The earlier post was not to brag, but just to attest that I'm capable of and have, indeed practiced, insanity.  Like all the rest of you.  Whether you admit or not. 

Truth is, denying insanity is the surest way to merit accusation of just that. Everyone knows that everyone has, is, or will be insane at some point by liminal or otherwise protest of the pasteurization process commonly, though quite mis-, characterized as 'adjusting to reality'.  Denying only entitles you to premier membership in the Psychiatry-Is-Big-Cash, Let's-Single-You-Out-And-Declare-You-A-Cow Castaway Club.

Look at it this way:  No one who's ever gone insanely mad beyond the redemption of recall has ever done so like anyone else. Each instance has been the bust-out of an emerging universe unqualifiable fully beyond itself.  Each is comprised of an only self-adventured  world: other-than-self undiscovered, immaculate, pristine.

Psychiatry would have us believe that such are ‘cases’ and are 'classifiable' based on patterns, signatures, commonalities.  Baby diapers!  What is identifiable to psychiatry as a pattern is only the denial (the virtual lamination)  of insanity qua modus operandi.  So then, and only then, they got you when: you're a Deny-er (clearly, to them, a deranged liar).  Then, they pick amongst.  They choose. They discard.  Sometimes you’re lucky and win on passover.  Sometimes they hover over your cuckoo’s nest and you lose. 

And then, just sometimes the Industry needs to unskew the totally-I’m-In-Denial-And-Thus-Worthy inmate population by fetching a soul right out of the blue.  They guess.  They know you admit to insanity and so, to life, are true.  Yet  they incarcerate you anyway.  You may, indeed, be borderline patternable and acquiesce or not.  On the other hand, you may be just simply brilliant, yet winning misfortune’s lottery on that particular day.  Shitty day: I knew I should have stayed in bed. 

Now all I’m wondering is: when’s my lover-savior going to appear (or I appear unto) to spend that otherwise Day of Wrath all day in bed with me?

I’ll probably not be posting any new self-pics publicly for a while – though already taken pics may pop back up, time to time. (Well, hell, who cares anyway, heh? I’m just a guy and kinda scary looking at that – so doing you all a favor.) Got a notion to take some revealing ‘before’ shots now and hopefully more appealing ‘after’ shots in the spring and pair them up in a blog. Meantime, I intend to undertake a regimen of training with a view towards running a marathon in April or May. Need to: a) lose weight, b) strengthen my upper body, c) improve overall flexibility. I will, of course, continue running, trying to nudge up stamina/endurance. But I will let speed just take care of itself.

Yesterday was a bizarre day in so many ways. Among other things, I actually threatened verbally to kill someone. No joking. Some motherfucker tried to cut me off on a heavily trafficked 6-laned road in the early evening. I was in the middle of the three westbound lanes as he tried to squeeze me off and pull ahead of me from the right in order to avoid a parked car in his lane ahead of him. Problem was that if I had braked in order to allow his intrusion into my lane, I risked getting plowed from behind by another car that was tailgating me. And I couldn't move to the left / there was a car there, too.  :I was sandwiched-in.  So instead I sped up in my own lane, prevented his intrusion, and forced him to change lanes somewhere behind me. Fine. But apparently he had a problem with that since he then swung around to the far left lane, wormed his way, passed me up, and then close-cut back into my lane with a hollywood-dramatic (and very dangerous) fishtail just ahead of me before swinging back into the left lane once again.

That did it. Red light just ahead and he stops. I stop next to him and I’m OUT of my vehicle pounding on his passenger side window (just short of enough to crack it), screaming, “You dumb motherfucker, you could have killed me. I could fucking kill you for that.”

Not the end of it.

He pulls through the red light and over to the side of the road, gets out of his truck, and motions for me, with that familiar cuffed-hand egging on motion, to approach him. Approach him? I yell: “You want me to come up to you? You want me to come up to you?  If I step on up to you now, I’m going to kill you.”

He retorts: “I could arrest you,” and reaches towards his waist and in beneath his coat as if, possibly, for a gun ..or badge at least.

“I’d kill you before you could arrest me.” :: blurted. (holy hell, did I really say that? yes… yes…)

Then I watched just long enough to assure myself he wasn’t pulling a gun (didn’t want to get shot in the back) , issued him one last “Fuck you, asshole,” turned around, and got back to my vehicle. And by time I had gotten back into my vehicle, he was back in his truck, too.

Maybe he was a cop. Or a retired cop. Or a wannabe – who knows?

Then the fucker ran another red light to get away from me.

Words. Powerful, dangerous words.