fucking. shit.

i guess this is why you don't double up on omegle tabs.

27

http://www.mathcats.com/explore/age/calculator.html

here's a thing.

Do You Love Someone With Depression?

if you're here, then the answer is probably yes.  sorry.  shall we do the list?

1. my apartment is messy as fuck.  my bedroom is full of dirty clothes, and when i think i'm going to run out, i cram a bunch into the washer and dryer, and hope i come up with enough for tomorrow.
2. cooking used to be that thing i loved.  then i stopped cleaning so great, so now i get cockroaches, and cooking when you're terrified a bug is going to run across your pan or your onions or something is horrible.  so.  yeah.  taco bell and mcdonalds.  also supermarket cali rolls, because i'm lame like that.
3. i think this one is silly because of the random psycho "earthing" thing, but yeah, fine.  i stay inside all the time.  i sunburn too easily.
4. i used to shave a lot.  now?  i just put on pants, and ignore the people who are like, "aren't you hot?"  no.  fuck you.  we work in a place with air conditioning.  why would i fucking bother?
5. that was 5, but i skipped 4.  this is four now.  i.. don't know.  i'm sad, i'm lonely, and moving to a new office "that's all your own!" just makes me more lonely.  i live at home alone, then wake up to go to work alone, sit in my office alone, then go to the store to be overly polite to people because they make less money than i do and have to deal with shitty people, but i don't get to deal with any people, so why don't i get that relief, and then go back home where i can be alone with my tv again.  this isn't a great thing to do.
6. for realsies, i think.  when was the last time i had a hug?  four years ago?  my friend's daughter doesn't count.  she's 2.  two year olds hug plates.  i saw her do it.  i will say that having a tiny person hug you does help, but you might start crying, and that will freak out a 2-year-old.  "why doesn't anyone else love me?"
7. i laughed at a tumblr thing where this dog heard this parrot, and the parrot gave commands that confused the dog, and it's funny, but maybe you havfe to have seen it?  but i don't laugh.  at anything really.  people say stuff that are clearly jokes, and my brain is all "that's a joke.  indicate joke." and i like, "heh."  so it's great that getting super depressed makes you even more likely to make people think you're a jerk.  it's seriously like it's just trying to push you far enough away to kill yourself.
8. people can't.  when you tell someone, "i think i want to kill myself," they hide.  except if you're talking to a therapist, and then you get the "if you have a plan, i'm obligated to call the police and have you taken to someplace safe."  who plans this shit?  i can't imagine other people plan out elaborate checklists of things to do.  my plan?  get drunk (check!) take some drugs you have (kind of check?  i just bit half the pill)  wait until you stop feeling stuff, and then cut yourself, or swallow a bunch of cool pills (if you have them), and keep drinking the vodka until you pass out.  like, if i'm lucky, i'd end up dead.  if i'm not, then i have to wash the sheets, soak the vomit and piss out of the mattress, and hope that it doesn't stink.
9. so yeah. that's a destructive thought.  i don't have anyone to challenge it.  "i can!" you say.  nope.  you're an internet person, and i could blog about all i'm doing, and the  best you can do is to post a comment about how i'm a good person.  or you can call the cops here and say that someone named samantha might be trying to kill herself, somewhere on oahu.  the cops will probably be super happy to solve the vaguest suicide ever.
10. why you love me.  fuck.  now i feel like i'm baiting people to tell me good things they like about me.  i'm not.  my tenuous ties to this blog and internet existence rely on three people, and (based on the blogger stats), you're probably not one of them.  (in case you are, thanks for being wonderful at your own thing, and you have to know that you're the you i'm talking to right now).

but really.  this is a thing.  i'm bad at dealing with my own feelings, and i'm bad at solving the basic human interaction we're supposed to do in our lives.  i should probably go back to therapy, but it took so much time, and i don't think i got proportional results back.  really, if i could just get a perpetual xanax prescription, i'd probably be ok.

not "sane" or "better" just able to cope with things.  have you had xanax?  it is a miracle.

then again, that time i got super wasted on that opium cough syrup was kind of cool too.  

i think my lesson today is: "do lots of drugs, because they pull your mind back from the abyss of reality."

i'm...i'm a shitty teacher, i think.

sorry...

"Sorry, BLAHBLAHBLAH no longer has an account."

so i get someone who wants to chat, but then they're like, "nope.  done!"  and they don't want to.

why is finding people to meet so so hard?  i get that i'm crazy.  i spent two hours this evening trying to figure out how you can claim crazy and go to an asylum without getting fired.  i still don't understand.  i think you call 911, then have 911 call your boss.  unlikely, but has anyone done this?  or do you like tell your boss, nad see if you get time off?

this is hard to sort out.
:-/

does any one else depeche mode?

i was in high school...or

middle school maybe?

when i first heard them.

all the songs were just so super sad, i just went like, "whoa, what's that guy's problem?"

LOL

except you know the name right, and then things tighten down, and you get sadder as things fall apart.  eventually you hear the name again, and plug it into youtube to see why you remember it.

and it's all "enjoy the silence."

and you can't stop crying, because (i'm pretty sure) the last time you heard this song, you were about to eat out someone who meant the world to you.


but now she's off doing something not involving you, and you just have that memory.

someone who you would die for, but who left you behind like the greasy paper of the french fry bag.


so anyway.


i did the social media thing.  the dating thing.  i got a response.  i'm trying to be not-as-crazy as i feel in real life.  we'll see how that goes.  she seems a bit broken too, so, that's sure to end well, right?

well, i'm here, so let's do the whole thing.

i may come back to this later.

hawaii has kind of crappy radio.  i tend to do the NPR and the jpop station.  i like that boring shit.


but this morning was a thing about slavery.  like for realsies today slavery.  people bought and sold to others for things.  sex, it seems.  it sounded like mostly sex.  slavery for sex.

and i was like, "that sounds a lot like annie and sammy."

which sucks.  i want to write this fantasy thing that makes my brain better, and it makes me think of the actual people who live in horrible situations like i'm actually describing for my own fun.


how fucked up is that?


a lot.  a lot fucked up.  that's the answer.  and i guess football dudes are beating up their wifes all over the place now?  wtf?


so, here's how i rationalize things for myself.

sammy and annie aren't in a slavery thing.  annie has this scheme, and sammy is cool with letting annie run the show.  sammy totally could claim "no, stop, we're done, stop it all."  this next story has that as a topic.  i might emphasize it more now.  annie's thought is "i think sammy is cool with this, so i'll push her as far as i think she can deal with things."  is she wrong?  maybe?  annie may think that blah is cool, but sammy isn't happy with it.  what happens then?

well, they're probably both allegories for my own brain, so they sit down and have a quiet conversation.  this maybe isn't realistic.

but like...i hear this news?  that's not cool.  if you lock someone up, and you obviously have a serious power advantage, you're a dick.  this is where i think annie might be a dick.  so, she has to think that too, right?  we're...the same brain.  god damn it, annie.  stop fucking crying.

second news thign;  if you hit someone, and it's not like an over the knee, ping-pong-paddle as a tool thing, you're a bad person.  there are other things.  duh.  but like...bdsm is this thing here (i'm pushing my hands to my left like i'm pointing at something), and hitting someone because you're angry is this thing (hands to the right, this is a different thing)?

i was spanked when i was little.  do you know what i learned?  hide things that might be wrong better.  i wasn't a big problem child, but that was still the lesson.  "don't get caught doing X."

that's not what people who think spanking is cool are trying to do, so it's not working, right?

if you're cool spanking for funsies, that's a different thing.  you know what you're doing, i think.


grumblewardch ble ad;lfkja;dfja;sldkfj;aslkdfj;akdjf



sorry for doing another random ramble.  i just look at things, and i hear the news, and i try to form it into a thing that makes me not feel horrible.  and this week, i've felt kind of horrible.

why do people have to ruin everything?

real life

i hate it.

i have to wake up, do work things, take a shower to be respectable, go away from Captain Bed, do work things at stupid shit, go buy food so you don't starve, eat that food, be a dilettante in the world of "stupid shit and not starving," eat more shit, then go to sleep and hope that you die in the night.

but no one ever dies in the night.  they die because the hope and wishes that sustained them stop pulsing.  it's that final "zero" that ends things. this concept of a permanent sad world of past loved ones probably isn't healthy.

and it's not like i could change a thing.  she died of a massive stroke.  he died of lung failure, after years and years of smoking.

i hate having a legacy.  you can't disappoijnt peop,le you've never met.

in any case

i hate lots of things.

living.

dealing with people.

trash day.



but the thing that's the most stresser?
dealing with people online

have i told this story?

so, a few years ago.

my dad was like "hey, people are crazy, so you need to be able to protect yourself if you're walking home late at night.  take this knife"

it was black and fancy looking, and had a screw you could tighten, and it was loose enough that if you kind of went "ba-kow!" with it, the blade would flip open, and you'd be in stabby mode.

except i never really was out super late, so it mostly just sat on my table at home, and collected dust.

until a bit later, i started getting sad and drinking.  then it was like a fun game.  you could flip it open, and drink a bit, then close it, and do it again.  whee!

then a bit more later, i was like "oh, it's probably not even sharp."  so you drag it across your thigh, or over your tummy a bit.  "ha ha ha!  i didn't even feel that and it's dripping all over!"

then one day, i got way too drunk, and pulled it down across my left forearm.  i woke up the next day with that arm pretty much covered in blood.  i woke up because my friend called to say we should go get lunch.  i washed up, got dressed, and we went out and had some crappy sandwiches.

i was sure she'd be like "whoa, wtf?  did you like get murdered last night?"

nothing.

the thing that semed like a giant gash on my arm wasn't something that ever came up.  it eventually healed, but even now there's this four inch scar running from my inner elbow down.

eventually i couldn't hide it all anymore, and we talked about it, and she was like "this isn't cool, you should go to therapy."  i didn't until years later, but one day when we were out, i gave her this dumb present wrapped in some kleenex.  it was the knife, and i basically told her that i didn't feel safe with it around anymore, so i wanted her to take it.


flash forward a few years, and she's moved to the mainland, but we're still friends, so i'm visiting for new years.  we're going to play some game, and i go to get it from the closet.  "it's next to the towels!" she shouts from the living room.  i open the door.

it's there.  the knife i gave her.  sitting on the shelf next to the cube of toilet paper.  i look at it, and immediately the only thought in my head is, "no one will get curious for thirty seconds at least.  you can open it and cut some more before anyone knows."

blahblahblahblahblahblahblahblah

why is this the story of the day?  one of the things i read pointed out it was 'suicide awareness day' today.  and i had a shitty day at work today where my boss and a coworker basically fucked up a bunch of shit, and i have to fix it, "because you know how that works better than we do."  fuck you.

and i've learned recently that a lot of people that i've met online that i super really care about have had a lot of the same crazy depression thoughts that i have.  all the time.  like right now.  which is why the fucking screen is all blurry because of the tears.  we never notice when people we love are in pain, i don't think.  that's terrible.  no one should have to hide their pain.

i don't want anyone to have these thoughts.  they suck.  a lot.  going through the motions of your day, using all your energy to hold up a veil of stability, if for no other reason than to keep other people from asking you why you suddenly have this giant red gash on your arm.  "i slipped and my bathroom counter is crazy sharp!"  "i dropped a spoon in my dishwasher, and i think i caught a knife that was sticking through?"


and people believe it, right?   "those are stupid answers, sammy.  you can do better!"  no, i can't.  and i don't need to.  and i shouldn't.  and this is all fucking crazy, right?  like, if i say "a goddamn unicorn came out of nowhere, and was like 'fuck you, bitch' and then tried to stab my arm, but i moved so it was just a deep scratch, and then the unicorn was like, 'next time!'", i'm pretty sure people would buy that.  it's not possible, but people are more willing to accept that than "sammy maybe tried to hurt herself a lot last night."  why would they?  i'm showing that veil of sanity or whatever.


anyway.  this was a long rant, and i hate doing these.  but none of you have to know me in real life, so i don't have to hold up the veil of "oh, i'm doing much better now, thanks!" or "i'm just an everyday person who's happy to pick up your shit because that's what we do when we're all a team!".  thanks for sticking around, and i'm going to claim that this helped me, and maybe tomorrow will be a better day.

important update!

i've decided i'm going to do twitter again.

but only when i want to eat pizza.

so go follow the twitter.

if you're really concerned when someone from the internet thinks about pizza.

i am serious about this.

100% pizza, whatever% of the time.

So. How you doing?

me?  oh, what?

how am i doing?

pffst.

whatever.

you know.  "feeling like cutting"

as you do, right?

lol!

yay!



ok, but seriously, yeah.  that's how i'm feeling tonight.  which is kind of a shitty shit storm of shit cakes.

but here's a thing that i've come to the conclusion on:

i think me writing stories is a proxy for therapy.

i'm not at all saying it's a good proxy, or that i shouldn't go back to therapy.  i'm just saying that my brain has apparently decided it can work some shit out if i make really perverted fiction.

so.  like.  three cheers for my brain being that kinky, i guess.

here's the theory:

it's all about Exhibition.  Annie represents the me i put out day-to-day.  She's the "fuck all this shit, we have to earn the money so we don't starve to death" bit of my brain.  you never see her, because she's the me i try not to put here.  Sammy is the me that i am here.  the fucked up moron that pretty much just wants someone to tell her she's fine the way she is, and sometimes pet her head and reassure her she's not the fuck up she's scared of being.

basically, i think i write stories so the part of my brain that's confident can tell the other part that's scared about everything that it's not so bad, and it'll be ok.

but, maybe that scared bit has to obey the confident part all the time always, because that's the part that is distilling sheer panic into action.  i suspect this is why i've had three ideas for Annie crying in the past few days.  i think that part of my brain is really panicking and over-worked, and it just wants someone to hug it back.  i'm sorry, Annie-brain.  i'll try to support you better!


so.  yeah.  the psychological things you come up with when you write porn, and then try to figure out why porn story A is so much easier to write than porn story B.


i will get back to spa treatment, although i'm thinking i may break it up into parts 2a and 2b.  Exhibition: B was half the size of what i expect spa 2 to be, and i think that may be why it's taking so long.  write something until it's done, get it out, then move on to later bits.  i can submit only "full" parts to the story sites when i'm happy with them, but i can do smaller bits on the blog faster.  then, it's less of a burden to edit, and it can get out, and it's not like a three hour thing to prrofread.


also:  here's the secret about the title:

The Exhibition: B

The Exhibition: B
sammy_808@live.com
http://sammytriesagain.blogspot.com/2014/09/the-exhibition-b.html

for fucks sake.

i have to get up early tomorrow.

because we have to do a telecon the day after a three day weekend.  because of course we do.

why would that be a problem?  you've only had THREE DAYS to go learn how not sleeping in works.

"plus, we have kids and shit, and so we wake up the same time everyday, so why does that matter?"

seriously.  this is why i hate people and wish they'd die.  not all of us get to have families, you jerks.

but anyway, i took the sleeping pill.

no

fucking

effect.

i'm up and writing this post, and wtf?




anyway, you'll probably get an exhibition story tomorrow.  it's written, i just need to do the last proofread on it.



sorry people who wanted more spa treatment.  i can only write what my brain wants to write.  this was the decision.