ugh

i wonder if other people just get random thoughts like this.

"hey.  it's been a while.  maybe cutting your arm a lot hurts less now?  i bet it'd be fun to lick that blood up before it stains the sheets.  it's like a party!"

pretty much out of nowhere.

thanks, brain.  thanks for being sucky about everything.

thanks for fucking up everything, all the time, every day.  Good fucking job.

it updated

http://www.mangaeden.com/en/en-manga/happy-negative-marriage/17/1/

because i enjoy crying, i guess.

dream thing

i'm visiting someone, or travelling, or something?

but it's bedtime, and there are like three other people, but they're all mummified, or in sleep sacks, and they're quietly moaning and stuff.  i have an air mattress instead, and i lie down.

a few minutes later, i start to freak out, and for the first time ever, i'm pretty sure i had a panic attack while sleeping.  in the dream, i sit on the floor, and dig my fingers into the carpet, and just hold on as everything goes dark from tunnel vision.  i'm struggling to get my breathing to calm down, but nothing seems to help.

a tall lady who bound everyone else comes over and sits next to me.  she doesn't touch me, but she just talks to me in a soft voice that she's there, and that i'm safe, and nothing bad is going to happen.  i want to ask her to tie me up too, so that i don't have to make any decisions, but i'm just too scared to do anything but claw at the floor.

then i woke up and hugged a pillow until my heart stopped pounding so hard.

i mean

i'm thinking seriously about calling my dad and asking if this is a dumb thing to do.

my dad.

"sammy, you've never talked about your dad before!"

exactly.

omg.  wtf am i doing?

i am bad with intimate relationships, and i am equally bad at choosing healthy ways to connect with people.  also jobs.  i'm kind of a fuck up.  sorry!

super early on this, but

i may be moving.  to someplace else.  maybe.  with a different job.  possibly.

so that might make me even worse about posting.  or writing.  or all of this, really.  since.  "new job."

potentially.

just wanted to say something about it, because i'm kind of freaking out a bit at the idea.

and, because i'm wonderful, i outlined a new story i won't write for three years, because i'm awful at completing things.

allegedly.

recycling notes

not much, really

The Exhibition: Recycling

The Exhibition: Recycling
sammy_808@live.com
http://sammytriesagain.blogspot.com/2016/06/the-exhibition-recycling.html

but touch my tears, with your lips

touch my world, with your fingertips,


...


forever is our today.

who wants to live forever?

Ad infinitum

so that's why i had a chrome new tab thingy about "commoditized"

np

oh, well, i just fucked up my soundtrack.

so, next time, click the "new post" link in a new tab, i guess.

or don't post so much music on the blog, dummy.  i mean, i guess some people are into hard angry metal, but since 90% of the time i don't listen to that, maybe don't tie on that.

but seriously, if i could kill the king of deceit, i'd do it in a moment.  fucking regicide all over this shit.

"sammy, is there a point today, or should i just expect this to disappear tomorrow?"

yes.  probably.  here are the highlights for this long weekend:

1. i have a long weekend.  you probably don't.  you probably didn't get to have to have a king either.  like, in the far off past.  when kings were kool, and not just a singularly embodied tyranny.
2. did i tell that one guy to go fuck himself?  i think so?  if you're that dude, posting all the comments about shit randomly, being all up in my junk, stop it.  just stop.  no.  bad dude.  be better.
3. i am bad at writing.  i'm going to try this weekend.  no promises.  it was much harder before tumblr.  you had to earn your porn, or something.  tumblr is just all "here's the porn for today.  dug deep in the porn mine, so we've got all these enemas.  just enemas for days.  why?"  because everything eventually is commoditized, and porn has hit that tipping point.
4. "wait, so what does that mean for your porn writing?" eventually, you'll find a better porn that more closely aligns to your personal kinks.  in the limit of t->infinity, there will be infinitely many porn writers with the same set of kinks as you have, so you'll be fulfilled at zero cost, due to the glut of appropriate kink.

oh, i'm un-drafting old posts that i don't feel so embarrassed by.

fyi.

an update

still dealing with things in the way i pretend i think sane people do it.  i am taking out trash.  i am murdering bugs with cleaning fluids.  i am wondering if "termites" are something you can treat with regular poisons, since i can't seem to find poisons that do that.

i am wondering if i should just post summaries, and pretend i wrote a story i couldn't pull myself to write.

i have a lot of these outlined stories that i just can't motivate myself to make real.

sorry.

does anyone think that's good?  or sufficient?  i want to write the full story, but i never do.  for like a year, i never do.  if i never write something, what happens then?

so, hey, go look at the tumblr, go get the porn done, look at my sad wikipedia pages, and hopefully be sad in sympathy.

would anyone be happy if i just sketched how things would go, and then never wrote it?  would that ruin any actual stories that i can push out?

i don't know anymore, and my favorite authors seemed to have stopped, so maybe there's just a point where it doesn't click anymore.

here. my music. wake me up.

i hope that's the song i want it to be.

i hope it has the anxiety and shame and hatred i feel everyday.

i made a god out of blood. it was probably a mistake.  sorry everybody.  i am bad at decisions, and i think i fucked this up.

wow

sitting here, listening to music i remember from college.

CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT CUT

turns out some things keep triggering when you don't expect them to.

i didn't.  i really want to, but i didn't.

i have a new dream shit story coming soon, probably.  unless i don't.  it's super gross, and i kind of hate it, but it's the me that's here now, so i should cope as much as i can.

ugh i need to post more here

hopefully everyone found the tumblr, where i spit out the porn i enjoy as it cascades over me.  i could better use this time, but gaining support via blind clicking on cute things is easy, and doesn't set of my weirdness.

currently i have three unsorted threads in the "exhibition" story, and i should fucking sort those out.  i'm a jerk for not doing that, and i should try to pull some level of concentration to try to close some of these down.

so: state of sammy's mental state.

i stopped therapy again.  when you get the feeling your therapist wants you to craft a pinterest page about what you like, that's probably the point where you decide your therapist is pretty shitty.

I WANT A PUPPY, BITCH! MY APARTMENT DOESN'T ALLOW PUPPIES! SO, LOOKS LIKE WE"VE GOT THE BEEF!

also, she was just kind of awful at everything.  sorry my panic attacks don't live up to expectations.  Guess i'll just be cool when i puke out lunch into a plastic bag.  NOT A BIG DEAL, RIGHT?

so

i'm coasting again, on hopes and dreams.  which aren't super helpful when you look to them and get "THE VOID" and "HORRIBLE NIGHTMARES"

but i'm like 94% not likely to kill myself anymore, because sometimes you meet someone so super cute you can't not just want to push them forward as much as you can, and if that means you light on fire some day, hey, fire can be anywhere.

i can't imagine how people would explain my suicide to tiny R.  so.  that's not an option any more.

which unfortunately means

dealing with grown up shit.

who pulled 22 bags of garbage out of her apartment?
who awkwardly scheduled a dentist appointment to look at this clearly fucked up tooth?
who is actually keeping those 22 bags of garbage out of the apartment, so they can't pile up?

as of right now, today, may 12, i am kind of sanely managing my shit.
i aim to keep things less fucked up, but hey, it's hard when you kind of surf along on a muck of self hatred.

this is better than before, i think.  it's not great, obviously, but it's not angry panic.  there is anger, and there is panic, but they are consoling, not reinforcing.

i don't even know

It could only be death incarnate.

She looked at the thing, as her groceries clattered to the ground.  It turned to face her, and all she could do was run.  She dashed to the door, fumbling for her keys.  They slipped from her fingers, jangling as they hit the concrete.  She spun around, watching it approach slowly.

It didn't walk right, her mind tried to make sense of it's slow deliberate steps, picking each foot up higher than necessary, almost a strut.  It towered above her, casting spindly shadows of appendages.  Then it spoke.

"You are frightened," the voices said calmly.  There were dozens of individual tones, some male, some female.  "I.  I have frightened you."  It seemed confused by this.

She curled up into a ball, wishing the thing would kill her quickly, and not drag it out.  She found herself in it's shadow as it stood above her.  There were soft feather like touches on her body as it seemed to be inspecting her.  "I did not intend this," the voices whispered.  "I only desired to see things."

She squeezed as tight as possible and sobbed.  After nearly a minute, she opened her eyes to find herself alone, with her groceries sitting in the grass.

i hate myself so fucking much.

just.

so fucking much.

imagine have that fucking bitch from high school in your head, all day, every day, telling you how much she hates you.

every


day.

ok. thanks, blogger?

something about https.  the like, less open web thing, right?  i think the government can still see you reading porn, but like, exxon can't see you reading porn.  why is everyone always so against porn, am i right?

there was another thing.  i.  i didn't read the thing, it was a thing, about stuffs, and my blogger account and how people (maybe?) can view it (maybe?).  some stuffs.

so

hey

if you're like "what's drunk with sammy?" and it's all "tell me your mother's name!"

that is an uncool monster robot, so don't do that.  "what animals does sammy like?"  no!

bears, dogs, penguins, REGULAR THINGS, MONSTER BOT!

"ok, so maybe sammy is a bit paranoid..."  NO!  just, hey, maybe robots aren't always going to  be friendly.  now i'm re reading this and feeling dumb, and then re-re-reading it and thinking about friendly sandwiches.

so.  summary:

"sandwiches are good"
"drunking while drunk is super hard"
"something about burgers"
"i outlined 'play' a bit, and just need to stop being so fucking awful so i can write it.  it'[s not great, but it dials in a lot of fetishes, so, sorry for being so diverse."
]

]

















butts.

i don't blog here enough

i do the tumblr, which is literally just "that's cool.  make other people see it."

and i guess social media is logarithmic?

like, my twitter has like three people, blogger like 50, and tumblr like 500.  so, if i open a facebook, do i get 9000?

probably not, because there's a limit to being a jerk.

i am working on new stories.

i have made three sentences of "spa treatment 2".  i have thought a lot about how to make spa treatment 2 not suck.  spa treatment 2 might not be super great if you're not me.  sorry.

i've spent a lot of time walking through my apartment complex thinking about exhibition: p.  i'm still not sure exhibition: p is a good story.  we might just all have to suffer through my anxiety on that one.

sorry.

sorry everybody, everywhere.

so i'm not going to therapy tomorrow.

"but, sammy, what about the crazy?"

honestly, i'd rather just try to cope as much as i can than go back there.  being told over and over that "maybe a bit of exercise would help" isn't helping.  i know i'm fat.  i know how fat i am pretty much everyday.  did you know most bathrooms have mirrors?  apparently my therapist doesn't!

"she's trying to help."

no.  i don't buy this.  honestly, if i'm being honest?  i think she's all "well, you went to a fancy school, but you're still messed up, so maybe you're just not that great."

duh.  i mean.  fuck you, bitch.

i know i'm not that great.  this is me, telling you how much i have panic attacks when i can't think of something to have for dinner.  my brain sucks, and i hate it, and i hate me, and you know what?  i hate you more than all that put together.

and it's not that fancy of a school.  i just didn't decide to start putting letters after my name because i paid $12000 to a "registrar".

registrar is a weird word.  why do we have it?

so

tl;dr: i'm going to try to treat my insanity with alcohol and probably more stories.  but, really, you have to understand how hard it is to write when you're crazy.  it's not fun.  just

lots of not fun.

sorry.