I sucked on my shirt, sleepwalked, and ate dog buiscuits every time I gave my dog one. I also ate human...No biggie right? (In case you are an idiot and couldn't tell, I'm kidding.)
I will give y'all a two-fer.
1. I hate almost all boys/men in my life other than myself.
2. I have a habit of writing things on my arm in pen before giving a speech or even talking to somebody about a certain subject.
I'm housebound, it's kind of an OCD thing... and if I break an OCD ritual... I either am frozen in fear, or keep repeating: "IneedtodieIneedtodieIneedtodieIneedtodieIneedtodie" for hours/wanting to die but not having the guts to do it myself. (Please don't judge me...)
Oh yea...and I also pretend I'm recording every time I play WoW or Minecraft... I think I need help.
I used to use emulators, which are technically illegal.
I have a tendency to think aloud, making people think I'm insane.
Also, one time I looked like a huge perv in front of my class. I have absence seizures, which cause me to zone out at random times. In class, this happened right in front of a girl I liked, so it looked like I was checking her out. I then had to explain my problem to the whole class. It was one of the most awkward moments of my life.
I have never been afraid of death. The more time ticks on, the closer I get, the less I bother to think about it. I spent the majority of my childhood thinking about it, since my earliest memories. And I kept thinking about it. And the premise of non-existence grew deeply raveled as a constant contrast to life.
I don't feel like I'll live much longer many days, as though a horizon is approaching. But just like any horizon, it is likely an illusion of my own. We're all made of inconvenient bodies, that are built to fall apart. Being used to their fullest while they can.
I believe chronic pain has caused me to focus on the important things, yet completely lose sight of what actually matters.
I've spent my entire life fighting. Fighting myself, fighting others, fighting systems, always constant conflict. And when presence of the friction becomes absence, I don't really feel like I can live much else. I am disembodied, and apart. Whether literal, or metaphorical, crimson red stains everything in life.
I've spent my entire life thinking. It is a beautiful irony I'm plagued with frequent migraines. Some of them make the right half of my head disappear, and my thoughts scatter, like a line that starts and dissolves into its base parts, disappearing as if never there at all. And I become like a stone. Capable of nothing but being encased in and of itself. I feel the world tilting like I'm on a ship. And when I close my eyes, I see billions of moving sparkles. Is this not, the most visceral experience of self to be capable of? Literally watching your own neural signals scramble in your own field of vision.
My migraines used to incapacitate me. I used to be torn to the ground and separated from the external world. But as time has gone on, maybe they are more mild, maybe I have become used to it, and I still function. Some migraines are painless, and those are strangely the worst. Much of what I have are not symptoms of migraines at all, and they long predate any migraine I ever experienced. I find it funny. That we as a race have such a strong need to label, to define, to search for universal constants. We are all composed of different things. What one person calls a "symptom", another calls "self", "reality." It feels deeply dark and disturbing watching people run away from and try to medicate themselves away. It feels alien.
"Death". I believe that no matter how much we age or what we learn, specks of naivety linger. I want to equate final moments of existence as "peace". I want to believe I'll finally feel a peace I could never quite grasp. "Have I done enough?" "How am I still alive?" "Do I still feel useful to myself?" Yet, I just exist, and keep going. The body and mind are tools for the construct self to change, experience reality and externalize itself. Maybe I am built to fall apart, but until those pieces have long rotted away, I still have use for myself.
My migraine aura is permanent. Sometimes I dislike it, but in the end, it, the migraines, I have done almost all I can and they are a part of me. Like looking through a lens at a grainy world, with fuzzy afterimages, and that becomes reality.
Have I done enough? Do my stories and characters really require an end? Or did they have a fulfilling life living only in my own mind and never finding versions of themselves in the minds of others. And sometimes, I feel as though a "war" has ended, but I am still here. Whether I am free of pain, or lingering just below my threshold for incapacitation, at the maximum of my tolerance for pain. My eyes take in desaturated, cold pictures, and I feel a strange peace, as though I could simply lie down, and stay there forever, wasting away to nothing.
But all cycles renew. I do not believe self is compartmentalized, singular, or stagnant.
I'm a giant pessimist and I lose (or rather keep myself from gaining) many relationships because of it.
Every time I read of or see a great adventure-like media I get very depressed because I start thinking of what happens to the protagonists after it's all over, how boring and dull their lives must seem afterwards. Because for every major hill or rise, there is an equal valley/ fall.
I came to this thread just to gain amusement from other peoples distresses.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
You may want to read my post while you still can, some of them have been randomly disappearing lately *cough*
Quote or reply my post if you expect a response, thanks!
Sire I inquire as I do with most, but do you mean to gloat? For is it truly such a tire to reply to the host with but a simple QUOTE?
1. I hate almost all boys/men in my life other than myself.
2. I have a habit of writing things on my arm in pen before giving a speech or even talking to somebody about a certain subject.
Oh yea...and I also pretend I'm recording every time I play WoW or Minecraft... I think I need help.
I don't feel like I'll live much longer many days, as though a horizon is approaching. But just like any horizon, it is likely an illusion of my own. We're all made of inconvenient bodies, that are built to fall apart. Being used to their fullest while they can.
I believe chronic pain has caused me to focus on the important things, yet completely lose sight of what actually matters.
I've spent my entire life fighting. Fighting myself, fighting others, fighting systems, always constant conflict. And when presence of the friction becomes absence, I don't really feel like I can live much else. I am disembodied, and apart. Whether literal, or metaphorical, crimson red stains everything in life.
I've spent my entire life thinking. It is a beautiful irony I'm plagued with frequent migraines. Some of them make the right half of my head disappear, and my thoughts scatter, like a line that starts and dissolves into its base parts, disappearing as if never there at all. And I become like a stone. Capable of nothing but being encased in and of itself. I feel the world tilting like I'm on a ship. And when I close my eyes, I see billions of moving sparkles. Is this not, the most visceral experience of self to be capable of? Literally watching your own neural signals scramble in your own field of vision.
My migraines used to incapacitate me. I used to be torn to the ground and separated from the external world. But as time has gone on, maybe they are more mild, maybe I have become used to it, and I still function. Some migraines are painless, and those are strangely the worst. Much of what I have are not symptoms of migraines at all, and they long predate any migraine I ever experienced. I find it funny. That we as a race have such a strong need to label, to define, to search for universal constants. We are all composed of different things. What one person calls a "symptom", another calls "self", "reality." It feels deeply dark and disturbing watching people run away from and try to medicate themselves away. It feels alien.
"Death". I believe that no matter how much we age or what we learn, specks of naivety linger. I want to equate final moments of existence as "peace". I want to believe I'll finally feel a peace I could never quite grasp. "Have I done enough?" "How am I still alive?" "Do I still feel useful to myself?" Yet, I just exist, and keep going. The body and mind are tools for the construct self to change, experience reality and externalize itself. Maybe I am built to fall apart, but until those pieces have long rotted away, I still have use for myself.
My migraine aura is permanent. Sometimes I dislike it, but in the end, it, the migraines, I have done almost all I can and they are a part of me. Like looking through a lens at a grainy world, with fuzzy afterimages, and that becomes reality.
Have I done enough? Do my stories and characters really require an end? Or did they have a fulfilling life living only in my own mind and never finding versions of themselves in the minds of others. And sometimes, I feel as though a "war" has ended, but I am still here. Whether I am free of pain, or lingering just below my threshold for incapacitation, at the maximum of my tolerance for pain. My eyes take in desaturated, cold pictures, and I feel a strange peace, as though I could simply lie down, and stay there forever, wasting away to nothing.
But all cycles renew. I do not believe self is compartmentalized, singular, or stagnant.
I exist.
You may want to read my post while you still can, some of them have been randomly disappearing lately *cough*
I'm transgender
I might be bisexual
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Wait, on your profile it says you're female. So did you "switch" to female or were you born female...
Confession: When I was about 8 I looked up porn to see what it was. I was mentally devastated for about a week.
sometimes i like to put warm kraft dinner in my underwear and sing old mcdonald had a farm
I got you all figured out.
Mentally female, still stuck in male body :C