I of course don’t tell this psychiatrist everything as that would surely get me locked up in a street jacket right away in a state hospital. If they only knew the twisted thoughts inside my noodle.
No, I tell the Swede as I like to call him just enough to get me what I need in terms of community and government resources. Most of the time as I sit on his couch divulging my thoughts or feelings I can tell that he hasn’t the slightest clue in approaching an individual like me. I am out of his league and more smarter than he is.
He has no experience in dealing with people like me.
Still, in the usual art of deception or subterfuge I allow him to take command of the conversations from time to time making him feel like he is in control or that he has power. In reality I control everything.
Recently we’ve done some behavioral testing and since my results were off the standardized charts it took three psychiatrists in collective concert over a weekend just to simply diagnose me. Three of them!
Of course they’re just scratching the surface and that is all their limited narrow minds will ever see.
I’m just a demon hiding in plain sight completely appearing innocuous towards the entire environment or society around him.
A fucking phantom freak of nature or some sort chaotic anomaly of evolution and natural selection.
I of coursd have no faith in their ridiculous quackery where it is all about elevating my own personal gain.
It’s been almost ten years living on the streets off and on in perpetual poverty.
I recently had a conversation with a career criminal that got out of prison having served hard time that there are even prisons outside of official prisons. For ten years I have lived in an open air prison system as I like to call it where my only crime is being poor and not being lucky enough to been born in an affluential family.
My cell is whatever poor dilapidated dwelling I can afford to live in. Freedom of mobility? I can’t afford it.
I can’t afford to go anywhere or do anything to which I reside most of my time in my cell that I am suppose to call home.
You might as well put bars on the windows.
Like all prisons you can’t afford to eat good where you are forced to accept whatever the government offers you. It comes in a form of ebt, soup kitchens, or a foodshelf. In fact some days, prisoners on the inside probably eat a whole lot better than the ones on the outside. Some weeks you can’t afford to eat where you become comfortable with starvation.
In inside prisons you are forced into constant solitary confinement. It is the same in open air prisons also concerning extreme poverty. You begin talking to yourself or imagining that other people are there just to create some sort of social company that you don’t otherwise have to fill in the void of severe isolation. Your mind bends and begins to crumble along with the very fabric of reality as you succumb to madness.
In inside prisons you have cellmates and in outside open air prisons you have streetmates where you all are human warehoused together into one place that is called a shelter. A shelter of course is just another prison.
In inside prisons you’re locked up for being a menace to society and yet in open air prisons surprisingly they judge you in the same manner.
In inside prisons you’re scum. In outside open air prisons you’re scum also.
In inside prisons you’re a disease meant to be contained and locked away. In outside open air prisons you’re a leper and where you reside a leper colony.
At least in inside prisons you’re allowed a fucking conjugal visit. In open air prisons you can’t afford sex or even the most basic human relationship.
In inside prisons you wear an orange jumpsuit that is a uniform with your identification number. In outside open air prisons you can’t afford new clothes where you’re marked by dirt, grind, or torn tattered clothes. A similar mark of distinction.
In inside prisons you have ridiculous religious clergymen talking about how there is room for you in their fictionally derived kingdom harrassing you as if everything else wasn’t already enough to withstand. Much the same in outside open air prisons in those regards. Oh, and remember, their god loves you on this earth.
Medical school, eh? Well, I definitely think you have the brains for it–you’re one hell of a smart dude.
I don’t know if you have the patience for it though.
Let me pass onto you a few lessons that life has taught me: no one is free of hardship in this life, and there is no path through it that is easy. I’ve been through university, got myself two degrees, and the stress was almost unbearable. To get through school–especially med school–you reeeaaally have to dig your nose into the books… but what else you gonna do in life? If all is hardship, you might as well go through some kinda hardship that stands a chance of paying off in the long run, right?
The point in life is not to find some easy road that soothes you like a mother coddling a baby, but to choose your preferred hardship–and that’s not to be interpreted as the least painful hardship, but the hardship that is the most meaningful to you, the hardship that you can stand behind and say: this is worth it. It’s like the hardship of enduring a sickness versus the hardship of working out at the gym–no one chooses to be sick, no one wants that, so to endure sickness is often unbearable, but to work out at the gym, the break a sweat, to feel the burn, is quite bearable. Not because it hurts less, but because we want it–we want it because of what it means to us: that we are achieving something, we are getting somewhere with it, becoming stronger, becoming faster, becoming better–it means something to us so much deeper than being sick and throwing up means to us.
On a side note, it’s interesting to me that you want to become an embalmer as opposed to the many other occupations you could choose. If you’re such a monster, you could have been a soldier, firing bullets at the enemy; you could have joined the mafia, become a gangster, and cut people’s fingers off to satisfy some twisted, sadistic pleasure; you could have become a worker in a slaughtering house, torturing animals for fun (Turd Ferguson tells me you used to work in a meat packing plant–why did you quit?). To be an embalmer tells me that you are interested in death and the macabre, but not in torture or the suffering of others–the dead are already dead–embalming them does not bring about any further suffering or torture–in fact, you would be helping others with the grieving process of the loss of a loved one, helping them to bring closure (maybe even guiding a soul in their migratory journey into the afterlife if you believe in that sort of thing).
In other words, I don’t think you’re as much of a demon as you make yourself out to be–you like the macabre, the gothic, but I don’t think you’re a monster. You live in the darkness, but you’re not a bad soul. I think what you express is your own pain, not an evil spirit.
I seem to recall once you told us about your suffering from chronic pain. There is a part of the brain called the anterior cingulate gyrus which is involved in both physical and emotional pain, and I suspect yours is overactive. This could account for your innate inner demon–neurologically wired to suffer.
Drugs might help–maybe–but the effect of drugs, especially pain killers and antidepressants usually wear off; what you need is a lifestyle that least stimulates the anterior cingulate gyrus, some set of circumstances in your life that gives your ACG the least reasons to jump up and down and signal warnings that life sucks.
Good luck! (seriously! I don’t know how the hell you’re gonna do that).
All I can say is, if you get a grant to go to college and study medicine, study your fucking ass off! Like I say, I don’t know if you have the patience to do it, but if you’re gonna do something that you abhor (which is a given in life), might as well make it something that stands of chance of paying off in the long run.
I would of become a career criminal a long time ago in an organized crime fashion if it wasn’t for the fact that most criminals nowadays are certified idiots. I can’t tell you how many would be street career criminals I’ve run into who were just absolute fucking idiots. Add that with a modern digital electronic police state of surveillance and it just doesn’t pay.
If it was easy I would already be doing it everyday. Nowadays I am just a criminal of opportunity and convenience until the day law no longer matters.
If I ever did anything I would mostly do it alone.
My choice of focusing my attention in embalming has more to do with job security than my actual concern for other people.
I look forward to the 2016 elections where once again the Murican moronic sheople participating in completely rigged elections find themselves commanded yet again by another sockpuppet asshole complaining that it wasn’t the vote of change they were hoping for. Democracy at its finest!
Surviving on the streets with no income most of the time gives one a lot of extra spare time to pursue other interests or hobbies. Time passes much more slowly while everybody is caught up in the proverbial rat race.
It gives you time to become more prolific in hunting, fishing, trapping, and surviving under severe weather climates amongst the wilderness learning a variety of survival skills pushing yourself to your very limits.
It gives one the perfect amount of time strolling around any town asking yourself that if the area lost control where one might be inclined to set up a sniper tower or where possibly a machine gun ambush could be precisely put.
Does that building have tools and resources? What’s their security system or organization like put into place?
What’s the local police standard response time? What kind of arms do they possess in an insurrection scenario?
Is that bullet proof glassing? What’s the fastest way in taking that out?
These country roads and highways look like a perfect place for a highway robbery.
That’s the great thing about realistic imagination, the one thing they cannot take away from you. Sometimes I just think about these things days at a time. I have so much empty time on my hands.
Ha Ha Ha, dig this: it is because only a whisper of metaphor, that mystery seeks a balm, the CURE is the band to listen to, listen to the ‘Saints are Down’.
Works every time , well most of the time.
Mystery was originally written as misery but changed it, because of a pre ordinal connection. Once that connection is unveiled, it gathers an added dimension, and motivation.
