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?