The major events. The words are over my head. I remember my father washing my hair. He was scratching my scalp to rub in the shampoo. It hurt. I cried. That, I think, is my first memory. I think my second memory might be my father mock spanking me and laughing. I cried. In my memory his laughter is cartoon-maniacal. The carpet of the living room floor. A wooden chair. I remember watching tennis on the TV at the Farwell house. I was 3 or 4, walking down the block when the college guy down the block, who sometimes had a snake draped over his neck, told me to wipe my runny nose with my sleeve. I dont remember the exact words he said or if I did it, or how my nose was running. Seems like he said it as a hard prank, but I don't think it struck me as that.
Stop. The black skinny little guy told me to stop. I thought to stop writing, but ignored it. the word translated to gee. There are noises. Tumbling trash cartons rolling from the curb back to the garage. A black pickup truck drove past the block intersection going in a cardinal direction I am unsure of. It's tomorrow and I still can't remember. Maybe I should know the directions at this house. I have been here since July 12 a year and a half ago. Maybe it was June. It is 2025, february 28th. Tomorrow we weigh, take blood pressure and temperature. I am a resident in a facility for people under guardianship, wards of the state. Ori, my roommate, has been here two years.
My psychiatric treatment is inadequate. Most psychiatry is. I see faces and have a debilitated tongue from over medication. But these results are rendered as spirit, so they could do anything. I could use my tongue to speak French, but this mode of knowledge is blocked or broken, or uncultivated. These medications don't work except the first time you take them. I want to switch to a new med, which also seems bad, first synthesized in the 90s, called Cobenfy. It took me a second to register the name. It causes extreme nausea, but has a second component that blocks the other from entering the body, so it only enters the brain, I think. It is supposed to be an anti-psychotic. None of them work, and only maim you. Maybe if I can get on this new one, it will. The old ones, that I've been on, make you make faces, and lose control-- lose agency in choice.

I think now most people cannot handle or are harmed by the experience of hallucinogens. From the descriptions in Tao Lin's book, it seems broken by the environment. Like people aren't supposed to talk to each other in the conventions of how we do relative to the intrinsic action of hypnotic suggestion (suggection). Do they recover as the uneasiness goes away? Is there physiognomic benefit on a bad trip? How is it related to nightmare versus good dreaming?

There is a hallucination that leaves me frozen in dissocia. It warped into the on-screen keyboard as an eye, on the right of the h-key, I think. Its hard to pin-point. I am not sure what to write, and declined to dredge up randomnity from the unconscious in automatic prose, where the sensibility reels in reading. Another pass of a cartoon hallucination. A little pain on my right thumb. "Hey," said a black-raced little cartoon person, the voice quiet in the sphere of the imagination, not a typical place for a voice in your head. My anus twitched, and visualization put a yellow half cut shape on it, feeling soft, passive, and vulnerable. It makes me check out mentally. The keys on the keyboard start to tumble, but don't, and it transfers to a little pain languaging in my hands as the tumbling stopped but the potential latent energy goes to the body, the arms, and back. A little black female cartoon, representing something, a set of people in real time, a historical archetype stereotyping behaviors in remote view, precursed to interrupt again. Its like these are all dead time careening out of control like an episode of tardive dyskenesia in complement as something extra, expired, or misguided, as an idea from my dark history of manipulating remote viewing. I used to think it was a good idea to create hell for certain actions in other people. "Good," said the white 40-something cartoon. I shut my eyes and felt false motive to stop writing. I think it stemmed from the hallucination pass prior to the last, the command that the back of my head scrobbled to put down the tablet, based on old systems steeped in paranoia of magic to do with not using certain things as a commitment. I heard tinnitus as a guiding sound, but it can't get fully around, hinging on prior ideas and assumptions false tied to the infrastructure of the holy good, expressed as faces issuing a false command. Now I wonder (not, as a typo proporting the unconscious reveals as a galling upon interpretation with the automa) if I will gall into the incorrect extension of this system that has grown on me. Now typos fall into it that I correct. "You."
What am I going to write? How can I predict how to live if the force is out of control? Did I break it? Why is everything a little bit off? What is with the programs enacting expired time? Why did I read, now, "enacted" for "enacting?" How should the reason resolve? What is this foreign, failing decision process? Now I want to close my eyes and rest, out of sync with my design to keep writing. How could this fail? It is strange, being consciously constructing manuscript from this memory, rather than pulling it automatically, like a sleeper having a dream. I don't think I'm in vain, even as my remote view shifts to fail at noing. (noing pronounced like boing as opposed to no-ing.) From the unconscious in the subconscious remote viewing space issuing command hallucinations from cartoons (holding sentence structure) that break the high goal based on ideas lodged in the past, bad, expired ideas that live on making decisions at crucial intervals of mediation of meditation. They seem to enter during the window of an episode of tardive dyskesia. I am now going to smoke a cigarette after writing this.
I am a little cold. The heat has been off all day. Only the owner of the facility can change it, and he hasn't been here in a while. I gained 7 pounds last month. My right foot is cold. It takes effort to adjust my two blankets, but I will do that. The window is drafty. The owner remodeled, but everything is poorly done, and the windows are cheap. The siding and roofing block the TV signal. Sometimes my eyes hurt. They feel dry, or stinging. It seems half hallucination. Phantom pains tell me yes and no. Aren't there more options? Not no and not yes. Some famous Buddhist logician I can't recall but could conjur in vision. The difference between visionary focus and speech without hold. If I try to hold thought during speech I am dry, broken and dampened to the point of a crackhead dancing. Does that statememt abnegate hope? Arcade, Emmalea Russo, Bruce Wagner, salitter. I am writing these names.
It is better without the draw of the voided time from turning on network television. Its literally 100:1 trash to watchability, and what is watchable is deeply subpar. Too bad I am stuck here. I feel bad about resorting to this journaling format because it seems to preclude dedication to artic direction. Maybe it will be helpful. Abstract writing that is unhealthily automatic maybe, maybe nees a colinear construction. Maybe this will organize ideas, but hope may be flat to staticity of the repetition of psychic event. What changes the hypnotic garden of the mind? How can I control the triggers. It says if I knew how to I could, but where is the trust in that? To break out of stunted routines that have evolved cofactually with generative praxis in anomaly, and what is the consequence of stating recklessness? What trigger is this? What concept is stuck in the system that reflects choices of lines that cavort to fail the logical system of thought? How can I repair breaks and heal?

And it drains as I drain, O blood, O spirit. That was the last note of a dream. I ate breakfast of biscuits, gravy and eggs, juice and coffee, even as I meant to abstain. As I approached the counter window for coffee, against my intent I said, unwillingly, for everything. I lost self-control. Then I consciously chose to eat it at a juncture in thought where I could have not. I keep getting the enforced feeling to put this down, and I ignore direction usually, as you must walk through it. It avoids a taut hold by moving and holding my member. Then the hold turns hard, dry.

I was shooting up in a condo I owned with my parents. They paid for it. I destroyed it trying to remodel while high. Good ideas turned to dust as I tried to figure it out. I bought 300 dollar toxic industrial Rustoleum floor epoxy and put some down without the activator, mixing the oily liquid with cheap garage floor paint I should have used. When I got the activator I mixed it poorly and it went down and barely hardened. The surface was highly flammable I learned while using a heat gun to scrape it up. There was a leaky pipe behind the kitchen cabinet before the sink. The 2 by 4 undeneath it was crumbling soft, and black. I thought it must have been leaking for decades; just a little drip. I'm sure the entire floor had black mold under it. The floor was concrete-ish. I cut a hole in it with an angle grinder and it was black and stunk.
A black guy, probably with gang ties, but an outlier, a meth head, I met in a grassy area somewhere nearby, and had him over. He showed me how to smoke ice without burning it. I had already been smoking pot I was getting from the GM's boyfriend at Culver's, where I worked, usually cleaning tables and spot-cleaning the floor. I learned the register, too, and started learning the grill around the time I started shooting meth, when I quit. I met Roe by posting an ad for free watercolor paper on Craig's List. I had an ounce of diverted commercial marijuana, and somehow figured out she was a meth dealer. She pulled up in a van, and I was in the parking lot of the condominium complex, I think in her headlights. I don't remember how it played out, but in the next few days I would black out and poke like hundreds of holes in my left arm, and broke off six needle tips in my left main line, I remember as a flash during the blackout. I went to the hospital for antibiotics, but all they gave me was an Ativan and a sheet on methamphetamine abuse. I was just starting to fall into a new style of painting. I would start tearing out the carpet in the larger bedroom to convert it into a studio. I was working at Walmart, too, in the freezer. I held on to that job for a little longer. Its 2:45, 15 minutes before my next cigarette break at the residential care facility. I want to quit smoking, but I keep doing it. My teeth are so bad. A DVD of Cruel Intentions is playing in the background as I write this. I had the thought to try to submit this to hi@forevermag.net or whatever the tld is. I have both sequels sitting next to my Korg Electribe 2. I can barely paint real. I paint on home visits in my mother's studio, trying to get from smearing amd graffiti-mark abstraction back to microfocal meticulity. I have two physical books, the Capitalism & Schizophrenia series. They say I have schizophrenia, but its something else. Antipsychiatrist antisexual antichristian anarchism. There is one usage of the term anarchofascism and it is by a guy who couldn't hold his pot, it read like.
The first time I shot meth it seemed I was levitating, with three long, narrow upside down gray triangles pointing at my shoulders and lower back. I remember hovering there for a minute. Memories come in photographic flashbacks in my mind's eye. Eventually I would be shooting 5, 6 times a day, speedballing with my upstairs neighbor's fentanyl, until he cut me off for overdosing in his apartment five times. He approached me when I was walking in to our building and asked if I did dope, and handed me about a half of fent. He paid the girl I was hanging out with 25$ for "food and cigarettes" many times. She would steal me paint from Walmart. My 300$ G-Star Raw brand Motac pants were covered in paint. I distributed 40 paintings out of there and owned an LLC called MINDCONTROLWEAPON that was supposed to make me function as gallerist. I wanted to start a brand for a collective art-object manufactory. Time to smoke; 4:00. I didn't really get good at shooting for a year or so. I had a bad time hitting a vein, putting many holes in my arm. The girl Destiny looked at me half-way through the first fentanyl bag and started crying. When we first met she was working at Applebee's, homeless. She came by with this homeless guy with iron cross tatoos who must have been involved with Aryan something. His name was Shawn. He would come over with a shot, or to sleep, or store stuff. Sometimes he might have had some pot. When he was there when I met Destiny, he said that I should shoot a porno of them, but she didn't want anything to do with it. She slept on my couch for two days.
Eventually she blew me, and I kept seeing her laughing, in blue phosphenes, when I would close my eyes. I had a dream about that before I met her. Once I dreamt I woke up in my living room twice before I woke up during those first few week she was there. Ori keeps talking crazy schizo bullshit, and I find myself tracking it, distracting from writing.

I have a hallucination that is sub-visual and tactile of my penis being sexually stimulated. When this phases in, it feels very soft, and is associated with the meme "estro". I heard that, it was bouncing around my head, years ago. It is like a dying machine, hazarding what should be logical by regressing to the dark history of masturbation fantasy as a goal-oriented behavior. This occurs when I try to hold the general thought of my identitication as a cotemporal being. When I met Destiny I sponteneously ejaculated twice in a row when we were courting for the first time, after those two days of sleep. We had nice conversations about ontological psychology, and she would go to work, and I let her stay there. Then I brought out two shots or meth. There was the feeling in both of us that we shouldn't make this mistake, but we ignored it, and things quickly fell apart. We started having sex, and she affected a negative mood, eventually expecting that others could experience the same visions that she was having plainly, in real time. She thought her children could experience their eyes changing makeup over Duo calls. She used to have an Infiniti and a Mercedes, and was married to, I think, an Egyptian man. That phallic hallucination is a sub-part of a set of regressocontemporal tactile, visual, and auditory hallucinations that fall on and are read against parallax assumptions and actions that are, in psychic space, truly logical, which are abnegated by, say, a facial cartoon ticking my face out of sync with larger reality, as if a memory dies in form. I see once now, disagreeing, it seems, in reflection to the general-correct imterpretation of what I just wrote. "You know what schlelepathy is always just late," brokenly heard in projection from Binh Vo's, my Vietnamese roommate's, TV. He came from Saigon when he was 19, born in 1975, 50 now, and can say some things, talks to himself under his breath, and repeats what you say, tries to make an approval against what is said against whether it feels harmful, or any array of results from hearing a statement. 11 o'clock cigarette break. I want to quit, and work all the time at reading and writing and programming audio.

I remember, as a kid, making Gambit cards with Andrew Froderman by stapling two pieces of yellow tagboard together, drawing a playing card face on it, and putting a firecracker between the sheets. I remember the tree we threw one at, in front of his house, I think. We used to draw, and watch Animaniacs there the living room. I met Andrew again when I was 17 working at Outpost Foods in Milwaukee. He seemed grounded. I remember Gwen from Outpost, too. If only I hadn't been a burnout I might have had a relationship that was reasonable. She was very beautiful.
I had dreams last night. I don't remember emitting, but I did. I can't feel orgasm. I can't remember my normal dreams from last night. They weren't bad; almost seemed good. I can vaguely picture them, but they are one layer out; now, when I see my dream it is vaguer by a magnitude of one, the visual blocking an order of detail.
I remember having sexual fantasies. That is one of my main downfalls. I threw off my hormonal development, I think. I remember how the visualizations became vague. What I was doing, mentally, is objectively wrong, and is a disaster in my mental garden. A face in sheen cartoon just popped out of my face.
When I eat I am sleightly mind-controlled. I mean not to eat all of my meals, but I am nudged by the Force to finish them, and seem to comply throughout even the window I am empowered with the ability to deny it.

I think I remember the first time I smoked marijuana. I was on my stomach moving side to side like a snake, with a visual of the power conforming my body. I remember the enhanced quality of The Roots' live album, feeling spacious. I remember getting an erection that was bound to hallucination, sitting at my desk in my juvenilely muraled room. I remember skipping school with Andy Berg, burned out and in paranoia and extreme social anxiety everytime I smoked. Now I am dissociated from the feeling, and it seems like a hallucination landing on my viscera, seeming a foreign emotion inducing dysphoria in my trunk. Actually, the first time I smoked was with Jessica Lakritz, in a park, where a train passed, though there were no tracks or train, shaking a tree supernaturally. We saw cosplayers with swords, maybe in medival garb, that I thought was real. I remember, at Guido's basement, taking a bonghit of superstrong pot I joked was the "dark crystal" and panicked and left, thinking his group of friends thought badly of me. I needed to be strapped down and correctly suggested what to think, like the physical denial of fleeing, and control of what my anxiety was triggered by, what was probably awkward behavior and enhanced self-awareness. Nobody was confrontational, really. I remember buying 5 bags in the highschool bathroom, and when the black kid, a basketball star, said "Why don't you smoke with us?" I felt sad and frozen, and didn't respond. Ori just said "Someone went outside and made it rain." "No 11 o'clock smoke break." I motioned to call him schizo, but didn't. Its hard to determine how to use the comma.
I remember getting high, binge eating a dinner plate from the refrigerator, and throwing up, so I could experience the sensory stimulation of eating again. I remember fucking a cup of ice cream, and posting urophile child porn of myself on Yahoo Groups with my mother's primative digital camera, then making very sure I deleted the photos from the memory card. I remember masturbating with my own shit, and deleting the video, freaking out, shaking at the humility of anyone ever finding it. At my condo, strung out on meth, I signed up as a creator on Pornhub, plotting to desperately make money somehow, and posting masturbation videos I was hallucinating on meth psychosis while making to TikTok18, that hosted child porn and had Chinese language analyses of things maybe involvong statistics and sociological items concerning the platform. Probably a honeypot. Wondering to share this with Thos. I need a social network. I want to watch a movie, but my TV is not hooked up. I have 2 outlets shared by illegal item extension cord with Ori, and my Korg is hooked in with the charger for the tablet that I am writing on, my bluetooth speaker and rechargable radio I listen to NPR, 2 conservative talk stations (one plays Coast to Coast AM at midnight) and, rarely, a few music stations.
I paint, write, and program music and videos when visiting my parents' home videos, but am imbued with lethargy from overusing a vape to the point of muting the poisonous nicotine overdosing with water or binge-eating food to even things out, feeling-wise.

At the last place I was at, there was this fat girl, Mikki, I think is how to spell her name. She attacked me a few times. Once I took her picture and she threw my iPad across the hallway. She always tried to crush your dreams, and mistook automatism for consended sexual advance. She was really ugly, and my face started to mimic her conventions of facial gesture when I saw that. I remember smoking pot with one of the workers. She was 69, and started to make me kiss her for a hit off of her vape pen. Eventually she cut me off when I would get too high and misbehave. I gave her a box of like 50 paintings. I made some terrible paintings there, and would smoke cigarette butts from the smoker's pole rerolled in notebook paper; I would just grab a handful and bring them to Dixie's room to roll. I made some remark like the staff was on heroin, because they always looked stoned, and they sold the place to a guy who owned a bunch of them from Arkansas, and took a vacation to the Domimican Republic, and lied, maybe, saying they were going to Costa Rica. The manager went to Illinois, and cut contact with her grandchildren and other relations. I am npt sure about how that happened, or what actually happened, and the psychic interplay. I went down to talk to the manager one day, and she looked dopesick. Maybe she was just sick.I think I am going to bring my small TV and DVD player, and smuggle in an outlet multiplier. I broke a TV at that other place. We burned all their records from the 50s through the 1980s that were out in the barn in a huge, extremely hot burn pile. After that, I cleaned it out and the manager gave me 10 bucks for like 300 dollars of work, but they locked it before I could finish afyer someone we didn't notice out there reported us for huffing spraypaint. The guy, I don't remember his name, would spray it into a cardboard box for like a minute and breathe against that. It didn't alter my mind, just felt real clean. Once I was lying next to this girl Alexis, who would spell it Alixes, and started to make out but not, and I got an erection and rubbed it against her crotch, I think from behind, but cut it out. Her mom drove a Mercedes SUV, and Alexis was still fat from being pregnant, but very small, maybe not 5 foot. We never fooled around with her again, just shared cigarettes (she was not a regular smoker) and sweet snacks, and writing and craft items. I gave her a sewimg kit and she sewed her name into the case. I gave her a broken Disney clock from the 70s, probably, from the barn. I took an old computer out of that rotting place (the entire area of it was covered in a foot or two of decades old clothes) once, but threw it away because I didn't have a VGA cable or a keyboard. When the office threw out an expensive-looking Dell I regretted not retrieving it from the trash. We used to, I can't remember his name, cheek our pills and crush them all up into a pile with a wooden star-of-David snowflake and snort them up with one other guy. Sometimes he would get a big bar of Welbutrin. That would get me high the few times I did an undiluted whole one. Its like everything is a joke, even in suffering. A joke you can't stop laughing even if you're the-opposite-of laughing. 4 minites til lunch. I hate eating. It is revulsive, like the noises of most open-mouthed kisses in the movies.

I have resolved to stop behaviors that are materially destructive to the self or otherwise. This includes drugs, sex, poor dietary decisions, what media I consume, and what I say and do, and how I think. My goal in life is to dry fast with coffee late in, andnthen water fast for a very long time, until I am at 5 percent body fat, after cellular autophagy after ketosis. There must be more to it than that. I would try to find purish, good water. I want to be vegan, raw. I am stuck in a prison-like situation in this guardianship, and while I have improved from restriction, I need absolute self-agency to accomplish anything. So much what needs to be done is blocked.

I remember we were at Lindsey's house in highschool and I was burning out on pot. We had smoked out of her wooden pipe, carved in the shape of a penis, in her basement. Eventually, we were upstairs on the main level and she had suggested "munchies." Not I view that entire spectrum of notion depraved, and eat, when I get high, as a fallout response to feeling bad, which is a worse position, that should be abnegated. So I was learning about judgement of good and evil about my behaviors, and the blindness of my evil, which I didn't know the repercussions of, in my myopia of mind, beginning to know what was and wasn't acceptable, the dangers of, and why, I was feeling what I felt, and the cause and effect of my actions, the acceptability of behavior, the drive to split into secrets, what would later have me freaking out, as addiction to binge-eating on pot had affected me, and I took a frozen pizza out of the oven too early, folded it in half, and started eating it like that, when I caught sleight glimpse of my depravity, not in a supernatural-seeming way, feeling very embarrassed when they looked at me like I lost it. I couldn't tell why I had no depth, and the feeling I got while high snowballed to terrible. I hadn't known so much, what dreams were, what my nightmares meant, what objectivity would reveal, anything about spiritual existence, and anything about behavioral psychology.

"Psychically? You mean nightmare trauma?" I remember a photo-flashback of sidling a narrow path low on a cliffside camping when I was young. I don't remember if I was scared, or if it is a true memory, but I looked down amd saw a fern in the flora below. Must have been an 8 foot drop. "My fern," psyally related to a fern of my mother's on a small tall square wooden stand in the hallway, which I sort of remember intentionally dropping amd breaking, but that memory I think might be false in my mind. I think about not knowing about a binary event-object, and making sure the either\or statement is rendered so that the ultimate unknown is guaranteed to be correct, meaning that it already is or isn't one way or the other, not an opinion's subject. I had been mulling on that a while ago. It seems like massive opinions about things in culture are largely true or false and unknown. I feel that I am not now expressing myself how I want to, but on second reading I think I may have conveyed my contention.
I remember pornography addiction. I haven't relapsed in two years. I was seeing child porn on TikTok18, which I'd bet is an object of warfare. The term targeted individual refers to a target, in the context I read, in a court document from the case involving the leaders of Tempel ov Blood and Atomwaffen, of the FBI as obtained by their CI. It must be a hijacked term to use generally as the so-called subjects targeted by psychotronic weapons. It seems pretty validated after the Havana syndrome news cycle. I don't know whether that is the psychic residue of Old World psychica, occult mind-control, or the product of government or rogue-agent neurotechnology, or another unknown known, like spirituality, or something else, maybe a side-effect or the intended effect of street drugs, or the side effects of antipsychotics. It takes a lot of discipline to win.
I identify as antisexual because I can't orgasm because of some physical or psychophysical problem. I am not asexual because I can still act in a mode of attraction, but I want to sublimate that. I can't even pet a cat successfully in this vein. It is for the better. Addiction to orgasm is terrible for your body-chemistry. I read it uses the prime resources of your body for orgasm. I can ejaculate, but it doesn't feel like anything, and afterwards I am in a worse sexual frenzy. I just farted, loudly. You only fart if you eat too much, and you should be discreet if you have to, like, go somewhere else.

Vanity is in a mirror. There is nothing wromg with looking, as a narcissist, if the mirror is pure, but as mine is not, and the mirror is linked to memories as a trauma-bond, my way is part in vain. Psychopathy is a reflection of decision. How incorrect is this paragraph? I have 2 major points of inquiry, and want to expand, but will digress.

I was a typical spiritually, mentally impoverished liberal kid, in school. I remember reading a poem out loud and everyone clapping. Once in college I wrote a few sentences my professor said were "effortless." But I would also get stoned and do very embarrassing things, trying on rap culture. Once I robbed a drug dealer, and said something like "We owe the Indians more than you think!" and stole a quarterpound of weed with my gradeschool Indian friend, who played on my soccer team when I was very young, and had turned into a well-adjusted trapper, selling me a bunch of grams of cocaine and countless ounces of weed. After we robbed this guy I forgot he knew my full name, and he texted me I owed him 2 thousand dollars, and that I had better ask "papa Tom" for a loan. I tried to play it off like I was forced to by my partner, and that I wasn't in my right mind because I was high on cocaine and owed him for it. Later I was hanging out at a coffee shop in the same neighborhood and an older gay acquaintance said they were after me with automatic weapons, but I didn't worry, half automotonically shrugging it off, and I think asked him to hook me up with an eigth, which I think he did. Durimg that time I was seeing a married woman with three very young kids, one severely autistic who communicated through a computer interface very successfully. He liked to look at fans, would stand there entranced, and once I opened a CD player and pressed the door-closed button with a pen or somethimg so he could see the CD spinning and he enrered into his device "I love you." The woman's name was Corey Collision, I think. Once she gave me a blowjob in a park on a hill by a fallen tree during fall in the woods. The ground was covered with leaves. I can't even remember how an orgasm actually feels now. I don't miss sexual addiction. She had a husband who looked at some type of porn she wouldn't mention, who was on Oxycontin for his back, and who once called my parents' landline to yell that I had "peed in his wife's vagina" and I said that "I repent for that" and he was incredulous. I never spoke to her again. I remember her holding my hand in the Dewey Center. I remember in middleschool, I was wearing size 13 Adidas Sambas and this black kid said something about my "big" "floppy" feet, and all I could think to say was a line from Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, that "You know what they say about people with big feet!" and he said something in disgust. I was always slightly in fear of physical violence until I started to learn to be still. I forgot that later, and am suffering from not committing to it more fully, whatever the value for "still" may be. I am full of childhood regressive states from drug and sexual relapse. These mark others in unfortunate turning points of decision in my behavioral history. Full of social regression, meaning entropy takes over the correct behavior to enter the alternative in behavior through automatism of behavior, steeped in the folly of my former selves. I had a deep religious experience when I was 26, as I was leaving a relationship, but the lows of that phase were very low; broken. It was hard to do the right thing and know what that was, and its hard now to live with the bad decisions.
"God! Grow up!" (in response to Russophobia).

My life now is post-cringe in a system that is taking over my identity with something worse, that I don't feel associated with except while it subsumes. Then it feels like this foreign soul\demon is fronting where a different set would normally be. It controls facial gestures and says things that result in the system crashing, or drawing violence from people who bought in to the system I rejected. But the violence wouldmnever hit the imposter. It would hit my true self. Maybe I can clarify this as I go. Like, I was thinking about the risk of death during Antarctic science expeditions, and the cartoon face broke through my face and expressed fear through my left eye, which jutted out, in front of me, and I still feel the pangs of fear in my trunk, as a hallucination that is dissocial to my normative state, but which is mistaken as my identity. It represents a stereotype of people who experienced fear ad I did at a younger age, as the cartoon face that poked through and protruded its eye into space had an exaggeration ofnthe type of fear I would formerly have had, and is a remote viewing obserf to a demographic of the mass here, and a regressive key that inhibits the correct step being taken in psychic systems; as if something necessary has died, or as if something diabolical is reacting to that fear and killing the true self as the archetype disappears and my body returns to normal.

Liberals always contend fake gotchas, taking clips out of context and letting their horde run with it, ignoring what is necessary for cheap axiomics that read as a death-drive they are unconscious of.
In this place, by environmental suggestion, I joke around and horseplay in ways that defy my will, and I am in flat surprise when these behaviors manifest. Sometimes a front alter that edges in on my behavior, but does not incur a total alteration, pops out of my body to mess with Johnny Mechlin, or someone else, and I see a black wedge in its compliment, and feel my axis shift with it, and have an unemotional rendition of a muted emotional state opposite of the want of the altership. These bodies that take over my behavior look intentional of themselves, and mimic prior behavior patterns, "set in their ways," and are a remote viewing of these demographics in behavior as stereotypes validating and abnegating these behaviors at once, but I do not think this is actual intent, just a careening out of control of these visual ghosts as an automatism that has nothing to do with intent, has to do with mindless behavioral conventions, and tracking of a baseline of speech as it affects hypnotic suggestion altering focus as a kind of garbage, litter on the streets where mindfully holding a thought, clean and perfect, taut, is the only answer. But as we have behaved in the past is rendered as a sort of compulsion that our sense of intent feels in opposition to, like a mocking reply to us, and the old behaviors that we have shed. There is something extra and unnecessary that must be shed, but is a fixture in ideation and the behavior of others. It impedes advancing my true self as an agent in reality, and seems as an imposter, truncating decisions as thpugh it is some body's myopic, incorrect action. It focuses on one fragment of idea that should be a mute, perspectivized component of a larger idea-body, that is memorialized by a regressive state pinned to the point in time before that idea and behavior was shed in the evolvement of your personality, and intrudes into everyday behavior as a negafier and impediment to what would feel like thencorrect behavioral pattern in that moment. It is a dissocjatove phenomena that freezes action as though what you are remote viewing is occurring simulteneously, and instead of powering through it, confronting them to their face, or falling into the native position to your soul and peership, you are made silent, to be in rendition as a sort of passive object acting as a beacon resonating the emotive compliment to the series that is interrupting you, which will cause panic and frantic psychic action, which, when blocked by the view of the interupting body as a personality whose subjectivity your grasp of psychic action may not affect the alter-body as expected subjectively by you. You can be suggested hypnotically by incorrect reflections of speech in a logical system affecting behavior as that fragment of your thpught that abnegates the pure body of thought as a representation of how the behaviors of culture in remote places (in the masses of other people) are behaving incorrectly (as a sterotyping of this), so it feels, subjectively, like you are falling below these behaviora, that are tied to regressive states in alters where you had moved to bind to these behaviors you have now assumed shed, as they are represented in dreams (nightmares (this is a false dichotomy)) as how that psychic energy resonates during waking life. These visualization affect behavior as a body-idea that represents the catastophe in Earth's culture, and acts as a sort of latent solution, or result, lying in wait. Sometimes you just have to wait for people to die because they will not chage within the framework of correction, spiritually out of reach, within alterships.
To ignore impulses as they are presented as conscience-guided direction lends to the question of right and wrong, and the direction of held thought by the subjective self-in-truth relative o the present-unknown result of this conscience-direction typical of hallucination as a visionary faculty. How does that force relate to the nature of validated correct intent, reality checking as a function parallel to actively imagining what is occurring objectively in reality, as opposed to the momentous behaviors of observation abstracted as an ultimatum of defiance of the natal sense of intent. What is this force that tracts to your unknown as a guided behavior? Will that, the system, ultimately determine the direction of reality, or is it an extension of the set of behaviors that are mored and binded as a habit of your subjective history. Does the unpleasantness of psychedelic experience denote an incorrect direction? What is the unknown directive of the Force relative to the directive generated by a thought held, and what is the result of a fixture breakimg your true self's direction-in-hold.
I am listening to rabid liberals callimg into NPR. Are these people supporting forcing "democracy" as in regime change? What is wrong with discouraging hypersexualism or degenerated dissent? I am skeptical of this last question. What is myopia in reactionism, and what are personal desires relative to the correct direction of society? How can that be determined agaimst a whole vein of thought and behavior that is difficult to convince to correctly promise the correct result? Is this only due to broken mindfulness? Vying for short-term resolutions that cost longterm goals their unknown correction seems to be the way of democracy without truly correct ideational amd behavioral leadership.
Abandoned behavioral conventions of the subjective self, ideas you would assume to have been shed, seem to remind an Other of other people experiencing same actions as you when you were less enlightened. This sytem seems to destroy the logic you hold as a subject loyal to correction. Fear as a visceral emotion is suspended as a rendition of a separate body.
It bothers me how, in 2024, the "woke" meme was bastardized as a meme of the hangerson of the "alt-right." Before "woke" meant objectively correct, and alternative right meant the ideals of antisexuality, conservation of behavioral excesses, objectively correct spirituality, etc. How these terms were hijacked will probably result in a backlash promoting their orogonal term, at the expense of the behaviors probable in the stereotypes which use these memes putside of their root.

I was just out of Milwaukee in Corvallis, Oregon, and my mom got me a room 5 miles away in a town called Philomath. I spraypainted up the room a mural on all 4 walls. I staryed smoking pot with someone in an adjacent room, and would play his guitar playing randomly, by chance, hearing song radiating from its hole. Once I was stomping down the hall in a way that felt perfect, and he told me stop, so I did. The mural was hallucinocentric. There was a train conductor on the end of the left wall. I would paint weighted figures that hallucinated bodies would fall into. I would get dizzy spinning around and the ceiling would seem to drop down, me interpreting it as there was a "low ceiling" on the stability of this psychotogenic meditation I was entranced by, and not yet suffering through. Some things were not as taut as I'd like, and my behavior was largely unacceptable for societal coexistance, but I would write and paint in ways that everything was still aligned. There would be deep languid visions that traced my marks. I would play along to Girl's Generation and other music videos to psychotophysical phosphenic traces that would come to synchony. I was insistant on my own reading psychically, while antagonistic bodies in the set would pickup points in my decision process that were contrary to the natural flow of my intent. The contention was probably something extra, not in a normal reading of the music, where my critical faculties enjoyed something,clever altered words, a direct connection of psychosis with the psychic bodies, deep archetypes I would perceive from the videos, which would offer me things as a deal, but it would all eventually break, and I would come to understand the value of being rooted in the top layer of reality. That wpuldmbe years later. I was still invested in exiting reality into something, as it is, relatively, now in rendition of my understanding, that represented something I wasn't grasping. I am having a hard time explaining this, what was going on in subjection as a functional objectivist statement.

Maybe it's more about avoiding the conjugation of revolt in others via your behavior, and that privacy impounds this rule.

I wonder if