Suicides End With You. Militant Police Starts With Us.

We have a great deal to go over, and as previously discussed: you won’t read past a certain word count. Let’s go on a limited content journey together.

Robin Williams committed suicide. If you weren’t aware, good for you. Hope your coma isn’t a recurring issue. The death of a celebrity hardly registers with me. My love has a limited capacity and is currently booked up with people I actually know, empty calories, and drunken gunplay. Depression has become the hot topic on all forms of internet. A barrage of articles discussing the symptoms, signs, and solutions has either confirmed you’re a bad hair day away from a fistful of Valium and your body being found while Joy Division plays on a loop in the distance, or someone you know is.

To continue my theme of writing in a shorter form, I’ll sum up my thoughts. The series of decisions that leads to the eventual choice of suicide is just that: A choice. I’ve picked up on a general belief that suicide is a some sort of possession type experience, where the deceased really wasn’t in control of themselves. I call bullshit. If you’re going to paint that picture, you better be ready to apply the same coat to murder by passion or even murder by way of sadness. At what point do you crossover to out of control? The same logic is given to drug addicts who OD. They suffered from a disease. They know not what they do. Ok, cool. How about the drunk driver who kills a family? Is he given the same pass?

 

A series of decisions led to these pants. The only choice he didn't make was his father knocking up a feral hog.

A series of decisions led to these pants. The only choice he didn’t make was his father knocking up a feral hog.

Depression has been a hitchhiker on my life’s road for many years. I’ve dropped her off here and there but inevitably she’ll show up and I can’t help myself: I pull over. Suicidal thoughts have been with me since pubic hair. I’ve put the gun in my mouth. Here I am, typing a blog. I made a decision. We all have decisions and all of those decisions have emotional weight behind them. Only severely mentally deficient people have never felt the emotional weight of the world on their shoulders. I acknowledge the long term effect of devastating despondency ends with horrible mind tricks, and comparing that to short term spat with life, are different animals. The comparison is not totally unfair. Life is tough and we all have handicaps. Quitting is fine but that doesn’t mean it isn’t selfish.

If you have depression: Make the right decisions for yourself and your loved ones. If you don’t have any loved ones, you do now. I love you.

The other topic that has the nations balls on fire is the situation in Ferguson, MO. I’ll avoid the race issue because race in this country has become too convoluted for anyone to have a level head about it. Until we can all admit our contributions to the current state of affairs, it’s a lost cause. What I’ll focus on is the militarization of the nations police forces.

Here it is: What in the motherfuck did you think would happen to the weapons of war? If you supported the beefing up of military and more specifically the wars we’ve been in, then you are directly to blame. Once enough equipment has been manufactured to outfit an army of outnumbering the known population of India, it has to go somewhere. We can sell it to other countries or we can sell it to local police forces. I mean, I guess we could sell it to rich people but Warren Buffet doesn’t seem to be the type to cruise military vehicles while pointing his LRAD at a group of soulless stockbrokers.

Put your gas mask on, Leo! Buffet's here in his Apache again!

Put your gas mask on, Leo! Buffet’s here in his Apache again!

 

All of our decisions have long term and short term consequences. Think things to the end. Think of the possibilities. Take responsibility for your actions, and be ready to fix them. Learn shit.

 

 

 

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No Flow Whatsoever. Part I

I got a herpes breakout happening on my lip right now and I have a photo shoot tomorrow! Ugh!
I don’t have a photo shoot. LOL. I live in the desert, dumbass. I do have this lip herp thing going on though. 😦

On Monday, while I was doing my rounds around the perimeter of the house, checking for freeloading rabbits around the garden, a 4 ft. Bull Snake caught my eye. Ever since I was bit by a 6 inch baby python in a pet store, back in 97′, I’ve had great trepidation in regards to serpents. Luckily for both of us, he hauled ass in the opposite direction. I was heavily armed and ready for whatever. I followed him, from a good distance, until he made his way into my house. He found an open spot between the siding and the walls. We have a 4 ft snake living with us. Cris named it Bully Wooly. I’m trying to figure out how to adhere a mattress to the roof.

I hadn’t slept much for the past week. I tried every trick in the natural handbook. Such as deep breathing (panic attacks), relaxation techniques (lead to compulsive masturbation), sound machine (Who on earth sleeps better with the sounds of a rainforest? Are there tribesman out there in desperate need of sounds from home? Does Sleep Number now make hammocks from bamboo and the bones of adventurers?), dark room (see relaxation techniques). All in all, it’s been a trying time. Last night, I finally gave into science. I took a Trazodone. Pills and I are not friends. The laundry list of side effects I’ve had read like the fine print of an asbestos factory employee manual. Good news! It worked. I slept. I slept for 13 hours. Thank you, big pharma and depression!

 

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