Lulu Lunacy

Well. Mike Tyson is a convicted rapist and admitted wife beater and we still think he's the bees knees. I really shouldn't be so surprised about Bill Cosby and how so many people are defending him and scolding & shaming the victims. Which is disgustingly reprehensible btw. And people wonder why women/girls don't say anything. Why say something years later? Because you're backing up someone else. Because your mind won't let it heal. Because it's probably still happening to others. Because it's been living inside you and walking with you for years, eating at your dreams and thoughts and spirit. Fame whores? Really? Famous for homely Bill Cosby raping them? That's something they want to be famous for? Really? After money? Maybe one or two. Long shot. Putting themselves through the embarrassment, stress and ridicule for a little money? These women know the statute of limitations has run out. They know a civil suit is probably out of the question...

Gravity is crushing me. Air is choking me. Earth wants to eat me. Light is stripping me from inside.

I haven't been up long, I have just started catching up on the news and am watching the news conference about the suspected serial killer caught in Indiana; out of seven known women's bodies, and officials sure they'll find more, only one was reported missing. Only one. One. I find that horribly sad. On the same subject; this guy is a registered sex offender. Microchip the fuck out of these sick monsters! YOU CANNOT REHABILITATE A SEX OFFENDER! PERIOD! But mostly, mostly; men need to fucking STOP being told/shown/taught that women are just fucking objects, property, decoration, sex dolls, playthings, LESSER BEINGS! NO OTHER CLASS OF PEOPLE IN. THE. WORLD. is as abused, repressed and violated as much as women. And they are taught it's the right way (religion, culture) and to be proud of it. Bullshit. It is true males and females have different physical strengths and weaknesses, different ways of thinking, feeling, approaching things, etc. But none of those differ...

I was thinking about all this Ebola stuff, and like other people I've talked to, I wondered WHY doctors & nurses would VOLUNTEER to actually go to West Africa and put themselves in pretty rudimentary conditions and surrounded by relentless severe illness and death. I believed that could be about the dumbest thing someone could do besides single handedly try and take on Isis. Then here in the US...WTF are they thinking bringing INFECTED people back here and what nut cases are willing to treat them?! Then I thought about when I had been very ill, and both in and out of the hospital, and when I did and did not have someone watching out for me, taking care of me, making me feel I was safe and in good hands with someone focused on my healing and comfort. I'll take having someone there for me any day over the few times I was alone and probably should have been in the hospital. I won't compare what I had to Ebola, but I have had a virus that I found out after, I should have...

Attention concerned friends: yes, I am mentally ill, no, I will not go on a rampage or spree and stab you, shoot you, run you down in a car, push you in front of a subway, begin taking orders from your dog, eat you, drug you, light you or your property on fire (although; *pretty*), strangle you, poison you, kidnap you, sell you, look through your garbage, steal your under things from the clothes line,  throw poop at you, make you eat boogers while you sleep, alert you to the ghosts in your home only I can see, exchange your salt for sugar or vice versa. I WILL *sometimes* be a pissy pants for no reason, cry, say things that don't make sense and/ or aren't in order, take my meds, be a recluse, not want to talk or text or even comment on FB at times, have pity parties for myself, be morbid, laugh inappropriately, not dress well, have weird interests, weird habits, weird urges to touch things, etc. Hear things you don't, see things you don't, smell things you don't,...

You know what? This writing thing, I'll tell you what, it's weird. I haven't figured it out yet. I don't understand it and sometimes it infuriates me. I wrote my first story, along with illustrations, at 7. It's some weird, strange gravitational pulling (urge) feeling to put pen to paper and make words roll out of the end. Make those words sound pleasing together, to ME, not to some formula or rule or structure. I don't understand this irritating, conflicted desire to both *show* others what I've written and hide the hell out of it, denying even it's existence. I've actually shredded hundreds of pages because of that conflict over the years. The small, short collection I have left must mean something deeper to me. Maybe a little bit of vanity and/or legacy, that maybe one day my family will finally read something and realize I was just a little deeper or intelligent than they had thought. Look at me! No! Don't look! WTF is that shit? Luckily,...

THERE IS STILL SOME TIME. Posted on: 11 August 2014 By: Jamie Tworkowski TWLOHA/Facebook page If you feel too much, there's still a place for you here. If you feel too much, don't go. If this world is too painful, stop and rest. It's okay to stop and rest. If you need a break, it's okay to say you need a break. This life - it's not a contest, not a race, not a performance, not a thing that you win. It's okay to slow down. You are here for more than grades, more than a job, more than a promotion, more than keeping up, more than getting by. This life is not about status or opinion or appearance. You don't have to fake it. You do not have to fake it. Other people feel this way too. If your heart is broken, it's okay to say your heart is broken. If you feel stuck, it's okay to say you feel stuck. If you can't let go, it's okay to say you can't let go. You are not alone in these places. Other people feel how you feel. You ...

You know what? This writing thing, I'll tell you what, it's weird. I haven't figured it out yet. I don't understand it and sometimes it infuriates me. I wrote my first story along with illustrations, at 7. It's some weird, strange gravitational pull feeling to put the pen against the paper and make words roll out of the end. Make those words sound pleasing together, to ME, not to some formula or rule or structure. I don't understand this irritating conflicted urge to both *show* others what I've written and hide the hell out of it, denying even it's existence. I've actually shredded hundreds of pages because of that urge over the years. The small, short collection I have left must mean something deeper to me. Maybe a little bit of vanity and/or legacy, that maybe one day my family will finally read something and realize I was just a little deeper or clever then they had thought. Look at me! No! Don't look! WTF is that shit? Luckily, being on m...

For whatever reason, Facebook altering the "mood" of the Feed or just people picking up on the same theme of a few reposted sayings; I've been seeing so much over the last few weeks about thinking/being positive and being happy is a choice. Believe me you, I tried. I tried so hard for so long. It was like mining, every day I would go to work with my pick and with everything I had, go at that dark, stifling underground of resistant rock with my polished, shining pick, flashing brilliantly in the dust filled muted ray of light struggling down, striking in a dazzling tiny shower of sparks, tiny stars lighting the edge of the black hole lurking beside me, that feeling of what could be hidden just below the surface, something amazing just waiting for the proper angle of my next strike...that never comes. Oh, I get the thin, reedy vein of something momentarily in the right light flashing and promising...it may be a lesser find. It will momentarily fund the repair of my pick or...