Milling on philosophy today for the first time in a while. Nietzsche's aesthetic view of life. Why he probably wouldn't like someone like Courtney, my cowardly sister. She is a mediocrity who succeeds in life through subterfuge.

What I often want is force against force and may the strongest force win. In this case I would nearly always win.

Is this why Nietzsche did not believe in free will? Did he want to see an eternally recurring eventual trampling of weakness?

Maybe not as interesting as the complexity added by the sneakiness of people like my sister.

If life is a fair fight between forces of different strengths, then life is "Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Robots." If strength always wins, life is like the old Nintendo game rampage, a game in which King Kong and Godzilla could destroy property without any opposition. Both become boring.

So that must be why someone like my sister exists. As inherently bland as she is, she adds spice to the game!

I am very proud of myself. The swallowing phobia may have been one of the most difficult of the many challenges related to my former mental illness. Two years ago I could still barely eat mashed potatoes. Now I'm chowing down on Wendy's. Now I'm getting fat and I can't even mind that much!

I may have to cut back on my St. John's Wort intake. I thought there was no upper limit, but I may be wrong. The recommended dose is three capsules a day. I take 10 a day. I fear it may be decreasing my sex drive. I may have to slowly taper down to a more manageable six capsules a day. Perhaps Ginkgo Biloba and Ginseng can pick up the rest of the slack, no pun intended. Or perhaps I can very gradually phase out St. John's Wort and experiement with SAMe as a substitute.

Either way I will always love St. John's Wort. I am worshipful of that herb. That herb gave me my life back. It at least cleared me up enough to help me deal with the many problems I had.

I love that herb. I consider it to be a friend. But soon it may be time to gradually switch up my routine.

Things remain status quo. However, I have been experiencing a weird, prickly sensation in my hands. This must be related to supplements that I have been taking. Time to google!

I'm glad I was never trash. My dad is an up from under businessman and I grew up in upper middle-class luxury. However, I was surrounded by trash and I know it very well. I was surrounded by a lot of them when my dad forced me to work at Wall Stadium.

Trash is mostly inoffensive. Many of them are very nice, nicer than many well-heeled people. Some of them are more likely to accept people.

But their lives were depressing. The line into Wall Stadium sometimes looked like the land of broken toys - all sorts of genetic mutations and physical anomalies, from skin rashes to misshapen limbs. This was only an hour outside of New York City. Imagine what Alabama is like.

Now, this isa good portion of America - and fine! They don't bother me and I don't bother them.

But I don't think they should become international celebrities. One of the "stars" of MTV's "Teen Moms", Amber Portwood, has a classic Wall Stadium face. She looks like she should be smoking a Newport and eating funnel cake. Leave her alone! Don't hurt her, but don't make her a damn celebrity.

All of this trash-chatter is the veil that hides so many from their own lives.

Before I had Love but no Will. Then I had Will but no Love. Now I have Love under Will.

I feel like I have been on an e-mail version of "What Would You Do?" Many people ARE good. The people in my writers' group are certainly good. They all rushed to my defense. They protected and defended me from injustice. I am grateful to them and for them.

What a day! I was the victim of an unprovoked attack via e-mail! A member of my writers' group has a problem with my work. Apparently he is the only one.

That's how it's been my entire life. I find something I really care about and someone tries to take it away from me. Then people wonder why I have such a pissy attitude.

Well, he's not going to win this time. I'll make him look like a fool. I'll put a dunce cap on his head. I'll put him in a dunk tank and throw baseballs at the target. I'll call him Simple the Fool and have him entertain microcephalics for a living.

Oh, I'll fight back all right. I'll verbally humiliate him. This is my life.

I don't know if I've been socked in the gut yet or not. If so, it's a particular species of disappointment: "I try so hard. I even play the game. I do my absolute best. Then someone knocks me out over some stupid technicality. What's the point of even trying?" The same piss-poor attitude that has ruined so much of my life. But now I have no choice but to slug it out no matter what. That does not help the invigorated OCD, of course. If only I knew one way or another.

If the world ends on May 21st (as those Christian idiots in Times Square say) I am sure my mother will go to hell. After all, she is a child abuser, an elder abuser, a liar, user, thief and cheat consumed by greed, fear and hatred. Dante will have to get busy and come up with a new hell just for her. The punishments of Judas and Brutus are not quite severe enough!

Why are smart people so stupid sometimes. Stephen Hawking looks for heaven in a corner of the cosmos, never thinking that perhaps Heaven is one's happiest moment played out for eternity, with infinite variations. He's a dinosaur, the soon to be extinct materialist. Not that there is anything wrong with science. Science may be the true savior of the human race. And isn't it the job of science to explore the unknown? Who says there is not a rational basis for life after death? I do not think God is an old man with a beard. But who knows? Maybe he is in some alternate universe. I think God is ever-evolving consciousness, consciousness that evolves for the endless joy of novelty and the endless novelty of joy. But then again, I DON'T KNOW. What exactly happens after death? I DON'T KNOW. Unlike Stephen Hawking I am humble enough to repeat those three words like a mantra.

Up late. Watching ghost shows on Animal Planet. Why are the victims of hauntings nowadays always white trash hillbillies? It makes one skeptical. It makes one want to find unromantic rational explanations. Aren't well-bred people ever haunted?

When I went to Brookdale, there was this Colombian girl, Stephanie. I think I had a shot with her. I willfully blew it because I was attempting to stay faithful to Hatred personified.

Yesterday I went through some old notes from 2002 and I saw this girl's name mentioned. I became nearly apoplectic as soon as I read a story I wrote about her in 2002. An erotic story that could have been made reality. I had a splitting headache by the time I got home. I had to take an aspirin and a St. John's Wort.

For four years I turned down countless opportunities. This was stupid on my part mostly because it has never been particularly easy for me to get laid.

I didn't regain sanity until around 2004. That was when I started meditating. Ironically, I was meditating to kill who I was, but the meditation only made who I was even stronger. My mistake was not keeping up with it in the years of confusion following my break-up with Hatred.

I'm just beginning to recover from four years of suppressing my sexuality. I broke up with my jailer in 2004 and I have incessantly ranted and raved about the evils of sexual compromise ever since.

What's ideal is having sex with a different person every single day. Barring that there need to be "purgatives" for sexual frustration.

If sex is not available, the next best option (at least from a spiritual and psychological point of view) is to engage in violence. Sometimes I am coldly rational, as cool as a cucumber. Realizing this fact I embrace violence when there is not the option for erotic bliss.

The only problem with violence is that it's illegal! Too bad. I guess I will just have to work harder at getting as much sex as possible.

Four years of sexual self-denial (that's a redundancy - the sexuality IS the self) filled me with black poison, with filth. With demons. With ugliness and sin.

I have to continue to purge that evil blackness. I have no chance at being fully happy until this is completely accomplished.

I must get to work.

I love nights like tonight. Warm late spring/early summer nights. The windows open. A cool breeze. Some popcorn, seltzer water and a movie. Doesn't get much better than that! Especially when friends are around. To avoid isolation I make it a point to never go more than two days alone. This week will be a challenge (my dad is in Florida) but I'll somehow do it!

I've mellowed with age. I recently found a notebook I wrote when still virginal and wrathful. The book is filled with poems, songs, drawings, stories and essays all of which are uncompromisingly foul, vulgar, offensive, misogynistic, racist and hateful. Poems of rape, abortion, murder and every anti-social impulse a 20 year old virgin may feel.

But what's funny is that I wrote my name and address on the inside cover of this notebook. As if to say "If you find this book full of tales of rape, murder, scatology and incest please return it to the following address..."

No wonder people used to think I was retarded!

I do feel like I have wasted too much time on self-pity. All that is exists only in my mind. No, I'm not a true solipsist. Other sentient beings exist, but they only exist for me because I exist to perceive them. So I'm re-tweaking my brain. The anger and the hurt I keep for myself. I can let them go. Read one of Austin Osman Spare's automatic writings:

http://hermetic.com/spare/anathema.html

This is how I feel. I feel the visceral white-hot anger at the Herd. They make the world a sadder place. Everyone should just fuck everyone until the world explodes in a giant orgasm. But they want to restrict. The cast of "Jersey Shore" are not representative of the ID. They are rather the Super Ego. They put all sorts of arbitrary moral codes over their desires. Really, they should fuck men, women, old, young, handicapped and so on. To only like one kind of girl or one kind of guy is placing limits on love, desire and pleasure.

And why not do it all. Why not be a promiscuous party animal and a physicist? And then why doesn't the promiscuous party animal and physicist make love to all rather than just a few?

Citing the sensitivity of the Muslim world, the White House now says they may never release the Bin Laden death photos. Why do we always have to change for them? They've already infringed upon the First Amendment rights of Americans. We can't even burn a Koran in our own country. Sandniggers.

I WANT to see his exploded skull. I want to see his brains. I want to see fragments of his skull. I am bloodthirsty. Can you blame me?

I also hate all these pussywhipped bleeding-hearts who say that we should not celebrate the death of another human being! Well, I love celebrating Bin Laden's death. I don't drink anymore, but I think I'll have a few this weekend just to celebrate the Dune Coon's death.

I never had a mother, only a soulless incubator. I grew in her metal, mechanical womb for 9 months. Like a prince raised among cruel, stingy paupers I always longed for my real home: the stars.

No wonder I still have those attacks at night. I still have a lot of 'splainin' to do. As much as a victim as I have been in the past I have also done a lot of people wrong. Right now I'm on existential probation so I better work hard, stay in line and mind my p's and q's.

I really think my phobia of severe thunderstorms and/or tornadoes is a misguided sympathy ploy. When I was a little boy and truly afraid of storms in and of themselves, my mother often screamed at me: "WHAT ARE YOU AFRAID OF? WHAT ARE YOU AFRAID OF? WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU? WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU? YOU'RE ACTING LIKE A FRIGGING RETARD! GET A GRIP! GET A GRIP!!!!!!"

What if, since then, I have been trying to prove my fears legitimate by nursing this phobia? What if all of this is just passive-aggressive behavior toward my cunt mother?

Today. What it was. Realizing all of my constant OCDs about myself and my friends getting old and dying was just that: OCD. Therefore irrational delusion. Thinking of what I've done in the past (my accomplishments) is in many cases (if not most) only obsession-strengthening compulsion. Worries about age and sexual virility are OCDs and therefore irrational delusions.

Crucifixion ain't nothin'! Working the 9-5 grind for 40 years is much worse. When I used to work I prayed: "Please God, you can crucify and resurrect me once if I never have to work again." The whole greatest story ever told is metaphorical anyway. I'm not one for any kind of self-sacrifice.

I DO, however, like the Gnostic Christ. He seemed like a cross between Alan Watts and Nietzsche. So maybe it was St. Paul who ruined Christ with morality.

All of this aside, why was 5 Guys Burger and Fries closed on Easter Sunday? What does the resurrection of Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ have to do with starving me on a lazy Sunday?

I am the Coyote, the Trickster, I make a mockery of men who enslave other men. My techniques are simple (quitting jobs without notice, etc...) but my message is profound.

My favorite book of all time is "She Said Yes." "She Said Yes" is the story of Cassie Bernall, one of the students killed in the Columbine incident. When asked by one of the shooters if she believed in God, she supposedly said "yes." Then they blew her head off.

The book is about how Cassie herself was a teenage dabbler in the occult before converting to Christianity. Are you telling me that we should celebrate her as a hero because she gave up a legitimate religion like Wicca for a false religion like Christianity!

She was just a fool. She said "yes." Good.

To put myself to sleep at night I imagine myself as the Warrior Philosopher-King of a small but strong medieval community. We face invasion from a much larger force. So I lead my men to resist. First, we launch burning arrows and fireballs a them as they approach our perimeter. The perimeter is lined with all sorts of booby-traps. The traps are covered holes containing lions, tigers, crocodiles, bears and other wild animals. The next set of traps are steel pikes that impale rows of soldiers. The ones who make it past the pikes face a giant wooden wall. Any who make it over are charged by me and my men. I usuall carry a long spear that I use to impale my enemies. Sometimes I alternate with the sword. The women hide in the village armed with knives so that if we lose no one will be taken alive. Let's hope they never get that far.

This is a very cozy fantasy for me and it always puts me to sleep. Was I once a great Warrior-King. That would describe my nobility of character. What I want to emphasize is that I never wanted a GOOD world. A good world would be boring. I have always merely wanted a FAIR world where good and evil are very clearly defined.

Not too long ago I saw a Ford pick-up truck in front of me. The back of the truck was covered with tea party bumper stickers. One of the stickers said: "Actually, No One Owes You Crap."

Um, yeah you do. You owe me a lot, including a living and health insurance.

I was born into YOUR world. I was raised in YOUR society. I grew up with your oppressive children. I was expected to abide by your rules and follow your norms. I was rejected, tortured and tormented for being just very slightly out of step from your kind. It was YOUR world, but I was born into it and forced to live in it.

I was never allowed the enjoyments of your world. So why should I sacrifice my time/energy for your world? Would you like it if you were in my higher alternate world and I said to you "Nobody owes you crap"? Wouldn't be fair, right?

Today I was working on my Uncle Johnny's house with my dad. The nosy neighbors across the street were spying on us. Husband and wife were going on their little cracker nosy patrols.

Petty bourgeois. I grew up with them. They are very stereotypical. Everything in their lives revolves around their home and yard. Appearances. Yet, they would slit their own brother's throat for a dollar.

It's weakness, cowardice and denial of death.

See, I LOVE the Herd. Actually, I want to love the Herd. I would love the Herd if they worshipped the superior as gods. Instead they treat us as pariahs.

There is an imbalance there. It needs to be fixed.

Tomorrow is the 12th Anniversary of the Columbine incident. I must post something offensive about it so that I can get attention. I'm an attention-whore!

Yesterday, I went to that porno store on Route 35 in Ocean Township. Jersey Shore porno stores are beyond depressing - meager selections at ridiculous prices. $30.00 for a rather generic VHS from the 80s. Um, yeah. Get the f outta here! However, I saw a sign outside this store that said: "Under New Management! Big Sale!" I, of course was disappointed. Now the generic 80s VHS tapes were only $20.00. Wow. The selection was just as pathetic, the store just as threadbare, chintzy and garish. The fat white-trash sales girl just as fat, stupid, ugly and white trash. Down here it seems like only white garbage go to porno stores. Maybe that's because decent people have the Internet? I don't know. Anyway, there was this razzmatazz fuckshit white-trash garbage couple in the store. They were talking to the fat, Adidas-wearing, inbred-faced, white-garbage female sales clerk. Apparently they were all friends. And guess what? They had a toddler with them! The toddler was looking at the shemale videos and shiznit. Pieces of fuckshitassholefuck. Now I sound like white trash-garbage. This is what I don't get about the white trash staff and customers at this place: Why does the white trash think that pornography is trash too? They do. But then they try to convince themselves that they don't think it's trash so they take on an "enlightened", non-judgemental (suspending judgement takes a lot for them), extra-loose, "liberated" vibe. In which it's okay to bring toddlers into porn stores and talk about rubber cocks with trashy, backwoods gay men. They don't judge, but watch if their white trash hillbilly wigger boyfriend "cheats" on them! It's backwoods, postmodern and extremely depressing all at the same time. I had to get out. The porno stores in NY are so much better. And, um, I can actually buy a decent porno from this decade for $10!

The reason I like Aleister Crowley is because he is pragmatic. I doubt it is a mistake that he includes William James' "Varieties of Religious Experience" on his reading list. Sure, with enough practice one can do this, that or the other thing. But how does it benefit one's life? How does magick or meditation make one a kinder, gentler, happier and more generous person? How does it make one a more assertive and self-confident person? How does it increase lover, joy, ecstasy and the overall quality of one's life. Let success be proof. Let the proof be in the fruits - in the practical fruits. This is the first time in my life that I have seen the glamour of being truly practical. Not cowardly. Practical.

I don't understand why people consider all human life to be valuable. Someone like Snooki? Why not just kill her? I have trouble comprehending why it would not be okay to just kill some people. The inferior don't even have feelings. What is the point of preserving their lives? On a brighter note, I get paid tomorrow. No more Ramen noodles and Vienna sausage for me! The greatest mind of this generation, languishing in obscurity.

Last night, while reading the Upanishads (like a good Hindu), I had a revelation; a revelation I have had many times before, but this time I really got it: I have been depressed not because I hate life, but because I love life. I hate temporality! Which is why I am afraid of becoming too religious. I need spiritual belief to get through life, but I was always worried about moral codes. No moral codes! Nothing to worry about. I can be that bee flitting from flower to flower, understanding that it will all pass but that I can still enjoy it.

I do not know if I am schizotypal or mildly autistic. I tend to be very lock-step and to have fixed routines in my eating, sleeping, shopping and grooming habits. I've been slowly breaking the hold of various neuroses on my life, but it is sometimes difficult to change when one way is all one has known for an entire lifetime.

I shop at the supermarket several times a day because I have trouble planning the practical too far into the future. Wegmans in Ocean Township is one of my haunts. I go there at least once a day to buy necessities.

However, I do not use a discount card because it is not "noble" to use a discount card. An extremely juvenile part of myself believes that it is "cheating", "unfair", maybe even close to outright theft. As a spiritual aristocrat, I am above dabbling in such base actions!

I also want both fame and anonymity. I want the world to know and appreciate my brilliance, but I also do not want strangers to acknowledge my various eccentricities.

This was ruined for me by an ambitious negress at Wegman's. She was fact. Probably conservative, reactionary and easily shocked. Very outgoing with normal people.

She had the shortest line so I went to her. After she checked me out she said: "You should get a discount card. You're in here all the time."

GODAMMIT! So they NOTICE that I am always in there. They probably talk about what a weirdo I am. I just want to blend in enough to do my damn shopping!

I always wanted to be a celebrity. I never thought I would find fame as the village weirdo. Don't you think if I wanted a discount card I would have gotten one by now.

But in addition to being too noble for a discounty card, I am also too SHY to ask for a discount card. I mean, actually going up to the counter and filling out a piece of paper is terrifying to me.

So, now Wegman's is ruined for me. Thanks, bitch.

Last night I pulled into my driveway. I saw a raccoon scuttle along the roof of my neighbor's shed. I'm afraid of being bit by a raccoon. I'm afraid of contracting rabies. I'm afraid a critter will bite me in my sleep and I will not know it. I will not seek treatment. I will die of rabies. This is, of course, OCD nonsense. My OCD is on the ropes and very close to being defeated, but it still rears its ugly head when given the least stimulus. If a raccoon bit me at anytime I would damn well know it! Those things have damn sharp teeth!

Last night it was raining. Despite hysterical news reports I did not think it was raining that hard. I suppose it is only because there are flooding issues in North Jersey.

I heard noises on the portion of my roof that is directly above my bathroom. I could not tell if the scraping sounds were animal claws or tree branches. The wind was not particularly heavy, so I thought it may have been raccoons. However, I heard none of the characteristic raccoon squeaking noises.

I also heard noises in the kitchen ceiling directly under the bathroom. there is a hole in that ceiling directly above the sink. The hole was formed in 2005 due to a leak from the bathroom floor. The hole has been there for years. At times wood, concrete and various other silt-like pebbles fall from this hole.

Would the sorry state of my house make it easy for raccoons to enter? All sorts of noises.

The noises were really the house falling apart. It must be increasingly difficult for it to stand up to weather. The rain was causing the problems. If raccoons made it into the house the entire house would have been destroyed. Those animals cause massive damage.

Something needs to be done. That house has been impacting my health for years. It floods, it crumbles, it's overwhelmed with dust and mold. It smells like mildew. I strongly suspect that the state of my environment has contributed to the depression that I have suffered for about 4 of the 6 years that I was there.

I'm grateful to at least have a roof over my head (even if I am not sure if it bars animals from the premises) but I really can't wait to leave. I'm so sick of living in dust and mold. I haven't smoked a cigarette in years and each morning when I wake up I feel like I smoked a whole pack the night before.

Part of my permanent defeat of misery will be an escape from miserable surroundings. But what am I to do? I have no money. I really need to write a best-selling novel. I'm working on it. Working hard. But not hard enough.

I want to condition myself to go to bed at a reasonable hour. At my friend's place now. I feel safe here. I feel so safe that I want to go to bed early. Well, 3:41am is early for me. I do not want to stay up and watch the Scorpions on Metal Mania. The worst is when ABC News Now comes on. That's when I know I am experiencing insomnia. I just want to go to bed early and feel safe, but I live alone, so it is hard. There's a lot of anxiety, going to sleep by myself. Sometimes when I was a kid I would go to sleep when someone was in the room and when I would wake up that person would be gone and the lights would be off and I would be in a panic. Very bad feeling.

"Samantha" novel excerpt, Chapter 1

"Dungeons & Dragons" and "Star Trek" were on the right. Guns N' Roses and outright rebellion were on the left. Samantha Epstein was in the center of everything.

She was on my bus in 6th Grade. In 5th Grade she was an ugly nobody, but how she blossomed over a summer. Now she was the prettiest and most popular girl in time for a new school - Wall Intermediate.

Being half-Jewish, half-Italian she had dark, Mediterranean features. Her tan, sort of olive skin off set her long, black, curly, shoulder length hair. For a 12 year old she had exceptionally large breasts, accentuated by her very tight sweaters. How I wanted to pull her tits from her blouse and suck on them. What exactly did her nipples look like? What color were they? Closer to brown or pink? Were her nipples small, round and neat or bigger with sort of jagged edges? Her tight jeans conformed to her small but thick ass. How I wanted to lick her asshole, kiss the cheeks, bury my face deep into the crack of her ass and never come up for air. Oh, and if she had a cute little birth mark on her hiney, how I would kiss it for hours - just the birthmark and nothing else, for the sheer worship and perversion of worshipping just a beauty mark. Speaking of slight but glorious imperfections, she had just the slightest hint of a potbelly, this imperfection being the one flaw that completed a picture of perfection. I will agree with Edgar Allan Poe's paradox that no perfection exists without a slight flaw. Her potbelly hinted that she still had a bit of a little girl left in her even though she was now blossoming into quite the picture of a woman. How could I not fall in love?

How could she not love me? I have always been a good-looking boy, but with phases of awkwardness. Inconsistent through most of my life, I alternated between a sort of homosexual, English schoolboy fragile handsomeness and a greasy-skinned, froggy, Eggbertish, child-molester-working-at-Kmart kind of doofiness (though my soul remained as pure and strong as the most sublime examples of physical beauty.) This was one of the "doofy" times. I had wire-frame glasses and braces. Though never an acne sufferer, this was the closest I had ever come to being a "pizza-face." I was, at times, goofy enough to be a nerd stereotype. Still, I felt myself more attractive than the other boys. Big, tall and of a more classic cut, I towered over scrawny, freckly, red-headed, big-nosed, sunken-faced, pale, rotten-mouthed little skater punks and soccer star runts, the sort of popular boys a girl like Samantha would be more likely to like. I may not have been at my best, but I was certainly at least better than them.

I knew the score, but perhaps my intent was to create my own real-life 80s film, in which the geek finally makes good and gets the unattainable girl. Unfortunately, movies are not life. Despite my narcissism, the one consistent throughout my life was a lack of self-confidence, which is the most difficult obstacle in the art of seducing any woman. Even in 80s films the protagonist usually had to learn confidence from some kind of mentor before getting the girl. But Samantha was different. Somehow she would see through my quirks to my essential quality. Back then I operated under the erroneous assumption that women were superior and that the most attractive ones would sense my worth in some intangible way.

The first thing I noticed about her (other than her looks) was that she was a loudmouth. Her voice was sharp and carping, like a slap in the face.

"Go fuck yourself, asshole!" she screamed at some other boy who had said something to her. What a foul mouth. The curse from her lips sexually excited me. Like a German Shepherd I pricked my ears to capture more of her profanity, all of which I planned to store in my brain for future stimulation.

Samantha had a candy business on the bus. She sold sourballs, warheads and jawbreakers. Even though I did not like any of that junk I bought a sourball from her as a way to belong and to have some kind of interaction with her. I had to prepare myself for an entire week just to buy the candy.

"Thanks," I said, because I was raised to be polite.

She didn't reply. Politeness on her part would be an act of weakness.

How I loved her and wanted to torture her, to tie her to a wheel, to slice her large breasts with thorns, to shove objects up her pussy and force her to come against her will. Love is not expressed only through mushy kindnesses.

I went home and rubbed the sourball across my balls. The wrapper had touched her fingers and now my balls. Then my cock, then the tip of my cock, then my asshole. I wanted any part of her to touch every part of me. Maybe I should sleep and cuddle with it!

I had the optimism to genuinely think I could end up with Samantha. Maybe delusion. Stephen King may not be a critic's favorite, but he was correct when he said that the cliques of any Junior High are more strictly regimented than any Hindu caste system.

I wanted to become one with Samantha, physically and spiritually. Carl Jung would have classified me as an almost total introvert. I take everything in and I hardly ever gravitate outward. But I did not want to subsume Samantha. I wanted our separate individualities and egos to merge into one cosmic being. Seeing Samantha at school was one thing, but imagine merging with her soul. What could be more intimate - and with such an unapproachable girl. She was Rock N' Roll music. All those sounds of blossoming sexuality. Guns N' Roses. Axl Rose. His tumultuous relationships with beautiful women. Would I have something similar with Samantha? Would she deprive me of sex, steal my money and "cheat" (as everyone is free, there is actually no such thing as cheating) on me with my friends? I hoped so! At least all of that was life (something I had already been too deprived of) and I would have been happy to have anything with her. Anything at all. I'd take any bare minimum. This is what happens when you're raised in an emotional and spiritual ghetto. You're happy for any scrap of love. How would I go about getting her? Did I need a plan, a strategy? I would just have to inch closer to her and pray. This was the beginning of the madness. Would God or the universe help me?

Was I God?

I wanted to know if Samantha was human like me. Did she think, did she feel? Did she even exist? What if the entire world existed just for me? What if I was God and had created all of this to escape my own loneliness? I think of the Alan Watts quote: "God is playing hide and seek with the universe." I asked myself to wake up as God just a bit so I could have Samantha even if she wasn't real.

She was real. She had to be. So did she think like me, feel like me? I heard her on the bus:

"That's such a weird feeling when you close your eyes and you see these spots of color. The just float in front of your eyes, like little lines."

My heart swelled with love. How I wished to watch her in her room, perhaps teleport my consciousness there. Not even for any lascivious purpose, but just to see what she does when no one else is around.

Better yet I wanted to go inside her mind. Did she think of me? How often did she think of me? Where was she tender and kind? Where did she hurt? Where was she exactly like me? Where was she most different? Perhaps we would find this out when we became one.

The little things too. What did her room look like? How was it decorated? Was it girly? Did she sleep with a stuffed animal at night? If so, which Disney (or other) character was it?

What did it feel like to be the most popular person in school? I couldn't imagine. What did she think of it? What if deep down she loved me but she could not do anything because of her social position?

By chance, Samantha and I shared many of the same classes, including gym. I was not athletic at all and I hated most athletics with a fierce passion. I considered it cruel that they forced us to play nonsensical games that meant nothing. Would baseball/football/kickball/etc... give meaning to an inherently meaningless universe? Especially when played at a middle school level? No! What difference did it make who won or lost a half-hour game played in gym class? Only Samantha provided meaning. She was the reason why anyone did anything at all. The world existed only for the worship and utter fascination I felt for her. Fascination. That's the word.

We did not really interact until the day I lost my clarinet the period before gym class.

I did not really care for the clarinet or its music, but like Boy Scouts, karate and other suburban rites of passage I did it because it seemed like something I was supposed to do. Woody Allen would disagree and say that I was disparaging a fine instrument.

My Aunt Donna had given me the clarinet. It had belonged to her son, Rob.

Aunt Donna represented a cleaner, brighter, happier world far from school (and even home.) I associated her with happy memories of playing in her pool and hanging out with her other son, Ryan. Ryan was a few years older than me and I idolized him. He hooked me up with Sierra computer games like “Police Quest”, “Space Quest”, “King’s Quest”, and the infamous “Leisure Suit Larry” (a role-playing game in which one virtually picks up women.) For this reason alone Ryan was the coolest.

All of these emotions and associations were tied to one clarinet. Not only that, but I have always attached warm human personalities to inanimate objects. So when I lost it I sobbed uncontrollably.

I sobbed all the way through gym class.

We were playing soccer and Samantha was on my team. I was too distraught to stop the other team from scoring on us at will (I have always hated sports with a strong passion anyway) and Samantha exploded.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” she screamed. “Why don’t you wake the fuck up?”

My reply was a choked sob.

“You fucking crybaby!” she said. “You fucking pussy! Crying over a lost clarinet. You’re such a fucking baby.”

“Fuck you, bitch!” I screamed through a sob. Don't worry about the contradiction here between my holy love for her and the foul language I spewed at her. I was only desperately defending myself in the only way I knew how.

“Fuck you, you fucking asshole! You little fucking baby! You fucking pussy! Everyone hates you! So go fuck yourself!”

In Wall Township this was a normal and acceptable way for two 12 year olds to talk to one another.

“Fuck you, you fucking bitch!”

“Oh, good comeback! Is ‘fuck you bitch’ all you can say, you fucking loser?”

“Fuck you, bitch!”

Now I was madly in love with her.

Of all of the paranormal shows on television, the only one I usually enjoy is "Celebrity Ghost Stories." It is interesting to see figures I know from pop culture telling stories that may or may not have legitimately happened.

Right now I am watching "Psychic Kids" on Bio. I am willing to make the argument with anyone that there are NO educational shows on television.

On Psychic Kids they take "psychic" teenagers and bring them to haunted houses, etc... Most of the teens are painfully ordinary kids except for the fact that they seem both lower- middle class and sort of "outcast" in a grungy, "goth" kind of way. But all of them seem like typical dumb kids.

"Like, oh my God! Like, I can, like, sense, like energy and, like, auras, like around me, like and stuff."

Everyone must be due for 15 minutes of fame nowadays. Fat, ugly (but otherwise painfully average) "goth kid" teenagers right on the margin of the suburbs/trailer park investigating the mysteries of life and death. What a bizarre world we live in.

"Like I feel like a ghost's, like, energy, like in this house. It's, like, totally freaking me out, dude."

No one can say for sure what another person can do, but I'll bet she's about as psychic as my ass.

I love when time - usually at least a period of years - gives someone a rather "awesome" appearance. "Awesome" in the sense of "out of all proportion." It's not just schadenfreude, but sexually exciting in one of the most perverse ways.

Like when I tracked down Samantha Epstein five years after High School. She was waitressing at an Italian restaurant. She had gained weight (which is not a bad thing) but her body was freakishly out of proportion. Her face was greasy. A gelationous deposit nested in her chin.

Awesome. What a word. Like when the Marquis de Sade used it to describe the ass of a depraved old bag who enjoyed shitting in men's mouths.

I was reading William James' "Varieties of Religious Experience." I am on one of the chapters on conversion. Most convert and become Christian. That's because the Judeo-Christian was especially dominant at that particular time. They have that experience. That mystical experience and they bond to what and all they know. Imagine how better their lives would have been if they had connected that experience to Lucifer or Pan or Dionysus or Jupiter. That is the true, full integration of the mystical experience.

I had a dream last night that I was to be my generation's Anti-Christ. The competition was between me and a little baby. Who will be the Anti-Christ? Obviously me, because I can tell by the way the baby crawls and scampers around that he is a dullard. He is just too happy. This makes him just a little bit below me, unsuited to be the only Anti-Christ. I woke up feeling really good.

In the meantime, help me by checking out my content. Each click counts. I'm trying to get my clout level to 10:

http://www.associatedcontent.com/article/6241998/what_would_you_do_what_would_i_do.html?cat=2

Today I was thinking about the world of 1,000 horrors. This was prompted by watching someone shovel snow. The world of 1,000 horrors is where I was lost for a long time. That was my walk through the Valley of Death. That was my dark night of the soul.

Because, let's face it (and I am not a life-hater), but this world is a place of slavery, servitude, pain, loneliness, age, loss and death. Anyone who does not believe me need only visit an Alzheimer's ward.

But there is another world. A world that's both constant and constantly changing. No, I'm not becoming a holy roller. Religion worries too much about morality. In this world of pain, carnality is one of the greatest gifts we have. This world is mostly amoral. It can be kind and then cruel in a heartbeat. It can be heaven and hell or back and forth or both in a heartbeat. It is a world of individual and a certain kind of collectivity. But there too the individual comes first.

What bothers me most on a daily basis (the small stuff) is petty authoritarianism and bourgeois money-grubbing. Both are so related as to appear almost entirely identical. This is murder of the imagination. This is what fuels the world of 1,000 horrors.

I think of a certain someone ratting me out about my lawn. This was the same person I was watching today. He's a very handsome man. As cute as he is, he is a part of that world of 1,000 horrors. Thank goodness there is a refuge from him and his kind. I am no longer lost in his world. Lost and in pain.

The library is closing early today. Oh, well. It works out. I need to spend more time reading. Yes, I know the library is for reading, but I don't read there. I get too distracted by one thing or another on the Internet. I have not been reading enough lately. I've been missing the mark. With everything in life there is missing and hitting the mark. In other areas I have been hitting the mark, but I have not been reading enough. So I need to raise the bow a little bit and hit the mark on that. Right now I'm actually reading "Dracula" because, let's face it, I am essentially a horror and sci-fi writer and "Dracula" is a classic I have not yet read. So let's see if I can finish it today or at least come close. It's snowing and I don't have much else to do and I'm leaving the library early.

Somebody yesterday called me the "Hannibal Lector of Comedy" which I take as a compliment. Hannibal was not only a cold-blooded murderer, but a witty, erudite and charismatic genius!

If not for prison I would certainly be a serial killer, but I am not that cold-blooded. I just cannot harm good people. However, I would murder - in gruesome and painful fashion - bad people. Who are bad people? I suppose "bad" people are those who are both malicious and inauthentic. After all, evil is not as bad if it is done with the conviction of authenticity. But when one is both a fraud and a rotten human being, it is time for that individul to go!

Hopefully, our society will not ramp up its persecution of the different. After the Arizona shooting people who are accused of being dangerous and/or mentally ill (and it is very easy for the sane (like me) to be considered mentally ill in this society) will probably not be able to express themselves for fear of arrest/evaluation/confinement/mandatory treatment.

What about people like me who are non-violent (for fear of consequences) but who advocate and celebrate anti-social behavior?

continued from previous blog...

Stewie and I were in Cub Scouts together. Actually, we were Webelos, which meant that we were one step away from becoming full-fledged Boy Scouts.

Now, our Boy Scout troop was not my mother's 1950s Boy Scout troop. Only the worst were in our troop. Except for Stewie. Right?

We were going on a weekend-long jamboree. Friday night, Saturday night and Sunday.

I wish my life had been like a YA novel and everyone in the troop was kind and innocent, interested in a spooky ghost adventure in an abandoned mine! This, obviously, was not the case.

To be continued...

Continued from previous blog...

Stewie and I had almost a gay relationship. Perhaps because I really was around my monstrous mom a lot I found myself acting like her. My mother was sort of a crass (in that she was racist, ignorant and barbaric in many of the things she said and did) Stepford Wife in that she was almost hypernormal (like an episode of a 1950s sitcom) until and unless she was having severe and violent manic episodes. Both states were knee-jerky. When in hypernormal mode, kids were nice - and played with rubber balls, jacks, marbles, tiddly-winks and crackerjack prizes; girls were Mary Janes from the 1950s in poodle skirts who played hopscotch and said things like "leemee alone mister, ya' crumb-bun" to potential pedophiles in ice cream trucks; and girls only wanted a real go-getter, mister - a guy with something to offer other than just a penis and charisma. They wanted a nice kid, who was not only a virginal Eagle Scout, but also a hockey player, a straight-A student and a respectful young man who ate meat loaf and said "Golly Gee Whiz!"

When she had a manic episode, however, it was hitting, yelling, screaming, crying, stomping on the floor, falling on the floor and cursing: "Ya goddamn shitting brats! I hate you! I hate you! Ya' goddamn friggin' shitheads! I HATE YOU!" Obviously the Stepford robot had some kind meltdown - I was surprised screws and springs didn't explode out of her chest. "Meltdown! Meltdown." If only I could have unplugged her.

My mother's very sheltered view of reality did not necessarily conform to the conditions of 1990s postmodern youth. At the age of 10, 11 and 12 the other kids were nihilistic savages into Sega video games, sex parties, killing animals, foul language, and Satanic Heavy Metal groups.

The boys took great joy in killing animals and this was why I started distancing myself from them. But I still liked Stewie, right? Stewie wasn't really one of them. He was SO NICE to me. And I was his little bitch, certainly the submissive one in the relationship. He was not one of them. Was he?

Again, I was no longer sure. All because of one incident.

To be continued...

Stewie's family had a big party around the end of every school year. My favorite time of year: early June. When the world just seemed full of the promise of hot hair metal girls, girls who are in their mid-40s now. A girl like Lea Thompson in "Howard the Duck" to ride the ferris wheel with me.

The party was in the backyard, but we were all in Stewie's brother's Morgan's room. The walls were papered with posters for bands like Metallica, Megadeth, Slayer, Iron Maiden, Guns N' Roses, Testament, Overkill, and Judas Priest. Morgan had great taste in music. I did not yet appreciate the "classic-ness" of such groups.

I was afraid of that music. Wasn't it Satanic? This was before I realized that Satan is good. Would it lead me to kill my parents or to kill myself? I don't know where I picked up such lunacy. Neither one of my parents was religious. It must have been the media.

All I knew was that I did not quite trust the guys who listened to them. Stewie was my best friend, right? I had been comfortable in this assumption until recently. But lately I felt he had been showing more favor toward David. And was he once snickering when he thought I was no longer behind him?

To be continued...

Glad to be out of the house. I was a bit cooped up yesterday. My car was at the dealership, the old dealership, the one my dad used to own. He still has a credit there so my car was fixed for free.

The heat hasn't been working! I've been freezing my ass off all winter! And it's been an unusually severe winter. Well, now I'm back in business and glad to be outside of my place.

The air in my place is no good. I have a habit of breathing too heavily and I have smoker's lungs along with a smoker's cough. Dust, mold. Hopefully not vermiculite. Mesotheliomia is the last thing I need. Oh, Goodness, I thought last night. I've been there for 6 years. Hopefully the damage isn't done. Well, I've also been jogging for three and that clears out the poison.

The air quality has probably also been partly responsible for the depression I suffered. But now I am throwing so much at depression that I am actually free of it, bad air or no.

I had a dream the other night that I was cutting the legs off skateboard punks. They were hurlings bits of glass at me and I just pulled out a machete and started chopping. The symbolism of this dream is obvious. Skateboard punks were the types who cut me down my entire life. Now I was cutting them down. All in the name of love. I will no longer feed hate. See, it's not about punishing them, but rather about correcting a grave imbalance. They were the ones who had everything while I had nothing. Now the tables are turning. Balance. By going from one extreme to another I find Aristotle's Golden Mean.

God and Satan are in the Grass

I no longer suffered from Seasonal Affective Disorder or SAD. My depression now lasted through the year. In fact, it was worse in the Spring and Summer. The warm weather, the beach, and the amusements of the semi-clothed vapid only served to remind me of how black my soul really was. I used to love summer mornings when my Grammy made bacon and eggs for all of us and we trekked to the beach by 8am. Now it was difficult to get up before 1pm. And then I needed coffee.

Depression makes it difficult to complete even small, everyday tasks. The everyday suffers the most. What's the point of scrubbing the kitchen floor or taking out the trash in a universe that is inherently meaningless? A cold, dry, mechanical universe made up of nothing but information stripped of all emotional or spiritual value. I didn't kill myself because I knew that I had once been happy. In addition to summer mornings with family were the many times a pretty girl had given me butterflies in my tummy. A lot made me happy, but my depression made it mostly unavailable.

It was a 90degree day in June. I didn't take a shower because what was the point of showering in said universe? I had not showered in over a week. I had not brushed my teeth in three weeks. I had not changed my clothes in two months.

I loaded seven tablespoons of coffee into the coffee machine. Seven spoons for one cup. Once the cup was ready I sprinkled instant coffee over the top, like cinnamon over cappuccino. This was to be the first of seven cups. Like an addict, I used coffee to wake up and to get "up" because no other legal substance could get me so "up." I didn't have the social skills to be a druggie. That required meeting people. I was in too bad of shape to be a druggie.

I looked out the window at my lawn. The grass and weeds were knee-high and I knew it was only a matter of time before I received a summons from the township. I was planning on mowing, but my mower was broken. Some kind of engine issue. I moved in slow-motion for everything other than coffee. Finding a working lawnmower seemed a Herculean task.

I walked into my backyard and saw my neighbor, Jimmy. A handsome Latino man, his family were the pillars of the neighborhood. Devout Christians, they attended church events on a near-daily basis. I often saw them leaving the house dressed in their best and clutching their prayer books and other paraphernalia.

"Hey, when are you going to mow that lawn?" asked Jimmy. As if the maintenance of one's lawn was of paramount importance in this short, squalid, miserable life. Jimmy was often in his backyard working on various home and garden projects. I wondered what he was hiding from. Did he work to distract himself from the reality that his religion was a lie? Was hard work his way of not thinking about death? Hard work was a distraction from thoughts about death. What other purpose was there to home and yard work? Are you telling me that Jimmy was genuinely impressed by bourgeois aesthetics? Even when not depressed I did not understand why anyone cared about their neighbor's lawn. As long as my mess did not spread to his side, what did he care?

"Oh, well, I really want to mow the lawn, but my mower is broken. I need to borrow a mower," I said.

"Well, you better do it before you get another summons," said Jimmy. This confirmed to me that Jimmy had indeed been responsible for the last two summonses I had received from the township. He worked for the town and it was only too easy for him to snitch on me. Considering how much my lawn bothered him, the least he could have done was loan me a mower.

Did Jimmy not see or sense that I was ill with depression and that I needed help, not censure? A true Christian helps his brothers, acts as his brother's keeper, steers his brother along the right path. I'm not a Christian, so I don't have to act as my brother's keeper, but Jimmy is a Christian.

If Jimmy were truly a Christian he would have crossed over to my yard and hugged me the minute I walked out the door.

I imagined this scenario:

"Oh, my son!" he says. "Are you suffering inside? Are you hurting? In the spirit of my master, of my Lord and Savior I offer my love and charity to you. With Christ's compassion I will offer you whatever you may need."

"Well, I just need to borrow your lawnmower," I say.

"What is mine is yours. 'Store not treasures upon this earth where moth and rust doth corrupt.' What does anything of this earth matter? We all just have a brief, fleeting moment to devote ourselves to the Lord our God. Take my house! Take my food. Take the clothes off my back if that is what you need. Anything you need. Jesus abjured his followers to give up all possessions and follow him. Oh, my son! I see that you are sick. How may I help you? Are you lonely?"

At this point I break down and cry.

"Yes. Yes, I am lonely," I say. "Most of my family has abandoned me! They don't understand. They don't know how hard it is. I just want to be happy like everyone else but it is so hard for me. It's like there's something missing in my brain. But... But... I know I could get myself together if I were not so lonely..." I choke out a few sobs.

"Oh, my son, my brother. Don't cry. You will never be alone again. Christ will be with you. And my family is now your family. You may come over for dinner every night. But I will make you do tasks around my yard to pay for your keep. The Lord does not like a sluggard and I will engage you in plenty of hard work to fuel your appetite. Then, as a reward for your labor, you will sit at my table, a table of love, family and laughter."

"Oh, thank you! Oh, thank you."

This is what Jimmy would have said had he truly been a Christian. Did not Jesus say that the sick man is most in need of his help? Jesus would not have been with the sheep-like bourgeois Christians. He would have been with people like me. Jesus would have spent his time in the house with the overgrown lawn.

This is why it is important to hold a decent balance between God and Satan. Both are important and worthy of worship. Both comfort one when times are bad and elevate one when times are good. This is what makes me so much more dynamic than Jimmy. And this must have been what his daughter saw in me.

She was allowing me to watch her undress every night. A hot, little 21 year old girl. She unsnapped her bra every night. I watched her perky breasts fall out of her bra every night. If he wants to look over at my place, I will look over at his. THIS was the cure for my depression. Time to wake up early again.

Oh, Satan, how I love thee!

Another story of a teenage boy lucky enough to have been molested by an older woman. If only such "molestation" had happened to me!

To deny sex to a person as oversexed as me is also a form of sexual abuse, one more traumatizing than most involving actual contact.

If a teenage boy fails to enjoy an experience with an older woman, it is obviously a tell-tale sign of that boy's inferiority. It merely demonstrates that his spirits were not as lively as mine nor was his imagination as active.

It's like the time I was walking through Manhattan and I saw a five year old boy walk right past a porno store without a second glance. At the age of 5 I probably would have broken free from my parents to go inside and explore. Yes, most kids are inferior. I was always the same, a superior being - even when I was 5. I was ahead of most adults at that age!

There's obviously nothing wrong with killing someone who deserves to be killed. Not that I would ever commit such violence. No, I do not want to go to prison. So I will continue to abide by the law.

When I was about 13 I had fantasies of shooting up Wall Intermediate School. I even had a plan to barricade the gym doors so my victims could not escape. I wanted to mow all of them down, to end them. And I wanted their families to be ruined by unremitting grief.

Such thoughts and fantasies helped me to sleep at night, but I have always had a sense that my life is too valuable to waste in prison or six feet under. So I refrained from taking violence to that extreme.

However, I would have been completely justified. Children should not be excused from cruelty only because they are children. I - at every age - have set high standards for myself. I expect others to abide by a similar set of standards. Yes, the 7th Graders I could have killed (but didn't) deserved to die. And they still deserve to die for their sins.

BUT I WILL NOT HURT THEM. BECAUSE I DO NOT WANT TO GO TO PRISON.

That's what separates me from the Columbine heroes. I happen to be smarter. And to think more of the future.

And to think more of myself.

"Days of Thunder" seems like a quality movie compared to what is out there nowadays. I hate the Jersey Shore because they suck conformity's cock. Yes, I've been there. I was shy, paralyzed, like the proverbial deer in the headlights. Yes, I have sat off to the side - muscles I did not even know I had - tensed while the Herd Animals played beer pong. I've been there. Yes, they were always inferior to me and they were not historical, as I am, and that was my only consolation. I may not lick stinky guido asses as much as I like but I'm extraordinary and once I make my extraordinariness work for me I will lick all the stinky guido asses I can handle. Because, let's face it, that's what they are. That's why they wear those tight jeans. Me oh my. I think of people I've allowed into my life. People I've given the benefit of the doubt even though I knew they were conformists because I just wanted so badly to be liked. I've just always wanted to be liked. But now I'm becoming a winner in the human world. While realizing that I'm no longer human. I have human feelings, but my consciousness is now alien.

Irritated with myself for sleeping too late. That's the last of my depression: sleep disruptions. I'm sorry (who am I apologizing too), but I just get so damn anxious at night. I have the most energy around 3am. When I actually fall asleep I too often have nightmares and/or panic attacks. I need to work on this! I miss mornings. Especially in the springtime. Oh, springtime! Springtime mornings. I will actually be able to enjoy you because I am no longer depressed. So I want to be able to enjoy you by actually making it possible to get up at 9am without the assistance of several pots of coffee. This year I even plan on going to Easter Sunday mass. No, I am not becoming a good Catholic. I, of course, hate Christianity. But there was always something very magical and romantic about going to Easter Sunday mass when I was a child. The earth was being reborn and maybe I would see Samantha Epstein there. Her father was Jewish, but I'm fairly certain she was raised Catholic on her Italian side. Sometimes she went to church! Oh, joy! At the age of 30, I want that romance back. I want to watch the early spring/early morning sun beam through the stained glass windows.

Never take a diuretic before beginning serious work. I should know this. Sometimes I feel a bit too dizzy in the head. Dizzy in the sense of being ditzy. See, when I work on my laptop at the library I can't just go to the bathroom and leave it there. Some white person at the Wall Township Public Library might steal it. So I have to turn it off, unplug it, and put it away just to take a tinkle.

The diuretic was my detox tea, which I took because I have been breathing too heavily in my house. I am afraid I may have inhaled too many toxins. My lungs were hurting and I just couldn't wait for my jog tonight. So I hit the tea this morning. Now my bladder has been exploding. Goodness gracious me oh my.

Would communication with a truly alien species be possible? What if an intelligent species evolved so differently from us that there is no way to even know of their existence, let alone communicate with them? Or what if we can easily detect their presence? What if they are as corporeal as us, but their minds are so different that they are as incapable of comprehending us as we are of them?

What would intelligence have in common? Curiosity? Can a potential for intelligent thought manifest intelligence without curiosity? Could curiosity be the only thing we have in common?