I don’t know who I am; just my name. Luckily, I don’t have the time, energy, or money to go off to find myself. Anytime I tried to relocate, my problems always caught up with me anyway. Hard to lose the source of my problems, because it doesn’t take a mirror to know I’m still there; what remains of me at least. I’m not all there. I’ve mostly got myself to blame. Some of that isn’t my fault. There is the foreskin that is gone due to the spark by Dr. Kellogg in Battle Creek and his sanitarium for insane bullshit that spread like an injury to our American social psychology that may never disappear. It was hardly our biggest problem, but so we justify continual moral minimisation. Sanitariums… Let me be …me. Who am I? Fuck if I know.
My labels have come to define me and limit my life significantly. At 48 I make entry level wages at best. Deep down, I grasp it is my fault. The economics of this is that I can’t support myself, let alone a family or community. I’ve spent at least a year of my life cumulatively in the dormitories of mental facilities studying nonsense put forth by doctors and doing drugs, not that my college years were any different. I am working on my resentment to being told I am crazy for sane thoughts that were buried in a plethora of delusional rationalisations and incorrect assumptions. I get it. I have egomania fueled by an inferiority complex. I’m bipolar. I am insane due to alcohol and pot-induced brain damage. This being said, there were some knocks to the head long before any beer touched my lips. My head is covered in scars; my heart too. My mom tells me I’m special.
Still, I was often right in my observations and rational analysis to start; before I veered off into complete utter madness. We shouldn’t go around whacking off healthy parts of the body. Torturing our enemies to death, while proclaiming our country to be Jesusland, was fucking nuts. Matthew 5:44. When we rationalise the dehumanisation of even children, then we lost our moral foundation, regardless of what we rationalise our legal merits are. I was right at times among the madness. It’s hilariously depressing.
Then again, the chosen people of god are practising genocide through indiscriminate starvation. It’s okay. They can say that, because they are black, or because of nazis, October 7th, and never forget 9/11. The American soldiers who died in Iraq did need to die to temporarily secure America’s energy interests for global warming fuels for a decade or so until we forgot what we went in there for. It was never really honestly explained to us. I rationalise my own bullshit, too.
Luckily, we put the court jester in charge some time later, for the lulz of giving an orange clown real push buttons to end life as we know it. He committed sexual assault, so his minions figured he’d stop the elite pedophiles. Now the news won’t stop pretending they care as much as a preacher who hates fags caught double fisting cocks while taking a tertiary penile rectal suppository. We thank the straight veterans for their service, and turn them over to immigrant doctors whose communities and families we deport and threaten. The doctor’s inject the veterans until they do the Thorazine shuffle. Veterans frighten us with the service we aren’t really grateful for beyond lip service, horror, and the egomaniacal humility of knowing we wouldn’t survive. From outside our sociocentric perspective, we are American jihadists. We’ve got fucking skull tattoos and death on our backs. We are fully aware we might be the baddies. I couldn’t protect myself from doctors who are gods; in a sea of warriors who hated me as an arrogant peace keeper. I have self-induced brain damage made worse by a treatment of Haldol; a cognitive restraint, social warning, and strategic political invalidation. I don’t know who I am. I only know my legal name; albeit I’m hazy as to the correct spelling.
My time will come to an end. I blame god for mortality while I burn the candles at both ends in discomfort to black out the dis-ease of consciousness. I love life despite agony and was granted enough false hope to disillusion even the Father, Son and Holy Ghost. Spirituality failed to help me cope with life on life’s terms. I can debate with pious self-stylised rationalisations that the pink unicorn god is invisible in full postmodern futility. Obviously, God is a pink, pitch black, and opaque Rhino; not a unicorn. That would be ridiculous. Unicorns don’t exist.
I used to ruminate on suicide because of the futility of wanting to stay alive. I grasp my insanity and the cognitive dissonance here, and don’t doubt my own madness or that the world around me may be even more insane than me. My god is not a nanny. That is a lie we tell each other for comfort. God the Creator of Life survives by consuming life that consumes life in probable exponential entropy of life itself. My understanding of god, if I am allowed to have my honest understanding, is not love or personal.
I am a romantic, nonetheless. That is my value; that which I wish to be true. That warm-fuzzy value doesn’t negate the tragedy that the ability to struggle into advancing age is ever-mounting pain leading to the peace of a void outside time and space. However, nothing doesn’t exist. My consciousness won’t matter even if god rips the universe into the big kablooey again. I’m not god. I’m mortal, albeit my perception is ineffable, and the value that it is given is existential; $42. I’m not drunk. I’m not high. I’ve no need to get ahead of myself, though. Check back with me tomorrow. I am not done with life. I am what I am; was what I was, and will be until I’m not.
Joker's Wild 