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War Games

So this is a possibility? REALLY? I'll take it. Any day, any time. Anyways, on with the Eternal War Games! The highest stakes. The most real it could be.

This blog was specifically meant to only be oriented around creativity, bizarre items of interest, other unusual things… I had another blog designed to tackle the political foray, I have long since abandoned that post. Why. Why. Well, I had to formulate. Had to dig into that bag of psychotropic wonder and pull out the rabbit. Speak with the little fella and gain as much intell as I possibly could and report what Mr. Rabbit had to say about the otherside, that dank oblivion just beyond human comprehension of what is real and true and concrete. Well, concrete would be the End of Times.

Not the End of the World, an end of times, something to ponder the difference of. Well, Times are a phase, world is existence. Finite and solemn. I’m no prophet, I can read though. I can read propaganda though, I can also read the headlines. What my mind decides as pure conjecture and raw stimulis seperates the two and creates piles of information. I load the piles into cardboard boxes and either submit said data into my grey matter to float around and spark links to other floating thoughts.

Onto the headline.

North Korea wants to lob up a satelite so they can test nuclear missiles, claims they will knock the hell outta whoever stands in their way of reaching celestial heights. Alright, here’s the thing. Let’s say some country, could be any country, blocks the satelite from entering the atmosphere or corrupts the mission, NK gets pissy and investigates the problem. Most likely the country that did it will either brag about it in front of the rest of the world or it’ll be a super power nation that will force blame onto another country. Oh, ouch.

Lest we forget, the alternative to the situation: North Korea gloats about their newly discovered feat and tests atomic weaponry so that they too can brazen their big muscle lumps to the rest of the world; super, another pile of shit everyone gets to worry about. Lets just say ill-man Mah Johngg dongg has a rough day, inferiority complex has been acting up, no pills for that. Only thing to do is release a load, a super payload of dynamic uber-thrust, to dump a massive rock of black, gooey ghostly death! Where? Let’s say America? China? Russia? Who knows how things really go down.

I don’t dount that there are higher powers above the cosmetic faces we see on the news everyday, I don’t doubt that we are all pawns and that what I am saying right now may one day be completely illegal, but I do doubt the storyline these mega-dictatorships pursue. It’s rotten and kinda silly. Like a Grisham bestseller. Let’s just play the fucking game. Fold the cards and let it go, gentleman, it’s just a game. A game that anyone with a keen intellect, some bullets and thermite can even the score with.

Lunacy? Sure.

Heil America.
Enjoy this prison-scum land, we built it together and took the orders.
Take it back or fix it up.
May be too late.

Nicorette and Me and Barry Obama.

Just so there is absolutely NO confusion: I am not Jewish, I don't claim to be or want to be, but this fellow is and is proud to be against B.O., and that has nothing to do with this blog...

I did not vote for Mr. Obama (went with the always stylish Bob Barr for moral reasons), but I will say this however, having an addiction to nicotine or tobacco by products is not as unhealthy as some of our previious presidents’ habits. I was combing the internet for information on Nicorette when I came across a forum where people were talking shit about Obama. “Do we really want a president whos in nicotine withdrawl”..

Time for a reality blast. Our last president was an adrenaline junky, often spent his time inebriated or “coked out” as the kids put it and couldn’t even phrase a complete sentence. “Working hard to putting food on your family”, deserves a double take and a whacky sound effect.

Never mind that, what about ol’ honest Abe, his addiction to fine theatre led to his untimely demise. What about Taft and his affinity for hot water holding devices, he started a trend in the White House that still hasn’t left the building. Damn bathtubs. What about Franklin Delano Roosevelt? He always had a lit up fag in his hand!

Biologically Altered Food

At what point do symmetrical fruits and veggies, or irregular as you see fit, become wholly, totally, disturbingly unsavory? Let's watch the headlines and see... If someone can screw up peanuts, they can screw up these strange oddities aswell.

What? Oh yes, this term applies to food that has been chemically, organically or anatomically re-structered.. Right, just like cosmetic surgery but for Vegans! Only problem is that vegans, if they were smart wouldn’t touch these boomarang shapped honeydew with a ten foot pole.

It is a very exciting time in the scientific world, sure, I’ll warrant that. Technology is a wonderful thing. Advancing on the trecherous terrain in cancer cell treatment and the recent bill proposed by senate to retain everyone’s internet actions for 2 long years, but when ever will the madness end? Certainly not with GRAPPLES! I strolled over to the grocery store today, just picking up a few odds and ends, only to discover Grapples. Mhmm, the American fusion of very stupid words to create a new word. Shamwow. We’ve done it, grape apples, we the human race have taken an awfully obscure taste and again fused it to another distinct shape. Grappline. Grape infused apple wine. That’s next.

I know super detective Adrian Monk form the hit tv show, Monk, is absolutely cheerful about this endeavour but it’s unnatural. Isn’t it?

Unless it never rots and I can use the pyramid shaped watermelons for iconic photo opps in Wal-Mart well then ALRIGHT! otherwise, I’ll pass.

Tag, you’re it…

I wrote this as fast as I could using the most popular tags according to WordPress, and I used most of them. Can you do any better?!

What are we but a whole mess of animals trying to piece together some semblance of art and architecture, in Australia I experienced one of the greatest Autumn seasons I’ve ever had, possibly since I was a baby. I met up with some folks that played in a band that was from Barcelona. They told me about the cold beaches in Berlin, I had no idea there was an ocean in or around Berlin. We went bird hunting since it was my birthday, I’ve done that every year since I can remember. Dress in all black, sometimes black and white and blue and run bw and through the forest or in this case the California landscape. I was only hunting with my cameraphone though and what with all of the camping ordeals I figured Canada was my next location. So I loaded myself up in a canon of a car and shot across the country, picking up stray cats from Chicago and china men searching for the spirit of Christmas. I was obliged to stop at a church, to relieve myself of all of the sins the city clouds had poured over me. The waves of color in that church were outstanding, concerts of cute dancing dogs played all day long in the aisles, it as odd to say the least but in England, North Dakota that’s how they do things. I figured Canada was close enough to Europe that I could justswing by and visit my fall family, the fashionistas who through film festivals every year in Florida, but they weren’t home. They had planted some rather nice flowers which caught my attention, they looked similar to food so I began to eat them. Soon enough it was as if a football game had taken place and all of France with their friends were allowed to trample the flower patch, enough fun for me, I ruined their garden. After that I geotagged german girls and headed out to mark some graffiti dressed in green Halloween outfits. It reminded me of hiking across Hawaii and the holiday home I stayed in to wait for the owners to come back, they were in India and then off to Ireland. Something about those folks and islands, Japan, Italy, Italia. Their kids were great though. All winter we would go from Mexico to New York wearing yellow zookeeper outfits and tripping on White Lightning acid. Vancouver, that’s where the story resumes, not in Texas or Taiwan. I was watching a sunset over the trees and taking pictures of people in deep ravines. It was a remarkable, firecracker time. That’s when I died.

The Forgetting Sky

Nothing could be harder then breaking away from the societal norm...

It was a long night in the middle of a hot summer, a whisper of a breeze brushed against my face. I remember the stars were shining bright between the large storm clouds. The heaviness of the atmosphere was overwhelming and the humidity was penetrating. The ground was still warm from the sun that scorched it from the moment it first rose early in the morning. I was sitting in the middle of a wash; there were desert trees behind me and a small fire at my feet.

Today is the third day of being free from the oppression of responsibilities galore. No more adrenaline storing all day in my veins, itching beneath my skin, waiting to burst through my epidural layers and send me blindly speeding down the street in a car my bank owns, heading towards a house I’ll never own and a stark callousness developing over my psyche. No science to this art. A faulty consciousness led me to this determination of developing the atypical, perfect life. Who did I hear this from? Everyone who went through the same things as I; they reeled me in with tales of insipid lore and backward logic, and like a fool I consented. To own something is to be chained to something. It was heart-wrenching to know that at any minute my life could fall completely apart if I were to make an unwise investment or be robbed or to piss away my money. Everything revolved around money and the stigma of not going with the flow repelled me enough to spend a few years working and serving, eating and praying, living and dying. Always acknowledging the dualities of existence but not truly being compelled to live by them, to feel them, which were okay?

I like when it rains out here. It’s never too heavy, always a light sprinkle as if to refresh my mind. My mind. That’s a funny thing, it seems like I’ve abused it in some way, somehow endangering its possibility to grow and grapevine throughout the world of knowledge. Letting it sit tightly wrapped, fusing to my skull. Shrinking within the primordial gelatinous brain locked inside. Archways and arcades of the most supreme decay, wrought with disease and festering black bubbles clinging to the chords and ganglions. The hemisphere divided by intangible blackness, a corrosion of malaise left to rot over time. Dangerous chemical lesions corroded forever. Out here on the desert plane, I can look out into the fear and unknown of the night and half expect to be attacked by the figments of my spasmodic imagination. The twinkling shining overhead my only friend out here, not that friendship with anything is required for freedom from the mundane, but it helps.

So far out, I’m so long gone. I can fall asleep out here, I can wake up tomorrow and walk another ten or twenty miles until I stop to rest and sleep again. I could do this every day and night until I die and wither away and why not, just let hell come to me, quit fighting the unforeseeable. That is what freedom is all about.

I don’t think I could accomplish or learn anything from this, in all practical scenarios that could and will most likely play out, I am out here to commit suicide, to finally have something I can control. Me, the peasant working man, I chose this because that was all that was left for me to choose. I don’t see how turning back to that life forsaken house of cards would be a possibility. I don’t see why that would matter, to negate the very fact that I am out here in the dirt facing inevitable discovery of a life hereafter. Oh, what the hell. This is the only path. To sleep until the sun arises, and then to walk on and on.

I pass cacti and shrubs, dirt mounds and snake holes and the sun is hotter than hell. I walk through the ditches and come to a mountain range. There are manmade roads nearby, trucks barreling through. Most likely mining operations, someone has to come out here and do the work. My mind trails off to that spot, saying to myself, “I wonder if they’re paid well”. Nasty habit to break, always so concerned about the greenback, and its plural denominations.

Green is something you don’t see much of out in the desert, not inherently speaking. Sure the cactus plants are green, as is the summer grass growing all over, but the proverbial envious forest green, not so much around here. Not anymore since the well has dried and the green is gone. The first battered and broken land, the desert is a place to retreat now, not to grow and prosper in the unluckiest and most unexpected of places. No. This is nature’s mirror, the reflecting sands of sanctum dispersal.

I hike upwards on the mountain, all the while struggling to maintain balanced and level. Continue upwards, all the way to the top. Grab onto the stones and pull, gain leverage against this landmark. Arise over the rampant arid ground and onward toward the pinnacle. The top. Think about peering over and discovering life above the rest, the motivation and dexterity it took to stand there exhausted and yet full of vigor. I can stand at the top, having achieved a small fortune of pride and wealth in sweat and self-gain. I will look forever and sit down, quietly mulling over the direction I will go and then I will walk on.

Rev. Google

To connect and interweave our lives, minds and souls. To build knowledge through curious google searches...

Peculiar. Some of the search engine terms that bring people to this page…  I’d like to expose some incarnate truths about these searches and list the top five most bizarre and odd searches Pseudopsychosis has yet to savor. I will provide an answer if the search is directed as a question, provide information related to the topic and/or will post a link to another site that will have the intended search criteria.

 

And naturally I will use these terms as tags to perpetuate the e-traffic.

1.“suicide and secanols”

First off, seconals or secobarbital are barbiturates that are typically prescribed by physicians to treat short term insomnia and is sometimes used as pre-operation anesthesia. The ruby red knockouts have participated in many suicides or accidental deaths since their creation in Ranbaxy Laboratories Limited. Marilyn Monroe and Jimi Hendrix both took the pills regularly.

To the distressed soul looking up this information I say good luck and Godspeed, it’s not the worst chemically induced death but it would have to be right up on the top of the list. Considering asphyxiation is the primary cause of death when taking the drug in excessive amounts. Judy Garland took ten 100mg capsules, she went to Oz and didn’t come back. I won’t advocate death but if the reader is so heart set on the damn succession of his or hers failures then start off small, experiment with the dope first, work up to killing yourself – you just might talk yourself out of it.

http://www.drugs.com/mtm/seconal-sodium.html

2.”albino crocodile shoes”

What says “ZAZZ” louder and more flamboyant then sparkly sequins? I don’t know and wouldn’t care to know, but for the subtle “ZAZZ” that whispers infidelity, sophistication, and bravado Albino Crocodile Shoes are the way to go.

The elusive and quite shocking looking albino croc is sought after for its creepy but expensive looking hide however it is nearly impossible to find, kill, and tan the hide of the beast due to it’s rarity and need for preservation. This not withstanding, anyone with a credit card and a third mortgage with an adjustable fixed rate income can pick up a snazzy pair of regular crocodile shoes for next to nothing, nothing being a relative term… For a fine pair of Italian made gator loafers it would run anywhere between $700- $2000. Maybe paying off the debt from all of those Vegas nights might be the wiser investment.

http://hansensclothing.com/search.asp?keyword=crocodile&gclid=CIK7r6WWoJgCFRBbagodAzaamA

3. “cocaine how long to destroy nostrils”

With the days of sipping Mariani in a villa on the beach long gone, we must resort to such drastic means as snorting and shooting dope. Shooting is always a terrible scene; the straight to bloodstream administration should always be cautioned due to the highly addictive potential. This goes for the smack users also. However, a slightly slower absorption route of administration to intake blow and dope is snorting, sniffing bumps or insufflations. Any damage to the inside of the nose is because cocaine highly constricts blood vessels – and therefore blood and oxygen/nutrient flow – to that area. The amount of time is relative to how much coke you snort. Going through an eight ball by yourself on a Sunday evening might sound quaint but most likely, no matter how you cut it; your nose will bleed and ache. Then again there’s the withdrawal to distract your attention from the nasal passage nerve damage. Sherlock Holmes did the shit every once in awhile, he was a very respectable fictional character.

4. “undiscloused porn”

What is this even supposed to mean? Firstly, the correct spelling would be Undisclosed. Secondly, how would you undisclose porn? Isn’t it disclosed to begin with…? If it’s published for other’s to view, then it loses the ‘un’ in ‘undisclosed’. Silly. Perhaps what the person was searching for was Voyeuristic pornography, or maybe celebrity nudes. You know how that works, it’s undisclosed because it was leaked. Ah fuck it. You porn lovers, there’s no stopping your incessant fetish love for bad spelling and outlandish topics of desire.

My only wonder is how that search term directed the sleaze to my page? The writing’s so good you’ll have to rub one out…. Yeah.. I don’t know about that.

 

5. “what is pseudopsychosis”

 This wasn’t all that odd, I mostly felt compelled to answer the question. There are two answers. The first is scientific, the second is personal. 

The term ‘Pseudo-psychosis’ is the hysterical belief that causes one to convince himself that there is a temporary or permanant psychosis present in the mind. Suffering hallucinations, panic attacks, loss of reality, and other (typically) psychotropic drug induced side effects. Many psychiatrists and physicians believe that a large percentage of the time, when someone feels that they suffer from psychosis, it is in fact a great delusion the patient has forced onto  themselves. So therein lies the poignant title for the blogging fascist/anarchist. Real name and origin will be left ‘undiscloused’ for reasons of well being. I am a raging hypocrite with a penchant for reading interesting facts aloud to disturb others in the room, a fetish for the inner sanctum – that place in the brain that is subconcious and untouched, and a taste for the archaic. There’s a world outside of reality, it can be accessed through various means of intense meditative-drug use-self abuse and that is what I’m about. The gilded veil.

For people looking for information about atypical psychosis, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Psychosis

Ineptitude: Pharmacy

They all stare so snidely as if the clandestine lab is out in the backseat of my Ford Taurus. Jesus Christ.

It seems as if I encounter the worst strains of walking, talking, and breathing DNA in the medical professions. Whether it’s the Godly doctors at a regional hospital or the guy who thinks he’s a God without the doctorate working part time at Vitamin World.

I walk in through the sliding glass doors, the building is being remodeled. Grocery stores, always with the upkeep. I walk straight across the front of the store, behind the people checking out but in front of the high priced liquor and cigarette cases and on towards the Health and Beauty section which is entirely cleared out, revamped and polished.

I walk towards the pharmacy. Three technicians are in today, one of which doesn’t even appear to be old enough to have the qualifications to work behind the counter. She’s the register attendant, short asian girl with a snotty attitude. There’s a big loaf of a man, looks like a chronic form of gout has spread over his body. His face looks bloated and splotchy as if he has another week to go before he just dies but he told his poor wife how much he loves the job and that he’ll be okay, “It’s just coronary heart failure, honey, I’ll be just fine”. The other superb leg of this veritible intelligence tri-pod stares listlessly into the computer, typing constantly. She looks like she may be from the mid-west, probably Oklahoma. Boring and dull.

“Here to pick up a prescription”

“Nope, just need some cold medicine”

“What brand”

“Sudafed, the nighttime version if you have it”

She walks over the the shelves where nearly sixteen different medications sit spaced apart in four inch divisions. Puzzled she calls over to Bill, you know – the leper, and asks him for help. He bends over, gets down on his knees, stands on a stool, looks all around but cannot seem to find the damn medicine. I chuckle. The asian girl looks at me snidely and asks what it’s for.

“My girlfriend is sick, she has a cold”

“Yeah, but what are her symptoms”

“Occasional headache, sniffly nose, a cough… Its a flu, a cold”

Bill grabs a different brand off of the shelf, “well this would work the same”, I raised my eyebrows, the trap was set.

“What’s going on guys, do you have a problem selling me Sudafed”

They all stare at me, even the cowpoke, inflicting uneasy vibrations. Dante wrote about this kind of place centuries ago. The little snotball says ” Oh is that what you wanted? This is the same thing. This has sudafed in it.”

“Jesus, are they the same price”

“Yeah”

“Well then I’ll go with what ever makes your lives easier”, I pointed at each of them in a fluid motion.

“There’s no need to be upset, sir”

I sigh, “I’m not upset”, I hand her my driver’s license and she goes over to a computer and starts checking my information, she walks over to Bill holding the identification in my direction. I mutter something about Nurse Ratchet. They both stare back and forth between the photograph and me and then she finishes her typing. I’ve printed my name, address, birthdate and finalized the deal with my signature when she hands back my ID. She looks back at Bill who just dialed a phone number and has turned around to conceal his voice. Snotty Lee takes the box of cold pills and puts it snuggly inside of a paper sack with the receipt stapled to it. Bill hangs up and turns back around.

“Have a nice day sir”

“Yeah, have a good one”, I stretch out my neck and look at each one of them.

I walk towards the front, the store manager walks past me. I look back at the pharmacy and see Bill pointing at me. The young manager pivots around and stands still as I continue walking over to the cigarette cases. He stares the whole time as do the abominal trio. One of the employees comes to the desk after the manager stares her down and I purchase a pack of smokes. Gathering by the door are several other higher ups, all dressed in their polite grocer uniforms, glaring at the suspected methamphetamine cook.

I walk past them, quietly laughing and out to the car. My girlfriend’s hacking up a storm when I sit down and hand her over the little paper baggy.

“You’d never believe the nerve of those cock-fosting little pharmacy techs”.

Conciousness Survival

What a lonely little country we all live in, seperated by great lakes and lacking bridges... I don't care...

I am American.. Years ago I accepted the doctrine of living for the moment in all I do. To quantify experiences at a later date (but never expecting that later date to surpass me), to press myself emotionally and physically for the purity of the “experience”. Whether that experience be darting down the street at high speeds, swerving through intersections and avoiding head on collisions or experimenting with highly scheduled and dangerous chemicals. Now, I worry and labor and piss my pants at the sight of a traffic camera. I buy my cold medicine praying to the Western Gods that I will feel better in a few days, so I can return to work to collect my paychecks and pay for substantial things.

Substantial. What the hell is that? Something that is worth Something? I miss living in the moment. The high octane benders fueled with uncomprimised devotion to reckless insecurity, the abandonment of careless morals and the altruistic belief in serenity through nothingness. All that was somehow replaced by bailouts and marketing ploys, Wassila and Kenya, waking up and getting through the day.

I’ve replaced all of my bad habits with worse habits. Despicable habits of needing to know what I’ll be doing the following day. The scrutiny of getting to work early and biding my time in effortless decay.

Clock in. Clock out. Go home. Sleep. Wake up.

The shifts! My God! I live in a state of constant shifts. Everyday having to pay my time somewhere. Be it working, driving or sleeping. A constant annoyance, always on the go; heading nowhere.

What should change? 

It’s come down to this bitter survival technique of scheming through the shifts. Dredging my head out of the pillow and maintaing the same listless stare throughout the day. The tranquilized person I’ve boiled down to within the past year is hardly worth the upkeep. I must be reborn. To rise out of this stagnant Holy Water and come out dirty and raw. The way I used to be and feel. A little less then mental suicide but a little more then schizophrenia. I’ll land down out of the clouds and be me. Again. Fruitless and justified.

Excuse me while I permeate the dark matter.

You know, that stuff inside the Magic 8 balls.

Like a bath.

The Intelligence Circuit

Walking alone at night had always been an issue for me. The feeling of being lonesome in the middle of a street surrounded by perfectly constructed, cookie-cutter houses; the moon shining ominously overhead, the way everything stood still. A totally quiet desolation. Although inhabited during the day, the town and its merry people retired early to bed; before dusk fall, the sun still setting slowly like a gleaming omen of forbidden knowledge.

Deadening terror will creep up my spine, no matter what town I’m in, no matter how surrounded I am by ornate buildings or cardboard cut-out homes. The sulking humidity, chilly wind. It passes along my face in a cloud of white. Like fog but solid, almost astringent. It clings to my clothing and skin, practically leaving a second layer of gelatinous coating. It sticks to me.

I notice the trees aren’t blowing in the wind anymore, a wretched sight of cobwebs sliming over the landscape. The trees were caught like prey. Catching more and more of the thick wind. I also noticed little black beads scratching the ground, they blew through the wind. Some of the objects were caught in tight linings of the now thicker wind. I stuck out my hand, standing still. The breeze was picking up; the web was building over my outstretched arms. Pin-prick terror building, rising up violently in my gut. My very core shattered. Broken. Shaking. I couldn’t bare this awful hallucination. The web stretched wide between my fingers and across my chest and legs. I used my other arm to shield my face, bending my elbow triangularly to protect most of my hair and head. The web still caught to my ear. I could feel the organic skin weighing over me. It was too large, building too fast. The little black beads were all over me. Under much closer inspection I could see the black beads weren’t nearly as small as I had firstly imagined, or perhaps they were growing. They were also living.

They looked foreign; otherworldly, the creatures – as I soon noticed they were- had black skin and long, exquisitely designed wings. Their creator, however dubious as he may be, had invented this abominable fathom of celestial proportions to inspire fear within the hearts of men as it had in me. I recite this terror without disclosing my location, but I feel the unfortunate soul who should happen to find this log already knows that they are in hell. Geographically, however, I am existing for the moment within the confines of Alabaster, Arizona. Cactus and sand blanket the land outside of the town, I was merely passing through on vacation. Having stopped for the evening to get some much needed rest, my plague of insomnia which has afflicted my ability of keeping normal hours was acting up and the spurred notion of a moonlit walk hastened my weary thoughts. I left the motel room after 3:30 in the morning; I saw the people scurrying into their homes but didn’t piece together their brand of warning for what it was. Maybe the walk would help to bring physical fatigue, I regret this notion.

I hardly find the expressive words to detail the hideous reality facing me now. The web quickly formed a cocoon, or rather a network of sticky arcades stretching over the street. The moon barely luminous through the fibrous skin containing the area. I strongly wish to die; this feeling of bondage and suppression of oxygen is filling my bowels with an insurgence of fear. A riot dwells within. To tear apart my mind by means of self-mutilation. I would rather rip out my eyes, claw out my heart and bleed to pitiful ends than to face the grim exhibition of fright that waits further down this pathway to mortal contention.

I know the insect creatures are waiting for me, even as I crouch behind a fibrous pillar. The wind blows their scent, ammonia and ether, I can smell them. I am quite sure they can smell me.

Small infants swarm the ground, squirming on by me. I step on them, as many as I can but it will do no good. I know how this will end. I also understand why those awful people hide in their residences, cowering for necessary reasons. I don’t blame the poor souls; I do question their motives for lodging in this despicable town. What harboring fear of leaving would keep them here?

Crackling sounds. They move over each other, fighting to get somewhere- they’re mounting up over my feet. They hiss and snarl. Stomping them, hearing that squishing annoyance. Oh, God… I have no future; no soul of mine shall remain beyond this evening.

I think there’s a storm overhead. I can hear thunder, loud cracks of indistinguishable sound carrying the volume of electric current. Lightning shooting overhead illuminating the ebony bugs. They shine like lethal gems; those damned aliens. I recognize them now, cicadas; I know this because of how they shed their exoskeletons and leave them littered around my feet. A native roach-like bugger dwelling upon trees and structures during the summer months. I assume this phenomenon of web wind is of their occurrence here, but how is this possible.

Rain drips down through the roof. It stings from the web, acidic as it burns. It leaves chemically formed abrasions on my skin and seers through my clothing. Every bead of the rain through the web stings like outsourced venom. I move around the pillar, the hallways now emitting gaseous fumes. Inhalation of the direct chemical reactions brings about near euphoric feelings accompanied by overwhelming cough and the urge to vomit. Everything smells of bile; my body feels radioactive.

Chattering. I can hear tendril clicking, the sound of formulated conversation. I am not familiar with the dialect yet find it menacing enough to duck into another pillar. Here they come, the monsters! The cicada beasts, marching through the pale corridors. Seven feet tall, emerald spittle drizzling out of their stinking faces. I cannot process this. Their gnarly impressions of grey skeletal appearance, their skin if you could imagine it as such looked of cracked human bones. Perhaps armor created for protection from the rain or abhorrent violence. Six legs, each grotesque and dripping vile sludge, moved about in stammering motions of pounding fists. Marching. The wings hanging on their backs like independent growths reached over their heads and scraped the ceiling. Marching on. The clicked their tendrils. Wildly moving. On and on. I passed out after nearly three hundred had passed.

I wouldn’t call it awakening, but rather coming to, but when it happened they were gone and the sun was rising. My neck stung with infectious pain, as if poisoned. I reached my hand to the back of my head and felt something ghastly. A sharp obtrusion jutting out of my brain, a jagged piece of metallic construction connected to a small wire extended three feet binding to my spine, fused to my skin. I felt along my back, I felt the clamps sewn meticulously into my skin. The metal chords intertwined through my skin. The pain immense, the fear great.

The sun was rising higher. The corridor was melting and I foresaw no way out. I was surrounded, covered with burns, wired and contracted by a metallic device, and terrified. The ceiling melted down over me, collapsing on top of me. I was pinned to the floor. The walls came down as well, fusing the caramelized webbing into the asphalt. Trapped to the ground, my face protruding through the scorched earth, my body mangled.

I could hear the soft sound of birds chirping as daylight came, the sound of casual conversation amongst humanoids later, the small hordes to town folk huddling around me. The fusion of being in solid Earth, the wire tapping into my brain relaying my panic, pain and pleasure stimuli to the alien creatures who had implanted the device onto and inside of me. They were getting their pleasure while the people panicked and I suffered on through the pain. I do not fear them anymore; I negate their loathsome qualities and defy their will to punish the innocence of humanities ignorance.

Fear of Cytotoxic Venom and Vicodin

The pillboxes come freely like the swans of Xanaxdu...

“Can you drive a little faster? I can already feel it…”

“Baby, I don’t know where the fuck the hospital is.”

“Dobson past Pecos, we’ve crossed the building hundreds of times.”

“Okay… Just sit back, hold onto the ice pack and stay calm. If you panic the venom will probably spread faster”

After driving five miles from the house to the hospital, not counting the manic steering manuevers necessary in driving through hospital parking lots, I was dropped off at the Emergency Room entrance. I told her to go park the car, I had called the E.R. on the way and somebody inside there was waiting for me. Walking quickly toward the atutomatic sliding doors, I saw the attendants and nurses making their rounds, unconcerning me – me with my ziploc bag full of ice which was nearly melted, palmed in my right hand, applying direct pressure to the back of my neck. I made eye contact with the man behind the counter and started the addmitance before I was even standing at the desk.

“Scorpion sting to the back of my neck, what do you think?”

“Oh, that sounds painful… What’s your name?”

“F-U-H-R-M-A-N-N. Yeah, U-H-R….M-A-N-N….Alex…”

“Ok.. And you’re birthdate?”

“Ten, Five, Eighty-Nine. No allergies, no booze, no drugs… I’m at my peak…”

“Ok then, do you have an adequate healthcare provider?”

“Yes.”

“Doctor’s name?”

“I don’t know, I don’t go see anyone, I said I was at my peak…”

“Yeah, you did… Alright, about how long ago were you stung?”

“Eh…5 minutes ago…”

“Fifteen minutes ago”, she was made her entrance.

“FIfteen minutes ago”

“Heh, funny how fifteen minutes feels like five minutes when you’re in a hurry”

“Yeah, hilarious… I was a little panicked, I have to admit, but I feel oh so much better filling out paperwork”

“Uh-huh. Well, it’s just one page… Could I see your finger real quick”

“Yeah…. What about anti-biotics or anti-venom. It’s on the back of my neck, the spinal column, cortex, brain? Those words mean anything to you?”

He fit an electric device to my left index finger over the counter, it began buzzing and emitting high pitched siren like sounds. He then began assembling a cheap paper/plastic wrist band with my name, birthdate and GPS tracking number printed on it. I was now in the system. The device began beeping as a red light started blinking on the inside of the mechanism, he removed it and pointed to a room accross the hall. There was a lush, dark green chair sitting in the middle of a small office with an assortment of hugely impressive medical and surgical equiptment affixed to the walls and towering over the chair.

“Take a seat in there, the doctor should be in momentarily. Just try to stay calm”

“I am calm, very calm, you’re just too calm”

I sat down in the chair, an attending doctor came in and sat down across from me in a similarly colored seat. He asked me all of the same questions, filling out his chart. He took my blood pressure, checked my temperature, shone a light in my eyes, asked me to stick out my tongue and instructed me to follow his finger with my eyes. No problems. A male nurse walked into the room, asked how they would be treating the patient. When the doctor didn’t answer the question, he walked out to the hallway and made a phone call….”Yeah, where do you want the scorpion sting? Ok… Hahahaha”. I wondered what was so comical. He walked back in, by know the preliminary tests were over and the doctor was explaining to me what they were looking for: excessive salivation, rapid eye-movement (my vision would blur) and slight muscle tremors. Wonderful stuff, doc. He finished the spiel by stating that it was un-necessary to apply anti-venom or anti-biotic treatment since this wasn’t an intense sting and I hadn’t yet been infected. My question to him was why wait? He said something about timing. Right. He motioned to the half-asleep intern standing in the hallway and said he would take care of me from here on out. After he escorted me to a private hallway with all of the patient rooms divided by cloth and willpower, he left and I hadn’t seen him again.

I did, however, come to speak with three more nurses, or medical specialists, drug peddlers, etc.Each of them took down the same information I had just given out, except for the scanning of my health insurance card which would propmtly be billed – so I was informed. One lady asked what I was doing at the time of the sting.

“Watching television, sitting on a very uncomfotable chair watching t.v. in my living room. I had just scratched my neck, when I moved my hand down moments later I felt a sharp pain. Needles. I know what needles feel like. I stood up and tthrew my shirt to the ground and walked into the bathroom, inspecting my neck awkwardly in the mirror. There was a red dot swelling up. I knew without any implicit evidence that I had been stung. I walked out into the living room, picked up my shirt and shook it out. The fucker landed on the floor and crawled away….Oh, um, probably inch and a half long…Yeah, it feels very strange. I felt mildly feverish before but I think that was just my mind processing the shock… Yes, I like performing my own brand of psychotherapy everyday in the mirror. Pain? Probably two to three… Well, I don’t need the pain meds, the ice pack is working fine, I would like some anti-biotics though… Yeah, ok, that’s what the guy said earlier. Ok, thanks…”

I sat there. A doctor brought me another ice pack and informed me that they would be keeping me for another forty-five minutes, if I still felt okay I could leave with a script for some pain killers and have to meet with a doctor for check-up within a week. I insisted that the meds weren’t necessary but nevertheless, these were doctors of medicine and they make some money out of writing these ’scripts. A nurse brought me two tablets of Sufentanil. Goddamn short acting/lasting analgesics. Curious though how they prescrbied me a bottle of the cadillac of pain killers. Granted not high-strength dope, but a name brand opioid.

Across the small hallway from me was a woman, her drapes were closed but I could hear everything that was happening. She explained to the doctor how severe her pain was, for some reason I don’t think he was buying her scheme:

“I don’t know, like, two nights ago I woke up and my back area was killing me”

“So you went into a private practice urgent care clinic, correct”

“Yeah”, she said it in such a sloppy, apathetic way.

“And that’s where you obtained the vicodin”

“Yeah… I took two tonight… A vicodin and a demerol at eight and another vicodin and demerol at midnight… That’s just a few hours ago, the pain is coming on strong, it just hurts so bad”

“That was four pills, ma’am, not two… Ok, we’re going to get you to take some X-rays. We’ll see what’s bothering you, keep you for a few hours and if the pain gets worse – we’ll see what we can do”

The doctor left then brough a wheelchair back fifteen minutes later, during the last thirty minutes I had been sitting there, the woman had been moaning, saying aloud how much the pain hurt (at first I thought she was talking to herself, but she was actually speaking to her inaffectionate husband who hadn’t made a sound the entire visit) and groaning. She sounded like a faker, trying to con the croaker for some good ‘ol smack. Well, she probably got it. I don’t see why not, she hadn’t broken her character once suffice it to say she hadn’t broken any bones either, which I heard about.

Later I was given my prescription and a handful of informative papers, I signed several documents and was allowed to leave.

I would like to mention how bizarre it feels to be stung, let alone in the neck. It tingles for 2-3 days and feels like venom. Something I truly hadn’t imagined in such a supremely scary way. It’s unbarably uncomfortable to remove the ice pack for more then thirty seconds, the tingly sensation is far to powerful to be taken alone. If you see one, kill the motherfucker, because it doesn’t deserve to live.

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Tags: anti-venom, art, culture, cytotoxic venom, demerol, Doctors, E.R., fakers, Hospital, hydrocodone, ignorance, life, medicine, personal, Pseudopsychosis, random, scorpion sting, thoughts, tingly., vicodin, waiting room, what is pseudopsychosis, writing
Categories : Just Another Hole