Psychology

Patients with this condition "still have 'insight' - a pivotal word in psychiatric literature, indicating that a patient can still recognize an altered worldview as a sign of illness, not revelation."

^{And exactly how is an altered worldview an illness?}

In a world where creativity is an important part of hope,

why are we defining creativity as an illness?

It's like psychiatric literature is on crack.

I personally like reading it though.

I love reading things I disagree with.

If I understand the other person's perspective,

I can undermine them and destroy it.

Dear Religious America,

By this definition, YOU'RE ALL SCHITZOPHRENIC! So, you believe in a higher being?

Hmm..

What is your proof?

Oh.. Muhammad, Jesus, etc..

And does this being speak to you?

He answers your prayers?!

You obviously need to seek medical attention.

Oh, and if a person feels they are able to define a definite worldview,

then..

Wouldn't this person be holding their own opinion to an almost god-like status?

Which.. technically speaking, would mean that you have a loss of contact with reality.

But,

psychologists define people as "abnormal" all of the time!

This is a bit.. psychotic if you ask me.

Psychosis is a loss of contact with reality, usually including false beliefs about what is taking place or who one is (delusions) and seeing or hearing things that aren't there (hallucinations).

So.. Does "who another one is" also get placed under this definition of delusions?

You are "seeing" symptoms of diseases that aren't there.

You have no real contact with what the reality of the world is if you think there is a definite worldview.

Psychology is Psychotic.

Punny, eh?

I am a bit hypocritical,

sometimes I self-diagnose myself for amusement.

But I self-diagnose everything else too!

Even my cat.

Because I mean, technically,

nothing is normal.


This is kind of like statistics.

Charlie

The guy I can't get over.

The one who I thought was absolutely perfect.

I found him again; well, his friends found me.

His friends like me.

One of his best friends seems to REALLY like me.

Which essentially ruins any chance of me ever getting him back.

Who goes after a girl that your best friend likes?

Therefore,

My castle in the sky doesn't really have the fuel to stand anymore.

Some ounce of fact and reasoning has to hold it up,

I don't have enough creativity to just work from nothing

Maybe I should work on that.

Imagination having a greater power than reality would be a great thing if you have good control on your mind.

But I'm not so sure about the strength I have over my own brain.
(I feel like a made a grammar mistake in my large sentence but I'm too tired to look it over.)



In conclusion,
I'm sad.

That Guy

"Dude.

That guy, You now, the one that's like instant oatmeal.

You add water and heat it up for a bit, and then it's all like bleghhgh.

It's digusting, and goopy, and has no flavor.

It's like Play-doh."

Yeah.

"But sometimes, oatmeal can be good.

But you need to stir it nicely,

and cook it on the stove.

Add some honey to it.

It won't be that play-doh goosh.

You'll need orange juice to wash it down though."

Maybe we should make it into play-doh.

"And like, create a statue with it?

See if it'll dry?"

Yeah, like a big dinosaur. I could make it the centerpiece in my house.

And be like,

Don't be THAT GUY.

"Woah. Yeah. And then it will start molding and falling apart,

and the dinosaur will be like 'WUUHHAHA'

and it'll just be slumping over...

'WUUUUHHHAAAHHA'"

And then I can put a bowl of nice steaming oatmeal with honey beside it,

with a glass of orange juice.

It'll be a nice comparison for people coming in.

"Yeah. Like, to do and not to do.

It'll be like a pepsi commercial thing!

Where the people sample each thing and see how they like it."

YEAH! I could be like, okay..

So you can eat the bowl of nice steaming oatmeal,

or take a bite of this fucking dinosaur

Random guy: "Do you know where I can get some weed?"

"No."

Random guy: "Fuck you."

Sometimes I am really proud of the conversations some people can have with me before even knowing my name. We also talked about pop-rocks, but I'll spare the internet that story.

Random shows in people's houses = WIN

Conversations about oatmeal with the house owner = EPIC WIN



Ode to Soulja Boy

Take that Soulja Boy

Twas the night before Wednesday

Twas the night before Wednesday, when all through the market,

young Roobles built bikes 'til she saw the free parking.

She figured that a walk by the bridge would be swell,

perhaps she would meet some friends there as well.

She aimlessly wandered for quite a long time,

but on her way back, some old friends she did find.

Old Clayton and Jack were also on a stroll,

so Roobles joined them and they took on the cold.

They wandered the bridge and the plot started to twist,

as they briefly discussed their lives in a jist.

The guys were on a mission to meet with a dealer,

to turn their lives into a fuckful of splendor.

(picture of friends omitted because that would be a bad idea)

They wandered on back to a fountain and stalled,

but to Roobles and Sir Jack, the warm water called.

They put hands in the fountain and Clayton did laugh,

for he stated the water was a homeless man's bath.

Another man came over and swaggered along,

then he stopped and discussed how locations were wrong.

The boys all wandered to the car for more safety,

but Roobles stayed wandering for this deal was quite sketchy.

A trade they proposed, am ounce for many papers,

The man said he counted and wrapped them to be safer.

I suddenly recalled an old memory of mine,

where acid was bought but the dealer not kind.

I shared my old memory with those in the car,

and the dealer got shaken and the door went ajar.

"I need to go the the restroom" the dealer announced.

But my friends were not stupid and followed him out.

The man entered a restaurant and my friends stood outside,

but the back door opened and the man essentially flied.

He went over the fence and ran into a steakhouse,

where he hid inside and freaked the customers out.

He ran out through the back and hopped another fence,

and I stood outside laughing when employees were sent.

"Who was that man? He said you would kill him."

I said "I'm a good girl and that's awfully grim."

The employees all agreed and they asked for my number,

but I walked away slowly so I could just go slumber.

But Jack grabbed me and we went to the car,

where we picked up Sir Clayton from a far away bar.

"The man was arrested with the ounce and his tabs.

I hope he gets time, that fake drug-dealing ass."

I simply nodded and asked if I could go back.

"We'll take you wherever you wish" said Clayton and Jack

So I went back to the market and looked for some food,

for my hunger was great and my night far too lude.

When out from the yonder, I spotted a sight.

A stand selling corndogs was up and alight!

I walked to the stand and asked it if was open,

the man said no but I looked halfway frozen!

"Would you like a corndog, a jumbo one maybe?"

I wanted a jumbo and thanked the man graciously.

He gave me the corndog and I handed him cash,

but he waved his hand and gave me a laugh.

The old man stated "You look like Mia Farrow"

"Have this one for free and come back tomorrow!"

My life is fucked.

but I saw a shooting star tonight.

Flying Fucks

Arkansas has proven itself to keep things interesting.

I went on an adventure last night.

First,

Skate Park.

Which is essentially the only place in Benton, Arkansas where things are always popping.

Popping (verb) (Pawp-e-ng) 1) To constantly have action 2) The sound effect of someone getting punched in the face

Both definitions occur.

One of my other friends applied for Tulane. I hope she gets in.

But she only has a 25 on her ACT and has court for battery charges this weekend..

It's times like this that I hope Tulane takes location into consideration.

I was a lucky duck to get out of here with no physical scars or a police record.

So Will took me off with him on an adventure.

Never follow a man into his house when he is the only one home.

I felt like my cat.

He leaped on top of me and started tickling the living shit out of me and refused to stop.

When I tried to crawl away, he would drag me back to him.

Then he kept wrapping himself around me and wouldn't let me go.

He kept putting his face in my neck so I went turtle mode.

He pinned me down to the floor at one point and was looking at my face, so I covered my mouth with my sweater.

I love my skating bro's, but I've been at the park for years.

I know better than to let one kiss me.

So I spoke.

And I contrasted the situation with some little jackass, Little Devin, at the skatepark.

I asked how Will would feel if Little Devin were doing this to him.

Will stopped.

Then we went to Narcotics Anonymous.

I like it there.

Not going into any more depth there.

Then we went to a Kappa Sigma party.

I had two beers,

danced,

and then had an intellectual conversation about:

Latin American policies,

Electrical engineering,

Neuroscience,

Islam,

Psychology,

US politics,

Communism vs. Socialism vs. Capitalism

and

the possible solutions to many circumstances.

I kinda felt bad for Will.

He kept coming outside and looking at me with a hopeless, confused look on his face.

Same with the pretty blonde girl.

I think she was interested in the guy I was talking to.

She'll get him though.

I am no competition.

In the game of love, I sit back and watch.

If I get trapped,

I find strangers that live far distances away from me to crush on.

That way,

I can't get hurt and they won't know nor give a flying fuck.

And now I have a question,

How the hell would a flying fuck work?

Would it take far more muscle mass?

Could you die from the strenuous activity mixed with the small amount of oxygen?

I want to interview a bird.

Olives

I have found heaven in the form of olives.

I will marry an olive, and bear olive-children.

They will be like the little red center of an olive.

Except I won't eat them.

That would be sad.

I tried to show all the olives.

But I dropped one,

and that was far too great of a sacrifice for a picture for nobody.



I need to stop this

Home away, home we go;

but home is gone and I'm alone.

Who are these people, why the noise?

The constant flutter, flirting boys.

You don't want me, leave me be,

Where clutter and the river meet.

The cans will swirl and fish all see,

that this is wrong.

More casualties.

And I am one and you are three.

You will laugh and I will plead.

You don't care, you like this place.

This hateful trash and lack of grace.

I don't belong, I never will.

Society's cure?

A single pill.



The Kids Aren't Alright

Due to my roommate telling sleeping me to turn off my alarm clock one day,

I did.

I was supposed to be studying for Calculus.

I failed the exam,

and now I will be recieving a high C in that class.

Rather than the B+ I was hoping to recieve.

I had an anxiety attack last night.

My roommate got sent to the hospital for barfing all night.

She has a kidney stone.

I'm not sure how to handle this.

I'm being as kind as possible but she keeps doing her normal stabbing comments that cause me to freak a bit.

I told her I had anxiety finally.

She said, "that's cool and all, but I'm in pain and I don't care."

I just wanted her to know.. You know, just in case I have a panic attack in the room.

Talk about a great situation for a pacifist with anxiety.

In good news, I know what is wrong with me.

My entire life, I have been so confused as to why I have these attacks.

These moments where I run away terrified and freak out.

It was worse when I was little. I hallucinated.

I thought I had asthma.

Mom knew.

She just didn't want me to get hooked on Xanax.

I think I have Posttraumatic Stress Disorder.

Causes

The divorce

The stripper

The mental abuse

The early drug exposure

The heartbreak

The deaths

The drugs

drugs

drugs

The modeling

The education

The lack of friends

The rape

The physical abuse

The alternatives

The older sister

and

The disability

I learned something else about myself last night

When I was young, I couldn't speak.

This is one reason why I blame myself for that girl's death.

I mixed everything up.

I thought I was stupid.

I could read chapter books, write poetry, and overall had the reading level of an 8th grader in kindergarten.

I also had juvenile seisures.

During the seisures I was forced to have an MRI, a CAT, and some examination where wires were placed all over my head.

The medical system here is warped.

They found one interesting thing, but never looked into it further.

Apparently, it had nothing to do with my seisures so it didn't matter.

On the left side of my brain,

there was an obstruction.

They never really pushed it further after realizing it wasn't a tumor.

Just,

damage.

My mom made sure she remembered exactly where it was.

The lower part of my frontal lobe.

Right before the temporal lobe.

On the left side.

After researching, I discovered this was Broca's Area.

I had Broca's Aphasia.

The speech therapy didn't come until I was five though.

Until that time,

most people just ignored me and said I had behavioral issues because I got extremely upset when nobody understood me.

They usually didn't understand me.

Dad didn't know the little girl was using my leg to pull her back to the surface of the water,

he just jerked me out.

And she stayed behind.

It wasn't my fault.

It was brain damage,



That Horrible Feeling in Your Gut

I used to be calm.

I used to be sad.

I used to be a poet.

I used to escape to the woods and watch the grass grow.

I used to be satisfied.

NOW

I am wild.

I am happy.

I am still a poet, but nobody knows that.

I am in the city.

And I am completely and utterly devastated.

Why does Kierkegaard always have to be right?

I had what most people would consider to be a good night.

I got very intoxicated, breezed through multiple houses, and kissed a French man who was extremely attractive.

I don't want this.

Last night, so many people recounted situations of me being a drunken hot mess.

They all laughed ad said they loved me.

But that  isn't me.

I'm the little voice in the background, bawling her eyes out because her original plan didn't work.

I didn't get married straight out of high school and start a family.

I diidn't move to the middle of nowhere with this family and own a garden and some hens.

I didn't wake my husband up to eggs cooked in margerine each morning.

I didn't spend my days cleaning and picking flowers in the field.

I just wanted to be loved.

Now I'm loved, but I'm not me.

Utter devastation.

Happy on the outside, but I am spiritually miserable,

I doubt anyone reads this thing anyways so I can just go ahead and say it.

I want to destroy myself.

I hate this girl that I am viewed as now.

I'm the fun party-in-a-box.

I want to have love.

I feel like No-Face in Spirited Away.

Who's going to take me out of this bath house and lead me to the small cottage in the swamp where I can help a nanny knit?

"and not waving, but drowning"

I have bad ideas on sad days

BAD IDEA NUMBER ONE

So first, let me recab you on recent events.

My secret admirer note that I wrote about last time was not very secret.

He thanked me for the note.

According to a witness, my response was precisely "Errggeehaa".

The poor boy fled up eleven flights of stairs to avoid me.

THEN

I pondered my response and decided there are no more fucks to give.

I delivered the note pictured above under this poor boy's door,

along with:

crayons,

a coloring sheet,

and a magazine rip-out of a lady next to donkeys and/or donkies.

Response to this note is still unknown.

In other news:

I was conviced to play Puck in Scene One of A Midsummer's Dream.

I am really hoping I will be able to post the video of this later.

AND

I killed 8 balloons with my teeth and scissors,

have no fucks left to give,

painted my face and body in appreciation of Death Cab for Cutie,

turned a pipette that I broke and melted into a cool shape into my new tea filter,

played with the highway cones,

ate tea on accident,

and created videos and photo documentation.

These will arrive soon.

AFTERMATH

Moral of the story:

What I Remember From Last Night

Part One: Cooter Forest

Me: "Are we driving on a bike path?"

Jordan: "No, we're driving on a sidewalk."

My boots are now soaked in swamp water because the drunkards at the bonfire sent us across a marsh. Determined that we were safe from the swamp wildlife because we were in COOTER forest, technically Couturie Forest, and the only thing we need to beware of is the giant cooter roaming the land. Thankfully, the desperate cooter did not burst from the underbrush and devour us. I'd rather not be stuck inside of a cooter; I prefer gators.

We find the other members of the society.

Whiskey.

Bourbon.

Vodka.

More Bourbon.

Start chasing things with Coors Light.

Wine.

More Vodka.

I remember being impeached of my own name.

We all hopped back into the car and somehow ended up back on campus.

Intermission

I decided it would be a good plan to call my friend Maddy in my state, partially because I had a "great" plan to leave a note under an attractive man's door and I needed her to let me into her building.

Maddy was not home.

I was commanded to run to the streetcar stop.

Part Two: Tour de Franzia

And the madness begins.

Apparently, I made it onto the streetcar.

I recall being told that I was going to be cut-off because I was singing to strangers.

That didn't work that well.

Then we began our adventure.

Do not remember a vast majority of this, but I have pictures.

Do not know what possessed us to drink in front of the Supreme Court of Louisiana.

I ended up on Royal Street. I'm guessing I was trying to stand on my own.

I look possessed. Ironically, the hotel we are standing by is haunted.

Well, atleast that is what Justin said.

I hope he's right.

Then my odd stance would actually be excusable.

I actually recall this. I was in a fountain. Everyone was telling me it was a bad idea.

If I recall things correctly, they were wrong.

I remember a taxi honking very loudly at us.

If I were the taxi, I would honk too.

We were having far too much fun to not be acknowledged.

Things are getting strange.

As a sidenote, I have caution tape and a coke bottle tied to my purse.

It's actually a GREAT idea. If you find pretty rocks and shells, they have a container.

If you need to hold a bottle of some sort, more caution tape to tie up another bottle instead of having to carry it.

It's innovative, not hobo-esque.

 Meet Saxophone Man.

Meet Joe, the street vendor.

 Meet Dustin, the fancy New York guy.

Meet Daphne.

She gave us green jello shots.

That may be why I am in the background making more weird faces.

I am not dead, leading me to believe that strangers on Decauter are trustworthy.

Meet Austin.

I'm very fond of Krystal Burger; however,

I wasn't too fond of this man.

He was rude to my friends and kept telling me I was beautiful.

He called someone white trash.

He's from Austin, Texas.

And to end the night with a bang, I played in a fountain on campus.

Then,

I wrote a note to the guy I like and slid it under his door.

Atleast I managed to get my one goal of the night done.

Ironically, that is the one thing I regret from last night.

I'll post updates.

And in a British accent, this quote comes from this adventure.

"It is not proper to smoke in a tweed jacket. If you are to have a smoking jacket, you should own a nice velvet jacket. That would be quite nice."

Midnight Tea

It's odd how midnight tea always seems to provoke ideas that you would not originally partake in.

For Example:

Suddenly deciding that it would be a good idea to actually post information about yourself in an area you usually use to just creep on everybody else.

I'm not too sure why I've never done this before. It could possibly be a good idea. I could actually be able to befriend the people that I find interesting.

or I could be a target for abuse, just like that poor Aye Aye,

I'm not sure if I'll ever post again now that I think of it.

It's quite scary when you realize that people can actually see into your mind just as much as you can see into theirs. Usually, I assume the worst in these circumstances, and I'm actually pretty soft if you venture close enough to hurt me.

Maybe I just need more tea.