Sunday, 29 March 2015

An Angry One

Recent news stories have me seriously contemplating my planet of origin.
With the opinions that I have and in all the ways that I think...I find it hard to believe I’m from Earth.

I keep hearing news reports of people “jumping off the deep end.” 

Killing themselves.
Killing others.
Hurting themselves.
Hurting others.

And all nestled up, all cozy like in the news reports... are the facts. 
The facts being: that these deep end jumpers are all on heavy duty medications. As I’ve said before, standing alone in your own thoughts and opinions can sometimes be the scariest experience. And being an ANTI anti depressant kinda gal, living in a pill poppers paradise has definitely got me thinking: 

“Ok Scotty...beam me up. These peeps are all whacked.”

News broadcasts are repeating the same things over and over again.

“The man suffered from mental illness”

“The women was was severely depressed”

“The teenage male had a history of emotional instability”

“The child had been diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder”

The answer is staring me in the face. 
I can see it. 
Why can’t anyone else?

People are sad. People are in pain. People have gone through shit.
You can’t cure that with a pill. Or a concoction of pills. Or the right concoction of pills. That’s just patch work. There’s a root to their issues, and they need help squashing it. 

I was able to fill prescriptions the same day I received them.
But I was on a two year waiting list for a government funded psychologist. 

How does that work? 

A wide array of free certified drug dealers... but a drought in costless one on one counselling?

People don’t need pills.
People need people.
People to talk to. 
People to support them. 
People to believe in them.
People to remind them that they’re strong enough to get through “this.”

It’s a world full of Rockys... with no Mickey.

But easier said than done right? It’s easier to manufacture tiny little capsules jammed with all the temporary fixins, then it is to manufacture people who actually give a shit. Enough to help another human being defeat whatever ails ya. 

Speaking from experience, my recovery skyrocketed once I was able to start talking about what I needed to start talking about. The nitty gritty. But that fact was always dismissed because it wasn’t something I was picking up from a  doctor or pharmacy. I hate to sound cliche but... the system’s broken man. And so are the people. Fix one and that will fix the other. Fuck!

Thursday, 26 March 2015

A Terrible Pair

A Poem By: E.FG

“It’s celebrity TVs fault! I wish I could rip out the wires so no one gets those channels.
I’d kick everyones door down if I had to, and go directly to their electric panels!

No more ET, ET Canada or ET wherever.
And no more reality family ones either... none whatsoever!

That shit just makes people dissatisfied with what’s in their own lives.
Wishing they had smarter kids, better tables, more money, hotter wives.”

Then I’d roll over on my right side, looking at the time and see that it’s four.
“Don’t you sleep brain?!” I’d ask, right before I’d get paranoid about the door.

“Did I lock it? Once I fall asleep I’ll sleep like a bear.
I won’t hear any robbers... Fuck it! I need some air!”

I’d sit up straight in my bed, slam my hands down and let out a big whine.
“Holy Shit man! I guess I’m not sleeping tonight eh? Whatever. That’s Fine!”

Angry and sarcastic, I’d flop on my back and kick off my socks.
“Ugh! But what if I really forgot to lock all the damn locks?”

I’d flip back on my stomach, and somehow start thinking about a bill.
Then money, then family, then war, then... “Come on brain chill!”

I’d rearrange the blankets so only one of my legs was covered.
“Somehow that’s supposed to help me sleep, one leg exposed but not the other?”

“You’re such a weirdo E and now my leg’s cold. Bah! You do things all wrong!
But...I guess I’m stuck here living in a world where *Sigh*... I really don’t belong.”

Wiping tears from my eyes I’d check the time on my cell.
Then start googling I Can’t Sleep . “Man this is hell.”

Then I’d search for vintage movie posters, horoscopes and funny cats.
I’d google lyrics to songs I didn’t understand, and embroidered yoga mats.

My body would then cringe has I stuffed my cell under my mattress. 
Thinking that would force me to sleep,  by limiting cellphone access. 

“I’m disgusted with myself. Tomorrow I’ll start working out.”
I feel like such a gross pig, I’m just missing the snout!”

Laughter would then fill my head as I’d burry my face in my pillow.
More negative thoughts would form as their intensity billowed.

“I can’t do this anymore God, it’s almost been six weeks!
One more night without rest and I swear I’m gonna freak!”

“Maybe Facebook will help distract. Oh look, so cute...Angela went on a trip!
Why the fuck is the female population now taking photos with one had on their hip?

Sideways standing Angela with nine other friends.
How did the way chicks pose in photos become a sideways-hand-on-hip trend?

“Bah! No more Facebook.” Then “delete account” I would click.
“Why don’t I care about purses, posing and possys’ like a regular chick?”

Why do I get to be crazy vs. girly, quiet or smart.
Why do I wear “fuck the system” type t-shirts vs. ones with a heart?”

I’d stare into the dark until I remembered I’m afraid of it.
I’d pull my covers over my head till I remembered I need to breathe a bit.
I’d cover my ears thinking that would block out my thinking fit.
I’d bounce out of bed when I realized I’d had enough of it!

An insomniac and a loud mind are a terrible pair.
My brain’s at a rock show, it’s like a mosh pit in there! 

Hopeless, I’d turn on the light and pace around my room.
“Maybe cleaning will help.” Then I’d pick up the broom.

“Sweeping did fuck all. Maybe I should have read.”
I grab the boring-est book on my shelf and hop back into bed.

“I think this is working!” I said, reading with glee.
My eyes began to close until... “Great! Now I have to pee!”

For those that lose sleep, because your world’s on your mind
due to your triple booked schedule or that contract you signed

Whether it’s the government, taxes, a girl or a guy
or that bitch of a boss who always makes you cry.

Know you deserve sleep and your mind needs a break.
So tuck yourself in, cause your sanity’s at stake.

May the drool run down your chin as you dream awesome things
And may you feel rested and refreshed when your alarm clock rings.

Try a warm cup of milk and keep fighting the good fight.
And if the world sits on your shoulders... sleep well in spite.

Friday, 20 March 2015

Bit By Bit

Ten days ago my cell phone rang four times till I cared enough to look down to see who was calling. It was my sister. I still didn’t answer. I’d have answered any other day. But something inside me didn’t want to pick up the phone. So I didn’t. Ten minutes later when I got around to calling her back, I learnt why.

She sounded nervous. Like how one would sound before they were about to jump out of a plane. 

“Come on man, jump already.” 

Psyching themselves up before finally....they jump.

“Daddy died this morning.”

We are both 29 and 35 years old and we haven't seen or spoken to the man in over a decade. Why we still refer to him as “daddy,” is so strange. But that’s his name to us I guess. Was his name to us. Like Ralph’s Ralph. And Joan is Joan. It’s just a name.

I didn’t really have much emotion.
She had more to say then I did. 
Clearly she’d been thinking about it on her own and had time to fish out some ideas of how and what she was feeling. I on the other hand, had just received the news and had no clue what to think, so I just listened. At first.

I have yet to experience death. My cat Joe died years ago. That was rough. But other then that, no one close to me has passed. 

The two of us discussed how we “should” be feeling. Shoulds and shouldn’t shouldn’t matter when it comes to “what is.” And what was....was that I wasn’t feeling much in that moment. 

She talked.

I walked around my backyard listening to her talk while staring at the tall trees, following them with my eyes. From the tips of their naked branches, right down to the muddy grass that met their roots. I squished my runner into the earth and felt the suction of the mud try and steal my shoe. 

“Not today mud.” I thought to myself as I popped my shoe from it’s grasp. 

The snow was melting. Everything was damp. The sun was beaming down on my face as I switched my holding-the-phone hand.

“One day we’re here. One day we’re not. 
One day there’s snow. One day there’s not.”

I knew from my thoughts my brain was trying to make sense of what my sister and I were talking about. It was doing a pretty good job considering it was dealing with death and old childhood baggage.

“Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust”

“Closing time. Every new beginning comes from some other beginnings end”

I felt a little pressure to feel something. Anything!
But I hushed myself. “We can walk and think after the phone call. Focus on your sister.”

I knew our conversation went well. I knew I had said things that spoke to her, and she had left me with some things to think about. But neither of us were rushing ourselves to decide how we felt. Feelings don’t work like a menu, where you pick and choose what you want because it’s time to order.

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I’m good.” I said. 

I felt capped. 

When those words fall out of my mouth like that I know I need to be alone. We both hung up and I continued to stare at the trees. Then my eyes met living and dying shrubs, then geese in the sky, then the mud once more.

The circle of life was everywhere I looked, begging me to ask all those “where do we come from and where do we go after” type questions.

But I’d had enough with the circle of life for one day. Even though it was only 2:30 in the afternoon. 

I told myself Lui and I would go for Pho for dinner and I’d deal with everything the next day. Instead I went for a walk and began tackling everything bit by bit. Piece by piece. Day by day. 

I never listen.  

Tuesday, 17 March 2015


I can’t have nice things.

Well, I can.

But they just have to be durable nice things.

Like a Jeep Wrangler or a water buffalo... things like that.

Things that are seemingly difficult to fuck up. 

I can’t have tea cup collections or jewelry... things like that.

As a kid I was a bit more materialistic. I didn’t seem to have a choice in the matter. I saw everyone around me wanting and grasping for very specific items and name brands, shouting at me for mistreating precious purchases and not having enough respect for “stuff.” It was drilled into my head to care. 

Pick stuff.
Want stuff.
Buy stuff.
Then respect your stuff.
And don’t touch my stuff.

It’s as if we were all given this mental catalogue of things to pine after. And from all the options available we each chose our own “wants” and “needs”. 

Here’s eight boy bands. 
Choose a dude and go plaster your bedroom walls with his face and fight over him with other little girls in the schoolyard. Go.

Here’s sixteen different high end vehicles. 
Pick one and tell the world you’re going to own it one day, start saving those pretty pennies, and frown upon those who’d choose any other car. Go.

Have a look at all twelve of these flawless photoshopped starlets.
Decide which one will be the one you have a conniption over, because you look nothing like her and can’t afford her style, then be the best version of her you can be when you start University in  the fall. Go.

Now that I’m older and can think for myself, I know what I truly want and already have all I could ever need. 

My attitude reeks of:

“fuck materialism man!”

Maybe my beef’s not with materialism, maybe it’s with what it does to people or what people do to each other for it. I dunno. All I know is it pisses me off. And when I’m pissed off, I put that attitude to use. I also put my money where my mouth is and become a perfect display of:

 “fuck materialism man!”

I do to “stuff” what Kurt Cobain did to guitars.

Years ago I was fortunate enough to afford a brand spank’n new top of the line computer. And now I’m unfortunate enough to have to stare at its smashed screen every time I need to use it.

We live in a bachelor apartment these days. So when people visit, all of our belongings are on display. Including my top of the line, bottom’d out computer screen. I’m haunted by the question:

“Oh my God what happened to your computer?”

I guess that’s my Karma for not respecting “stuff.”

A few nights ago a guest sat down at my desk. As I awaited his screen crack, he looked at the computer and said:

“Wow, I miss having a big beautiful screen like this.”

“Ha! Beautiful.” I scoffed. 

The wheels in my head began to turn. Then they turned faster. My computer screen is still beautiful. It’s just currently a little broken. It’s still awesome, I’m grateful that it survived me, and to tell you the honest to God truth... It’s never really bothered me that it’s busted nor has it stopped me from creating all my creations. 

I smash stuff when I’m manic. 
Only when I’m manic.
I’m not throwing lamps when I stub a toe or they hike bus fares.
We work on it but sometimes you still have to duck.

But I’m still beautiful. I’m just currently a little broken. I’m still awesome and I’m grateful I survived me, and to tell you the honest to God truth... It’s never really bothered me that I’m busted nor has it stopped me from creating all my creations. 

Saturday, 14 March 2015

Out Of The Black

I didn’t know what to expect.
It really wasn’t one of those things I could ask someone about. Google couldn’t even tell me what I needed to hear. The only reference I had was that movie Ghost. And Whoopi was a phony for half the movie, and the other half she could legitimately talk to the dead. According to my research, visiting a spiritual reader could go either way.

I was raised Catholic, but it never sat well with me. I secretly denounced my faith at a really young age and figured if there was a God he’d come looking for me eventually. 
And boy oh boy did he ever. 

Standing alone in your thoughts and opinions can sometimes be the scariest experience. But  seeing and hearing things that aren’t visible or audible to the rest of the world, is way scarier. No one agreed that what was happening to me was actually happening or they were indifferent. Some said it was stress, some said it was the pills, some said it was all for attention, and the people that believed me were too freaked out to say anything. 

The answer to what I had gone through was lost in a sea of probabilities. 

Was I absolutely mad? 
Or had my five senses become six?
I guess I’ll never know for sure.

My life was in shambles when I met Andrew. 
I wasn’t going to see him because of my boogie men. During that chapter of my life, I blamed the pills. I found him because something inside me told me to, and oddly enough his tarot shop was located in my neighbourhood. This was all sorts of strange. I didn’t believe in God, nor did I believe he could speak through a deck of cards. Funny enough, that was one of the first things Andrew told me about myself.

“You don’t believe in anything.”

I said I didn’t believe there was a God.
He said there was one.

We’ll leave it at that.

The beautiful part of being in a dark place is when you find the light. 

It shines brighter then anything you’ve ever seen before.
And you can’t help but give it your notice. It captivates you.
As if it were lightly guiding your chin to say “look here.”
You turn your head to face it, and forget why you’re head was ever turned to begin with. It no longer matters.

For those of you reading that are still travelling through darkness, when you know what I’m talking about is when you’ll know what I’m talking about.

I thanked angels, praised Jah, sat with the trees, prayed to whoever was listening, kissed the ground, befriended the universe. I continuously expressed gratitude to whatever was helping me out of the black. Then one day, Lui said to me :

“Ya know, you should really start taking some credit for yourself.”

He was right.

I took no ownership for my triumphs.
I thanked everything under the moon and stars, but never myself.

“Not many people have the strength that you have.” Said one person.

“Very few people could endure what you’ve endured.” Said another.

I was familiar with seeing and hearing things others couldn’t, but never had I been unable to see and hear what others could. I didn’t understand what all the fuss was about. I was no hero. For years I hit the bottle pretty hard and hid in a thick fog of bong in the fuck was I any sort of example?

I went to therapy once a week for a long time.
I went to group meetings.
I read many books.
I walked for hours.
I sweat it out.
I cried it out.
I let it out.
And now,
I’m out. 

I’m working through the aftermath of such a journey, but I’m out. 

What constitutes a hero in my eyes, is someone who saves a life.
Even if it is your own.

It took a very long time to give myself the credit I deserved, I still struggle with it. Sometimes I feel as if I’m just regurgitating all the things others have told me about myself. I always question if I actually believe it. But with the ending of one journey, so begins another. 

We never truly stop traveling do we? Whether it’s through dark or light, we are always moving. Always learning. 

Learning who we are.
And what we’re made of.

Wednesday, 11 March 2015

Ready. Set. Vent.

No Pants. No Problem.
I saw this t-shirt recently that read “I hate people and pants.” I had mixed emotions about it. At first I laughed. Then I put a lot of thought into it. Why would anyone want to promote hating people? The pants part I understand. Some days I hate pants too.
But people? This entire world is filled with them!

Great ones.
Amazing ones.
Funny ones. 
Smart ones. 
Beautiful ones.
Inspirational ones.

So many different kinds of people. A part of me wanted to stand by that t-shirt all day, just to see who would purchase it. I have a million questions for that consumer. 

One being:

“As a person... how could you possibly hate people?”

Another being: 

"Who the fuck have you been hanging out with?"

The Tortured Artist
Why do most artists have to be tortured? 
Why does the fact that I like drawing stuff have to come hand in hand with being emo? Im turning 30 next month, and I’m so over this sad shit. After 30 years shouldn’t we be allowed to hit the reset button on the butt load of memories we don’t really fucking need? I want a room where I get to sort through all of it. With two bins. Like that bad egg good egg machine at Willy Wonkas. 

Unnecessary gets the boot.
Outdated gets the boot.
Irrelevant ... boot!

And all the other stuff that leaves a smile on my face and warm fuzzies in my solar plexus can stay. Become BFF with those skeletons. Ya know?

Mom Of The Year
Gossiping in public is the equivalent to pissing with the door open.
You tell yourself “whatever.” But deep inside you’re thinking “fuck, I really hope no one sees me.” 

It’s so uncomfortable to sit beside two chicks who are two caramel macchiatos in, all sugar’d up with stories galore about “Fiona and her fat friend Fay.”

Aren’t you seeing them tonight?

Then there’s the moms that sit and spill about their kids current puberty “mishaps.”

Lady, imagine someone was sitting in a Starbucks yapping to her friend about all the times you masturbated and had “mishaps.” 
You were around in the 70’s...who you kidding?

You wanna run me over with your car. 
That’s fine.
But don’t almost hit me and ignore me because your too scared to face my reaction.
You almost ended my life for a Tim Hortons.
You should at least have the decency to look me in the face.


He Popped The Question
He just asked me “If you were stranded on an island, what three things would you bring?” If I’m bringing shit, how could I possibly believe I was stranded. It would seem to me that I put myself there and brought three things. Call it what it is. You don’t pack anything if your stranded. Rephrase the question.

So, if I were aware that I was going to be stranded on an island and was allotted the time to go home and grab three items to bring with...
  • a first aid kit
  • my cat
  • a razor. I don’t know how long I’m stranded there for and I don’t want to get all furry. 

Or do you know the length of time I’ll be stranded for? You must know that. How can you not know that, but know I’m going to be stranded, I can bring three things and that I have the time to go get those three things?

What a fucking stupid question. 

Rear Ending
There’s a fine line between pants  and stockings.
The line being your ass. If I can see your ass crack through your “pants", you're wearing tights. 

I know the look your going for. 
It’s a cool look.

But dear God girl go put some real pants on. One inch thicker and you’re good to go. The minute I can’t see your beauty marked butt cheek, you’re all set. Put an end to the ...rear view.

Face It
One of my hallucinations used to be that my face was swelling up all the time, and that I couldn’t breathe. It was one of the scarier ones. It used to freak the fucking shit out of me. I laugh it off now when I try to think of what the actual face I was making looked like. Couldn’t have been too attractive. 


I Dununderstand
I don't understand why there must be an even amount of people when playing Charades. Just because you put four people on one team and four people on another...doesn't mean there's been a fair distribution of 'smart'


Saturday, 7 March 2015

The Rain In Brain

Whether you feel like your dying or you're actually dying, it’s always the same strategy. 

Hold on. 
Hang tight. 

Everyone around you claims to have some sort of idea how you feel because they keep saying: 

"I understand how you feel"

And the minute that comes out of their mouth your inner voice snort laughs and says: 

" have no clue how I feel"

 And If they were to respond with the opposite:  

"I can't even imagine what you're feeling"

You'd be all:
"Nobody gets me."

It’s a lose lose situation for anyone around you. If only there were some way to warn the people you come across, that at the current moment... you are a little fuck-ey. Like some sort of built in answering machine.

Random Person: “Hey excuse me, do you have the time?”

Built In Answering Machine: “E's not in at the moment. Kindly please leave a message and she will get back to you when her head stops spinning. Have a nice day.” *beep*

So the things you see aren’t what they are. 
They are what you see... but upside down. 
Your eyesight becomes a little warped. 

Maybe it’s because you're obsessing with the sound of the screws loosening in your head. Everyones' voices begin to sound like nails scraping a chalkboard. Everything becomes the enemy and somehow amidst the chaos you found time to take a poll of every single person in the entire world and came to the realization that nobody understands and you are all alone.

As soon as it becomes public knowledge that your world is collapsing, the advice starts rolling in right on schedule. How many different ways can someone say:

"I have no fucking clue what to say."

...without actually saying so? Let’s see shall we?

“Stay strong.” 

“Keep yo head up son.” 

“This will run it’s course.” 

“One day you’ll look back and laugh.”

“It could always be worse.”

“What goes up must come down.” 

“At least you have your health.”

“(Insert sad face emoticon)” 

“Everything happens for a reason.” 

“All in good time.”

“Have another shot.” 

“Have as much sex as possible.”

“Have patience.” 

“Have faith.” 

I like the last one. 
Times of turmoil are always supposed to be a good time to “have faith,” or at least bring you closer to it. But sometimes the closer you get to God and his mysterious after life, the further away from him you become. (Sometimes) And if you’ve moved your beliefs down the bench, imagine where your life is sitting.

Being from Venus, it should come as no surprise that I tend to over analyze. I’m sure the men of Mars do it too, but I see it mainly in those with vaginas....I mean those from Venus. 

Majority of the time it's not ok for my troubles to leave my brain until I have beaten them to a bloody pulp with every fibre of my thinking abilities and even after that, invite them back once in a blue moon to play catch up. I personally believe I’m a healthy over analyzer. (Nowadays) 

What’s healthy vs. non-healthy, you ask?



Every time I break things down in my head, I always end up at fear being the main reason I’m so vexed. The numbness of fear is like no other sensation. It’s the only emotion that stiffens me physically and/or mentally, I can’t move and I feel nothing. Everything stops when I'm scared. I'm focusing on one thing and one thing only, the thing I'm scared of. The best choice of action is to think...but thinking can be next to impossible, when your afraid. 

My friend and I went up north one time. We felt like going for a walk even though it was night and pitch black outside. We were walking down this road and all of a sudden this huge black furry dog wolf thing darts toward us at top speed. The freak'n thing came out of nowhere! We were petrified. The fucker was snarling at us and showing its teeth! The beasts back was up and he looked extremely confident that he could kill us both at the exact same time. Not a single thing was going through my mind except: 

“uhhh this wolf’s going to eat us.” 

That’s what I was focussed on. 
So focused, that when someones' whistle in the distance broke the “beasts” gaze on us, I didn’t even realize that it was just a really big dog. As the owner was calling it’s name, I was still thinking: 

“this thing is going to eat me, then it’s going to eat my friend like it’s no big deal, then run back to the idiot that thinks this is a cool dog to have off leash. This is how I die.” 

Needless to say, as soon as the dog heard its name it ran off and left two very relieved non-eaten shook up females, who will remember a flashlight next time...and perhaps a shotgun. 

When you’re staring Fear in the face, and he’s looking right back at you, the turntable in your head is scratching your record and all you keep hearing is: 

“Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit.” 

Maybe it’s cause of the plane your about to jump out of. Maybe it’s the gangster looking bears that showed up at your campsite ready to fuck shit up Boyz N the Wood styles. Or maybe it’s the condom you went to remove only to find out that it removed itself at some point while you were doing your best friends younger sister...sans condom. 

I always used to spend a lot of time focusing on why I was scared, instead of thinking of ways to
defeat why I was scared. If you put me in that wolf/dog situation again these days, I promise you, I’ll be thinking: 

“how am I going to stop wolf/dog from eating us” 

as opposed to 

“wolf/dog is going to eat us.” 

Stupid fucking wolf/dog. 
I have two words for you wolf/dog...not cool!

Your head is not just a super awesome zone to put your hair or your beautiful face. There’s stuff inside there. Stuff that came stock. I’m the one who souped-up my own head with all those unnecessary upgrades. I don’t need a brain that flys. I need a brain that gets me from point A to point B safely. Elaborate thought patterns would be the death of me if I didn’t over analyze. I’d never figure out the root of my thoughts. 

Have you ever caught yourself thinking bizarre things and...when you think about it, you're like: 

“ Wait a minute. How in the hell did I get here?” 


I purchased a pair of brown boots. 

My friend also purchased a pair of
brown boots. 

The two pairs are very similar in style and colour. 

My friend was extremely hesitant on the two of us sporting them at the same time. 

I didn’t understand. 
Friend knew how I felt. Yet when Friend and I had plans and Friend wanted to wear her boots, I’d receive a text or phone call asking if I was wearing mine. 

I wanted to wear my boots. 
Friend wanted to wear her boots...what’s the issue? 

Finally a discussion was had. 
It turned out that Friend was scared people would think we matched intentionally or we were “the matching boot girls.” 

Friend is funny. 

Obviously I thought this was preposterous poo poo, but I love Friend and I wanted to understand where she was coming from. I was always the girl who put on whatever the fuck she wanted and left her house. 

Who cares? 
No really, who cares? 

Show me the person who actually cares what I wear or what I put on. I’m going to introduce myself to them and in the same breath, make my point. If I have to tell you my name then that means you don’t know me and I don’t know you, so why are you so concerned with what I’m doing/wearing etc.? 

Eventually, Friend began to notice that brown boots were “in fashion”, and many a girl had herself a pair of brown boots. 

Imagine if someone actually came up to us and yelled: 

“OMG! Who do these girls think they are? The matching boot girls?” 

then all the sidewalk patrons would turn and laugh while chanting 

“Matching boot girls! Matching boot girls!” 

(I’m laughing as I type that.) 
Preposterous poo poo those elaborate thought patterns be.


My Brain came stock with   and  

Anything else was my doing. 
"My Doing" caused me to become unwilling to be a part of this world. 

☹ side was the side I was playing and paying for everyday. I rid myself of everyone and everything. Closed up shop mentally, and called it a day. 

Picture yourself sitting crossed legged on the cold floor of an empty cellar. You can’t see anything because your only light source is the inevitable melting candle in your hand that keeps going out, due to an annoying drip of funky water leaking from the ceiling above. 

Oh and your almost out of matches. 

That’s what life on the 
 Side of Stock E Brain was like. The only reason I was living there was because I had jam packed  Side with so much unnecessary garbage that it began to spill over to ☺ Side, which left little to no space for ☺.

My brain as a whole had become the storm God warned Noah about. Apocalyptic. Constant rain. The rain in brain stays mainly in the brain... until it floods. Once I ran out of room on my inside, it began to leak, then spill, then flood on my outside. I had become petrified of both in and out. Like I said before, everything stops when I'm scared. And when you're scared of you're life, the stop is a little more abrupt. 

I met an adrenaline junky who jumps out of planes and swims with sharks. 
He wasn’t scared. 

I met someone who beat cancer. 
They fear nothing now. 

I know a girl who almost got swallowed by the ocean and dislocated her shoulder swimming the fuck out of there. 
She wasn’t scared.

I saw this guy tattooing his own knee in a window of a tattoo shop. 
He didn’t look scared.

I know someone who was treated like absolute garbage as a child and grew up to raise the bar for every parent in this world. 
Fearless now.

I know a women who got her and her two kids away from a horrible, violent situation. 
She wasn’t scared. 

She couldn’t be. 
We can’t be. 
I can’t be. 

Everything I fear is either going to happen or not. It’s inevitable. Immobilizing yourself only gives fear more time and room to circle you and sniff you out. 

“Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit.” isn’t going to shoe fear away. You think fear can’t smell fear? (Ask stupid wolf/dog. He knew he was just a Labrador but he fucked with us anyway cause he knew we were scared shitless.) 

Think fast if you have to.
Or take years to think about it.

It will flood you otherwise.