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.