Tanganyika Laughter Epidemic. [Journal 6-11-17]

Spice Girls – 2 Become 1.

Upon discovering an odd lump on my back, I reflexively considered the quality of my life thus far – incase the lump was a fatal portent. Roughly half the size of a golf ball, it has no meaningful sensation when prodded, though independently causes odd pain here and there. Could be a insect bite, maybe some odd reaction to my large sunburn, a reaction to a plant, an animal from the shelter, a knotted muscle, ebola. I’ve been working allot this last week, around the house and shelter.

In any case, I liked the life I saw. I was satisfied. Sure, chance saw fit to surround me with shitheads, denying me the life I deserve. But I always, ignorant of their savagery, treated them with the respect due moral people. And while I have my regrets, they are minor. And while I’ve taken actions which negatively impacted others, they’re likely dramatically outweighed by my positive contributions – not to mention the eventual impact of this blog, presuming I live long enough to translate it into Stupid Lunatic.

In the past, I was blissfully distracted by art, dreams, and primitive impulse. I had allot of fucking fun, ignorant of the ever-present horrors. Course, now those horrors are all I see. Which I’m learning to tolerate through metacog. It bothers me though, that while I’m developing tolerance, my perspective on humanity is exponentially degrading. Its nice to finally figure out the chunk of reality related to humanity, though. Hooray.

And on that note, possible lump-related death aside, metacog progresses. I’m gaining access and influence to more central thought patterns. I’m blending previously worked processes into a cohesive whole, and attempting to establish that whole as a constant state of mind. I’ve been working this last week, to facilitate that state’s establishment, and get my body and mind ready for a job.

Due to all that progress, the lump made me depressed for the day. Months ago, I’d have welcomed an illness derived death. Now, as my theories and work prove, as I feel I’m developing tolerance and control, the possibility of random death, amusingly, makes me depressed. Its probably nothing, but it’s mere appearance, at this exact time, reminds me of all the improbable and unimagined bullshit that always seems to arrive just as I’m making some headway in life – while all the braindead lunatics around me just breeze right the fuck through life.

I’m starting to not really care what happens around me, which is for the best given humanity’s condition. More and more, I’m just thinking about controlling my physical, emotional, and mental health; that’s becoming my every moment. All according to plan, I guess. Now to find a job and see if it holds out while constantly tolerating people.

Oh right, and like, remember to try to find people with half a brain. Ya. That’s a possibility. What the fuck is my life. I could have never came into existence. Instead, I’m stuck on a planet full of fucking lunatics that hate me for being sane, in an age where I can’t do a fucking thing about it. A person could die, from the laughter generated by, the gargantuan improbability of how fucked I am. Its almost so funny that I can’t be mad.

Side note, the kidney pain comes and goes, very briefly. But I think that’s due to the high increase in exercise mixing things up, mood swings, and my not having truly recovered from the depression. I still think the majority of their malfunction is psychosomatically generated. Or they’re fucked. 10-to-1, if I die, I’ll have to relive my life. I hope I deserve all this.


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~ by Louis Naughtic on June 11, 2017.

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