i fucking hate everything

most of the time, i can just ignore the fact that i'm going to die alone.  it's not really a big deal most of the time.

but then sometimes i remember that, and wonder how everyone else found people and got married and all that shit.

so i looked up some 'how do you date when you're an adult', and one of the suggestions some asshole came up with was 'i asked 20 of my friends to set me up with a friend.'

who the fuck has 20 friends that they can ask that kind of thing?  is that a thing people do?  people have enough friends that they can choose "only 20" of them for something like this?




i probably need to go back to therapy or try new drugs or something, b/c i'm probably more suicidal than i'm willing to admit.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

The Exhibition: Writing

The Exhibition: Writing
sammy_808@live.com
http://sammytriesagain.blogspot.com/2016/02/the-exhibition-writing.html

i’m guessing the answer is “i don’t actually care enough to comment on this, because you’re just a commodity store of a particular kind of curated porn.”

(this is me cross posting manually from tumblr.  where i have more followers.  this is not a shame thing about blogger.  i love all my people equally.  also brokenly.  let's get to the text.)

so, hey, hi.  i’m sammy.  i try to keep a constant steady stream of porn coming out on my blog because of reasons.  some fraction of you enjoy that, and so we work together in a symbiotic way.


except, more recently, i’ve been pushing things into the queue, and keeping the queue posting rate hourly so that the queue fills and fills.
it turns out there is more than 24 good porn posted to tumble everyday.

part of the reason is that i’m going on vacation for new years.  and don’t want to blog porn on christmas.  that’s just rude
the problem, of course, is that i’m a small fraction of the “porn jerks” on tumblr, so you’ve probably seen it before my queue gets around to it.  sorry.
so that’s kind of the main theme.  my blog is going to be delayed on new things for the holidays so i can kind of try to keep a constant stream of stuff going when i can’t actively add to it.
don’t worry, i think i can add new stuff if it’s super new and cool, but whatever.

so, what’s the point of this rant, here, sammy?

i’m going to start therapy in january.  this is therapy for me to try to get less anxious about everything, and in turn, try to make my constant depression not a thing i have to deal with.  my brain is just in an awful place, and if you look at what i post, you’ll get some of the picture.

not all of it, because you can’t see me crying when i see certain posts.  this is getting worse, and is a large part of why i’m going back to therapy;.

“wait, are you trying to be all ‘oh, microtransgressions via porn are injuring my psyche?’ you dumb cunt?”

a) no, b) stop following me you jackass, and c) things set me off in weird ways.  i saw a dog unlock a deadbolt to let his owners into their house and i cried for five minutes.  i watched a round of wheel of fortune and cried for half an hour.  wheel of fortune.  my brain is all off in this place where being told that ketchup is red might set it off in a grand despair.  this doesn’t make sense, this is stupid, this is why i’m going to therapy soon.  

here’s what i hope happens:

1) I stop hating myself so much, about everything, all the time.

2) I stop hating you and every other person on the planet for no good reason.

3) I can finish stories i’ve written that i can’t focus enough to get to the end of.

4) I can keep posting on tumblr the cute/gross/snug posts i enjoy.

5) I don’t end up killing myself quickly (jumping from lanai) or slowly (all alcohol all day).

6) I can learn how safe/stable/honest relationships work.

so.  let’s see what happens in the new year.  i’ll likely be out of contact a lot until then, but hopefully we all make it.

a short (drunk) one act play.

Scene: Sammy's place, where she has been cleaning up trash in anticipation of an undesired visit from contracted cleaners who are going to clean vents.

The bugs:

Dear Samantha fair, who lives above us,
Tell us what sin we hath perpetrated,
Such that on these days you tear down our houses,
Anguish our children, and cast out your friends?

Samantha:

Dude, wait, what?  When last have you paid me rent?
Or fucking tidied up the tiniest,
Of this apartment in which we do dwell,
I mean, you're kind of just fucking slackers.

The bugs:

But Samantha, we had a deal set fast
In stone,

Samantha:

                 What no?  Since when did we deal such?

The bugs:

Since we have forgiven you many sins?

Samantha:

What sins do you lie at my feet tonight?

The bugs:

Do you remember the one named Bob?

Samantha:

Bob?  What name is that, that I should recall?

The bugs:

Do you remember the candle you lit,
All aglow with its shining luminence?

Samantha:

Many candles have I lit.  Many more
Have I extinguished.  You speak of one though?

The bugs:

Do you recall the tweezers?  Gripping strong?

Samantha:

And the candle?  Shall I forget that now?

The bugs:

Bob was slack that day.  You caught him up fast.

Samantha:

Did I then?  To what purpose this action?

The bugs:

To carry him, struggling, to the fire's maw.

Samantha:

Alight, then, I set him?  To burn for sins?

The bugs:

What sins, awful tyrant?  What have we done?

Samantha:

Sins of contamination.  Sins of greed.
You have made my home your nest, and ruled there;
Set yourself as a rapacious lord there,
And smuggled my bounty for your gain,
                                                                     Where,
Should I have been better at management,
Your children would have starv-ed in the womb,
And your wives widowed and barren till death,
And all your works burned and broken forever,
Your lives wasted in the pursuit of death.

i should probably stop this

this constant "write a post" "make post a draft" "read post again later and decide it's cool to publish" "pull down post again".

sorry.

there's this constant noise in my head telling me to do things.  some of them are "take out the trash" and "do you have clean clothes for tomorrow?"

some of them are "write gross porn" and "watch gross porn."

still others are "are you sure you've got that red blood?  maybe it's worth checking it out.  you know, just to be safe" or "huh.  breathing is just this constant thing, you know?  like a chore you have to do all the damn time.  plastic seems like it could help us here.  let's check out what plastic's got going on, right?"

i guess it's called "intrusive thoughts"?  like, you know you can't just stab the waitress who just gave you a sharp knife for your food, but your brain still tells you that, like, you know, it's an option if you're up to it.

it certainly doesn't help that i get drunk.  a lot.  sorry.  but drinking dulls that noise.  the that part is all "whatevs" and the other is all, "do what you want" and the amethyst is "or just nap all day, it's cool."

so again, sorry.  i have work shit to do tomorrow, and i have people coming to my apartment this week, so i have to hide all my trash and alcoholism for that.

but i so want to get this part done.  the tender parts i wrote while drunk are kind of good.  i think i need to just stop trying to get a "writing mood" and just write.  just make the words come out.  i can fix them later if they're not good.  but getting the ideas down in some form seems like the most important bit.

honestly, what is up with my space bar?

i often

wish the Annie from my stories was a real Annie in real life, so i could have some sanctuary from the thoughts that constantly fight me.

"oh, pop-tarts!"

"i haven't had pop-tarts in a long time.  i'd kind of forgotten about them," said checkout dude.

"yeah.  huh," replied sammy, realizing suddenly that her shopping list was nothing but junk food, vodka, and grocery store sushi.

"did you see they make carmel combos now?  those are a bit weird," he continues, as she tries hard to find something to add to the belt to fix the situation.

"get some reese's cups!" shouts her brain, and she grabs them from the candy rack and puts the package on top of the sushi.

"yeah, i saw those, but yeah...weird," sammy stumbles out as she faces the fact that adding candy doesn't fix the junk food balance on display.

==

this has been a barely fictionalized version of the horror that happened this evening.

i hate myself, and this is a reason why.

last time i visited my parents, we went to get groceries.

"no, sammy, what?  get this meat, it cheaper."

that's the meat from the discount bin.  like, "hey, this rots like tomorrow, so buy it cheap today and use it or freeze it."

and today, i was at the store, buying stupid shit to eat when i'm drunk.  "no, sammy, what?  get this chips, it cheaper."

because then i save 39 cents.

"what do you do with your money, sammy?"

mostly?  i just waste it on shit i never eat, or clothes i throw out because i don't like how they look, or on gas to drive around the island and avoid my brain by making it not crash the car into people who aren't awful wastes of space.


i don't even know how to describe this feeling.  "i make more money than i need, but waste pretty much all the excess on stupid shit to dull the pain i feel from living my life."  ennui?  "sure, sammy, if you're some sort of fancy-pants from 1927".

so.

"stop being such a selfish stupid cunt, you fucking horrible selfish cunt!"


brb.

going to drink enough to kill this feeling.

--


dear this feeling,

if i could hold you under water, i would hold you down until you stopped making bubbles, until you turned a delightful shade of blue.  i hope i find some way to set you on fire, just so i can make smores while you roast away into glorious heat.

i fucking hate you forever,
sammy

The Exhibition: Interlude

Impromptu.

also time to fucking bawl my eyes out

wow.  i'm totally keeping my mental illness together today!

just banging through this depression and suicidal thoughts!

wheeeeee!


i'm like a whirlwind of DEATH AND PAIN AND HATRED THAT WILL CONSUME EVERYONE!

wheeeeee!

ok, but

have you ever looked at yourself in the bathroom mirror while you're washing your hands?

and made weird shapes with your lips while you do so?  maybe add a bit of tongue in there.

now imagine like an octopus or a snake or a slug making that shape.  that's fucking gross.

but not when you do it with your lips.  that's weird.

"ok, seriously, sammy, maybe you need to not be drunk so so much."

no.

i need to be drunk this much all of the time.


here's a link.

yes, ok.  i'm ugly and gross.  and i go out of my way to not make friends.  and i'm pretty sure i'm a fuck up at work.

but

read through that whole thing.  it looks like the comments went a bit crazy, but that is so much how i feel every day.

"nice job being awful, sammy.  did you write anything?  did you do work stuff good?  did you figure out how to take out your trash like every fucking normal person can do?

"nice job, sammy.  great job at life.

"worthless bitch."

so yeah.  welcome to how my brain works everyday.

sorry.

sorry everyone.

huh.

ever get super drunk, make a blog post, realize the next day you made a blog post, make it "draft", get super drunk again, and then read it and realize it's just fucking perfect?

so you repost that shit because wow, yesterday drunk sammy, you're just fucking killing it here.

just like, wow.

this was totally a point where sammy passed out and annie took over.  i shouldn't personify my mental illness like this.  but whoa.  i love you annie.

wow.

so much love.

hah.

sorry for being dumb.  a lot of sorries on that front.

sorry if i send a drunk email that is super weird and super out of the blue.  not sure if it was a drunk email?  here's the flow chart:

1. did you get an email from me?
1. it was a drunk email.  probably should throw it away.

"no, but sammy, it's all ok, you're not dumb!"

yes i am.  i am super dumb, and i paste over my insecurities with a lot of alcohol.  which is stupid, because you can't fucking paste shit with alcohol.  

"hey, let's stick these things together!"  

"great idea! let's use a liquid that actively resists sticky shit!"  

"brilliant!"

i wish i could try harder than i do, but trying hard is hard, and failing at something hard doesn't hurt any less than failing at something simple.  it's way easier to be like "hey, let's drink less" and then fuck that up.  you get that feeling in your brain telling you how "gorss" you are, and that you're such a "dumb bich".

ha ha ha, anxiety!  you've fallen into my trap of "get anxiety so fucking drunk she pees herself, because it's super hard to make me feel bad when you've got wet underwear"!

but not really, because anxiety is still me, and when anxiety is all "gots to pee," i make sure we both get there in time.  mostly because i have no clue how you fix a pee soaked bed.

so, what i think i'm saying is "i'm drunk again, as usual" and "i'm sorry that i've pulled you in to my crazy world."  i am going to try super hard to get stories out this long weekend.  i might fuck it up and fail, but i am going to try.

do people get annoyed at random daily posts?

like, "fucking sammy.  talking about shit to farm sympathy to her shitty behavior.  jerk."

because that's how it feels, so if you feel like that too, just do a comment with some random word.  post anonymously.  no animals.   like "brick" or "tortilla".  not "puppy" or "kinkajou".  thanks.

buy a book, google chrome.  kinkajou is totally a real word.  as is google.

what was my point today?

i completely forgot the point.  here's a few things i probably wanted the point to be:

i wanted to write today, but i didn't,  because i felt too tired.  waking up early sucks.

so i did some tumblr stuff instead.  that's easier and way way more mindless.

i did plan out some of o2 in the shower this morning.  i think i have the main details done, and a lot of the character motivation.  i need to get it down so i don't forget, but the themes are easy.

i hate writing "and then did the same to the MONKEY on the other side."  this technical shit is hard to make not suck.  "annie PIROUETTES sammy's left CARBOXYLIC until it PURPLES like a TENEMENT" those are all apparently real words, so i'm sorry if it doesn't make sense.  if anyone reads o1 and sees some obvious fix to this stuff, let me know.  i just write what makes sense, and then feel bad about how lame it sounds.


if you were here right now, and said the magic words of "i don't hate you, sammy," i'd probably give you an awkward hug

awkward because i don't hug much, and double awkward because getting hugged by naked people is kind of super weird.

sorry.

EDIT STARTS NOW:

politics.

i was going to warn everyone that i'll probably talk about politics tomorrow.  so.  you know, if you might be against my particular politics, maybe go fuck yourself and go away.  and if you are cool with my political shit, you can ignore if i'm too weird?  i'm pretty sure those are the only groups.  fuckers who should diaf, and people who we might disagree on details, but we probably agree on the big picture stuff.

so tomorrow.  probably a brambly politics thing.  you might be able to guess the details or triggers or whatever.  but, hey, you can see me be all dumb tomorrow.

poop.

i didn't take a day off

i should have.

i can feel the depression pushing back.  i kind of wish i was brave enough to just tell a psychiatrist that i want adhd drugs because i think they'd make me more better at things, and that i think being more better would help me not feel like an awful piece of shit all the time.

i kind of wish i was brave enough to go back and talk to a psychiatrist.

so writing is on hold again until i can get time and enough brain happiness to continue.  sorry.

i nearly deleted everything for o1 because i had this thought that Annie is too nice.  "she's kind of a bitch"

"yes, but she's also come to terms with how she feels about sammy."

"but...bitch?"

"she can grow as a person.  we can all learn to be better about what we do, and what we are."

"biiiiiittttcccccchhhhhhhhhhhhhh?"

"that's not a word."

"you're a bitch"

"i'm accepting your angry words and telling you that they do not hurt me anymore, because i have transcended your shame based society."

"also you're fat and ugly, and you have no real friends."

turns out mi is kind of a bitch.