Sunday, May 16, 2010

Schitzophrenic Freak.

And now I unleash my Word Hoard:

Every man has inside himself a parasitic being who is acting not at all to his advantage.
I came to realize the reason that I am in El Paso is that I thought at the time that I was very lonely. Let's face it, in Tijuana I was spiraling into a full fledged junky..."Addicts are as boring a bunch of people as I ever encountered. They've got this one track mind.''...and that was a path that no one wanna slide down, ya dig.
So's I find myself in Chuco Town - flat on my bloody sore ass and see a shrink who thought after I told my tales of woe of the last five years of my life thought that I should be locked up and throw away the key no rampaging roaming queens aloud in my district, sweetypuss, but I digress the now is happening and the thought of returning to San Diego and all points south has been tempting my wondering baby blue eye and I have been suffering from insomnia for the last 48 hours with these fucking thoughts: I want to go back to Tijuana but I don't want to go I want to stay in Juarez City but I don't want to stay the lure of drugs and corruption seduce my being on both sides and both decisions have their good points and their bad points which of coarse sucks like a fairy in a bath old ugly fairy. So I went to MHMR and talked to my shrink and she took notes and scribbled little scribbles never looking at me you understand coz I'm soooo feelthy but wanted to put me back on mind-fuck medication and I told her she can stuff it up her wrinkled snatch and stormed out because more or less and generally more I like my self I always say if I die tomorrow I'd die happy I have no regrets but I will write these events my purpose in writing it as "shitting out my educated Southern California background once and for all. It's a matter of catharsis, where I say the most horrible things I can think of.
This stream-of-consciousness spewing is apparently an attempt to free myself from the social and familial conditioning that controls me, that hems me in, that ultimately drives me - in desperation or rebellion - to self-limiting and self-destructive choices but I am evading the issue I can't make up my mind what to do Juarez City pretty much offers the same as Tijuana but without the high-paced stress but the pay rate in El Paso is below poverty level and I am a faggito that has high standards, bitch, and I won't get fucked behind any old dumpster so I talked to my shrink "Urgent warning.
I think I'll stay here in shriveling envelopes of larval flesh...
One of the nastiest cases ever produced by this department." and wailed I feel so lost I can't think there is only a big fat blank as far as my future is concerned I mean, Dear Reader, I wish I could be like you and go to work regularly and pay rent regularly and have a big screen television and a PS2 and an electric can opener and a mustang convertible with all the trimmings and go to prim and proper little dinner parties with polite laughter at stupid jokes made by simpering fairies but I can't and the fucking problem is that I don't know why I know what I do is not normal, I mean the blog that I spill forth is not fiction how can anybody make this shit up continuously for a EIGHT whole fucking years I was there I seen smelled and touched everything that happened so I know it's real, so fuck you you faithless philistines anyways ever tell ya the time I was in Tijuana I once saw a seventeen year old Mexican Indian boy Azteca who could play the flute with his ass, and the fairies told me he was really an individual in bed...ahem, I read other blogs and I wonder am I the only one in the world who travels and has a sex life (I miss you so much Saul "muthafukuh makes love like a pimp!") and enjoys everything that this big blue marble has to offer ah, yes but therein lies the problem...
Do you see a contradiction here? Perhaps the essential writer's contradiction? It is making me crazy and so I guess I will continue to roam and drink and smoke and fuck to the bitter end and the only way I will be able to save my soul is to write my way out.
A word to the wise guy.

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