to turn on at noon, if I can find the instructions.

10/29/2025

I fell asleep last night while writing the previous entry here and hit save this morning without reading it. I wanted to write about no snap november, and how I am angry that the USDA, a governement department, is being used as a political tool, and how scary that is. And they are telling everyone to go to food banks, but spoiler alert for people living without food insecurity: people have been going to foodbanks already and they are under stress because of demand too. So let them eat cake isn't going to cut the mustard. And I wanted to write about why I think my dumb choices have contributed to my internet psychosis/delusions that I've been having more and more difficulty in trying to not be completely lost to.

Part of the problem is that I've let a couple people I've met online hypnotize me over video chat. And given my dissociative problems, it is no stretch of the imagination to think I could have post-hypnotic amnesia. I've seen some articles online that say hypnosis has been used to rape people before. I don't know the veracity or scientific rigor of these articles or cases, or anything anymore really, since most of my information I've been consuming has been online and if I do have some sort of thought disorder involving the internet, my version of reality is, how shall I say, not the gold standard version of reality that everyone else is subscribing to. I think its a feature of the current internet, with content that is served to us by algorithms, and not a bug, that we are all experiencing our own subjective versions of the internet. I may never know what is making me currently insane: evil hypnotists, problems in my own brain, the internet itself, is someone doing some online mind control experiment on me, is some gang of cybercreeps stalking me and trying to drive me crazy? I know someone/something has been catfishing me all summer. I had dating profiles on several websites, and as I've written about my dating life across multiple platforms, the people catfishing me have evolved to conform to my dating preferences that I've revealed in these writings. For instance, I wrote about liking a red head in real life, and suddenly I was inundated with matches in my dms with red hair. I know that is statistically unlikely, given the low occurence of redheads in the general population. There were so many red heads. I started talking to a couple, and one of them said he was a gynecologist and that he just got a job in my town at the hospital delivering babies. But the hospital in my town doesn't even do labor and delivery stuff. Maybe it is like other standard delusions/hallucinations/psychoses and my brain is cherry picking events from real life and trying to put them into some kind of narrarative to explain them all together and maybe they are all just discrete weird things happening and, ....and, and, and. I am taking all my medicines, I am going to my therapy, I don't know why any of this is happening now. I am just trying to stay off the computer and phone and any other internet abled device until I can sort it all out.

Meanwhile, some guy that I sort of know in real life was trying to pay me to make him custom videos, and it made me feel gross. I think the requests would have gotten more invasive, to the point of: make a video of you with me. I've been lucky that I've never had to do any in real life stuff of an adult nature, its all been online, and I don't want it to cross over into the sphere of physical flesh, or anything illegal. I don't want to have to turn tricks or have survival sex. This guy keeps trying to do things with money to try to get my attention, I met him because he gifted me a subscription to fetlife, and i started talking to him because of it. But I don't want to be for sale. It makes me feel bad and gross. I don't want to do online porn stuff anymore. You have to be tough and street smart to avoid exploitation and I am practically a bleeting little lamb. I want to find safer ways to afford to exist. I want to go back to school in hopes of finding a real job for something technical but I am stuck in my small town with no license and I have to be able to go to my classes in a neighboring town that is maybe 45 minutes away. I need to start making plans for how to get these things in order so I don't have to make choices that are not in my best interest anymore. I have had enough of being exploited for a lifetime. Once you get started down that path in life, it makes it easier to be revictimized, and I don't want to further participate in my own oppression.

Speaking of which, my fun for the day was going for my mammogram and having a flashback. The technician doing it really didn't have any people skills, or understand that I was disabled and how much pain I was in, or something. Between her harsh manner of speak-shouting orders about how to position my body while twisting and flopping my breasts and hurting them in the squishing device, and the pain in my body of having to stand and straighten and postition myself into a machine that wasn't made to image the crippled/bent/broken, I started having flashbacks of what K. did to me and started crying and that seemed to upset the technician more. I remember how there were purple handprints on my breasts from where he held me from behind, and the hitting, slapping. all the bruises, the pain. I don't know if the feeling of nausea I got was from weird angle I had to put my neck today, or if it was a cptsd response, I am feling all the pains again and feel like I am going to barf. Where are my zoeys when I need one? I need more zofran. i am going to puke

10/28/2025

It is almost 4 again. According to Sarah Kane, 4:48 is the perfect time for full fledged psychosis. I always wish she would have stayed alive to write more. Legend's last gangbang, I suppose. I have to be up very early for a jug squishing. I guess the real humans call them mammograms. I have 9 dollars left in my bank account. Every month the last week seems like a game of chicken between my bank account and the bills. Hopefully I don't get any last moment ususpected overdrafts.

No SNAP November. Is it the new No Nut November? I am hoping it will be a no nut hut November. Babycakes is having a bit of a problem with her disorganized thinking again, and the delulu. Either I am having some kind of weird internet psychosis in which I am hallucinating all kinds of crazy happenstances online, or someone or something is fucking with me across multiple websites and platforms. I am not sure which. It also doesn't help that I've made bad choices and lived a certain way so that if anything ever did happen to me it would be easy to chalk it up to my dumb choices and wild life. Once pople are down it is easy to keep them down.

10/23/2025

Grandma is having her arthritis and thought maybe a roll in the giggle grass would cure her pain. So here I am, 4 am I've been laughing at everything for the last 5 hours. Maybe grandma is a lightweight when it comes to the giggle grass but also wonders if it has been cut with something a bit more psychoactive. I have been going to a couple open mic nights around these small towns. There have been a couple really talented people, a musician here and there. Ow, fuck.

Also, grandma is worried because I have been on disability most of my adult life, because I've never found a work environment in which i might thrive, or that is a good fit for my specific skillset given my current health conditions and with being touched and all. In the head, I mean. And it is getting harder to live on disability and now SNAP may not be issued. I was hoping that maybe my online SW would take off but I've been checking out a lot into my own little world of knitting and havent been wanting to flash my gash for cash and havent even felt good enough to take pictures. All i want to do is read and write lately, and sing along to music and sleep. Grandma is getting depressed.

10/8/2025

What a long, strange trip it has been for babycakes. Also, Hi, hello, I've started referring to myself more and more as babycakes. I turned 44 in July, and my bestie, who has four decades on me, says that years with 4's in them are just the worst. And 44, double 4's is the absolute worst, she says. For me it has been a coup de grace to my sense of apathy upon realize that I am middle aged, or worse, a boomer or an old to the young studs I want to date. I don't think I have a lot of decades left. I have health and mental conditions that affect longevity, not to mention the antipsychotics I pop like skittles to keep me from tasting the rainbow have been linked to dying early. I am hoping I have time left to make some sort of contribution to the world and my earth family, and to poetry.

I've been trying to work on sharing my writing with other people. I really want to find a writing group and some creative friends. I haven't been back to the art center I'd been going to after a bit of a falling out. I caused some drama in a group chat, and I am repentant enough, but they always told me it was a place people could be themselves, and when I was my bitchy bratty self, nobody wanted me around. I know we can't all go around being our worst selves all the time, though. I am hoping I can find some safe ways and some safe people to be my worst, bitch bratty self with to exorcize the demons. I guess that is one of the big reasons I like to be a brat submissive. I want someone to love me when I am my worst, and stay with me after they have seen monsterme. When I am being a fun and prankish brat I want a brat enabler, but when i want to be a bad brat, I want a brat tamer. Or maybe, a brat rehabilitator.

Since I am talking about my love life, I should note that the excitement of the summer has turned out to be a dead cat bounce. The closest I am to having an actual relationship is my celebrity tiktok crush, who probably feels the same way about his fans as I felt about mine at the height of my SW glory daze. Also, Hi, hello, I've started doing cyber SW again since babycakes went on a manic spending spree this summer and doesn't want to have to declare bankruptcy. It is a horrible time to start again because everyone is getting desperate and starting to flash their gashes for cash...or maybe hawk their gulches? The clown car of western civilization is running on fumes and we have to capitalize on our curves while we can still afford to eat and maintain them, I guess. Although since babycakes had her money oopsies, nutriment is the budget line item that is crossed off or reduced first and most. I have thought of doing my feedist porn again since people will pay for food and to watch me eat it, but I always remember it made me feel gross because a lot of the regulars thought they owned my body and wanted me to get fatter and fatter and were enjoying that is was hurting me and wanted me to eroticize my own demize with them. Like, my brother in christ, just come to a therapy session with me and listen in.

My tiktok crush had a video about why are women mewing more and I know why: it is because we are not amewsed at being treated like meat. We are hissed off about being pissed on by a world that sees us as its painted-on urinal fly (I haven't seen that many urinals but I hear some have creatures painted on them). Every time a man tells a woman to smile, she want to hiss back. We don't want to have to be polite anymore, instead we want to return to a more feral era where we were led by what excited our loinfire, whatever lapped and licked our desire to rise in the night as the wild queens we all use to be. We who mew are the wild lynx in chains of generations that civiliization can never tame.

I need to get off social media and work on my own creative stuff instead of consuming content; I have decided the consumption of content doesn't make me content, even if it is watching some younger word nerd phenom talk about phonemes and morphemes. I guess maybe I am just missing myself as a 25 year old idiot when I met k., the way i would listen to him talk about the frankfurt school and smile like a bobble head and try to ask smart questions even though we both knew all the intellectul enticements were just foreplay.

It seems like all roads lead home, all roads lead to rome, all roads lead to damascus as I walk the path of synapses back to where I buried the rotting corpses of events tht I didn't know would pop up like zombies again and again. I wish there was a way I could burn those obsessive circuits whose paths, through the years, have been worn bare, like the way k. wanted my mons waxed for him, or bare like a prayer carpet I've kneeled on for all these years to wish the thoughts of K. away.

wow it is 7:30 am again and babycakes forgot to sleep another night. I have been having so much trouble getting myself to bed. and now my eyes are too tired to proofread this.

8/28/2025

Making the Cut

There is no safety in this life. Safety is an illusion the normies entertain so that they can sleep at night. Our dirtball earth is never safe. you can be an 8 year old shot while praying at church to the indifferent god up above who watches it happen or maybe he watches wanking while we bleed. You can be an innocent child born into a life of abuse at the hands of your own damn family. you can be the most vile, evil, guiltiest motherfucker on the planet and be a billionaire or politician. The hottest bitch who gets any guy she wants, with the ugliest heart. your friends can betray you. You can lose everything you love. You can walk through hell alone with nobody by your side or to lead you and to turn around to see if you've made it through, and when you get back home and want to tell everyone you love about your wild journey and the joy you've found in making it home to them they'll tell you you're too loud and inappropriate for their venue to listen to. there is no safety and nothing makes sense. The rug is constantly being yanked from under our feet as soon as we regain our balance with no rhyme, reason, or prosody to the tumbling. We just keep tumbling on. The odds are forever in the favor of heartbreak rather than happiness but we still keep rolling the fucking dice. The only thing you ever have is your self in a world where the self is a spectre of all the people who once hurt us. And what looks like self-harm to one person is a bleeding blissful comforting crygasm to another.

To live is to be tied spread eagle and open wide to the elements as we are filled with whatever enters into our depths of being whether we want it or not. I have been cunted out to existence with every nonconsensal throb of clit and beat of my own bruised heart and every man I have ever met has been scared shitless of me since I've learned to eroticize the cock-rape of life and its uncertainty and run toward pain with open arms and delight in it as much as I love pleasure and welcome and invite joy. I am going to take a bath and if i bang myself hard enough with something silicon maybe I'll be able to sleep too, now that I've relaxed, now that i've tasted a bit of blood as a prayer for those little kids at church today, and as a prayer for the little innocent things we all used to be before life fucked us in the ass using only our tears and its saliva as lube and left us too dirty for polite society.

6/25/2025

Another month almost over. Each new twelfth of days seems to grow increasingly more bleak and bizzare. The going has gotten weird but most of us weird are only para-professionals so far. I want to live for joy, to make the world more tolerable. When I start to get angry thinking of all the evil things and people I hate, I try to think of us all as little kids on a playground with no adult supervision. There are a lot of big bullies out there, bossing the whole playground. But people who can't regulate their own emotions are in no position to lead anyone anywhere. Having leaders teaches us to distrust our own autonomy, and makes us easier to control and exploit anyhow. Liberation from oppression is an inside job just as much as it requires direct action and changes outside of ourselves. I am hoping that I can replace my feelings of frustration and anger and anxiety with tolerance and hope and joy.

I have felt terribly sick. I have some health procedures in July and am hoping I can get a diagnosis and find out what is wrong with me. I am worried that for as sick as I feel, and with my symptoms, many of which are red flags for cancer, that I could have some serious illness. I have lost over 20 pounds without trying in just a few weeks, and it is still ongoing. I am trying to look on the brightside, that maybe I will finally get a diagnosis for some disease or health problem, and then my sickness will be believed and my neighbors will not raise an eyebrow and make their bitch faces when I tell them I have been sick and I will not be medically gaslighted anymore and told that all my problems are in my head or in my cellulite. I know it is something a lot of sickies experience so I know I am not alone in wishing that I could be diagnosed with a disease.

I've been going to physical thrapy for an injury and it has been deeply painful. I can't sleep at night because of the pain without either gummies, or muscle relaxers, or trazodone. I am worried I will develop an addiction or dependence or tolerance and will need more and worse. And no sleep is an excellent accelerant for any pre-existing conflagrations one might have burning. I am out here scorching on the pyre, choking on the smoke of my own tire fire. But all these aches and pains and maladies have been making me think about bodies, and I have been getting ideas. Lots of ideas. I took a really interesting class about experimental writing, and it gave me a lot to think about and reminded me of why I started writing and reading and that I can be as weird as I want to be as a writer. I've thought of several projects that I want to work on as a result and hope I am not so sick so that I won't have time or energy to work on all the things I want to do while I am this asymmetrical sagging flesh blob wheezing through life, bent like quasimodo, dripping ink and leaving a trail of girl slime wherever I lurch upon the ruined heath of earth.

It is a miraculous thing to be reminded that even though the last 5 or 6 years has felt like the hardest time of my life and I just keep getting lower and lower, that part of me is still here, the part of me that read Blood Electric and Eden, Eden, Eden, and Swinburne and wanted to sign up, in my own anemic blood, to a lifetime of sensual derangement; and that I shouldn't think that my writing and art life is over and I'll never be able to have good ideas or find creative happiness. And maybe it is not such a bad thing to feel as if I am sinking lower and lower, the way to wonderland, afterall, was a long fall through the dark too.

6/10/2025

It is june. The wheels are falling off the clown car of western civilization. Send in the clowns. Fox news on tv. They're already here. I want to go to a protest this weekend but my family doesn't want to take me, and they think it is too dangerous since I am disabled and couldn't abscond.

I don't know if I should heed their warnings or not; I am in no position to make sound or rational decisions. I have been using edibles to help with the terrible pain I've been having. They don't really help the nerve pain but they do sozzle up my mind enough that I am distracted from it, which is something, which is better than nothing. I am probably going to have to stop using it though. It occured to me today while scheduling 2 anonymous hook ups two hours apart on saturday afternoon, and looking for company for the rest of the weekend, that I might be manic and my heavy edible schedule might be the cause. I don't know what tipped me off...the super-expensive shopping sprees of non-returnable Selkie dresses and corset whose eyelets started popping out the first time I tried it on, the insomnia, spending the rest of my grocery money for the month on edibles, the incurable horniness. I seem to be missing the creative inspiration that usually accompanies my altered (altared demi-goddess?) states. No psychosis yet!! Yippy skippy to that.

I have enacted my mania protocol, told my family to keep me under their thumbs until I get back to normal. The only problem with that is that they want to keep me under their thumb forever and don't trust me to have autonomy over my own life when I am more stable. I think some other people who are disabled or mentally ill sometimes have similar problems. I am trying to find ways to be a helper in the world by doing what I can. One of my friends told me I should share my graphic design stuff so I will have to add a wheatpaste page here. I have been telling people about this site, so it is not anonymous anymore but I am hoping to share my digital art and printmaking efforts with my dudes more easily .

I guess I am off to disappoint my weekend craigslist candy. I miss the days of craigslist. Some of the ads were so bizzare, and so wanton and unhinged in their yearnings to rub parts with others. It was easy to just get off on the posts and tame the beast for a bit and go on about my day. But maybe that speaks not to craigslist nostalgia but the etiology and development/decay of my mind disease. I want to work on creating a new midwestern gothic aesthetic. The things that people in these small towns try to hide. One of my partners commented on the abundance of churches while driving through my town, and said that where there are that many churches, there must be an awful lot of sinners, and I told him to pull over and do me bareback and I would find absolution not in the blood of the lamb but in the love and cum of a man. I miss having someone to help keep me on my leash while also letting me live a bit. I guess i have never been good at nuance or existing in between of two or more extremes.

There are so many things to worry about, so many sad things and suffering and I want to help, but for now, helping means keeping my own clown car in operable condition, reminding myself that capitalism and everything bad thrives on unhappiness and that for right now, taking care of myself is revolution enough.

5/18/2025

It is 5 a.m and I am heating up a spiral ham in the oven. I have been sick and not eating and woke up ravenous. It is nearly June, and my cat will turn 21 and I want to have a wild birthday fete for her. I want to invite all my friends and family and they can bring her presents, catnip mice, kitty beds, catgrass plants. It has been a dark spring. I have always wanted to read Dark Spring but I am worried that it will make me go crazy. I have been crazy enough on my own. I have started seeing a new medication prescriber for mental health, and started some new medications, and stopped new medications. I kept telling this new CNP that the meds were too sedating. I was sleeping 18 hours a day. She really wasn't responsive to my request to stop them so I discontinued them myself. You can't take narcotics with them. I need to look up the half life and do the math and see if I am safe to take narcotics again since I stopped them a week ago. My liver and kidneys seem to take longer to clear meds though. I have felt terrible. my liver disease is getting worse. I can't drink alcohol anymore. Breathing and walking has become difficult. I am trying to stop with the weed and the sugar. Bereft of all my vices, I am seeking new methods to cope with stress. I am an old dog trying to turn new tricks.

The body is a curious thing. A flesh vector projecting through space, gathering whatever the senses can assimilate. The skin holds it all in. My skin is growing tighter. I have decided to try to document my life a bit more. Zora Neale Hurston said something about if you don't talk about your pain they'll kill you and say you enjoyed it. I am not such a masochist that I eroticize dying.

I want to go to bed but the meat is still warming. It is the mark of man to feed on the flesh of lesser creatures. I hope I still have time to find happiness in this flesh suit.

2/5/2025

Eldritch afflictions in my soul. I think spring is soon going to be here, as i feel strange things crowning. Maybe its Mania, maybe its Maybelline. I want to take a bath in champagne for some reason. I am craving endless champagne. I don't even care if it is cooks or korbel. It is the ebullience i want. The smell, and the taste. Whenever I drink champagne, i always wished it tasted like sparkling grape juice. But not tonight. Now that I am writing about it, thinking and puzzling through why champagne is on my brain, i remember, it is because of him. My feet feel gritty again from the scruffy dessert yard lot I walked out in when he wanted me to pee in the yard like a dog in front of the neighbors. But I just pissed down my leg. The freezer-leathered steak i burnt and smoothered in hoisin sauce, which i had no clue how to use, what it even was. Some strange condiment. like when he asked me in the grocery store if he should buy lube and I didn't know why we would need it. The champagne that tasted weird that he brought me in my light up rainbow glass I'd gotten earlier in the day from rainforest cafe where he wore the world's greatest dad shirt I got him, while intoning the word "sleep" to me repeatedly as I drank it. Me waking up later in the night feeling a weird wetness squishing out of me, not knowing what the fuck was going on. in the dirty bathtub with hot water, semi-awake and nauseous. Nauseous is a funny word. So many vowels. Round shapes we wrap our lips around. sounds inside us that want out. I should probably put a trigger warning on this blog. I wish i could put a trigger warning on myself. I feel like if I had some champagne to drink, it would help to disarm whatever this weird womb burden it is that I feel I must birth. I probably would have done anything for love. Sometimes I think i still would.

2/4/2025
I wish I wouldn't have told anyone in my real life about this little weblog. It is fun to have a secret place to bitch about my life and document what it is like to be catshit insane/trapped in the aquarium of my brain without having anyone who knows me worry about what I write. I think I've only told one person. I will have to untell her. I have a link on my bluesky profile, but I am trying to be anonymous on there too. I want to have a secret identity. Like a text-based superhero. Maybe I need a special suit. I am really worried people will look at my source code here too, because it is ugly as fuck and when I was doing java i was so meticulous and careful with every character.

Anyways, I have not been fawning much lately. I have been transiting between freeze and flop. There is so much to be sad about right now, for me and for everyone. I try to tell myself that things aren't so bad, that everything will work out, that I have nothing to be sad about, that my trauma was not even that bad, that things are getting better every day.

Or maybe it is as Nietzsche says, better and more evil. I am having a difficult time, but maybe in difficulty we learn to uncover our highest and best selves.

Over the weekend was really bad. I have been having these little fits where my limbs turn to jelly and i feel like I am going to faint and i start to feel very still inside. I've thought it could be my blood sugar, but i test it, and it is fine. I think it is some sort of flop or functinal freeze or something. God only knows. Anyways, in my hardcore flopping and freezing of the last 3 or 4 months, I have basically isolated myself from the rest of humanity. But that is a really lonely existence. And I have been so, so lonely. I have offered my soft neck to the big sad and lonely and it has bit in and is carrying me away. Loneliness is the lover whose thighs tangle inseperably with mine, the tight dress that sticks to me and makes all my slutty hungry flesh parts of me look their neediest and worst, the darkness that impregnates every fiber of me as night until night and dark meet as metonyms. I decided that I couldn't take it anymore, and that I was really going to kill myself. Saturday night I had some pills bottles sorted out, looking up dosages and ld-50s and started doing the math, I was going to do it, I knew not to call anyone for help because if I did I'd be going for at least a 3 day nonconsensual vacation to the worst and most expensive hotel in existence where the only amenity is the grippy socks. But my cat saved me by jumping into my lap and kneading me and rubbing her head on my face, and I thought of how impossible it would be for an almost 21 year old cat who needs expensive special food and quiet and so much love to find a suitable home, and I couldn't abandon my sweet little grandma kitty.

I decided I should talk to someone about it instead. I have weekly counseling appointments but they are not until tuesdays.I went to the art place and wanted to tell the nice guy there how bad I'd been feeling, and I was trying to find the words to tell him, but someone interupted and asked him to join their group, and it was all too much for me, and I had a bit of a public meltdown. The friend I wanted to tell came to talk to me after a bit, he is one of the few lgbtq+ people I still have on my safe-person rosters, and it made me remember that there are truly nice people in the world, and he told me i didn't have to be sorry for my feelings and that had never occured to me in life, I have always tried to think to myself that feelings are visitors and if we sit with them and visit they will eventually go away, but I have never been told I don't have to feel guilty for being a bad hostess. It made me realize that maybe I don't have to be so numb to other humans that I am constantly ready to react to how they might hurt me, that maybe someday I will even feel safe enough to approach them and nuzzle their hand. I have felt like a frightened rabbit for so long, but maybe kindness and friendship can help me forget I was once scared enough to scream.

So I have decided to start a new project. I am calling it "project 2026" I have decided that I am going to table all thoughts of wanting to die until february 2026, and I am going to do all that I can to make my life and the milieu in which I exist a bit more bearable. If I only had a year to live, I would want to sow every last wild oat, live out all my dreams, and do all the stuff I've wanted and dreamed of most of all, and get pounded in the butt by the physical manifestation of my own joie de vivre (appologies to chuck tingle.)

I am working on finally cleaning up and decluttering my house, as a first step. And I've decided to go on an erotic camping adventure in June. I've always wanted to. I've always wanted to feel the open air on my skin, and to frolic in the light of a campfire with other libertines. Maybe I can even plan an outdoor antique circus bearded fat lady photo session.

Maybe all our dragons in this life, Rilke said, are actually beautiful princesses waiting to see us once beautiful and brave. I'm getting excited, to see who is waiting for me at the other side of all my dragons. I am going to be pissed if it is not a hot (hopefully butch) daddy in a sharply tailored harris tweed suit with a bow tie. It better not be something dumb, like a mirror to see the princess I've become.

Also, I realized that several people in my life accuse me of being dramatic when I do things like this. And I even feel dramatic when I have my meltdowns. But what if the drama has been trauma all along? It is kind of an earth shattering observation, and also very pithy and it rhymes. I bet I could beat that yup-shuckin bastard Dr. Phil at his own game, if only I could get some air time.

Here's to the dragons and whatever they become, and the friends who slay along the way. Gross. I never thought I would be one of those optimistic assholes grateful for my own problems and psycho tendencies, but here we are.

1/31/25
I can't believe that it is 2025. Almost a quarter of a century into the new millenium. I used to think that 2025 would be far in the future. But here I am. When I was younger, I didn't think I would be. I always expected that I wouldn't have much of a future. It is a weird feeling.

1/27/25

I have been looking around at interactive writing and games and saw a couple made in Scratch that I liked today. One of them was a how-to tutorial about how to make origami notebooks. Scratch seems pretty easy to learn, along with Twine, but I think if I take the time to learn that, I could just review the programming languages I used to be good at and learn about what is new with them.

My fibromyalgia has been so bad that I feel like I am made out of broken glass and every little stretch or movement grinds my bonebag. The only thing that really helps is a warm bath, but I can't stay in the bath my whole life. I want to get a waterproof notebook so I can write while I macerate in the epsom brine. I keep worrying i will drop my phone or ipad. I have been using edibles to help, but all they do is make me tired, and I think they make my memory and sleep worse long-term, and I really can't afford the medicinal supply that i would require for daily use. I have tried so many things for it, from walking in a pool, to going to a salt 'cave' but baths and sometimes massages are the only relief.

I have pcos and have started letting my beard grow. I want to start a club to help show that sex and gender are more complex than man or woman. I have talked to a lot of other people my age, people who have uteri and have given birth, and they tell me it is not an uncommon thing to start sprouting hairs as middle age approaches and their baby factory boards up and goes out of business. I know I am not alone, people of any gender or agender can have a hirsute fur suit. It is kind of a fool's errand to divide us all up by categories based on such individual things as health and hormone differences and what our genitals look like. I wonder if the DMV will start doing weiner inspections when they put genders on licenses. Maybe the doge will eventually turn into the department of groping everyone. I guess when one is in the habit of grabbing people by the pussies they don't want to get a tumescent surprise.

1/23/25
In the sorting screens of society, I fall to the bottom with the rest of the dirtscum. I am, in the eyes of the arbiters of success, as low as a hoe can go. All I got in this life is my words and my wiles. And my wiles are weak. I couldn't charm my way into or out of anything, even if I lactated hearts, stars, clovers, rainbows, and balloons. So I guess if I want to survive, it will have to be by my words. But it seems like my words are not a priority in the banal business of survival.

I am trying to get writing again. My writer self is my most magical and wonderful and childlike and sensitive self. Sharing her with the external world is like prying apart the clamshells of my thighs to expose the vulnerable pisscine meatsheathe, a shy little pearl, a nacreous girl.

Sometimes I sublimate my urge to write with flashing my gash to strangers on the internet. Usually i do it for free. I tried to monetize it again, but only made $5 in three hours on my first night and didn't try again. It seems like the same deal with my writing and art. I wish I could find a way to support myself and provide for my material needs that was within the limitations of my health. I often think how hard it is when you have chronic mental or physical health problems, or both, to get anything done at all. I am sure that some of the most amazing writers or artists on the planet have never been able to do their work because they've been too wrapped up in the daily struggle to provide for basic needs. What if Shakespeare was a single mom with two kids and had disabling Rheumatoid Arthritis and the schizz, what if James Joyce lived in a third world country and had to pick through a garbage dump to find things to sell to stay alive, and pens and paper to write with or started life as a child slave at a mica mine? It is sad to me to think that being able to work on art is not equally accessible to everyone. It is also disheartening to think of how capitalism convinces us that we always have to be productive, and that our creations have to result in a product that is good, and that we should always try to improve our skills, instead of just letting ourselves explore and play.

Creativity and art is often seen as a luxury, something nice we let ourselves do in our freetime, a self care activity that helps us unwind, a fun hobby that we do on the weekends. But what if we infused everyday activities with the sense of discovery and playfulness we get when we are being creative or practicing our art? What if we built time into the blueprints of everyday to do something fun, and made creativity not a luxury, but compulsory, letting it spill into our work and families and communities?

Too often I know that I think of art as champagne. Something that bubbles up inside me and spills out when the pressure to create becomes unbearable, and then, a pop, and a spilling, the drunken frenzy of getting lost in the mimetic act. Then I sober up and wait for the next celebration and release. But art and creativity need to be an everyday staple. Art must be our daily bread.

Dec. 6, 2024. I am still sitting in the same chair and I can't believe another new year is here. I should be proud of myself that I tried to get out in the world a bit more. I took some writing classes, tried going to the art center, took a vacation by myself, tried to make some inroads towards finding happiness. Cheers to me, I say, in my flattest weak-voiced monotone.
I am hoping to stop spending so much time online and start working on my writing again. I have been afflicted physically and mentally this fall, but I am hoping that winter will bring a retreat into the best creative parts of myself and I can burrow inside me and mine the soft earth of me for whatever treasures are hiding and waiting to be found. Here's to a new year, and to not giving up on myself, and for looking for the brightside in everything, even if looking for the brightside right now involves celebrating the fact that I might need a knoose but found a toaster instead!!

11/23/2024
Fuck it. I have decided I will just start writing here. I wanted to work on the design of this website and make it look nice and function well, but I would wait forever and never actually add any content if I decided to wait until I thought it was good enough. I have been telling myself that half-assed is better than no-assed, or waiting for a perfection which will never be perfect enough. It is a lesson I need right now.
It is nice to have an anonymous place where I can be myself and I miss the younger www from a time before every blogger had a sales funnel and every search engine is an affiliate pyramid scheme, so I have been happy to find neocities and I hope to start learning webdesign and scripting languages, and to work on some of my cybertext projects and have a bit of a place to experiment with digital art and ARGs and to share my thoughts and ideas as a misguided creative and bohemian asshole.

Right now I am lost so far in the weeds of depression that I can't see if the sky is still there. I feel tied down to my bed by a panoply of assorted aches, thoughts, and anxieties which are Lilliputian on an eschatological scale, but seem impossibly big to me as a lonely traveller gullivanting along as I meet weird creatures whose ways of existince are so discrepant from my own. I need to shape up or ship out, try to fit in with the locals here on earth if I want to find any real happiness or success.
The best part of my life, the juicy part that has always sustained and entertained me, has been my creative life, but it feels like that part of me is dead. I thought I had found a creative home for myself at a local art place, but it was another chatoyant mirage on summer asphalt like gasoline that evaporated in the sun.
My counselor who had been so helpful to me the last two years quit/got fired/randomly left in October. I got a note that she was gone and all appointments were cancelled and everyone who was seeing her needed to find someone new. We had started some internal family systems therapy for my cptsd, and it is an understatement to say that it has been difficult. Now I feel like I need therapy for feeling like I am alone for the therapy I needed for feeling like I was alone. At least I still have my sense of humor about these things. I haven't found a suitable replacement yet for her, but am shopping around for a trauma informed kink-friendly practitioner of the psychological arts.
I have been dealing with my anxities by spending money, lots of money. I have went down a whole credit bracket in the last couple weeks. I guess trying to function was not difficult enough for me so I had to make it just a bit more complicated. I think if life was a simulation, if we were all Sims, that I am playing on extra hard mode, so I must be some sort of master of the game.