Just woke from another nap with If You Don't Like Me, Then Don't Look At Me in my head.
The Drivel Thread
“All over the world. All over the world. All over the world. Ooh! Ooh!"
I just realized that no mental health worker has called today, and my scheduled appointment with them has been met with silence. I’m not alarmed. I’m going to write morning pages…just getting around to it.
I guess the depleted team of mental health workers are understaffed and tending to more urgent patients with their resources today. I’ll ground myself by watching footage of last Friday’s Morrissey concert and then reading some true crime, then tend to logistics of my personal life, like grocery shopping, laundry, maybe freshening up for an evening walk, or just walking in what I wore yesterday, slept in, and still wear, as I usually do, after writing up a bunch of Morrissey sticky notes. I’m deeply happy, which I know not everyone wants to hear, which reminds me to “be careful in this knockabout world”.
I’m realizing that the day has gone by like a lightning strike, and there’s only time left to eat, bathe, and take a walk before nightfall. I enjoyed writing morning pages and reading back into the drivel thread, re-watching July 6th’s video clip of Morrissey choosing to let the audience sing Please, Please, Please for him while he moseyed around. I guess my visit to the grocery store will have to wait until morning, along with other tasks that remain undone piling up. I’m very happy, despite suspecting that the attack months ago to my chest has been travelling through my bloodstream and establishing roots in various ways in other areas than my chest, showing up visibly in small spots on my legs and arms. I’m hoping my immune system will fight it off but I’m not holding my breath. Rather I’m bracing for whatever comes. If I die, I die happy, though I’d prefer to have touched Morrissey before I call it a day.
Can’t have everything I want to happen, happen at once. Being deeply happy is mine. I’ll take it.
The biopsy results only detected scar tissue, but I sometimes feel and see it rousing. It's not hurting now, but it isn't looking like mere scar tissue, and I'm quite sure it'll be nibbling on me again before long. If there was a stitch left in, it's completely grown over now with 'skin'. The small jet black scab just loosened away in the bath.
I want him to tell what he shoved into me, and not just to his fellow sadists. I want him to say how he acquired whatever he injected into me. I want him to reveal the truth to kind people who have the power to prevent him from hurting any other sentient beings. I don't know if I will be able to write sufficiently, a novel or play or screenplay before whatever he put in me infiltrates other areas of my body to the point of incapacitating me. I know I'm being paranoid but from what I remember seeing of him, hearing from him, and physically feeling from his rough attack while I was stuck on the treadmill with his arms snuck under my hospital gown, I have valid reason to be paranoid.
I remain deeply happy, but this doesn't prevent me from wanting to stop him from being allowed to continue getting his kicks from destroying the quality of life of others for no reason other than to feel smug and get to jerk off in 'victory'.
I want him to tell what he shoved into me, and not just to his fellow sadists. I want him to say how he acquired whatever he injected into me. I want him to reveal the truth to kind people who have the power to prevent him from hurting any other sentient beings. I don't know if I will be able to write sufficiently, a novel or play or screenplay before whatever he put in me infiltrates other areas of my body to the point of incapacitating me. I know I'm being paranoid but from what I remember seeing of him, hearing from him, and physically feeling from his rough attack while I was stuck on the treadmill with his arms snuck under my hospital gown, I have valid reason to be paranoid.
I remain deeply happy, but this doesn't prevent me from wanting to stop him from being allowed to continue getting his kicks from destroying the quality of life of others for no reason other than to feel smug and get to jerk off in 'victory'.
Ideally, all the punishment necessary would be for him to be kept from hurting anyone else, and the icing on the cake might be that he be made aware of what he's done.
Of course at times I have felt so angry that if I knew I could, I would blast his face in and then face the music, but right now I'm thinking he could help teach empaths how to anticipate sadistic attacks and prevent them from occurring. Possibly.
Skylarker
Look at me; I'm quaking
Glad there's no cancer.
None detected anyway. Thanks
Had an okay walk. Told a few different men about I'm Not A Man and they were both thankful. My neighbor told me that today is a holiday, so now I know why I wasn't seen by a mental health worker. I just ate a container of leafy greens and flowers that my local grocery store has begun to pack themselves and everything in it was new to me. I don't feel sick, so I guess whoever okayed the plant life in the dense salad knew what they were doing. I do feel tired though, and relaxed.
Just woke from a nap with How Can Anybody Possibly Think They Know How I Feel playing in my head. I feel pretty good, though I had a huge dense salad of plants I’ve never eaten before, before napping.
Woke from another nap with Bigmouth Strikes Again in my head
Woke from another nap with If You Don’t Like Me, Then Don’t Look At Me in my head.
Had another nap and dreamt I went through a short cut between two houses and a middle aged, white male owner engaged me to find out what I was up to, and then his family came out of the woodwork. They had three large friendly dogs. I began frequenting their house, and there was a light skinned young man of a Middle Eastern bloodline who took an interest in me and would come by and flirt with me, gradually forming a physical, erotic relationship, though casual, and eventually I warmed up to him to the point I was anticipating his next visit with the idea of fellating him in mind for the first time, but before he arrived, two of my female neighbours opened my door, surprised it was unlocked, and I felt sedated, drugged, and then they were gone and the young man visited, but we separated after some navigating through different doors and me finding my keys in my sweatpants pocket to let us back in, but when I later went to join him in a room, he had two middle aged homeless men with him, one white and one maybe Latino and half white. They told me they’d been drugging my food to sedate me. There was a cat who belonged to the owners of the house, and a woman who suddenly was part of the group in the room, a middle aged white woman, said “I’m sorry your cat has to see this.”, and then I was alone with the three men again in that small room. I spoke and one of them said he didn’t like my tone of voice, and I squeezed the burliest man in the room, the Latino mix’s hands, as I said “I’m angry.”, and then I bolted out of the room and found the sidewalk had black rigid bars making it impossible to head in the direction I meant to, so I tried to walk in the opposite direction, and a group of young adults of about 7 or 8 men and one Latina woman who was naked above her waistline hovered around me curious. I told the woman that homeless people had taken over my apartment and were drugging my food. They weren’t interested enough to stay with me and filtered away to go wherever they were headed. I guess I woke up then, to voices chatting and a little barking dog’s voice streaming in through the window. As I’ve been typing this the chest sore has been slightly aching. Morrissey sings By The Time I Get To Where I’m Going in my head. I think I’ve been sleeping so much lately because my body has been trying to fight off what the biopsy examination didn’t detect. I’m glad to be awake with no shady lover colonizing my apartment with homeless men who think it’s right to drug me and hijack what I possess the keys to for themselves. I noticed that I really did look like a frail old lady in the selfie I posted here yesterday. Oh well, things could be worse. A lot worse. I feel pretty good, though hunched over from sitting in my recliner so much. I hear a crow cawing. People outside my window have dispersed I guess as I don’t hear their verbal diarrhea anymore. Someone I see around often said to me last evening “I just want to be a dummy.”. He repeated the statement a few times. We’d been loosely conversing and he didn’t seem keen on understanding the gist of what I had said, being satisfied with its meaning remaining vague and rootless. I found his words to be glib and platitudinous. We hugged twice and it didn’t feel reassuring. Rather it confirmed his statement that he just wants to be a dummy, at least when it comes to deciphering how others would like to be treated. He doesn’t treat himself very well, so I guess that’s the standard he applies to the rest of us. The chest sore has stopped aching again.
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I bet I don't look like an old lady in this selfie I'm about to snap just before starting to write morning pages with two large mugs of peppermint tea at my side.
I’m midway through watching this enlightening lecture by Dr. Ramani. Boy, narcissists must feel threatened by her. I hope she has some good bodyguards.
I’m wanting to take a break from watching Doctor Ramani videos, which I adore though it’s bitter medicine. Maybe I’ll lie down for a while and then go for a walk. I wonder which mental health worker will see me tomorrow. A muscle in my bottom lip keeps spasming. I’m looking forward to Morrissey taking over the world. I hope no one assassinates him. Some narcissist for instance, whose maul likes the song I’m Driving Your Girlfriend Home too keenly for his choice of comfort for himself, which is for her to stay hopeless that there is any compassionate life out there for her.
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