Well, I'm in the holiday spirit. It's 5:44pm and I am almost done with my list for the day. I look great, feel great. Everything is great. Last night I thought of how I should spend the rest of my youth. How? Learning and fucking.

Another thing I'm going to write about in my sports story is how all these men talk about their first baseball game as if it were the greatest, most magical moments of their lives. They'll never talk about their first piece of ass that way, but they will vividly describe the green-ness of the grass, the blue of the sky, the bulge of Mickey Mantle's jock cup, the tightness of Ted Williams' ass, etc...

I'm working on a piece for my writers' group. It is about how I have never understood how anyone could be interested in sports. I mean, could anyone pick a more boring subject? Who cares what the Giants/Eagles/Pats/Packers do or don't do? Why don't people root for themselves? Why aren't people interested in themselves? Why are they always cheering the accomplishments of others? Not only that, but most sports games are CONFUSING? What the hell is a First Down? What does off-sides mean. And who the hell knows WHAT goes on with baseball!

I suppose the only sport I ever liked was boxing because it is rather uncomplicated.

On Friday I was in Barnes and Noble and I came across a book called "Understanding the Borderline Mother." Reading it, I realized that my mother had a form of Borderline Personality Disorder.

See, nothing was ever "reasonable." It was never: "What you did was wrong. I will now punish you until you learn that what you did was wrong." It was: "YOU FRIGGIN' ASSHOLE! YOU FRIGGIN' SHITHEAD! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! YOU SPOILED GODDAMN BRAT! YOU SPOILED ROTTEN GODDAMN BRAT! I HATE YOU! YOU FRIGGIN SHITHEAD! YOU FRIGGIN ASSHOLE!"

With her everything was, um, well "personal." It was never about us, but always about her. And with kids nothing is "personal" because kids are, um, kids. And when you are a parent your first priority is to do what is right for the child. She only knows how to satisfy her own base needs at the expense of everyone else.

More on this later... I'm still healing. I haven't felt better in ten years, but I am still healing.

Today I saw an old enemy on the train. She looked old and sour.

I, on the other hand, feel great. I look great. I feel great. I jog 3-4 times a week. I work out my upper body on my jogging off days. I stay up all night and sleep until noon every day. I never do this thing called "work." On top of everything else I am talented, creative, and intelligent - and I am finally getting the recognition I deserve. I have not been this happy in ten years.

She saw me. I pretended I did not see her. I talked on the phone, animatedly. I was pleasant to the conductor. I smiled. Why? Because smiles scare away bad energy. She saw that I was happy. And I was not even faking!

After sex and personal accomplishment, watching enemies suffer must be the third best high. Better than any drug. I was in a great mood all day.

I no longer have to worry about metaphysical punishment. Nor do I have to worry about metaphysical nihilism. Am I becoming religious. Yes, but not in a flesh-denying way. I agree with Rabelais that it is more important to be a good fellow and a good drinking buddy than it is to be pious and devout. That's religion. Religion of the spirit and flesh. Both easily reconciled. In other words, one can be extremely religious without giving in to any dogma at all. And one can be religious while still loving to fight and fuck. My own antinomianism.

It's 432am and I am just still too caffeinated despite the fact that the last sip of coffee I had was almost exactly 12 hours ago. Feeling sad too. Not depressed. Just sad. I think of that Toad the Wet Sprocket song "Walk on the Ocean" and how sad it is.

I am trying to slowly phase out negativity. I will begin by phasing out verbal negativity. The best way to start myself on the path to an even better life is to no longer make negative status updates on Facebook. The main reason for this is I do not want it to seem as if I am yelling at my friends. I'll destroy my enemies for sure, but I don't want to risk offending the good people in my life. But wait. Writing that I will destroy my enemies is verbal negativity, right?

Well, I have nothing to be negative about. I just wrote a doozy of a short story that I cannot wait to submit.

It is hard not to give in to despair when I see that our entire culture revolves around the Kardashians and the Jersey Shore cast. I used to be afraid of being abducted by aliens, but now I do not think that I would want to live in a world without them. The human race no longer has any dignity. By thinking that I am an alien I am an alien. I am no longer human. By making my thought processes so different from those of mere humans I have become a higher and different form of intelligent life. So I am the alien. What do I have to fear now?

200th post. Yay!

All of this anti-bullying legislation worries me. True bullies are manipulative hypocrites who know how to work the system and they will use the anti-bullying laws and propaganda to bully and/or frame the weak. Anti-bullying propaganda will also be sincerely believed in and practiced by brainwashed dolt bullies who will sincerely and righteously bully in the name of anti-bullying. Just as MLK has created a terrible legacy of "equality" being used to punish the different.

I'm working on a short film featuring my character KanyeWestWannabeDrone3000. KanyeWestWannabeDrone3000 is a teenaged black kid who has a purple mohawk, a Justin Bieber shirt and an everpresent skateboard tucked under his arm. The worst example of post-racial conformity (though we're not so post-racial anymore - it's become very fashionable to hate again.)

KWWD3000 is just a perfect example of what total pussies kids are nowadays.

When I was in High School and Edgar Allan Poe impersonator stopped by our school for a performance. Now THAT is scary: being a middle-aged man impersonating Edgar Allan Poe for a bunch of postmodern brats. He was, of course, heckled, but he didn't let it get to him. He was probably used to it. And I thought I was a masochistic performer!

At the end of his routine he warned all the kids in the auditorium to stay far away from drugs. Edgar Allan Poe was a drug addict and he ruined (and possibly ended) his life by taking it too far with drugs and alcohol.

But at the same time isn't there a reason why Edgar Allan Poe was a haunted romantic genius and this guy was just an impersonator? Doesn't it have to do with the fact that Edgar Allan Poe was more the kind of personality that would seek drugs?

Not that I'm advocating drugs. I'm extremely cautious in regard to drugs myself (drugs are like guns and technology, they can be for good or evil depending on how they are used) but doesn't it say something about Edgar Allan Poe's spirit as opposed to his?

I'm donating my Criterion Collection copy of "Salo" to the Wall Township Public Library. The film is spiritual poison and I do not even want it in my house.

The director Pier Pasolini made so many wrong choices with that film that I can only begin to list them. He took one of my favorite novels (the Marquis de Sade's "120 Days of Sodom") and turned it into a campy yet depressing queer cabaret of morbid post-Marxist philosophy. Instead of using the work of the Divine Marquis to affirm life he created a film that negated life. He did everything possible to dampen down the effervescence of the Marquis' work. The result is a film that brings me back to the worst days of my depression.

Yes, in my opinion, the Marquis de Sade needs to be rehabilitated. I have no room in my life for unnecessary cruelty. Why not make the perversions of the Marquis de Sade consensual? Why not make the teenagers willing accomplices to the four middle-aged libertines? Why not transform Sadism into love, glory and freedom? THAT may be missing the point of the Divine Marquis too, but it is a far sight better than what Pier Pasolini accomplished with his travesty.

Pasolini was a gay Marxist, which is another way of saying that he had absolutely no sense of humor.

His film, as disappointing as it is, is still a bit too much for the average sheltered yahoo. Hopefully it will inspire a Wall resident to become a serial killer. Then maybe he can kill my mother and my sister. On Christmas. I would love that.

Maybe that's why I want to donate it!

Excuse this blog. This is still in rough form. I'm thinking about fleshing it out for my writers' group.

Excited, thrilled, that I have accomplished my goal of being published three times this year. In some ways this is just as rewarding as my metro columns because the stuff I am doing now leans more toward fiction. In other words, I am growing as a writer. The piece that was published, ECFS3000, is also my firt Science Fiction piece to be published.

I'm thinking of one day doing a film in which a bunch of religious pilgrims who are part of the religion Worthlesspieceofshitism go on a pilgrimage to see their god, Snooki. Sounds good, right?

Last night I had a dream that I lived in a town in Florida called Freesburg. Freesburg is a sort of paradise. Although it is in Florida, it is hip and progressive. The residents are overwhelmingly cultured and educated and spend most of their time outside a second-run arthouse theater. I ride my bike around this town and I feel young again, like a teenager. I'm happy and contented. I'm wearing a 1950s type of checkered shirt and just riding around on my bike.

Today is laundry day. I'm going over to my dad's place to wash out my piss-soaked drawers. To demoldify my shower towels. To get the dust, mold, and other toxins off my clothes. Each time I clean out the lint collector I think: "That is poison that will now never oppress me! It will go off into the atmosphere where it belongs - where it can do no harm, no evil, to me or anyone else! Hallelujah!"

I made a deal with myself to limit myself to one spicy meal a week. One meal of Mexican or Indian food a week. I've been overdoing it and I have been suffering from almost constant indigestion. What if I give myself ulcers and weaken my entire constitution? And what if that leads to impotence? Do you see how minor concerns snowball in the mind of a person who is still fighting OCD (although the OCDs are, admittedly, on the run - they sense their own demise.)

The eating of certain hot foods is related to OCDs. My house does not have the healthiest air. I constantly imagine myself to be constantly loaded with all sorts of chemicals, dusts, molds, and heavy metals. The curry detoxifies my body and I can sweat all of that junk out. I'm surprised a bad curry sweat is not black - all the black toxins I take in each and every day I am in that house.

I want to try the hottest curry in North America - at Brick Lane Curry House. The chef needs a gas mask to prepare it. Very few people have ever finished it. Maybe I will detoxify myself for life if I try it.

I enjoyed my blog about Ms. Stinkysocks yesterday. She just somehow always ends up wearing them!

Talked on the phone last night. Thought of South of the Border and how magical that place was to me.

SOB is the first place you see palm trees. And it's just over the border from North Carolina. That one year when we were driving up during fierce southern snowstorm and the palm trees were covered in snow.

It's usually warmer down there, sometimes a good 7odegrees fahrenheit in the middle of February. Cool to chilly at night. Palm trees. Pool. Hot tub. Honeymoon suites with the vibrating heartshaped bed and a complimentary bottle of champagne.

In other words, paradise.

Who's going to wear the stinky socks. When I was a young boy I had fantasies about one particular girl at school. I barely remember her name. In my fantasies I always fucked her in front of her family; her mom, dad and little sister watched. For some reason she (in my fantasies) always wore socks. And here was the kicker: it was never by intention. It wasn't a fetish for her or for me. She just always happened to wear socks while fucking - totally by chance. And nothing but socks. Sometimes her glasses. But always white socks. Her favorite team must have been the Chicago White Sox.

Sometimes in the giant neighborhood orgies I would organize (in my fantasies) she would march to the middle of the room (in her white socks) and take a shit on the middle of the carpet. We would all fuck around the turd. The whole time we were fucking the turd would just be conspicuously lying there, the two-ton ballerina in the room. And it was always monstrous. It was always so monstrous. It would lie there as she got fucked.

In her socks.

Chris Donahue was not allowed over our house because my father thought he was stealing quarters from the pinball machines. We had vintage pinball machines in our basement. We had to load and reload the same quarters to play them. My dad suspected Chris Donahue of emptying the coffers.

"He's poor and I was poor and I know how poor people think! That kid is stealing quarters from the pinball machine."

From then on when Chris Donahue came over my Dad used to accuse him of stealing quarters.

"Hey Chris! Your pockets are bulging! Are you stealing any more of my quarters?"

He was actually serious.

That's why I could not relate to the Michael Douglas film "Wonder Boys." In one scene Michael Douglas takes Tobey Maguire's character to his in-law's house. Tobey Maguire quickly lights up a joint and downs their Scotch. The in-laws come home and simply treat Tobey Maguire like an innocent little schoolboy. The grandmother even bakes him cookies.

If anything like this happened in my house it would be:

"Smoking marijuana in my house! Strangers smoking marijuana in my house! They could take everything from us! Everything we own! They can take your house away for having marijuana."

Another time I ground up chalk to look like cocaine, put it in a baggie and left it on a desk in front of the bedroom window.

"GET THAT CHALK OFF THE DESK! Somebody could look in the window and think we have cocaine in here! We could lose everything!"

"Three O'Clock High" is one of the greatest teen films ever made. My favorite line is when Buddy Revell says to Jerry (after Jerry paid him $350 to not beat him up): "You're the biggest pussy I've ever met in my life. You didn't even try. How does that feel?"

See, my interpretation is that Buddy was a benevolent character. He was trying to teach Jerry to face his fears and overcome his own weaknesses. I even believe he may have intentionally lost the fight. So many hidden meanings in an 80s teen film. See, it's very important just to TRY. Try. Try and do the right thing. Try no matter what anyone does to one. Try against all obstacles. This is what I'm learning. This is what I should have learned. I'm finally ready to be a good boy. I'm finally ready to be a nice kid.

I feel energy now. I'm fueled by a hearty meal, a submarine sandwich. Problem! Alert! The people at the sub shop are now familiar with me and they are all very nice to me. Uh-oh! What to do? This reminds me of the Oren's Daily Roast situation.

When I worked at Grand Central I went to Oren's Daily Roast every day for a chocolate chip muffin. Soon, all of the workers were familiar with me and joked around with me every morning. I became extremely socially phobic. It got to the point where I changed my entire route so that I would not have to see them every morning.

THEN, when I did go back they said: "Where have you been!" and it started all over again? WHY DO PEOPLE HAVE TO BE NICE??? Just kidding! I like it when people are nice, but I become so afraid of not being nice back - or of somehow offending them - that I simply avoid them. It's not fair to them or myself. Why can't I make casual friends and develop a cozy microcosm? I will dammit!

This time I will not back down. I will continue to go to the Jersey Mike's Sub Shop in Wall Township. I will make casual friends with the people at the counter. I will order the same thing every day until they make fun of me for it! Until they deliver my order with all the self-assurance of a bartender pouring an alcoholic's favorite brand of whiskey.

Just be a nice kid - like Jerry - and everything will be okay.

Last night I had a dream that I had travelled back in time to 1986 and that I made a fortune by being the first to manage Guns N' Roses. I used my money to buy my two best friends (who also apparently travelled back in time with me) Lamborghinis.

I then sold out and destroyed Rock N' Roll by managing Nirvana and promoting grunge to the masses. Even though I knew that grunge would murder Rock N' Roll I still did it for the money.

I woke up thoroughly ashamed.

I am Lord Chambers, the King, Lord, God of Chaos! Ha!

This was my horoscope for today:

http://www.freewillastrology.com/horoscopes/scorpio.html

So I decided to do a blog.

I'm interested in doing research on the following supplements:

Theanine

and

GABA.

Both are said to improve both concentration and relaxation at the same time. Whatever keeps me productive.

I'm somewhat addicted to "Brain Toniq" soft drinks, which contain a variety of supplements. Yes, cool, calm and focused.

Now I just need to figure out this whole sleeping/waking thing. At night I have trouble sleeping because I am afraid of encountering entities. I also still, on occasion, have panic attacks and nightmares. I thought I was having a panic attack the other night. I was about to call Eric or 911. That's how I know Eric is my brother. He was the first person I planned to call.

I've been feeling incredibly strong. The bitterness is gone. I'm truly entering new territory again. I've been writing of my own alienation for so long that it will be difficult to find and exploit new themes.

I've been feeling very, very strong. Strong enough even to love, trust, and forgive. This isn't New Age drivel. I think of someone who has really hurt me (and still hurts me), like my sister. Then I think of how she - at this moment - is being devoured by her own demons. No sane person could have come out of that house. I had to go through the INSANITY before I could become sane. But now I'm flirting with the bitter again.

Perhaps I can write about those moments when I feel particularly good and particularly strong. When everything is perfect and all my thoughts and feelings are flowing through me.

Isn't love all that matters?

Last night I was talking to a very intelligent and perceptive woman, a former college administrator. She asked me if I regretted not going to college.

"Well, I know this sounds kind of nihilistic," I answered, "but the only regret I have is that I did not experience all the hedonism of college. Instead I went out into the real world almost right away and I ended up in a very traumatic relationship. I guess I can say my whole 20s were mostly a drag. I'm glad they're over. So, in that sense I do regret not going to college. But I didn't miss out on education. I educated myself."

That's right. I'm an autodidact. Which makes me a sharper and deadlier thinker than the average college grad. No professorial dogma has held me back. We can only learn from the library and the streets.

And the library is about to close, so I have to go.

Lord Chambers is not reactionary. Lord Chambers, like any character I can really relate to, is an aristocratic anarchist. Everything should be by and for the best. The ordinary should be treated fairly and kept happy, but the world should not revolve around them.

Lord Chambers was originally the name of my friend Eric's pet raccoon. Eric does not really have a pet raccoon, but I dreamed that he did.

Lord Chambers has a tendency to break loose from his leash and wreak absolute havoc in public places.

Analyzing my dream further, I realize that the raccoon Lord Chambers in my dream is just a part of myself, the wild, squirrely part of myself that enjoys wreaking havoc and running under the feet of panicked Herd Animals. All I want is to have fun and run around the store - I can't help that they have such horrified reactions to me!

Eric had me on a leash because Eric is the first person who taught me to embrace that side of myself, the wild, imaginative side. When I broke free from Eric in the dream, that meant that I am ready to let go of Eric's guidance and discover my own path; a sort of coming of age, an imaginative Bar Mitzvah. If only Eric had said: "Go into the world, son, and be a man."

All kidding aside, Eric was the first person to really feed my imagination. When we sat together on the bus in first grade, he came up with the most ridiculous and scatological stories imaginable and it stuck with me. Eric was like a great surrealist or even dadaist and he made me who I am today.

No homo.

How has this country become so WEIRD? All these Tea Party Herd Animals.

Why does the Tea Party hate freedom so much? Why do people in general hate freedom so much? I've spent my entire life fighting for freedom, battling against inner and outer restrictions. Freedom is nothing less than freedom: complete and total freedom to do whatever one wants so long as it does not intentionally interfere with the will of another living being. This sort of freedom is very difficult if not impossible to attain, but it is the only one worth striving toward.

Is it the economy? Well, one's bills and taxes are not as important as one's attitude toward Being. All of our problems may be due to a lazy orientation toward Being. Should the entire world meditate?

And what the hell does the economy have to do with a man or woman's right to marry someone of the same sex. If they had kept their nose out of other peoples' sexual business perhaps I'd be willing to keep an open mind.

Or what about the right to worship one's own God - or no God at all?

People are fascist. Average, common people are the worst fascists of all. The working-class tends to breed a lot of fascists.

Ironically, Herd Animals have to have freedom FORCED upon them. They don't know what freedom is and when they have a sense of what it is they do not want it.

Now I sound like a Tea Party bigot, turning everything upside down. But this will be for their own good, for their own well-being. They need FREEDOM forced upon them.

Took Valerian root last night which helped me to fall asleep.

I've worked really hard at learning how to enjoy my life again.

Last vestige of depression: fatigue.

I could not enjoy the "Meet the Breeds" event at the Javits Center as much I should have because I was so tired. I needed caffeine, but my one-day-a-week caffeine fix had been the day before.

I need to be less rigid. I COULD have had caffeine two days in a row, especially if it would have helped me to enjoy special moments with friends.

Life is too short to not live, love and enjoy.

Again, I need to break out of my terribly stereotyped and lockstep behavior and determine for myself when I can break my own rigid rules.

I need to break out of my latest funk. Insomnia. So much difficulty getting to sleep at a decent hour. And I want to enjoy mornings again. I wish I could drink coffee without becoming addicted or making depression worse.

Oh, but I still reserve it as a once a week treat. Oh, those are some moments! Early in the morning, sipping a cup of joe and getting a decent - FOR A CHANGE - start to the day. Oh!

I have trouble sleeping because I become terribly anxious living in that house all by myself. I get lonely and scared. I wish I had someone I love to live with me. Not necessarily in the same bed, but at least in the same house, so I could go to them when I get scared.

I'm really just a little boy.

What I do differently on days I do not get depressed:

- Wake up early and right away.

- Have a hearty whey protein shake.

- Start the day briskly, not sluggishly, and do not waste too much time dilly-dallying.

- Stay busy through the whole day with no brain-dead lags.

- Look forward rather than back.

- Break out of my OCDs using exposure (and as I grow stereotyped in different ways, to always adjust.

I have all the talent, but I have too often scattered my energy in too many different directions.

I don't really believe this, but sometimes I like to spook myself by thinking that I might be dead and just not know it, like Bruce Willis in "The Sixth Sense."

This is mostly because so many of my past moments seem like they were in a different reality, a different life. They seem strange and bizarre next to the way my life is now. And my life now can often seem strange and bizarre.

I had a nightmare the night before last. Despite feeling better by the day, I have panic attacks and nightmares at night (this makes it difficult for me to go to bed before 4am.)

This was my dream:

I wake up and go downstairs. Everything is covered in watery sludge and everything is wrecked. Water is coming from the crockery closet. The lights in the dining room are out (as they are in "real" life), making the place very dark. I try to put in a lightbulb, but it's bent out of shape. Going into the living room I am disturbed to find that the curtains and blinds are removed and that the windows are exposed. There is spackle all over the walls.

I am dead and the house is being worked on.

Last night I was reading Stephen Hawking. I can't understand much of him during the day, so I read him at night so he can sink into my subconscious. Last night I was reading about time.

If/when the universe contracts time will move backwards. Anyone who is alive at that time will experience the future as the past. People will die before being born. Women will have birth before getting pregnant. Broken saucers will hop back onto the table and repair themselves.

No wonder I have trouble falling asleep at night. Perhaps I should read John Grisham.

I hate Christianity because I find it very servile. Christianity calls for humility, self-denial and self-sacrifice. How could even a masochist (the most sensual and narcissistic of all) buy into this nonsense? And turn the other cheek? The worst philosophy of all! It only allows evil to prosper! Not that Christians usually turn the other cheek. Ask Hypatia.

Their code of forgiveness allows the truly evil to repeatedly get away with evil. Like Michael Vick. Go on any message board about Michael Vick and there will always be at least one yahoo who says "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone" or "Judge not lest ye be judged."

I don't care how loaded I am with sins - I'll throw a stone at that piece of shit's head. I'll judge him too. He doesn't deserve to live. He deserves to have his cock ripped from his body with a pair of tongs. Christians have committed such tortures in the name of their false god. Why not in the name of doggies?

The three people/groups I want to attack right now:

1. Michael Vick. Do I need to explain why? How quick people are to forgive and forget. Some never hated him in the first place. I would like to kill his family in front of him.

2. Mike the Situation. His book comes out on November 2nd. I'm going to urge my followers to steal or destroy and/or deface his books.

3. The Tea Party. They believe a nation's laws should be handed down by a Creator. Isn't it ironic that the terrorists they so despise believe the exact same thing?

Another funny dream last night:

In the dream my friend Eric has a pet raccoon named Lord Chambers (obviously a British raccoon.) Eric walks him on a leash. He brings him to Kmart and Lord Chambers gets loose. He climbs next to a lady ordering a prescription in the pharmacy area and she lets out a bloodcurdling scream. Lord Chambers, frightened, runs off and causes a panic through the store.

What a funny dream.

The depression is gone, but there are still residual challenges. Like sleep. To survive a very painful childhood I learned to use sleep as an escapist drug. Perhaps this is why I did not have too many youthful experiences with other drugs. But like a lot of neuroses learned in childhood, this one no longer serves its purpose. Depression seems don' and gon' until I realize that getting out of bed is STILL the hardest part of the day. From there things flow easily.

I have a lot of pretentiousness to answer for, but now I'm nt so pretentious anymore - now I'm just good.

I need to let go of fear and start living fearlessly for the first time ever. But I can't be reckless like before. Now I have to live fearlessly and keep control over mundane life.

Licentiousness should only be practiced by the exceptional. It is our "rich man's gold." When practiced by the masses it degenerates into meaningless hedonism. Look at "Jersey Shore."

I guess I sometimes felt that I had to be the serious student and do all the tedious homework while everyone else was out partying and getting laid. Well, now is the payoff. Should I do a story about this for my writers' group. Involving me and peeping-tom activities. An idea.

A power surge destroys my telephone. Just after I get a cellphone. Coincidence? I think not. I think the universe is conspiring to make me happy again.

I'm working on a new character. His name is Beef. At least that's his nickname. That's what the kids at school call him. He's a big jock/fratboy. Everybody says to him: "What's up, Beef? How's it goin' bro?" Beef ONLY shakes hands with his coaches and other respectable adults (and he does not respect all adults.) Everyone else is greeted with a rough chest-bump. "Yeah! What's up, Beef!"

His mother thinks the name "Beef" is awful and would rather him be called by the name she gave him. But she does not mind that much. She is mostly just glad that her son is popular and if the other hearty popular guys call him Beef, then so be it.

And Beef is mostly happy. He raises a lizard in his room. He talks football with the best of them. His life revolves around his athletics and fantasy leagues.

There is only one problem:

Beef is gay.

Sometimes I used to smoke a lot of marijuana and get these panicky otherworldly feelings. This is one of a few mountains I have left to climb.

One of my mountains.

1. My sleep schedule. I need to get back on a decent sleep schedule. This is as simple as combating the nightime anxiety I experience. An anxious, panicky, otherworldly feeling, like I'm losing my mind or living in another reality or in a reality that is coming apart and where nothing is certain and guaranteed.

This makes it difficult for me to sleep at night. Not only that, but I am afraid of being abducted by aliens.

Last night, when it was still dark and I was just drifting off to a - finally - sound sleep there was a loud "pop" and the house lost all power. "Oh shit," I thought, "They're coming for me. They're coming for me." I jumped out of bed and ran down the stairs to try to run out the front door. By the time I reached downstairs the lights were back on, but the living room smelled like an electrical fire. A power strip in my living room was crackling, so I unplugged the appliances. The power strip continued to crackle, so I unplugged the power strip. But I still smelled an electrical fire smell. I looked and sniffed around and realized that it was from the phone cord, which is, stupidly, plugged into an old-fashioned two-hole socket. I unplugged the phone cord and it was hot and smelled like, again, electrical fire. I unplugged everything in the living room.

Now I am agitated that I have to live with one more worry. The mice should be trying to re-infest again soon too. Now I'm going to be constantly afraid to go away for fear of an electrical fire. I'll figure something out and deal with it.

Reality displacement. Wondering if I really have a past or if Iwas born just this minute. I have access to very few photos of my younger self.

I remember one: It was Halloween 1981 and I was wearing a little blue bunny rabbit jumpsuit costume. Boy, was I cute!

My mother stole all of my 92 year old grandfather's money and completely deserted him. She put him in a dingy hellhole where he sometimes spends weeks completely alone. She gives him such little spending money that he sometimes has to ask ME for cash. In three years he has not even had a Christmas tree. She even deserts him on the holidays. I'm honored to be the black sheep in that family!

I was going to post this on Facebook, but I don't want to give her the satisfaction. Not only that, but I am disappointed in my grandfather. He has always been so passive. If she had done even half to me I would have raised a ruckus to Heaven and Hell. I would have called her out in front of people. I would have contacted lawyers. I would have called and complained to everyone within reach. But he just takes it and is as peaceful and compliant as ever.

This is so contrary to my nature that I cannot even understand it. I certainly can't respect it. I cannot help but to love the man, but love and respect are different things.

As repugnant as violence and cruelty are, cowardice is even worse.

A Nightmare on Sue Street

I had such a bizarre, terrifying nightmare last night. I should really be a horror writer.

Her name was Julie. She looked like a hot brunette. We met over the Internet. She agrees to meet me at my best friend Eric's house. Once she gets there I realize she's severely disabled. She's like a crab. She can still walk and drive, but she is extremely fragile, quite disabled. She is wearing a shell over her body, like a brittle human exoskeleton. I don't even know what is under her shell and something tells me that I do not want to find out. I take her out the back of Eric's house and - as politely as possible - I try to get rid of her, to make up an excuse, to send her home. And she has me so creeped out at this point that I hope to God to never see her again. I politely walk her to her car, making up all kinds of excuses. On the way to her car, she trips, falls and cracks her body-long prosthetic, ending up as a heap on Eric's back porch. I rush in to Eric's house, not sure what to do. Eric has to leave for work. It's morning for some reason. In real life Eric works nights, but for some reason I was meeting a girl at his house early in the morning and now he was leaving for work. As he prepares to leave my other best friend Chris calls and tells me that he is coming over to Eric's house. I tell Chris the situation and ask him what I should do. I don't even want to leave Eric's house to meet Chris because she could be out there waiting for me. Maybe she would be leaving and I could wait until then and then try to shake her. What if she knocks on the window? I close all the blinds in Eric's house. What if she comes in through the garage? I close and lock the heavy door leading out to the garage. As he is leaving I ask Eric if it is okay with his parents if I go on the computer. Calling Christopher again and explaining to him that we should meet at my place. I try to get out of there. I'm afraid she'll follow me, follow my car. Chris pulls up. Is she still a heap on the back porch or is she moving around now? I tell Christopher we will have to circle around and go all sorts of alternate routes back to my house to lose her just in case she decides to follow us. Imagine if she learns where I live!

That was where the nightmare ended. I'm going to turn this into a horror story for my writers' group.

I hate Sundays and holiday weekends (because then Monday becomes Sunday.) Sunday is the day I am most likely to be alone. To avoid a relapse of depression as much as possible I have to at least get out of the house. So I go to Borders or Barnes and Noble for at least a few hours. There I try to read as much as possible, from New Age to the Classics to philosophyto short stories and magazines. By the end of about four or five hours I am in a bloodshot daze (like I am when I spend hours looking at pornography, but that daze is pleasurable in a much different way) and I shuffle from the store.

The question is: Does Junot Diaz read Wittgenstein? Or the Classics? Or Kant, etc...? See, I'm preparing to annihilate him in a literary war and I want to be well-prepared and stocked with ammunition.

I only want to become famous so I can verbally pummel Junot Diaz. He's pretentious. And racist. And he tries too hard to be cool (pretentious), ghetto (pretentious), and salt of the earth yet brilliant and quotey and blurby (pretentious.) He writes Newsweek-sounding ish for the jackets of other racist books.

I want to fuckin' destroy him!

But I'm pretentious too...

Last night I had a dream that my sister was an African pygmy tribesman. I stood over him (my sister) and shouted: "You were never there for me! You're a bad sister, etc..." The African bushman just looked at me. What is the significance of this dream? Did I dream of my sister as a pygmy because I see her as small?

I'm once again itching to get published. I hate writers who say "I don't need to get published to validate myself as a writer!" Well, neither do I, but GODAMMIT, it's just better to be one of the winners. And being a winner is getting paid for what one loves to do. Not that money even matters the least bit. I just want to be FAMOUS! Guts and glory! I need to get published at least twice more this year. Then I might even drink a beer in celebration! Maybe on Thanksgiving Eve in A.C. I always liked to go to Firewaters and order a pint of Allagash White. White beer is a bit harsh for the uninitiated, but I always liked to drink it THERE, at the Trop in A.C.

Why? Because when I hear the name "Allagash" I think of the frightening Allagash Abductions that took place in northern Maine and I am grateful to be in a crowded, busy casino with people I love.

I need to meditate at a reasonable hour. Last night I did it at 3 in the morning. And then I thought of "visitors." Then when I closed my eyes I saw them very clearly. They don't really look like men from outer space with big eyes and heads. The cover of Whitley Strieber's "Communion" came closest to capturing what I think they actually look like. Their faces are very flat. Their eyes are thinner, but wrap-around. Their faces are very flat. No noses. A slit for a mouth. They have hair and they wear black robes. They are not necessarily visitors from outer space but something else. I saw them so well that I was wondering if I have truly been abducted. The hair stood up on the back of my neck and I could not properly meditate. Instead of thinking no thoughts I thought: "Don't abduct me. Not tonight. At least wait until I finish meditating."

Last night I had a dream that I lost my friends' cellphones. I lost the cellphones of Chris, Eric, Ana and Ipsita. They were, of course, all annoyed with me. Then I lost my cousin Ryan's cellphone. My cousin Ryan's wife Robin comes to my house to yell at me for losing his cellphone and I explain to her that the reason I don't have my own cellphone is because I was once a fervent Heideggerian (I don't know how one can be a FERVENT Heideggerian) and that I see cellphones as devices that actually destroy Being. Then I admit that I was simply monstrously depressed AND pretentious and now I am ready to be like everyone else and own my own cellphone. Geez. What a dream. I wonder what this dream MEANS??????? Let's analyze it.

I've been defeating the OCDs and depression. Both are more or less gone.

I used to go to sleep just to escape my OCDs. But you know what's bizarre now? Now I'm only OCDing in my DREAMS! Last night I had an OCD dream in which I was incessantly OCDing, just like the old days.

I'm looking forward to going to A.C. for Thanksgiving this year. Just last night I was discussing simulated environments. Simulated environments used to be of great comfort to a neurotic such as myself. After all I was afraid of severe weather. In a simulated environment I knew I was safe from tornadoes. Now I just like simulated environments because they are superior to natural environments.

I think of the Irish pub on the second story of the Tropicana. A pub - made to look like an old Dublin pub - on the second floor of a glitzy casino. Great! Cozy! I would be THERE during a severe thunderstorm and/or tornado.

But now I'm even losing my fear of severe thunderstorms and/or tornadoes. Because NOTHING is worse than the fear of going back to the way I was in 2008/early 2009.

I'm also looking forward to Whitehouse subs, the best subs in the entire world! And, yes, I will be eating beef. Because even the fear of Mad Cow disease is not even as bad as the thought of returning to how I was.

And I'm so glad that it was cool and rainy today. It felt like the fall - a season far superior to the summer. I used to love the summer (mostly because I hated school), but now I recognize that Anton LaVey was right: summer is, indeed, a season for the vapid.

I can't wait for the fall and to go to A.C.!

Today my meditation was interrupted by some joker revving his car up and down my street. I hate bike and car assholes. They have no ability to comprehend the mechanics of the universe, so they ponder engines instead. They need something contained and limited because they are so contained and limited. Superior beings like me are happy with nothing less than the universe itself.

Today I was so full of my superiority that I actually laughed out loud. I went to the supermarket today (as I, bizarrely, do every day.) The cashier was this big, fat half-wit white girl. She rang up my beans and said: "These look good!" She held them for about five minutes. I thought: "Hurry up! Those aren't your beans!" "Have you tried them?" she asked me. I laughed. "No. I haven't." I had better things to do than discuss beans with this girl.

Then I laughed again, in love with life.

I'm feeling again. There are some songs I cannot listen to without feeling sad. The one that comes to mind now is "Ordinary World" by Duran Duran. I think anyone who has suffered loss or pain can understand this song.

It was hard for me losing my ex. The pain of losing her was like a bitter mineral that ate me every single day. I LOVED her. The fact that it was an absolute requirement for me to have sex with a lot of other people had nothing to do with my love for her. Why can't I love someone and have sex with many other people? I've never understood the dogma against that particular form of sexual freedom. I have made this clear hundreds of times in hundreds of writings. I don't love her anymore because I realized that she never loved me. She did not love ME - she loved what she wanted me to be. I was nothing but her lump of clay to be molded and that was very unfair to my own personhood and integrity as an individual.

But still, the sort of heartbreak I've once experienced - and that most people on earth have experienced or will experience - is captured in that song.

I first heard it when I was 12. When listening to it I thought of my grandparents, of losing them, and I felt very sad.

My anger has been dissipating. I've been feeling much better physically, mentally, spiritually and I am committed to defeating any lingering problems.

My anger toward women:

I believe in a sort of categorical imperative. Be fair with me. Keep good faith. If not, I will punish you.

If you fuck the inferior, then fuck the superior. Or don't fuck at all. That is only fair. The inferior do not deserve rewards.

Evil is separation. The person who says NO is usually wrong. The person who says YES is usually right. Why not fuck? Why not?

It comforts me that most of my former enemies are suffering. Call it Schadenfreude. They had their chance. Now I have mine!

From now on I'm going to think of one person a day who has been nice to me. This anger is not me! This anger was a by-product of my ex (the one who made me deny my sexuality and therefore my PERSONHOOD for four years.)

Maybe I should think of my high school drama teacher who was incredibly supportive of me.

Yes, that's the ticket.

I have not been depressed in a while, so I decided to stop by a Jersey Shore porn store.

Well, that did it! DEPRESSION!

The stores down here are so inferior to the ones in New York. New York has every kind of porn imaginable for dirt cheap. New Jersey has titles from the 80s for $50.

The cashiers in New York porn stores are usually indifferent Pakistanis. They consider Americans to be lowlife perverted savages, but they are happy to take our money at every turn. There's no judgement because they could care less about us either way.

The clerks in New Jersey porn stores are usually fat, lower-class white women who try to show off their "liberation" by being exceptionally crude. They are welcoming to the customers because "Hey! There is nothing wrong with buying porn! Porn is fuckin' awesome dude! It fuckin' rocks! Make yourself at fuckin' home, dude! We don't fuckin' judge here, bro. Even if you buy fuckin' gay porn, bro. Being fuckin' gay is fuckin' cool too, bro. Nothin' wrong with it." Yes, you fat, ignorant white women are just so liberated! You're just so liberated! This is what the 60s were all about: liberating fat, ugly, crude, foulmouthed, stone-ignorant, trailer-trash white women. That's what the 60s were all about! Abbie Hoffman and Timothy Leary are laughing from Hell!

Last night I went into a Jersey porn store. A fat black woman walked in with me. She said "We're racin' to the same door" to me, to show how liberated she was. She went in there and talked to the fat white girl. Apparently the fat black girl had some gifts for the fat white girl.

"Dude, this fuckin' rocks," said the fat white girl."

"I knew you'd like it honey."

"This is fuckin' awesome! I ain't gonna be goin' out with no shit like this though."

I didn't know what they were talking about, but such crude language! Such bad grammar!

Then I realized that I was having an Ignatius Reilly moment. Here I was, in a porn store, judging a piece of trailer slime for being crude and vulgar.

The fat black woman's white boyfriend came in. He was a wigger white guy in a baggy shirt and shorts. He had a shaved head and a pencil-thin Rican beard. He looked like the kind of piece of wigger fuckshit that would be hanging out at Jenks. Oh, he was so INSIPID-LOOKING!!! He probably drag-raced neon-illuminated hot rods and ate Cheetos while watching the "Fast and Furious" movies. Oh, what an insipid look he had!

I had to leave before insipidity-stoked depression overpowered me. I ran home and hid myself in books and the porn I already have.

Oh dearie! My poor tomatoes are withering in the sun! Why? Because Mr. G has been working in his backyard for the past couple of days. Today I was determined to go out there and water the flowers - and face Mr. G face to face. But I chickened out again.

Mr. G is working on some kind of unnecessary project. He's building some kind of concrete walkway in his backyard even though the walkway he had before was perfectly acceptable.

I watch him from my upstairs window and I ponder. What IS he thinking about? What is going on in his mind?

Why does he give himself so much "busy work"?

Like most bourgeoisie I am sure he is denying death. He doesn't want to think, so he works. And I don't blame him. I think too much and it leads to terrible depression. Yes, constant busy work - a constant project - is an excellent anti-depressant. But one has to at least know WHAT one is avoiding. Or does one? I've just always had to do things the hard way. Might it not have been better had I gone with the stream?

As far as spying on his grown children. Well, my justification for that was that he couldn't mind HIS business. I suspected that he informed the township that my lawn wasn't mowed. He also used to go into my backyard - uninvited - and trim my hedges. Who the hell was he to stick his nose into my business like that? How would he have felt had I gone into HIS backyard without permission and trimmed his hedges? He wouldn't have been too happy or comfortable with that! So why should I take such an INSULT lying down?

Good little bourgeois was worried about his property values and instead of blaming our misguided system, he bothered little ol' me!

So I said to myself: "If he wants to look over here I will look over there!" And I did. And what I saw was much more interesting than overgrown hedges.

So why am I afraid of him? He started with me!

I'm learning to let the anger go. It's a blockage. A blockage of my creativity. Meditation is helping me to cut short OCD and another insidious habit: rumination.

I can look at my sister's Facebook page and realize how much I hate her. I think she is a CUNT and a rat bastard. I grow enraged and I am determined to become someone or to do something to get revenge on her and all the people who have wronged me.

Or I can ruminate over this past April when I went to her birthday party and not a single one of her friends even knew that I EXISTED. She has been ashamed of me for years. And, oh so many times, has she tried so very, very hard to look past my many, many flaws and to try to have some kind of relationship with me (even if it means just calling me once every six months.) But none of her ideas of "some kind of" relationship involve pretending that I actually exist - or that I am anything but some kind of angry, broken-down loser. That's part of who I am (and especially who I was) but it's fading away now. I'm becoming a winner again.

But my sister has always been a cunt and a rat bastard. She's always been a coward and a mediocrity. Those are the two best terms to describe her: COWARD and MEDIOCRITY. Those two words sum up her entire life.

So why am I angry? She has always been this way. Asking her to change is about as unfair as her asking me to change (which she has done my entire life.) "I WISH RYAN WERE MY BROTHER! I WISH RYAN WERE MY BROTHER! I WISH RYAN WERE MY BROTHER!" Ryan is a nice guy, but I am not Ryan.

Why waste time on people who have never taken my feelings into consideration? Why waste time on people who are embarrassed of me and ashamed of me? Some of those people may not believe this, but I actually have FEELINGS too! Can you believe that? What a concept!

I am no longer angry at my cunt sister, but I am angry at myself for always giving her the benefit of the doubt. I am angry at myself for taking so much abuse over so many years. I am angry that I have ever felt anything for her. I am angry that up until about the past year I was too depressed to fight back and this made it easy for her to treat me like an inferior.

NO MORE. I love myself. I care about myself. I have dignity and self-respect and I deserve to be treated with respect. My cunt sister is incapable of loving or respecting me, so she is dead to me. Like the rest of my worthless family (except for my father.)

What's most important is that even though I dislike them (enough to call them cunts, etc...), these people no longer have enough power over me to even elicit an emotional response. From hatred I am now drifting over to complete indifference. From "FUCK YOU!" to "Whatever..."

I realize that life is far too short to waste time. Why waste time on people like my sister when I've found a REAL family? YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE!!! YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE!!!

And I love you with all the love I have to give.

Stephen Hawking says humanity's future is in space. Is it? I've dreamed of living on Mars. Humans have become so tired of themselves here. How will dark, gloomy, cold space suit them?

I think of weird crimes. Like the guy who robbed a bank in a Darth Vader outfit. Or the flower bandit.

It's fun to hear about these wacky, zany crimes and all I can say is to enjoy them while they last.

I am afraid that there will soon be no unusual occurrences at all. That everything will, paradoxically, become some abnormal form of normal. Mass culture and conditioning has become so powerful that nearly everyone is a carbon copy of everyone else. There is no longer room for individuality or aberration.

People - including criminals - will become so uniform that they will practically walk in lockstep. Everyone will simply have a role in the hive. This is our decadence. Freaks and weirdoes were a product of 80s decadence. There aren't too many freaks and weirdoes anymore. And didn't 80s criminals have more individuality? Didn't they try to stand out? Now criminals try to conform.

So enjoy and wackiness and zaniness while it is still here. Because the unusual may one day be a thing of the past.

Last night I ate very spicy Mexican food before bed. Not a good idea. I had a series of bizarre nightmares, most only half-remembered.

The only one I remember clearly involved Joe Bonham from the film "Johnny Got His Gun." This film was cut through Metallica's "One" video.

Joe Bonham was a fictional World War I soldier who stepped on a landmine and had his arms and legs blown off. He was also blinded, deafened and rendered mute.

In my dream he was all of a sudden the coolest guy in school, like a Ferris Bueller. He was travelling around in limos and dating hot girls, going to parties and bobbing his head to the vibrations. Like nothing had happened. Like he had really overcome his handicaps. The point of the novel was that war was such WASTE, but in my dream Joe was moving right along.

I moaned and groaned and finally woke up to see that the sun was coming up. When waking up from a nightmare that is always the best - to see the sun rising on the horizon.

Robert Anton Wilson is always optimistic and inspiring.

Maybe too optimistic.

Like certain books and drugs he should only be consumed by the superior.

He seemed to think that once people were offered certain drugs, technologies, and information outlets that people would somehow evolve into their own higher selves and we would live in a utopia of 6 billion individual but co-existing demi-gods.

Too optimistic.

The road-maps he offers are good for elites like me, but he fails to realize that most people are stupid and - even worse - LAZY!

People don't want to perform Guerilla Ontology on themselves!!! They're more than happy just watching "Jersey Shore" so let them be.

Give US - the superior, the elite - the tools and leave the rest to rot!

THEY DO NOT DESERVE TO BE ON THE MOUNTAINTOP WITH US!!!

And not because of evil people like George Bush or BP executives.

BUT BECAUSE THEY HAVE MADE A PERSONAL CHOICE TO BE WORTHLESS!!!

I walk around with a chip on my shoulder the size of Jupiter. I hate the Jersey Shore (the region and the show, but in this case the region) and I hate everyone and everything around me. I walk around angry and just HOPING for a fight, for a confrontation, for an opportunity to be rude, surly, nasty or even violent and aggressive.

I am generally misanthropic. 98% of people are total shit. 99% of women are shit (because women are much more prone to conformity.)

I have 29 years of pain, hurt, anger, resentment and frustration - all courteousy of the human race. I suffer from all the ill effects of loneliness, isolation, deprivation and years of anxiety, depression and severe Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder.

Now don't get me wrong. I don't hate everyone. I like elites, people who are spiritual aristocrats. Hell - I want WINNERS around me. I want winners and extraordinary outcasts from a mediocre society.

I know plenty of extraordinary people, but that doesn't change this fact:

When I am around a certain type of person (yokels, hicks, Herd Animals, mediocrities, belongers, average human beings, ordinary tyrants and unctous bigots) I can be the nastiest, most arrogant prick in the world. And why not? It's their world - I just live in it! They are the ones with all the power!

So I walk around with all of this, it's with me every time I'm forced to interact with Herd Animals.

So all it takes is one spark for me to lose it.

Yesterday I was driving down a local highway doing the speed limit exactly when some cunt-bitch tailgates me. She tailgates me so close our bumpers are practically screwing one another.

I look in the rearview mirror and it's some typical Jersey Shore cunt. One look at her and I realize that she represents EVERYTHING I hate in this entire world.

She can tailgate me because she's a ballsy Jersey chick! She curses a lot, drives really fast and watches football with her douchebag boyfriend and his douchebag friends, just like one of the guys!

And because she's a woman, a cunt, she thinks she can do whatever she wants. Well, I took exception to her presumption.

It was time to fight back. These people have oppressed me my entire life. I have always had to do what THEY wanted to do. I have always had to deal with their rude behavior. I have always had to tolerate their cruelty (not to mention their irritating habits.) Like I said, it's their damn world, I just live in it!

These people have picked on me my entire life. Now I'm going to pick back. They don't like it when I pick back. They don't like that too much.

I gave her the middle finger in my rearview mirror and mouthed a few curses at her.

She pulled up alongside me and started yelling at me, so I screamed, 6 times:

FUCK YOU CUNT!
FUCK YOU CUNT!
FUCK YOU CUNT!
FUCK YOU CUNT!
FUCK YOU CUNT!
FUCK YOU CUNT!
She could not even get a word out. I drowned her out.

I won. It felt SO GOOD!!! It felt like an orgasm and thousand little pin-pricks all over my body.

It feels good to fight back and it's about damn time.

I was rudely woken up this morning by a severe thunderstorm. I had just enough time to throw on sweatpants, a tee-shirt and flip-flops and speed down the road to Quik Check (for some reason I feel safer in public, in structurally sound buildings.) It was too late to go to the supermarket. The storm was too close.

I barely made it. As I was pulling out of the driveway dust and debris were already being picked up by the violent winds. I drove like an absolute maniac to get to Quik Check just as the worst of it was breaking. I bounded into Quik Check like a sprinter. People were looking at me funny.

The Quik Check was, of course, filled with the usual yokels, Herd Animals that I absolutely despise. I waited out the storm.

I felt ashamed of myself. After all, I have devoted myself lately to overcoming all of my depression, OCDs and phobias. I have been treating myself with exposure therapy. I have made plans to wait out the next storm in my own home.

But this storm woke me up. I was not yet conscious enough to face my fear. Because my mind was not yet awake I fell into old conditioned patterns.

I'm going to PLAN to stay home for the next storm and wait it out - no matter what happens.

At least I'm over the depression. It's hard not to be depressed nowadays, when all the worst prosper and all the best suffer. It's enough to make one so nauseous that one does not even want to eat (which is what happpened to me and resulted in a terrible eating disorder that I'm just now overcoming.) THE WORLD IS HERE TO BE CONSUMED AND ENJOYED!!!!! MONEY IS MADE TO BE ENJOYED!!! SO IS FOOD!!!

My only point is that everything should go to the superior.

And not the cast of Jersey Shore.

That's all.

That's it.

Bad news! My tomatoes are not growing fast enough. I do not know if I will yield a crop by Halloween!

The answer: I'm going to use my own feces as fertilizer.

Not only are human feces a great fertilizer, but I want Mrs. G to SMELL my feces. It will turn me on knowing that she is smelling my turds.

So, as of this Monday, I will be fertilizing my tomatoes the old-fashioned way.

I do have to admit that it is unfortunate that prison exists. I will never be able to kill anyone (with the possible exception of self-defense.) I have absolutely no desire to break the law and go to jail or prison. But if it were not for prison I would kill everyone who looked at me the wrong way.

I no longer even want to kill people out of revenge or anything like that. I would like to kill people for fun.

I've always fantasized about being a serial killer, about stalking my prey, etc... Sometimes I can't go out in public without thinking: "I'd like to rape her" or "I'd like to kill him." Their lives are probably worthless anyway. They are in my way.

Okay, I suppose I would only kill people who cross me. I don't want to harm the innocent. Enough people cross me. I suppose I could be a prolific serial murderer.

However, I will murder no one because prison exists. That's the only thing that stops me.

There's a horror-writing contest coming up. I'm thinking about entering. I think I could do pretty well.

Art is about building better worlds, different worlds, strange worlds, romantic worlds. Sometimes art mocks too.

The death of art is pedantry. Some people insist that there should always be a moral imperative. Why? Isn't it more entertaining to submit to the chaos of the universe rather than to march in the streets for this cause or that.

Art must be apolitical. I hate communists! Well, I hate capitalism too (but not all capitalists.) My favorite paradox: Nothing is true. My least favorite myth is the socio-economic myth. The poor are usually happier - they have more to shoot for.

Art should be by and for the imagination. No pedantry. No social causes. No moral imperatives.

At the risk of being repetitive, I have always been superior to the Herd Animals around me. Even at the age of 5 I was interested in four things: sex, philosophy, infinite imagination and the eternal glorification of the subjective will.

I found Sesame Street to be very patronizing. Why were they talking to me like I was a retard? I was interested in the adult world. I never liked the Muppets either. Patronizing!

I did, however, like Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood, probably because Mr. Rogers looked like Eric's Dad, Mr. Hartz. "Eric! What's the matter with you, Eric? Take off your shoes Eric and let's watch that trolley!"

A man's attractiveness should be based on how little he works. The less he works, the more attractive he should be.

"Oh my God! He is, like, SO HOT!!! He hasn't had a steady job in over five years! I want to fuck him right now."

Let's change our standards to the above! Wouldn't that mess with the power structure? Wouldn't that turn reality upside-down a bit? Why not? We have nothing to lose!

Speaking of that, I still have not mowed my lawn. It is NOT my fault this time. I will probably have a lawnmower by tomorrow.

Still, I could never understand the bourgeois obsession with nice yards. I mean, who cares? And why are Mr. and Mrs. G afraid of me bringing down their property values? My yard has nothing to do with them! If that's just the way things are, why should I be held responsible for an insane system?

I was always idle. I always hated yard work if it was done for a purpose. Yard work is only fun if it is done for no reason at all - if nothing is accomplished.

My OCD Project

This past Saturday I spent most of the day with someone I care about very much. We were housesitting. We spent the day and night together and I even prepared barbecue. I was HAPPY. Then I started OCDing about time. That this moment will pass and one day we will all grow old and die. I want nights like last Saturday night to last forever. This is much of the reason I have studied magick and mysticism - I am looking for something that is permanent, the astral plane, a fixed, eternal Platonic world. This is a constant obsession and the reason why I cannot watch movies like "Up" (sorry for the dig and one person who reads this blog will know who I am "digging!")

Yes, time does pass and, yes, we will all die someday. But why allow OCDs about it to ruin the present, which is all that we have?

My other OCDs have to do with sex and all the other aspects of human life that make life worth living. Orgasms (much to my existential and ontological torment) are also temporary. And if they were eternal, wouldn't even I (who can jerk off ten times a day) need a break?

A lot of the sex and food-related OCDs were related to the anhedonia I experienced while in an extremely profound depression. Now that my depression is lifting I realize that I can enjoy all that I have ever enjoyed or been able to enjoy. Another great thing about my study of magick and mysticism is that I have come to realize that one can eternally experience and enjoy both the journey and the destination.

So to treat my existential and ontological OCDs to exposure therapy I have decided that I will read Schopenhauer's "The World as Will and Representation." Schopenhauer was the arch-pessimist. I will read the book cover to cover and resist all compulsions.

The G's (my sexy next door neighbors) are apparently fundamentalist Christians, probably Jehovah's Witnesses.

But they are hypocrites! Nearly 4 years ago Mr. G aka "the Cuck" (because I imagine him to be one in my fantasies and - what the hell - he probably is one) refused to loan me his lawnmower. Well, then don't complain if my lawn looks a bit shaggy.

If he was TRULY a follower of Jesus Christ, he would have given me a hug and said: "My brother, my brother in Christ. I will live by the words of my Savior and love you as I love myself. Of course you may borrow my lawnmower. What is a lawncare appliance in God's world? The love we share in Christ is so much more important. Borrow my lawnmower! Borrow it anytime. Store not treasures upon this earth where rust and moth doth corrupt!"

This is how EVERY Christian should be. Why? Because it doesn't matter what one believes as long as one's belief is AUTHENTIC!

If Mr. G cannot be 100% Christian than he should be 100% Satanic.

In that case he should say: "Forget about the lawnmower. Mow it when you get a chance. I do not have to deny kindness to you, but I can if I so choose. Why not experience the pleasures of the flesh with my wife and I? Oh, to see your dirty phallus plunge into my wifes Venusian loins! May I be the cuck? Whatever gives one pleasure should be freely indulged. I want to watch. Can I place my face close to your penis to see the atrocity? Please! Please! Please! Hail Satan!"

Be either one or the other 100%.

It's helpful for me to go through my notes, notes from say 2007 or 2008. The notes are gangrenous. They are permeated with sickness.

What scared me in reading the notes is that at every point I was sure I was convalescing, but then things grew progressively worse.

I am not the boy who cried wolf. This time I am better. I wasn't doing the work before. I didn't even stop drinking on a daily basis.

Now I have done EVERYTHING under the sun to make my depression better and it has worked.

I used to believe the cliche that one must be tormented to be an artist. Not anymore.

Depression is a LOSS of individuality. It is impossible to truly be one's self while depressed.

An artist has to be DIFFERENT, but not DEPRESSED.

Excerpt from my new novel (the one I am working on, not the one I have for sale.)

Note: This is an excerpt from the novel I am currently writing. If you are interested in buying my completed novel, please message me.

Chapter 3

I was agnostic on the subject of death. Surely white middle-class prosperity would protect me from the worst dread of all: eternal nothingness.

Being that I am now devoutly religious (I am a non-dogmatic chaos magician) I know that God and Satan were walking with me then.

At the time I wasn't sure. Nothing could be worse than eternal nothingness (the terror of the very concept drained all the blood from my face and I involuntarily screamed at the thought of my own extinction - even writing this now upsets me) and the only person that could make this thought - which loiters like a pervert in the alley - bearable was Samantha.

If only I could live and then die with her. Eternal nothingness would be okay if I could die knowing that I would turn to dust next to her.

Hadn't scientists (to my 12 year old mind) proven that life after death does not exist?

What if it did exist? In that case I wanted to spend eternity with Samantha. Our souls becoming one. Imagine my sould becoming one with Samantha Epstein's soul. Didn't it seem impossible? It would be like having tea with Hitler and Jim Morrison.

This girl who was so popular and inaccessible - our souls becoming one! Spending ETERNITY together. Imagine that!

I had this romantic image of the two of us spending eternity as little kids of a beach; playing in the sand; building sandcastles; straight to the place of my happiest memories, a place of great emotional significance, Brigantine Beach, a small island off the coast of Atlantic City. The Trump Casinos of A.C. against the hazy backdrop of an early beautiful June morning. Life is about to begin. Life in death. Samantha Epstein and me.

Dreaming of this while listening to "Coma" by Guns N' Roses:

"No one's gonna bother me anymore...
No one's gonna mess with my head no more...
I can't understand what all the fighting's for...
but it's so nice here down far the shore."

I was happy being morbid. I hugged my pillow and pretended it was her.

I am a genius. I have my finger on the pulse of our time. While transcending our time. While transcending all time. I am immortal. The artist is always immortal.

The people in my writers group are very fond of me. Especially this one old man, Phil:

"What Will is trying to say is that we are acting in bad faith. Underneath the pornography, the scatology, etcetera, Will is telling us that we are fallen. That the world is fallen. That his generation, especially, is the last and worst generation. Will is following the existential tradition of Nietzsche, of Dostoyevsky. He may very well be a genius. There aren't too many geniuses left in the world nowadays. Publishing nowadays is GARBAGE! GARBAGE!!!" At this point Phil pounds the desk with his fist. "Detective stories and romance novels! Will doesn't write that junk! Will is one of the last true artists and his genius is very rare."

Gee, do you wonder why I LOVE this group? Phil has also had a very distinguished life. He was a book and magazine editor for 40 years. He worked alongside Jackie O. and was good friends with her. So he has been around.

So what are my motivations for attacking my generation and our culture as it exists now? Well, anger, mostly. Like everyone else I just wanted to be happy. I was very eager to accept the trivial and mediocre, but they had no interest in accepting me. The real world was not just unaccomodating but outright hostile. So I built my own world which has always saved me and will save me yet.

Bad Relapse Today

I had a bad relapse today. DEPRESSION!!! I feel better now. I got some food in my stomach and I hit the St. John's Wort tea a bit earlier than usual. I envy anyone who had a childhood. I'm still a child.

When I was a kid and I felt like I had been emotionally punched in the gut I hid under the covers and I mentally took myself to a better, kinder world. In this world was a beautiful girl who loved me unconditionally. I poured out everything to her and I just wept and wept and wept. There is a certain magic to feeling sorry for oneself. I don't trust anyone who has never known this feeling.

If that world is some kind of after-life I would kill myself in an instant. But no one can ever be sure of these things. I am NOT threatening to commit suicide.

One of the important steps in overcoming depression is acknowledging the pain. Don't try to hide from it. I must admit that I am WRACKED with pain. Pain has been a fact of my life for years now. Even in my best moments I am seldom IN the moment.

Wallow in pessimism and don't be afraid to spend time with Schopenhauer and Kierkegaard. What's odd is that every time I consciously wallow in pessimism things seem to instantly get better.

And overall I have been improving. I don't want my second childhood. I want my FIRST childhood. Right here, right now. I refuse to be a "normal" adult until this happens. I'm on strike godammit!

My neighbors are Boricua Jehovah's Witnesses. The women dress like the Amish. They scurry back and forth with their prayer books. Nice, clean, sober people. Mother, father, sister, brother.

I've already debauched two of them. The grown son and grown daughter have both put on sex shows for me. The son jerked off for me every night. He even waved to me as he was stroking it.

Don't expect me to write about it here. I've already written about it. Many times. Veritable epics. EPICS I tell you! EPICS! Poems, stories, plays.

Now I am obsessed with the 55 year old mother of the family. I want to make her my Satanic altar (in Satanism a nude woman should always serve as the altar.) I want to draw an inverted red pentagram on her chest (with red paint - a true Satanist would never harm an animal); the pentagram partially melts from the sweat of her heaving bosom.

She is on a marble slab, surrounded by black candles and hooded figures. I perform the invocation and drink from the chalice that rests between her legs and (I presume) hairy pussy.

Later we fuck. The pentagram is still on her chest. This nice, sweet, humble, devoutly religious woman. If only she knew the starring role she plays in some of my most perverse fantasies. (I won't even go into the fantasy in which she drops a turd on my bed.)

If only this devout woman knew that in my fantasies she is a coprophiliac masochistic Satanist.

Tom was a pussy. He was this 19 year old white kid I met when I first moved back to Jersey. He hung out at a coffee shop and played his acoustic guitar.

He dressed like Ducky from "Pretty in Pink", a lot of pork pie hats and vintage suits from thrift stores. CORNY.

To my astonishment he got laid a lot. This reinforced my opinion that there is something very wrong with most women. (Not all, but MOST.) How could they find this CORNY motherfucker attractive?

He, of course, inflamed my jealousy. I was 24 years old. I had lost my virginity at the age of 20 and then I had been tied up in a destructive relationship for four years. I was 24 years old and I had only been with one woman.

This CORNY mofo was pulling in harems of dumb little white girls.

I was TOUGHER than him. He was still a boy and I was already a man. He wasn't even shaving yet! I was capable of grounding him to bits with my bare hands, of KILLING him with my bare hands.

So why was he getting laid and not me?

Not only that, but he was white and I was black. Every time he was around my "black man's rage" flared up. I muttered under my breath: "This white motherfucker..."

One day I was drunk off a 40oz of St. Ides when the phone rang. It was Tom. I was drunk, so a bit more combative than usual.

"Hey, Will! How's it goin' bro? Hey, dude... I was wondering. I got this chick, bro. My parents are home. Could I use your place, bro."

"Yeah, sure. If you let me watch."

"What? What are you talking about, bro?" Tom was notoriously vanilla when it came to sex.

"You heard me. Either let me watch or let me fuck her if you want to bring her over here."

"Dude, you're crazy."

"What? Who the fuck you think you talking to? I'll fuck you up, boy. Little punk-ass motherfucker. Get your fucking ass over here, punk. Bring your bitch too, you motherfucker. I'll fuck her and then I'll fuck you."

"Sorry, Will. I'm going to go."

I laughed and went back to my bottle and my undeserved loneliness.

My OCDs about sex, time, existential issues, ontological issues, alcohol, hygiene, food, pleasure, loved ones, swallowing, my talent, my writing, my work; the OCDs to read a certain book, wear a certain shirt; cigarettes only as a reward for new sex/drug experiences; OCDs about tainting myself by betraying myself; OCDs about using the wrong word or talking about something important to me in the wrong way. And more. Much, much more.

And underneath all of this - an ocean of anxiety.

It all seems increasing ridiculous, which is good.

What's important is following the flow of awareness. I think of the Indian mystic Osho.

Don't get hung up on compassion and other hippie nonsense! I used to think that I couldn't meditate without becoming a Buddha or a hippie Christ. Some weakling offering hugs to to everyone!

This is wrong. This is morality and the flow of awareness is AMORAL. We can choose to attach to it whatever morality works best for us personally.

Yes, it's probably better to be kind to others, but this is not always necessary.

What's most important is following the flow of awareness. Everything else is just dogma.

Breaking news on the Mrs. G front! I saw her this morning, leaving her front porch, walking to the store with a young girl (presumably a relative.)

FINALLY! FINALLY! FINALLY! She was wearing something revealing! She was wearing tight, black pants (not spandex, but tight sweats) and a magenta tank top.

I did not realize her ass was so big! All those Amish skirts covered one of her greatest ASSets, no pun intended. Her breasts are bigger than I thought too! She knew I was walking behind her just to get to my car.

I got in my car, pulled out, drove alongside them and tried to watch them from the corner of my eye and then in my rearview mirror.

When I got home a few hours later she had made a point of shutting ALL the blinds - even the ones that are never normally closed.

Well, fuck you then!

I don't want to watch you anyway.

That's a lie.

I need to sit out on my porch and read a bit more.

I'm working on a piece for my writers group. The entire piece is about what I should read in front of Mrs. Garay. A book list, if you will, with the pros and cons of reading each selection in front of her. But will it make a difference whether I read James Patterson or Marcel Proust? Won't the fact that I am reading at all be strange and exotic to her?

Clifford Pickover

I really like the science/science fiction writer Clifford Pickover. I bought his book "Sex, Drugs, Einstein and Elves" several months ago because it simply jumped out at me from the bookshelf and the table of contents were enticing.

What I like about him is that he is a contented, middle-aged, middle-class, Jewish-American science writer who seems to really appreciate his home, life, wife and pretty little town in Westchester. This is, ideally, the kind of life I would like to have. I want to be an "armchair psychonaut", a man who explores the paranormal and unknown from the cozy corner of a cozy library. A life full of love. And, of course, I can find ways to throw danger into the mix occasionally. People like me are dangerous anyway (we're bad) and we attract enough trouble and danger to not have to go out of our way to look for it.

Clifford Pickover devotes a good part of this book to psychedelic drugs. Clifford, like me, admits to never having done psychedelic drugs. I've smoked marijuana too many times to count (of course) and I've snorted cocaine and had a few other recreational experiences with drugs and I was a very heavy drinker for a long time, but I have never done psychedelics.

I don't know how I feel about this. I very badly want to visit other dimensions of existence, but I am afraid to do it chemically. Can't I just take the long way (meditation, herbs, exercise, visualizations, etc...) at least until I feel sane and healthy enough to begin to work my way through certain drugs?

Conformists and belongers (who can't even spell) take Clifford to task for lauding the very drugs he is too afraid to take. What's wrong with innocence? I, essentially, am a total INNOCENT. I am INNOCENT. I write INNOCENT in caps because I am so profoundly INNOCENT.

I was never out at clubs, raves (whatever the hell a rave is), parties and other social events where all sorts of drugs were passed out like candy.

No, I was at home becoming an artist.

So, here is a nice man who enjoys a happy life and illiterate conformists blast him for not doing drugs. What did drugs ever do for you? Acid, shrooms and Special K did not teach you how to spell, did it? It didn't make you extraordinary did it? No, you're still a mediocrity - even after blasting off into foreign spheres!

Thank goodness I am nice and innocent like Cliff. Thank goodness I am a sheltered little bourgeois. Thank goodness that in my house there was always disdain for weirdos and the drug culture and much of the post-60s social decay (hippie parents raising punk rock kids, etc...)

How glad I am that I will always be more innocent than Chloe Sevigny!

Now that's not a defense of suburban conformity! HECK NO! It's simply an answer to another kind of conformity!

My depression is hitting and I don't know why. Perhaps I am getting a bit sloppy and indulging in copious amounts of both caffeine and sugar. Other than that I've been eating well. The swallowing phobia I have been dealing with since 2008 really is a metaphor. There is a blockage in my throat. A blockage of energy. Every time I have not spoken up for myself has formed a solid leaden mass. Sometimes I seem normal, funny and charming but it feels like I have a huge lump in my throat and I am about to cry.

This is all flirtation with death and despair itself. I have to fight it off.

I'm too good for it. I move slow like a sloth because in some ways I do seem to live in an eternal present. I am Dionysian. I clash with my Apollonian Grandfather.

Once again, I am a writer who does not really know and cannot really sort out his own emotions. I was never allowed to really own or express my own emotions. I'm afraid. I'm guilt-ridden. I'm superstitious. I can't defend myself even when I know I should.

This includes my feelings about my family. I can really let most of them go. My cousin Ryan is a great guy, but I can let most of them go.

My Grandfather has been tough for me because I have grown disappointed and disillusioned with him in many ways. This actually does HURT. It's too much to go in to now and it's very late, but I just wish my old feelings toward him could have been perfectly preserved. Now I have to live with reality. With the fact that he is not who I thought he was. He's a blind old fool literally and figuratively.

My friends are my family and thank God I have them. How many times have I punished them for the sins of others? I have to be less of a coward and direct hate to where it belongs.

I've been depressed because I haven't owned up to the emotions I've felt today.

I am afraid to even write this about the man. Afraid I will be punished by some supernatural force.

But I also know it won't happen because I know I am in the right and that I feel freshest after leaving his stifling atmosphere.

I DON'T HAVE TO APOLOGIZE FOR MY HAPPINESS TO ANYONE!

Lord knows it was hard enough to get it and keep it.

More on this some other time...

I've always wanted to live in Lytton, California.

Lytton is a fictional city created for the old-school Sierra computer game series "Police Quest."

Oh, those games were educational. So much better than the junk out there now. Basically the player is a cop starting out in a police station and the object is to go through all the procedures to arrest and put away a major drug dealer. The game was created by an ex-police officer and it was so accurate that police stations around the country actually used the game as a training tool.

When I was in 3rd Grade I was addicted to this game. I felt like I knew the characters.

Anyway, part of the game was driving the cruiser through the streets of Lytton.

Lytton was my kind of town. There were strip clubs, biker bars, dive motels, fancy hotels filled with prostitutes and drug dealers in the park. Lytton was a rough town!

I need to somehow find that game and play it again!

I'm a Puma, part 2

Not only did I dress hood, but I tried to act hood.

In regard to a girl: "Yo, I'm sweatin' this shorty for real, yo."

I wanted people to think I was tough because I was so humiliated about being a scared, immature, inexperienced virgin. I hid behind what I thought was a tough facade.

Okay, you may get more girls than me because you know how to be a conformist, but I'll just kick your fucking ass!

I'm not even tough in that sense. I'm tough because I never quit.

I should dress up in a shawl and wear a yarmulke because who I really am is Shylock. I will not quit until I get my pound of flesh!

I'm a Puma

When I graduated from High School in 1999 I had an incredible sense of freedom. Everything was new and fresh: I had my whole life ahead of me. I remember when Kevin Spacey pined for his youth in "American Beauty." "All I did was party and get laid. I had my whole life ahead of me." I wasn't quite partying and getting laid yet, but I had my whole life ahead of me. What a feeling!

I could finally be myself. At that time I decided that myself was a sort of tough, thuggish, Hip-Hop kind of guy. I listened to Tupac, Biggie and Nas religiously and I was constantly writing my own rap songs. I was a middle-class white kid, but so was Kid Rock. Kid Rock and I are both the children of successful GM dealers (it's true - look it up!)

Kid Rock was another one of my heroes. Along with Eminem. I wanted to go for Kid Rock's kind of looks.

So a few days after graduation I went to the mall. I bought myself warm-up pants, a Puma shirt and shiny green Puma sneakers with bright white laces. Now I was all set to finally be a "wigger."

Now it's ten years later. TEN YEARS LATER. I think of how fresh and full of hope I was. I had a clean slate. Boy did I fuck that clean slate up. I was too immature, inexperience, insecure, unsure of myself and I did not have my own will and direction.

Now I'm starting with a clean slate again - and a lot more wisdom. I won't screw it up this time.

I don't like my new stepfather

I no longer try to fixate on my mother. Dwelling on the worst of the past is certainly not the most productive use of my time (and it's a bad, hard to defeat habit anyhow and is one of my worst personal habits.)

However, I have recently had sexual fantasies about her. I think of when I took a shower with her when I was five years old. She was only 28 years old at the time and she had big, full breasts, beads of water on those big breasts!

As the years went on I occasionally caught a glimpse of her nakedness. One time her labia was hanging out of her swimsuit. Other times she used the bathroom in front of us.

Do I feel there is anything morally wrong with fantasizing about my own mother? No, not really. Her actions have made her fair game. She spends her entire life hurting people.

I looked up her profile on Facebook only for the sake of gathering masturbatory fodder. However, I left disappointed. I found one good swimsuit photo of her, but her legs looked terrible. They were gray and dappled, like breakfast scrapple. Not only that, but she had that characteristic "dumb Polack" look on her face, which means that she has her own way of looking like she got hit in the face with a can of fuck. It's slightly different from the Snooki guido version, but it's a second cousin once removed.

Anyhow, I was shocked to discover that she is in a relationship! How is that possible? She is just about the meanest cunt in the world! How could any guy be good enough for her? And how could any guy last five seconds with her? And, damn, does she have the right to be happy and successful considering that she has devoted her life to being a human wrecking ball, to wreaking hate, damage and destruction on the lives of good people?

I checked out the guy's profile and he is a total herb! He also seems oddly too good for her. He's a handsome man, in his 50s, tall, fit, muscular, slightly balding and well-groomed. He is some kind of aircraft technician down in A.C. He graduated from the same Atlantic City high school as my mother, so I suppose he's an old high school chum?

He posted the following message on her wall on Mother's Day:

"Happy Mother's Day, Janice. I know how much you mean to me."

I suppose she has tricked him into thinking she is a saint! She was always a good phony! There were times when she performed actions so completely insane and batshit crazy that she made Hannibal Lecter look like a fine, upstanding citizen. Then the phone would ring and she would put on that phony PTA voice and whoever was on the other end of that call thought she was the mother of the year!

I took this herb's comment as a personal dig aimed at me! If only he - and all her other dupes - knew the truth! But maybe EVEN THEN it wouldn't matter. Perhaps THEY are brutal people too! Maybe there is a chance that I was just born in the wrong time/place/class. These are BRUTAL people! I've always felt like either I was the alien or they were the aliens. The artist always wants to live in the past or the future.

If I still talked to my mother at all (I have not spoken to my mother in well over 3 years now) I could imagine her boyfriend and I (my new stepfather!) coming to blows.

I imagine the herb saying something like this to me:

"You know what? I'm a father. I have a son (his son is probably my age and is probably a typical douche working some good douchy job somewhere) and I would never take any of your bullshit from him! I've heard of all the terrible things you've put your poor mother through! A bum like you doesn't deserve such a good mother!"

If I said anything in response he would probably say:

"You know what? I've had it with your shit! Come on! Come on, toughguy! Let's see how tough you really are! Right now! You and me! Man to man! Come on! Put your dukes up!"

And then, whether I won or lost, my mother would throw me out and comfort him. (I hope I wouldn't lose to such a herb.)

I am Judd Nelson and he is the teacher in "The Breakfast Club."

Or I am be Alex from "A Clockwork Orange" and he is the parents' preppy new boarder (and adopted "real" son.) "I've heard about what you've put your poor mum and dad through, chap!"

Anyway, even better than mining my mother for masturbatory fodder is mining her for material.

Go me!

Another reason I am worried about keeping my windows open.

I have fantasies about at least two of the neighbors next door and I do not want to cry out their names in the heat of passion.

At this point many of my fantasies circulate around Mr. and Mrs. G, the middle-aged Puerto Rican couple to the right of me.

In the fantasies Mrs. G becomes a depraved whore and cuckolds her husband by becoming my complete slave. I require her to be fully nude at all times and to do everything I say.

We play kinky games. For instance, I keep her in a cage when I go out. On one occasion I soften a bit and tell her that she can roam free around the house if - and only if - she makes sure not to leave a turd on my bed.

I say to her: "You are allowed out of your cage today, but if I come home and find a turd on my bed you will be in big, big trouble! I better not come home to find a turd on my bed!" Wink-wink.

Lo and behold I come home to find a turd on my bed.

"What is this?" I scream. "I thought I told you not to leave a turd on my bed! You are such a dirty, disgusting, filthy slut! You are a piece of shit!" I rub her nose in it and beat her with a newspaper.

"I'm sorry! I couldn't help it!" she whines.

"Your sorry isn't good enough!"

At other times I write degrading things on her forehead in marker or I make her clean my ass with her tongue after each bowel movement.

As the fantasy progresses I pimp her out to unsavory characters. By this time her husband figures out what is going on and, while hurt at first, he decides to embrace his new role as a cuckold.

(I actually got this next idea from a Jim Norton book):

I pimp out Mrs. G to an African-American basketball team; 8 well-hung black studs line up to be "orally prepared" by Mr. G before sticking their cocks into all three of his wife's holes.

Mr. G is forced to wear a "chastity belt." A chastity belt is a plastic penis cup with a lock and a key used in cuck play; the restraining nature of this belt prevents the penis from growing erect or being put to any use at all.

Despite this, he grows so turned on by seeing his wife with the studs that he realizes his own homosexual desires and orally pleasures me while watching his wife get fucked.

Soon he is watching me and others fuck his wife every night, leaning in to see the cock enter this orifice or that orifice.

He then decides that he wants to be my lover and takes a submissive position. He embraces his submissive position and acts like a girl at all times.

As an exercise in charity we gradually "man him up" to the point where he can think of having sex with women again. Then I reunite him with his wife in a three-way. He realizes that he desires both me and his wife and he soon falls back in love with his wife.

A happy ending! At the end he is much like Oedipus at Colonus. He has passed through his trials and errors and finds redemption in realizing that he is a bisexual, but that he loves his wife more than anyone.

This is one of my typical fantasies. No wonder it takes me so long to masturbate.

If only I had the courage to even talk to this couple in real life! Whenever I see them I run back into the house like a scared little schoolboy!

When I wake up on a morning like this one I begin with a musical number:

"It's
a beautiful morning
everything's so sunny and gay!"

Then I do the Satyr Dance (I tap the sole of my right foot against my left knee-cap and say "I'm a satyr! I'm a satyr!")

Sometimes I'll do a chorus line number:

"Why don't you jerk me off
a-and fu-u-u-u-ck my asshole?
Yeah!"

Other times I'll look at myself in the mirror and say to myself in a 1940s voice:

"Hey! What are ya' lookin' at jerko!"

I consider all of this to be happy time.

I didn't know I was black.

Islam is garbage. That must be said. ANY religion that tells one that one is to be subsumed by something larger, something that is also maybe angry and judgemental is WRONG!!! Each and every person is their own God!

Last night I had a dream in which I met my superego. My superego was a big, black security guard - a burly, commanding fellow. He was a black bouncer with an attitude, very masculine and dominant. I have to stay/leave, do this/that. I have to do whatever his rich boss wants (whether it's to be subdued, drugged or anything else) or I will be thrown out of the event.

I have a powerful superego. More powerful than most. If there is any self-improvement project I must work on it is this one - reducing the superego so I can be freer to know and taste all of life.

A lot of the reason I stay up until 5am in the morning on most nights is because if I go to bed any earlier than that I sometimes have massive anxiety attacks.

If I go to bed at, say, 3am, I'll wake up at 3:45am in a total, sweat-soaked panic and then I'll have to sit and stare at the wall for an hour and fifteen minutes before the world even begins to come alive again. Whereas if I go to bed at 5am and wake up in a panic at 5:45am I will only have a measly 15 minutes (approximately) until the sun is up and people are starting their cars to leave for work, etc...

I'm lucky I'm 6'1". I'm lucky my growth was not stunted by the many, many nights I stayed up all night looking at every corner of the room, waiting for an alien to appear. I think of the scene in the film "Communion" when Whitley Strieber (Christopher Walken's character) is sitting on the edge of his bed and the alien peeks out from behind his dresser. How many hours have I sat on the edge of my bed looking at my dresser? Too many to count! If you add up all the decent sleep I have lost I am sure it will add up to years - years of sitting anxiously as the entire world sleeps.

When I was a kid I hardly slept at all for fear of what could happen at night. Now I am 30 years old and I am still up all night.

Last night it was a panic attack. All of a sudden I couldn't breathe and I had chest pains and heart palpitations. My finger was on the dial, ready to dial 911 the moment my heart seized.

My entire body was shaking uncontrollably. My arms trembled so badly that I could not even pick up a glass of warm milk.

Finally, around five in the morning I felt calm enough to attempt sleep again.

Believe it or not I am actually grateful for my panic attacks. For me they mean one thing and one thing only: THE DEPRESSION IS OVER.

Or at least mostly over. I still have my moments but my depression simply cannot stand up to everything I am throwing at it.

Whenever depression dissipates my anxiety gets much worse. When depressed I can't feel enough to get anxious.

I suppose it would be best to suffer from neither but I will take anxiety over depression ANY DAY OF THE WEEK AND TWICE ON SUNDAY!

These panic attacks tell me one thing and one thing only: I am finally on the right road.