Tag Archives: retarded

Opana (aka pill poppers turning over in their graves)

it's official

Long Island is ghey… Newsday is an antiquated newpaper for the kindergarten set. But Opana is fantastic!

Mangano Warns of New Drug Threat: Opana (newsday.com)

“this is a very serious gateway to drug abuse.” -a retard (or reTard)

Really?! Does anyone in a position of power know anything about anything? Or, maybe… does anyone on Long Island know definitions of things? For example “gateway”.

This is so fuckin’ beyond gateway that it’s retarded.

When are people going to understand that just because it’s a pill doesn’t mean it’s not heroin?

Never.

And today’s teen drop like flies.

The pill-popper of yester-year has officially turned over in their grave. …they’d died long ago. As evidenced in the following:

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“I said no to drugs…

…but they wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

Greg Giraldo is dead.

I’m not a comedian-person so much. I mean, I like funny stuff.

And this guy? I mean, what the fuck? I don’t particularly like him as an artist… not into his ‘style’ of comedy… don’t really feel the roast thing…

I just remember… and this was before everything (before drugs and even generally evident dysfunction… if you could even dig that… generally evident, though (like publicly)… I mean, first signs of disordered consumption manifested the day after I was born)… this one quote.

I think he was on Conan… when Conan was in New York and I was in New York. I thought it clever (the quote and all)… I remember being a very very… very sad bergoning writery individual.

And I thought it was clever.

I had no idea just how pertinently clever until years after, at which point I dismissed it as retarded. …and again, just something a comedian would say. clever, in timing and language but floating in the mire atop any material substance that it could have.

I kind of know nothing about him and I don’t care. And people die all the time. And they die of O.D.‘s all the time, all-the-more.

But I think we take these things with us somehow. I mean, if they hit us at the right time and all.

It was just some version of mild electric-fence-shock that happened when everything in my affect was serendipitously open just enough.

I mean, I don’t even care if he rests in peace (I mean, beyond the fact that I don’t have a concept for “rest in peace”). Like, if I did, I wouldn’t care… if he did.

Just thought that I’d mention it.

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a minor detail

So, I have this minor lingering ‘thing’ (that would probably be addressed if I had ever gone to rehab or NA… but then, this blog wouldn’t exist, atleast in this manifestation, if I had) that plagues me and prevents me, in part, from easily sliding back into the human race.

Like, what the fuck do people do? As leisure and all of that?

The way I see it, this issue has developed and built upon itself in a slightly exponential manner via a few channels.

a. Relative sobriety, for me, meant that I needed to find substitute behaviour. The aforementioned substitute behaviour would have been work. Work for work’s sake. Very ‘meth’, if you will. Meth behaviour without methamphetamine. This, in itself, is very suspect. Though I might add the physical quitting of the actual using of the meth is far and away the largest step in the correct direction. …or atleast, that’s what common sense seems to dictate. And furthermore, I just need to add, I am naturally very inclined toward repetitive, action-oriented meth-like behavior in general. Some might classify this as slight OCD, I might (read: do) classify these people as retarded.

Okay, back to why this is suspect… I began working at a new place, but continued doing things that I’d been doing my entire professional time in Hollywood. …things that I could do with my eyes closed, both-hands tied behind my back …oh, and high on meth and drunk on white wine. For more detail, see: ‘this took a bit more planning…’ And this may seem a bit backward, but I had been doing these Hollywood assistant-type things, at this point for about two years high and drunk. Yeah, there were about two years before that where I wasn’t. But I wasn’t very good, either: shy, learning and really just unaware of everything. And so, I was sincerely afraid that I wouldn’t be able to continue to do these things in the way that I’d finally learned to do them (communicate on the phone, blahblahblah) if I wasn’t. …high and drunk. So, it became a very focused effort to get to work on time and do my job as well as I could. Plus, one thing at a time, man… I mean, I didn’t even know that I’d be able to function in any sort of human capacity in general without the glory of intoxication.

And it may strike a longer sympathetic chord when I remind one of the fact that Hollywood is Hollywood (behind the scenes business-ness or not)… meth makes you skinny with minimal effort. When one’s only expenses are meth and 2 buck chuck… the money that would have gone to food now goes to cute, funky clothing and highlights. And not to digress too much, but the alcohol drops one’s normal filter and heightens one’s warmth and humanity and certain degree of no-holds-barred honesty while meth acts as a strange but directed filter on the ‘normal’ filter that alcohol dropped. Then meth brings forth the stagnant ideas floating around the brain while the alcohol soothes the anxiety that the meth ideas bring forth. It all balances out in a way that, on paper, seems like, “why bother doing any of this?”.

I can’t say anything to this other than “try it”.

So, in the end, I was obviously able to do my job. And because obsession is rooted in fear and I am me… it, like most things, became a highly ritualized no-brainer. But a highly ritualized no-brainer that I lived and died by. I came in early (imagine that) and stayed late. I did nothing else. …well, except for the court-ordered weekly DUI alcohol program that wasted my money and ate my soul for three months. But after this, it was seriously almost three years of nothing but work, weekend hibernation, work… you get it.

Toward the end of my Hollywood tenure, I did become more comfortable in my own skin and thus went out just a bit; slightly dipping a toe here and there back into the land of eating disorders not-otherwise-specified… oh, and drinking half a bottle of white wine a night, after work. All mild stuff (not excusing any of the behaviour)… but it is what it is. I was milder in my self-destruction and older in my time-line. So, as it goes, the intoxication became less absolute, dramatic and spiky… and more the equivilent of a bud light or something absolutely… slow and exquisitely mundane.

…to be continued. (I mean, because you can’t just have an a.) that way).

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lies, lies, lies

…based in truth.

thank you, drive thru. nothing to see here.

*FLASH* …that thing from Men in Black.

 

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The Swinging Moods of Schisty McSchisterton

I don’t know if there is supposed to be a “c” anywhere in that title… but…

…this is bullshit.

I tried it on. I did. but…

the blog (ing) thing…

I just…

it’s just…

….like meth.

But nowhere near as effective or awesomely fuckin’ ahhhhhh….

I think I gave it a chance. A sustained go-around. I don’t know. All of the sudden… it has re-become was it was. Not devolve… it’s not devolution, more… a realization of a freeze… or non-movement.

Or, better, lateral bend and jumps and squats…

I’ve been in the same mundane, retarded place for-ev-er!

Just the blinking lights in front of my face have changed in pattern, swirled a bit differently. so much so that it seems like growth.

Fuck.

Nietzsche would roll over in his grave.

So… game over.

Not that anyone reads this…. cares… or what-the-fuck-ever.

I censor when I need not censor because it’s in ‘public view’. What the fuck is that? That’s the anti- heal.

Information is key. Giving up information makes one weaker and weaker. Or so I abide.

So, I’m just going to get over that whole thing. Because no longer will I write anything that isn’t as accurate as it can be… as me as I’m able to distill.

Writing was my only pure form of expression… language… at certain points in life. And now I rape it with metaphysics… too many layers… too much. Rape it hard… so hard and so frequently that I feel that it’s okay and, more than okay… normal.

There’s something wrong with that.

I am doomed to continue this pattern of lateral mundanity.

Lets make the same mistakes over and over kiko!!!

Fuck that!

Later proverbial skater as the folks at 23rd street hang their hats.

 

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