What would you do if you woke up, you're nearly 47, life has passed you by...and you've failed it?

Well, I dunno either, but it IS today's reality.

I am screwed. The month's not nearly done and I already owe 1,500 to my credit card already. And the tally will get higher, bc I need to buy me some fucking meds.

My billionaire friend, the one I work for, doesn't give a shit. My lawyer friend does not, either.

I can't even help my BF...because I'm a fucking failure.

He did even hate the drawing I was trying to get done for him...

i'm a fucking failure. I've failed arte, I quit midway the hole course. Got flunked. Eh, screw that, anyway...

But I earn less than 5K/dollars a year.

I'm stuck, I can'r draw NOR write anymore...

That drawing, that Yule hated, thar wa rhee last nail on my so-called "artistic" career. He hated it, and criticezef itso harshky, I feel no fucking drive to try and draw, ever again.

I'm an international fcuking failure,,,,

The longer I live, the less I understand life, it seems...

Last week, I was officially dumped as a best friend of someone I knew - or thought I knew - for nearly 30 years. I swear it was one of the most painful experiences I've ever had...and possibly, the worst disappointment in my life. Aguy I was friends with since high school, he dumped me, threw me in the trash...for reasons I'll probably die without knowing.

Even though, this so-called "friend" of mine could've just decided to break up as friends...because I'm bisexual. Yes, he's a hardcore homophobe, and an obnoxious one at that...I think he removed me as "friends" because he thought I might give "the gay" to his offspring...or just because he's plainly ignorant...I'll never know, for he refuses to tell me.

This hurts. It hurt more than any other type of disappointment I've ever had. A guy I loved as a brother, he...just decides to terminate our friendship, like that...I feel like I've lost not just a friend, but a good portion of my will to live is gone as well...

Yet I must press on, somehow...continue, despite all this life's misgivings. But the struggle becomes harder and harder, specially when you're almost out of friends...or even willing to trust anyone, ever again, like I did, with my now "defunct" friend.

Oh well. Life goes on. Unfortunately.

There's one thing I miss about the year 2011, a dark year that shall live in infamy for several personal reasons, but -- back then, I was still drawing, still gave art lessons to a kid that turned out to be my best friend. I've had to stop teaching to try to pursue a better financial career, but that ended up to be just a waste of time.

But yeah, from 2004 to 2011, I acted up as an art teacher of sorts, and it was fun because I was also learning as I went.

I look around the artwork here and I like it, specially to follow artists here and see they evolve. It's truly a pleasure. Some of them though, looks like they could use some help, so to speak. Not trying to be demeaning of anyone's work, but help is always welcome...I mean, if it comes from a constructive point.

There's nothing worse to me than being too harsh against an aspiring artist's work -- I've seen some promising artists just give up because of criticism...and while some people say it builds character, I don't see it like that. I was subjected to this type of harsh treatment when I was very young, and it really haunted me, and it still haunts me to this day...

But that doesn't really matter...I wanted to tell others that if you're an artist, you draw your stuff, you can help others and be helped at the same time, if you know how to give thoughtful, constructive criticism. Also, listen to others from time to time, but do not lose your own way -- the style, the "art signature" will come in time, if you persist.

Well, I'd really like to add some art of my own here, but I'm still stuck inside an artist's block that has been around for 10 years, now.

But I say, if you can, try teaching as well, even if it is between friends scribbling together, it can be a really powerful tool of self-improvement.

Anyway, what am I saying? Eh, I dunno. Just writing random thoughts, to keep me sane here at this dead-end job of mine...But yeah, go forth, create, teach, draw -- collaborate with each other. You'll be very pleased...

Well, I'm outta here for now. Peace...

Well, I suppose writing off journals here, while not really popular, might be a good outlet for me. I've been told I was creative before, and...well, I agree, to a degree.

To me, it's more a question of just spit out what's cooking inside my head, all the time...and sometimes, some interesting things pop out...I mean, there are times where I stare at something I wrote or drawn and it just hits me as, "Did I really write/draw this??"

Not that I've done anything so memorable or out-of-this-world in quality. But sometimes, my stack of old, old drawings holds some surprise...I just wished I've had more motivation to yield more results.

That's why I smile when I browse this very site, seeing all the young artists here, it's very satisfying to see they evolve and flourish. In all of my shyness, I try my best to encourage them on keep working...

I really hope all the artists here find their way, even if it's not a professional venue, but just as an active outlet to just empty the excessive creativeness.

And as of today, I really wish your muses shine upon you, my fellow artists...go forth and create!

Yes...I'm here, I'm still alive...even though some days it just feels as if I wasn't living at all. Routine, boredom. A job that adds less than staring at paint drying.

Eh. I suppose it's life, how it comes. Strange, at times. I've been refraining to write here because I was suffering another bout of depression, and I know how it just annoys the hell out of almost everyone who doesn't have it (you're all lucky, all of you!)

It's strange because I was wondering on how..lonely one can get. 44 years of age, 27 as a furry. No furry friends. None. I just don't get what is wrong with me. All these 27 years as a part of the community...a silent, recluse part, it seems.

I've been to dozens of libraries, archives, a whole variety of furry websites all along the way, and...I felt so strange, so alien, in a time I was still fighting my own bisexuality demons, I just couldn't reach out to anyone...and I feel sad about it. No wonder. It's just like going to college and never meeting anyone at all.

Well, real life and the so-called "normie" friends are mostly gone too. And some even forsook me, for being bi. Well, it really showed me how bitter life can be, sometimes, for sometimes people will leave you. And it goes well with my favorite Nietzsche quote.

And now...I am left alone, mostly. Feels horrible, at days. And I just wanted to connect, make friends with someone from the furry community. Ironically, I...just don't know how. Silly and stupid, for a grown-ass man. Not too much, when the man is autisticand depressed, with the self-esteem lower than worms.

Ijust hope one day I'd be able to master myself and not seem so helpless and shy. But I've always been this way...and old dogs normally don't learn new tricks, eh?

Well...I'll keep trying and imagining a way...I feel like I've got a lot to share, and since my old friends are mostly gone, I really need to find an outlet or I'll go crazy...

And I really wished to be friends with a lot of people here, so much talent, and so much common interests...so many stories to tell...

Well, I know that nobody will read this, so I'll just finish this soliloquy here. Gotta keep on searching, gotta keep on walking...

Well, nothing much to say here, even more because I'm just like those old-school bloggers, who still post stuff nobody will ever read. Eh, I s'pose it's a'ight anyway. Wow, dating a Alabaman person can get you that accent even on your writings...Heh, I don't mind though...I like their accent. And being a non-American native myself, I *know* I got my own dose of heavy accent myself. It's all good.

I am still thinking...how life can be tricky for someone like me...Chronically, severely depressed, taking a med that can kill me if I eat the wrong kind of food...Diagnosed as an autistic at the tender age of 40, I am an Asperger's illustrated reference book. And now, I've found out that I also got Atelophobia, a word that not too many people are familiar with...but that pretty much illustrates why my creative force has been drained, exhausted, extinguished...and it also illustrates why, I have the "very cool" record of 6 attempted suicides, 6 failures, and the idea every so often still permeates my mind...

I fought against myself all these years...even for being a Furry, and a lonely one, because down here in this well-undeveloped country of mine, if you say that you're bisexual(like I am) you can get fired. Imagine saying you're a Furry, which sometimes is way less understood out there in almost *every* known country on this planet?

Well, it's been a lonely but sure ride, from 1997 to here. Over 20 years ago. Heh. I had to connect to the first known Furry places on the internet via dial-up, I recorded images and texts on floppy disks, while listening to music on cassette tapes...Yup, I'm old. Ehehehehehe. Sometimes it bothers me, but not tonight, though...what bothers me is that this long ride has been deprived of any true, not awkward friendships...like I've said somewhere here before, most of the times I've tried to make contact with another Furry throughout this years, I found just...well, not too kind ones.

Anyway, life goes on, and so we go on, round and round, almost 42 now, this has been a looong, lonely ride....

They told me once, a long time ago, "Life begins at forty." and I always thought it was BS.

Little did I know, for my life feels like it's begging right now, at this point of my life that I'm about to hit 41. And it happened in the most unusual way...just when I was determined to end it all by my own means. I was determined to kill myself, and had a plan. All I needed was the final piece, a double-barreled shotgun.

Luckily for me, there was some sort of...intervention, I guess. Like The Black Crowes' song says, "Sometimes, salvation / In the eye of the storm" - and that was true for me.

I'm an eventual user of the app Whisper, and posted a "suicide note" online...the next day, someone tried to talk me out of it.

That person, that...angel...became my boyfriend.

He saved me...and is continuously helping me...to begin to live. I knew there was a reason I've chosen a phoenix to go along with my dragons tattooed on my body. I am reborn from the ashes.

It's very bizarre how much your life can change from one day to another. My life is a mess, yet...but now I look to the future with hope, instead of being lost on a dark, damp and silent tunnel, leading nowhere.

To all the loners and depressed and suicidals out there...Wait another day...Seek out for help...don't keep it to yourselves.

The life that you're thinking about ending, no matter how terrible it might be, could be just your caterpillar form. If you feel trapped, you might be in a cocoon stage....

Wait another day. Be patient. Your REAL life might be just needing 24 hour to begin.

Peace, brothers and sisters. I'm out for tonight.

I would like to be dead right now. No kidding, I would. After 21 years following this fandom, all I collected was porn...and disappointment. Ever heard of a nifty smartphone called Whisper. There's a furry section there. I was able to talk to a lot of...people, if you will. And most of them despise old-timers such as myself. And here I thought, absent-minded, that they would appreciate what an old fag like me had to offer, at least the stories, at least how two "major webcomics" like "PVP" and "Penny Arcade" got in a crusade against us, furs - for no reason at all. I was there. I saw it all.

Alas, I was wrong. They despised me. A few of them tried to FP with me, in which I suck. As a literal term, not the "sexual" one. I got my heart broken, tried to kill myself once again, failed again.

A true friend of mine in the community, whic shall remain Anonymous, said I should hide my age. But what's the point in that? All I wanted was to show that still there are a lot of old timers around here - YOU KNOW WHO am I talking about, even though you hide behind fake ages.

I don't. And that was my downfall, because some of you furs can be REAL assholes. Don't worry, time will tell. One day you'll wake up as old as I am, and...just start lying about your age. I know at least some that are as old as I am, if not older.

Well, it's disappointing to me. All these years around, and ONE true friend here.

Maybe I'm to blame. I'm the asshole. I dunno.

All I know is that it feels bad.

I wish.
I wish I was normal.
Neurotypical, like some say.
Normal. Human.
Regular.
I wish.

Once I said that
in the classroom
to the delight of the bullies,
and to add to my embarrassment,
my eternal awkwardness,
my abnormality.

I said, "I wish I was normal."
I'm not. I'll never be normal.
I see things, hear things,
that others do not.

Normal people.

And now, I'm just
a middle-aged freak,
borderline autistic,
Asperger's fuck and
depressed.

Fuck me.
I can't look at their eyes,
I can't talk to no one else,
for everyone else has left.
The normies, they care not.
They are full of real problems,
Families. Daughters. Sons.
Real jobs, real responsibilities,
while I have
nothing.

Not nothing, no.
A lot of shit.
a ton of drawing materials,
I don't draw anymore.
A shitload of musical instruments,
I barely play anymore.

I'm alone, I'll always be alone,
Trapped inside a world of my own,
so pure, so ideal, so
naive.

While others do normal things,
I do nothing at all.
Nothing normal.

I'm nothing to everyone,
I'm just there,
a curiosity,
a freak show,
someone that may look
interesting, or
intelligent,
but I'm not.

I'm not.
I'm 40, and I have
achieved fucking nothing,
I got no house, no condo,
no car, no savings,
nothing.

I am nothing.
40 years of sheer loneliness,
has produced a ruined man,
a 40-year old baby,
a fucking drama queen,
who's also queer.

Freak, I am.
I'm fucking dumb.
I'm a fucking idiot,
rotting alone with the dust
and the spiders, surrounded by
dragons, that has become my
only friends sometimes.

My real friends, I know they like me,
but they can't help me, no.
No one can.

For 40 years I hated
the 12th of June,
While everyone's hooking up,
celebrating with their
Special Ones,
I was once again reminded
of how lonely I am.
how lonely I'll ever be,
forever and ever, amen.

Everyone who dared to
try to enter my heart,
got so tired of my mental
instability, they left
in a hurry,
no strings attached,
no one remained.

I just wish I was normal,
but I'm nothing but.
I'm depressed, Aspie
and deranged, in even stranger ways.

I can't look at no one in the eye,
I can't understand subtle signs,
I'm awkward and strange,
very strange,
I scare everyone
around me,
no one will even sit beside me
in a fucking bus.

I'm told I got value,
but I do not. I know this,
because I'm fucking 40,
and I'm stuck on a dead-end
job, a dead-end life,
nobody but my mom,
my sisters,
care for me.
For real, but sometimes,
it feels like I'm just a burden,
a fucking leech,
living on my parents' money,
my parents' house,
everything my father achieved
I could _never_ do likewise.
I can't do shit.
Got no marketable skills,
all I got is a pile of regrets,
while i live on the past,
because I've got no future.
I see no future,
just being alive hurts,
my present is absent,
the days go by, I'm getting older,
colder.
I'm giving up hope,
because everytime there's
a glimpse of something,
anything better that may
happen, it doesn't.
It doesn't. Never.
I try to talk it out
reach out to friends online,
they ignore me,
and I can't really blame them.
"Just another rant
from the drama queen man."
And I know, I swear I do,
everyone's got troubles,
everyone's lives are sometimes
even harder than mine.
I know my life’s not
That bad, not at all.
But I also swear,
Despite knowing all
Of that, there’s something
Broken inside
That keeps me from
Wrapping my defective brain
Around it, I swear.
I know it is not that bad,
But my mind just won’t let go
Just won’t function normally,
I’m an abnormality,
A monster,
Walking alone,
Unable to maintain eye contact,
Unable to properly
Communicate, unable to relate,
A failure, a fucking failure,
I’ve got everything to succeed,
But I keep on failing
Nonetheless.
I just wish I had a shotgun,
One small pressure on a trigger,
Blam, I’d be gone.
Gone.
And you, normal people
Would have one less
Freak to bother you,
Endless whining, endless bitching,
He’s got all –
He’s handsome
(So beautiful, I scare
Everyone on the streets,
beauty is skin deep, my friends,
The inside’s all rotten)
He’s got talent
(what talent? To do nothing?)
He’s so gifted,
And yet
He whines
And bitches
And moan
About everything
Yes. I got it all, eh?
And where did it lead me?
40 wasted years.
40 lonely wasted years,
I got it all, except a proper way
To kill myself.
And I tried, for three times
I tried, and failed.
I suck even on killing myself,
What a fucking joke.
I’m tired.
I’m tired of this endless
Fruitless battle,
All the worthless advice
And scolds,
All the drugs in the world,
I’ve tried it all,
All types of treatment,
Except for electric shock,
Or a frontal lobotomy.
I’m on antidepressants, the strongest
Of them all, one so dangerous,
I had to read an article about
How my diet might kill me,
If I ingest the wrong types of food.
Parnate, Parnate it is,
Can’t eat cheese
Nor pizza, nor bacon,
Nor beer, nor wine,
I don’t care, I said,
As long as it works.
It seemed to have worked, at
First glance, but no, it did not.
It didn’t solve Asperger’s –
That can’t be fixed.
And it’s the thing that hinders me
The most. This fucking nearly-autistic
Permanent state of mind.
Increase the dose, it got me
With a limp dick, it got me also
Sterile, to boost,
It got me sleepless, so I had to take other pills
That gave me terrible nightmares,
The most horrible ones I’ve ever had,
I was afraid of sleeping for a week,
So, they got me another one, plus this other one,
That made as fat as a fucking pig,
It is an endless struggle
Against
Myself.
I’m tired,
So very tired.
Life seems a void,
I can’t relate to anyone,
Everyone has deserted me,
Or I pushed them away,
Because I’m aware that I may
Be too much of a drag
Unto others, and I don’t want
That. I just want it to end.
I feel like I can’t take it anymore,
I feel like I’m not even human anymore,
I can’t get into any relationship,
Because I know I’m just
This sad, middle-aged fucking
Loser, with nothing to give,
Nothing to offer,
And I fall in love rather too easily,
And for the wrong kind of people,
And then – the following heartbreak
Ache, added to my permanent depressive state,
It just hurts too much,
Too damn much.
Because everyone leaves, once they see,
What a trainwreck I am,
A long, slow, moving accident,
Just waiting to happen.
Everyone leaves.
And I’m left with less than nothing,
Like someone sprinkled salt all over
My pre-existing wounds,
And I’m left alone,
To deal with it,
Alone.
No one listens, no one cares,
“He’s having another
Drama queen moment, what a bore.”
And no one understands
Why I cannot create anything anymore.
Why I cannot write anything anymore,
But these feeble cries for help,
That will be also ignored,
And then one day,
They will find me dead,
By my own hands, somehow,
And will ask
“But why? He had it all!”
No.
I had nothing.
I have nothing.
Not even someone that will
Read this and take me
Seriously.
That’s
All
I got.

Someone once told me that when you'd hit rock bottom, you would bounce to the top.

Nope.

You hit the ground and shatter like a porcelain vase. That's when you realize you don't have much options left.

Sometimes, an asshole sees you like that, and throw you a shovel. Dig deeper, motherfucker. Find a new low.

After 26 years of trying to treat my chronic depression, I'm tired. I'm tired of living like this. I repel everyone, and everytime I try to approach someone, I screw it up, and I'm back to zero. Year after year. I am convinced it'll never get better. Specially when you're an old fuck like me.

I'm drowning in debt, I got no friends, I have a shitty dead-end job, I got no car, no savings, I'm living in my parents' house...

I got no future.

So why keep on living? I'm fucking nothing. I'm such a gigantic loser, plus I'm fucking autistic. Yeah, I made it to 40, something I am somehow wondering exactly how it happened. But it just adds to my own personal shame, you know. Being a no-life idiot burns me. And everytime I try to do something out of my so-called "comfort zone", I'm met with failure.

Three times I almost died in my life - once from swallowing 80 2mg Clonazepan pills. Didn't work. I just got all memories from that day erased from my memory somehow. And then, I OD'd on cocaine later - I thought my heart would explode and stop. Unfortunately, it wasn't enough to kill me. So, I tried a third time, swallowing around 100 Pamelor 75 mg pills. I should've died, I checked it before I tried. The same memory erasing that happened with Clonazepan took place again, but according to my mother, I passed out and came back after two minutes. I don't recall a damn thing, but she says I told her how I went to a place filled with dead, ghouly people and...my grandmother came after me and brought me back.

I resent her for that, even if it was a fucking illusion produced by my excessive drug consumption. I was supposed to have died. And yet, for a third time, that was denied to me. I'm sick of chemicals. I am checking where I could purchase(ilegally, of course) a double-barreled shotgun and two shells.

That's all I need. Bit down on both barrels and press the trigger, Kurt Cobain's style. Bang, bang, I'm dead.

For there are winners and losers on this world. I'm a natural born loser. Like father, like son, I suppose. The omega of the omega, that's who I am. I'm sick of trying to fix what can't be fixed. I'm very, very, very, tired of myself. I really hate what I am and the pile of shit I represent.

It's safe to say that almost nobody will miss this imbecile. Just my family and the two friends that haven't given up on me. But me being dead will not affect their lives that much. I suspect they will be better off without me to pester them. My family will not need to waste money on the fucking retarded idiot I am.

Besides that, nobody will even notice I'm gone.

Life ends with a bang.

I was born on the desert, september, 17 of '77...

Not unlike Josh Homme, I am getting old. Yes, as old as punk rock; not as old as Iggy Pop, though.

And even though people around me confuse me for a mid-20s guy, I'm not. It's funny though, people ask me what is my secret for looking young at this age....

I don't know. Maybe it's the fact that I haven't really lived...yet here I stand, as a historian of this community. I've been around since 1997, and I have seen a lot.

Unfortunately, just like the desert I was born, so is my life, with a lot of past mirages to tempt me and a few solid and withstanding oasis. These are very precious to me. For they have seen me for what I am, which is somewhat of a grand loser, and yet haven't thrown me away.

But it's...a bit maddening, to be honest. To reach this age and realize that you haven't accomplished almost nothing of real value throughout your life. To discover that you ARE fucking autistic, now clynically diagnosed. That was one helluva b-day gift, life. Thanks for that. (And yes, it's true. Ask my psychologist and she'll confirm)

I'm moving forward yet if feels backwards. Because I'm running out of time. 40 years is nearly half a century. And yet I haven't found a true purpose for myself. Sometimes I feel like I exist as a ghost...like I have already died. Or even worse, that I'm like a leech of society, the unproductive member, a parasite. Existing as a waste of space.

Try to live with your brain telling you these things on a daily basis. That's my life in a nutshell. The struggle to ignore such thoughts.

I'm under treatment, yes. If anyone who knows this kinda drugs, the so-called meds, it's me, myself and I. Lately, I'm taking Parnate, which is a kinda funny drug; it can literally kill me if I consume certain foods, including cheese, bacon, beer, wine, and some other delicacies, like ham. Vegans really should try this drug - if they step out of line, they will have a stroke and die, or survive as a fucking vegetable, which is the vegans' ultimate dream, innit? Ehehehehe, okay, I'll leave you guys alone. To each their own, I say.

But I'm not kidding about Parnate. Before I even started the treatment, the doctor handed me a scary article about how deadly it can be, and gave me a week to think about accepting the treatment, for the level of commitment to my diet had to be severe.

That was basically, a last-resource treatment. Anything stronger than this? Yeah. Shock therapy. Never had to go there yet, thankfully. But I accepted the parnate, and had to gave up on a lot of nice foods...for a mind-regulator heavy drug. Ah, another fun fact: it deprives your sleep forever. You can only sleep drug-induced sleep...and those are like comas - you close your eyes and dreamlessly you woke up as if no time had passed at all.

Well, next weekend I'll be turning 40, officially. A lot of people focus on the money or the position they haven't earned in life, but not me. That is not my ultimate regret.

I miss the person I still haven't met in my life.

And so it is, since 19 from 77; hey kids, look at me. Don't be like me.

Another year, another tear.

That's what I had in mind by new year's eve. I decided not to join any kind of celebration that day. I had nothing to celebrate, at all. Yeah, what a downer. That's why I took this decision. After all, 2014 was, if not the worst year of my life, definitely it goes into the top 5 worst years. It topped 1993, for sure, the year who marked the downfall of my family. My father went into his so-called "midlife crisis" that year, and we're still paying for it, 21 years ago, now 22. It's a whole lifetime for a person until they're old enough to drink, at least in the US of A, which is - not - where I came from. And they lie, oh hoe they lie, that someday your life's gonna improve. No, it isn't going to improve. We decay. I'm 38 years old now, and by now I can already feel the weight of the years on my back.
My depression, which seemed to be resolvedby this new medication I'm on - Parnate - is back again. The euphoria I felt on the first two weeks I took this thing, faded away. I thought it was related to my weed smoking, so I gave that up. Didn't help. I've been stone sober for a month now, and yet I feel miserable. I have no drive at all. I don't want to do anything, but remain here, away from all these people, all the people, even my few friends and family.

I 've always knew I was a misanthrope, but it has evolved, into a word that isn't even on dictionaries, but I claim as my neologism: misanthrophobia. I can't be around people anymore, no matter if I'm at a mall, or simply walking on a street downtown. I feel the urge to flee, to be here, in my so-called loft that I am very grateful to have all for myself.

But, just like a tumblr comment I saw the other day, even though i like being alone, I don't fancy loneliness, as weird as it may sound. My whole life, I was expecting to find someone at this age. Not only that, I wish I had my shit figured out by now too, back 20 or so years ago. I thought I'd have it all sorted out by now.

I'm almost 40. Middle age. Midlife crisis, if you will, is tearing me apart. And even though I do believe in a superior power, some deity ruling us...even that notion is crumbling apart by now. If there is some sort of god watching us, that's all he/she/it does - it gets its laughs off our misfortunes. We're a bad game os Sims, to this force. That's what I tend to believe.

Most people don't smoke tobbacco nowadays, because they know it's bad for the body. That's exactly why I took on smoking by the age of 37. To shorten my time on this hell-hole. And yes, I often think about suicide, but I don't want to cause that sort of pain on my sisters and my mom. Myfather and brother, they can go fuck themselves. I don't care about neither one of them.

I wished I had something to live for...but these days, the only thing I look forward to is receiving all the shit I purchased on eBay last year, which generally takes a month or more to arrive at my country. How sad is that?

I gave up on the idea of finding a mate, because I feel there's only two things to expect from a relationship with a guy like me: either he'd leave, because I'm moody and broke, and can't stand even to go to a bar, or I'd make his life so miserable, being myself, that he'd leave.

I am nobody. Living in an attic, with only my imaginary pet dragon as a friend, I'm broke all the time - right now I have something around US$ 0,50 at my bank account, and 3 dollars left on my credit card. Who the fuck would want to cling to such a financial disaster like I am?

I can't draw anymore. I don't want to write anymore, becuse nobody reads nothing longer than 8 lines of text nowadays.

I am this walking corpse. That's what I am. That's how it will end. Me, myself and I, dying of lung cancer or something else, all alone in here. If I ever get this cancer, I'll refuse treatment. That's how I want to go out.

Better than burn out than to fade away, I guess.

Another year, another family gathering, it's kinda strange observing family members awkwardly interacting...by force of the tradition. No one actually wants to be there. No one. I don't mean to bitch, but this year's fest was the almest of all my christmas experiences. And I know it's something that I'll just need to get used to - because of dietary restrictions on someone using a drug like Parnate to control their depression. Turkey? Nope, can't eat that no more. Chicken salad? Unless the chicken was slaughtered that very day and then processed and all that shit and then shredded, I could have eaten that, but no, there's mayo in that dish, a big no-no.

Ah, whatever, I just ate the raw materials of a spectaular dish, you know? Like eating a cake, but this way - first you'll eat 500 grams of flour. Just flour. Then, you'll scramble some raw eggs and drink them, and then you'd add milk, and if you're not vomiting at this stage, you, sir, are a freak. Or a winner. I can't decide.

But that was the deal- I ate all vegetables that would make a kickass chicken salad, but that was it. No meat, no mayo. At least I could have them fries along. But seeing people go at that turkey, that was painful to watch. I felt like the fucking vegan at the aprty, you know, and the worst thing, a forced vegan.

"- Would you like some beer?"
"- No thanks, I can't drink. In fact, if I had a glass of that dark, seemingly delicious beer, I'd die."

Forced vegan. And me, a hater of those people. Yeah, I hate 'em. We are fucking predators. We need meat. We need protein! Fuck the process, chicken going crazy on a confined space, or cage, whatever. I don't care. They're my prey. I didn't have to hunt for them, no, because a lot has changed sonce the fucking stone age. We don't have to hunt for them, we pick them up at supermarkets and pay for men to do the dirty work for us. Yeah, it's true. No one slaughters a live chicken no more, nor yank its feathers out, or whatever. We just pay by the weight.

And thank whatever deity you'd care to worship, for that. Can you imagine life 40 years ago? People stored meat in pig's lard. In a can. People have no refrigerators, not on my country, no.

And you look upon that and call us savages for eating a fucking burguer? Go fuck yourselves. I am, like I said before, an almost full-time forced vegan. Can't eat cheese, or milk that beyond two weeks old, can't eat a fucking pizza. On the bright side, though, There was a party I was invited, y'know, the traditional "End of the Year" party at the office. For the first time, I could say, "No, I can't go." - "Why?" - everyone knows me, the true answer is, "I don't give a fuck about you people and I want to stay away from you as far as possible." But this year! This year I go, "No, I won't be attending, I'm sorry, but I just can't eat anything you'll be serving." and to that I added mentally, "and I don't give a fuck about you people and I want to stay away from you as far as possible."

Anyhow, I wouldn't submit myself to this kinda torture. There was a barbecue. I fucking love barbecue. Can I eat it? No, unless the cow jas just been shot and we're making a roast, like savages, while chanting some "bring on the rain" dance.

This is fucking bullshit. No barbecues, never again! Fuck!

Well, to be honest, I wouldn't give two shits about it if the medication was truly working....but I know it is, I just know it. But sometimes I lose my grip yet. It was a bad christmas. Not bad as in, "Oh I wanna die" bad. But I was fucking bored. And when I'm bored, I do stupid stuff, specially if you're high as fuck on the ol' Maria Joana. I managed to destroy the SIM card reader on my used, yet brand new phone, voiding the 90-day warranty and making a fool outta myself. Luckily, those readers are cheap and easy to replace, so I ordered a new SIM/SD block and I will fix it.

But I felt like such a fool. And I know now,it's because I smoke these doobies like there's no tomorrow. And I know I shouldn't be mixing Parnate and marijuana for such long periods of time. It fucks it all up.

Well, 2014 was one fucking shitty year, probably number one or two on my top five all-shitty years. But one thing I can say, my resolution for 2014, as simple and mundane as it seems - to get back on shape - was accomplished, even though it took me nearly seven to eight months to really start working out again. I did it. I achieved my goal, however futile it seems.

For 2015, I'm thinking on quitting smoking, legal or non-legal stuff, all of it. No more smoke on these already damaged lungs of mine. And no weed "gaaaaaaahhhhhh...." effect also. When you melt down and fuse your chair, sofa, whatever, and you just sit there, eating shit and watching shit. Shit that you won't even remember correctly. Not if you're a fucking stoner like I am.

Well, that's my goal for 2015, if I can think of one. And fuck me, believe I tried, but once again, I have to cite my favourite film quote about smokers, off from Sin City(the first one) - "Nobody really quits...a smoker's a smoker whenever the chips are down...."

Yeah, well, I know my chips haven't been up. At least not up to no good. I still have a lot of problems to deal with, and antidepressant or not, they're out there, like fucking monsters, awaiting for me to slay, conquer them somehow.

Or just fail, like I got used to. Then you light up a doobie, make some coffee and smoke a fag.

Until the day you die.

<sigh> Life. You get born. You grow up. You make choices....
But some of them aren't choices at all.
It's fucking embedded on my DNA.
It has always been.

And how can you be human...if you hate all other humans?
If you trust no one at all?
I see people, I think of St. Roy Trenneman and his wise words, "People! What a bunch of bastards!"
So you go on. You have to live.
You have to live...amongst them.
Try to make friends with them.
They betray you.

Truth is, everyone's gonna let you down, at some point.
Even your parents. They lie to you.
"Everything is gonna be OK..."

No, it won't.

Because I don't feel no human empathy.
I thought I had friends. Few, selected humans.
One of them has proved, this very year, to be a fucking mysoginist and homophobe at the same time.
I had no choice. I cut all ties to him.
Wasn't rude or anything, just said, "We can't be friends. Have a good life, goodbye."

Goodbye.

He did sent a response, which I marked as spam and emptied the spam box immediately.
I did not want to read his reply. All his emails were driving me crazy. Everytime I got one, I felt enraged.
So, off he goes. One more person in my blacklist. One friend who turned into an enemy.
A part of The Bunch of Bastards.


I contemplate my life, and feel like trash. Something that should be thrown away, a freak, a Monster.
A Monster that resides on the attic. Of his family house. 38 fucking years, and I can't fully support myself, at lest not financially.
If my parents were to die tomorrow, I'd follow them. I'd kill myself. Because that's it. That's the end of my life.
The end of everything. Because I would have nothing. And no one to support me.


I found out that I was a furry the moment I saw the 80s-90s cartoon TMNT. I felt drawn to them.
And not only that, it was quite...gay, I must say. Yeah, so I suppose I found out both facts at an early age.
Like most of the young artists I see here. Took me ages to finally stop being a lurker....
But the sad fact is that, I feel ashamed. I feel old. I AM old, for that matter.

Is this what they call a midlife crisis? It could well be, for I'm almost 40, and I feel this conflict inside of me.

But I have no one to confide. No one to fully trust.
I don't know what love is. I've never kissed anyone, at least not compatible to my own sexuality.
Oh, yeah, denial, I did it a lot. So I've kissed girls. It felt good....but empty.
So empty.
Same thing goes to sex. And to be honest, I only got laid by 3 women. Everytime it ended, I felt this void inside.


I know I suffer from severe depression. It's no wonder the doctor treating me has given me the most powerful antidepressant in existence.
One of the famous MAOis - Parnate. It needs a proper diet. If I eat cheese, I could have a sudden stroke.
I didn't care - I just wanted to stop feeling so down. I took it. Gave up on cheese, pizzas, beer, and a whole lot of things.
Nothing I eat can be more than two weeks old. Or else I could die, or worse, have a stroke, survive it and become paralyzed.

I did not care. All I wanted was to silence the dark thoughts that had always corrupted my brain.
So I took it. And it worked, for a brief period of time, I felt as happy as I've never felt before.
But...all good things come to an end. So was the sudden "wave" of happiness.
And in the end, it made no difference at all. I still hate people. I still feel ill-at-ease near them.
Always feeling judged. Always. Not only by them, but by myself, too.
"you're a fucking failure," "you will die alone," "no one loves you,"
Shit like that...always rings inside my head.

And besides, the meds did me good, yes. But have them solved ANY of my problems?

No.

I am the ghost in the machine. The useless employee. That is only tolerated because at some point of my life, me and the owner of this Empire I "work" for had been the best of friends. We're not, not anymore. We're just acquainted. I know he's a rather....well, fucking homophobe. So I slowly stepped away from him. Stopped visiting him, stopped calling him, stopped being his true friend. I'm hanging by a thread here. If he finds out I'm gay, I might well be out of a job. So I never told him. I came out to some of my other friends, they were all OK with it, even if it surprised the hell outta them. I can't really say why. Is it because I'm not effeminate? Because I like rock'n'roll? Because I can't stand clubs, and all those places people go to congregate...and flirt?

Flirt. Meh. How the hell people do that? To me, it's just...fucking impossible. It has always been, even when I was in my full denial, and tried something with girls. Imagine a 38-year old loser trying to flirt with another gay man? What if he's straight? What if he's a bastard, just like the others?

People - specially women - say to me, "You are handsome." No, I'm not.

I'm not.

If I was, I would have attracted someone. Well, it happened, once. While I was at a friend's wedding. There was this woman who wouldn't take her eyes off me. I dodged and scurried, looked away everytime our glances meet. But...at the end of the party, she came to me.

How do you repel a beautiful woman without offending her? All I wanted to say was, "You're barking at the wrong tree. I'm fucking gay."

But I could not say that to her. I just kept making excuses, I really can't remember my words. She tried and tried, oh she did. But in the end, she just shrugged, "Well, I tried." and went away, leaving me alone, leaving me there feeling like a bastard. A freak. FREAK. The word kept on ringing in my head.

But no men was ever interested in me. No men made a move. No men flirted with me.

My therapist says that's she's not entirely sure I'm actually gay, but how many heterosexual men do you know that has a dildo collection? That is turned on by muscular men?

Oh man, what am I?

Am I really a Monster?

I know I'm talking to myself here, because I could not communicate with the people here as well. With the other furries.

I feel so fucking alone in this whole wide world. Even here, I feel it.

I can't communicate with no one. I can't establish a rapport. Because I fear people will only laugh at me. They had always did.

Once again, in the words of St. Roy Trenneman, "I'm just a lonely loner on a lonely road. Alone."

Fuck me. What's the point of living...and feeling so desperately alone?

And worthless?

FML. Indeed.

I chose freedom
- or has it chosen me
I don't know
really can't say
really can't stay
really can't stand
can't stand


rules of men
got me down
rules of me
go on without

permission, to cry
permission, to lie
permission, to be
who I want to be
who I wanted to be

I chose freedom
no kids no wife
not a thing
anchor away
sail away
today


I am free
but not free
from my mind
because
I know
I've always known


To be free
is to be alone

alone

alone, no one around
alone, only thing to do about
is to be mad
mad
sad


sad



Smoke some of this,
smoke some of that
be free without me
go on without me
without you
or anybody
at all


Me
and myself
we fought each other
every day
in every way


I chose freedom
-or is it merely fear
I knew freedom
would cost me
dearly
dear


oh fear
fear of dying alone
fear of being alone
with someone

fear
fear
fear.

Sometimes it's a comfort knowing no one will read this at all.
Sometimes it's not.
Specially on those days you're out there alone, lost in the wilderness of your own fucked up reality...
Reaching out.
For what?

Some kind of help?
A hand?
What do you seek?

What I seek can't be found. Won't be found.

They say life rushes you by. They are right, youngsters. Heed to this advice. Do not waste time.

Otherwise, you'll end up waking up alone at 38...with nothing much to do with the remainder of your days. No joy, no career, no money.

No one.

The funny thing is, when I started this latest treatment of mine, I really thought it'd work. Because I've seen positive results, for the first time in 20-something years of eternal struggle...

And now it's coming back. Day by day, I feel it closing in again. Stealing my joy away. Stealing my force away.

No one will read this. I know. But I also know, sometimes, silence is the loudest cry for help.

But who would help me? Her, where I don't even know anyone, not have the guts to say even "hi" to someone else around here.

And I thought it'd be so easy, to mingle amongst mind-alike people...

Turns out we're all people. And I do have to quote once again Roy Trenenman:

"People! What a bunch of bastards!"

Just a tad different from the rest of mankind. Even though they won't admit it. We're all fucking people. Homo sapiens sapiens.

I wished I was not. I most sincerely do. I wish I was anything else, even a Giardia cell. A fungus. A Paramecium.

Not this mass of cells that thinks and thinks way too much.

That was born with this certainty imprinted on his head: You will die alone.

I will. I know I will.

So, if you have a significant one, don't ever let them go. Treat them with love and respect. Love them, as madly as you can.

But don't ever let them go.

Don't end up alone.

It's fucking awful, let me tell you.

Once again, enraged.
too many humans
too many people
in my way
everywhere

I can't stand them
I don't know why
Just can't
stand


They always make
me feel strange
weird...almost
not human
at all.

And am I?
I don't know.
I don't feel
nothing
good


Nothing good
towards them.
nothing at all.


I feel weird
next to them
I feel observed
analyzed
dissected

By their eyes,
so many eyes
as if they were
all on me.


So I escape, here
here in hte dust,
amongst the recluses
and silverfishes
amongst the dust

Here I am,
here I live.


Here I seek refuge
from this weirdness
that I feel, all the time

all the time
outside

All the time


Here I got a pet dragon,
here I got my books,
my computer, my music,
my whole world

my whole world
lies upstairs.

All I want
is to be left alone
alone
I don't like people
people
what a bunch
of bastards

And yes, that does
includes me,
I know it.
I feel it sometimes,
I'm a dick to people
I'm stubborn and mean
I'm their sworn enemy.

I'm a bastard too.

I know.

Sometimes I feel
as if they are
telling me, get lost,
begone, fool.
begone, you
and your
precious mood.

Fool.

Begone.


You are weird,
you are strange,
you are abnormal,
aberration be,
of nature.

Begone.

Fool.
All I wanted,
Granted me nothing
Granted me this life,
Of loneliness
Terminal reclusion.


Terminal reclusion.
I'll die alone
old and miserable
alone
in front
of
furry porn.


Here lies a fool.

May he rest in peace.

I'm always astonishing myself in the worst of ways: seeing more and more flaws in my character. That fit of rage of today, it's a fine example.

To be honest, that's why I always avoid direct confrontation. My rage is too strong. And to be frank, it turns me somewhat...stupid. I open my mouth and only venom comes out, while a voice inside, my sensible side I suppose, keeps on saying, "Listen to what you're saying, you imbecile. Is that what you really want to say?" And I get more violent too, even though I've managed to keep myself out of fights my whole life.

I fear what I'd do if I got a hold of the situation, I mean, if I somehow managed to win the fight. I fear I'd kill the guy. Like I wrote, and I quote, "Hit his head on the curb until theres nothing left but a bloody ruin." I could do that if blinded by sheer rage.

Better try to find some zen in my life. But I swear, I don't find it nowhere. Not on physical exercises, not in music, not playing the guitar, nothing seems to calm me when I get these fits.

Well...there's always Clonazepan. Thank you whoever chemist designed this. I'd never sleep without it....

What? Don't worry, it's prescribed. Along with 50mg of Pamelor, 600 mg of Lithium, and Finasteride. My nightly "cocktail".

Anyways...I'm not mental as I write sometimes, I guarantee that. "Mental" in the british sense of the word, get it? Oh well...

Man, there are times when I wished all - and I do mean ALL - the people in the world suddenly vanished.

Gone. Forever.

I can't stand people no more. I can't get around their ways, their fucking stupid ways, their values, their ways.

Religion, money, charity, whatever - I just don't care no more. I wish I was just like the character from the original book that led us into that movie wannabe, "I am Legend." If you are able to, read the book. It's far superior than that Hollywoodian crap. Rober Neville had it all I wanted. A life of danger, yes, but no one to bother you. No kids to pester you. No wife to nag that you aren't nailing the boards in the right way.

I wish I was born on a lonely planet. Just me.

Because...in the end, that's how it feels, sometimes. You are their prisoner. Their slave. To people. To society. To its damned values and rules.

In the end, I've always felt alone in this shithole of a planet. I can relate only to a selected few friends....and even them, sometimes, let you down. Show you their truer self after a petty "email fight".

You wake up at 4 AM, expecting to find no one at your "treasure hunting" place - but there it was - a fucking person. A fucking human being. A fucking hobo, taking what's MINE, and only mine. I swear, when I spotted the fucking son of a bitch gatherin MY things, I wanted to kill him. But not in your regular way, no, A shot to the head would be painless. I wanted it to suffer. A lot. I wanted to fucking bash his skull against the curb until there was nothing left but a bloody ruin.

I know, if anyone ever reads this, they'll think I'm a fucking psycho. So? Sometimes I feel like one, indeed. I don't act on it - never. I'm not that crazy, but sometimes I wished I could be. The anger, pure hatred I felt against that fucking motherfucker, it's proof enough for me. I am deranged. I know it, I've always been. Otherwise, I'd not even be a fucking furry. No way.

I just wished people didn't exist. Or that I was any other thing than a man, Homo sapiens sapiens, bleh bleh bleh, so "sapiens" that a lot of us donate to fucking churches. To a god, that doesn't exist. To pay our way into heaven. Homo stupidus, it should be.

And yet...we all crave for someone. Someone who'd be as crazy as we are, someone who'd understand, not chortle, not judge, our preferences.

But fuck me, that person doesn't exist. So I look up to the sky above and hope for an ending. A sudden ending. Some fucked up drunk soldier in Russia should launch a fucking atomic bomb anywhere in the US. World War Three.

There would be nothing left. Nothing but a barren planet.

But, as nature has proved again and again, it'd recover. Without the cancer that is humankind.

That would be the ideal place to live. In the waking world. After a disaster.

No people around.
No churches.
No banks.
No internet.

Nothing but your will to survive, on your own.

Crazy? Maybe I am. I know, for a fact, that I am not normal. I was born with this defective brain. That can't handle people. Just can't. The slightest criticism turns me into a monster, full of hatred and vice, a perfect target for trolls. I'm happy to be so unknown that they don't even know I exist, and so far had left me alone.

People. Like Roy Trenneman so wisely said, "I've met enough of them. People! What a bunch of bastards!"

Bastards. All of them.

I just wish they were all gone. Because if there's one thing I can't stand, it's THEM. People! Normal people. Telling you to dress this way, wear this brand, buy this shit, walk this way, talk this way. People.

Why do I hate them so much, you'd ask?

Because all my life I felt like I was being seized up by other people. Analyzed. Judged.

I could never let go of this feeling. That's why I chose solitude, I chose to be alone, to get away from them, to live my simple, futile life away from their prying eyes.

And it gets me real mad when I walk to a place there wouldn't be NOBODY around, and spot the motherfucker taking what's mine. A fucking person.

Fuck people, to hell. If I was granted a wish, right now, I'd wish for everyone else in the planet would disappear. I don't care for them just like they don't care for me, so what's the fucking difference?

People!

Begone, pests!

Smoke, this is it
this was it
smoke this,
feel this.


Feel like this.


Smoke, it is;
Smoke more than
a whole round
Smoke all the way around.


Smoke, this is grass
smoke with me lass
smoke and see

smoke and mirrors, all the way
around us, smoke and mirrors
smoke, it is reflecting around.
smoke til I hit he ground


Smoke this, smoke that,
I'm here or there or wherever
Smoke smoke forever.


Stoner I was, stoner I am,
rather be this than pins and needles
and junk - no way
I'm a stoner yes I am
Got my fuzz set to max
on my dropped-C guitar
thru bass amps and shit.

Stoner, yes I am.
Rather be stoned than drunk
rather be laughing than looking for a fight
rather be eating than throwing up
rather be seeing color off the fan's edges
then seeing things red
looking for things that bleed
looking for trouble
looking for a mess to get on


Rather inhale this pipe,
see the life behind things
feel the music flowing
all over your body
all over you.


Smoke and mirrors, all around
It's me and this smoke,
all around and round.

Once upon a time, many moons ago, I went to a good friend of mine's house, to pay him a visit. We're the kind of old-school friends, we know each other since the 6th grade. And we're both more or less the same age, so it's someone I can relate to with issues about aging and so on, without having to bother my younger friends about it.

Well, as I was saying, I went there to spend the weekend. Like I use to do, from time to time. Yeah, he's that kinda buddy you go on a roadtrip just to pay a visit. And you end up spending the whole weekend. We've been doing this for ages, I swear. I guess ever since we met, in the 6th grade. He used to get to visit me and spend the weekend as well, but ever since he got married, he can't just do that, eh? Ah, married life.

Well, anyways, we got there, it was a hazy Friday like any other else. We'd spend the night smoking weed and listening to Moby, it was the "Play" era, so you'll see, many, many moons ago indeed. Then my friend(I shall call him R.) went to another room, and came back with a box.

"Open it," he said. I frowned. It wasn't my birthday, no special date at all. A present?

I opened the box and gasped. It contained a dragon. One of those so-ever detail-full(is there a word for this?) cautiously carved dragons, mine's from India I think. True craftmanship. Even the long moustaches are there. Yeah, it's one of them more oriental dragons, you know, the serpentine ones, with flames on their shoulders, deer-like horns.

It was the most beautiful thing I've ever got as a present. It almost brought me tears to my eyes, to receive such a gift. And for no reason at all. He was travelling, spotted the dragon at a store, and thought, "Damn! This would make a helluva present for my buddy."

This friend of mine, he's a special kind of friend. You know, those buddies-for-life you sometimes have the luck stumbling upon? I consider myself lucky to have met him all those years ago. He's the brother I wished I had, instead of my "real" brother. He's been a beacon of light throughout the darkness of my life, sometimes.

The day he gave me Gideon, I was...welll, in shortage of fancier terms, flabbergasted.

And I got it. Yes, I've seen bigger ones, more coloured ones, more luxurious dragons on stores around.

But no one it's just like the one I got right here, next to me. Sitting on my desk. He's so special to me, he means so much to me, that I've sort of transformed him into my "Hobbes" - he's like my pet. Imaginary pet, of course. And I named him Gideon (not related to the furry artist who goes by the same alias in any way), I just don't know why. The name popped into my head, the first time I saw him alive, twirling around, and scratching all my things. Gideon - after all, according to the good ol' Wikipedia, it means "destroyer" - and that's what he does sometimes.

Crazy, I know. If there was someone reading this, they would stop around here and leave the page - "Guy's nuts, indeed."

Well, that is truer than you think - normal would be the last adjective I'd pick to describe me. In fact, it does not apply at all.

Yes, I've got a dragon for a pet. He lights my cigarrettes with his fiery breath, and sits on top of my head warming my shaved head a bit, even though he scratches a bit while doing so - claws, many claws.

I came to realize that without my imagination, I'm a dead person. You heard that right - imagination. I came to realize, that it's the only thing that truely helped me throughout my existence. Some would call it pathetic. I call it, "me", and I'm the one who has to deal with the fact. This is me.

Last time I had a breakdown, not too long ago, actually, it happened last Wednesday - I came home and tried to see Gideon as he is to me, a breathing, living thing, not just a piece of decorative wood, and I could not. I saw him as what he actually is, to the NORMAL world - just that, a piece of carved, decorative wood.

I swear to you, I felt like someone had just died. My pet just died. I felt like the twelve-year old, who experiences a death of a pet for the first time in his life. It's something horrible, y'all have to admit. And that was just how I felt - I cried like the same twelve year old boy we've talked about.

My pet was dead. And there was nothing I could do. I went to sleep, taking even more of the drug that allows me to sleep nowadays, but I cried all the way into exhaustion that night. Gideon was dead. Dead.

Next morning, I got up and there he was, sleeping peacefully, curled around himself. He woke and greeted me in his usual way, climbing me up to the head, all the while saying, "good morning master," - "had a pleasant night's sleep?" like nothing had happened. All I had to do was to think about it, he grow up on size and gave me one of his famous draconic hugs, that only he can deliver. Such warmth, such love.

That fucking Wdnesday, the 12th day of this Novemeber, will remain a mistery. I just hope it never happens again.

Well, right now, he's alive and well, come here boy, light this for me. Thanks. Ow! Claws claws claws, up on my head.

And the best part is that he so happens to be however I want him to be. If I so desire, he grows and we fly around, visiting places only I am able to see.

"Guy's REALLY nuts," one reading this would think. Well. Like I said, I am anything but normal. And yes, I always preferred to live inside the world that only exists inside my head. The world, that I sometimes try to write about, on these lines.

Without my imagination, I'd probably already be dead. I'd have killed myself, many years ago. It's the only thing I got to cling onto, sometimes. I'm not kidding. It's the thing that has always somehow rescued me from the pits of hell I've been thrown when the depression was on its peak. All those nights. Just before I slept, I "nightdreamed" - about a life I'd like to be living. With a person I've never met, but know so well, from my dreams.

The person I might never met in real life.

Inside my head, he does exist, in many forms and shapes, just like Gideon is, mutable.

Well...I got no such person in my life, but at least I got Gideon.

He is me,
and I'm him.


And that's the way it is.

Ah....early Sunday. Most people hates 'em, sundays. Just because it precedes the dreaded monday, I suppose. I kinda like them, like this. The weather is chilly enough for me to wear a bean cap in my shaved head.

What am I talking about? Oh, nothing. Just putting on random thoughts on this journal. And since no one reads it, but me, it's safe to be somewhat crazy. along the lines I write.

Crazy man...yes. I guess I am a bit crazy. But if you stop and anlyze each one's lives, you'll get that notion, that everyone is crazy to a degree. Yeah, maybe mine's a bit higher. You know, the "Crazy Factor".

I am anything but a normal, regular, everyday person.

Sometimes it bothers me, I admit. Sometimes I do envy them so-called "normal" folks. But when I look upon their lives, what they do, the things they do...I prefer my craziness.

I am a 38-year old fucker. By now, I should have my life sorted out. Have a career. A wife. Kids. A car. A house. A huge amount of cash stored in the bank.

I got nothing of the sort.

I got dust. I got about $100 in my bank account, and a 2k debt to be paid yet. I got no car. I got no wife(thankfully), I got no kids(thankfully also), I got no career. I got a fuckup of a dead-end job, that I'm only tolerated around because I used to be the owner's best friend, at a point of my life. That earns me less that 1k.

And I look around me...I live in the attic. Some "internet-wise" people would call me a deviant of the Butthurt Basement Dweller. Only I live up above, but the principle's the same. Yes, I got my mother living with me. I'm kinda responsible for her and my younger sister. "The man in the house", like they say.

Yeah. Some man.

I'm 38 and I don't know how to live yet. People scare me. Or rather, I loathe people. I can't stand crowds. I can't be on a club, for more than a hour. Seriously, it starts to get on my nerves to a point that I have a sort of panic attack, and just need to leave the place. And besides that, there's the fact that I'm no kid anymore. Standing up for more than an hour is painful for me. What can I tell you? I'm nearly 40, dammit. Clubs ain't definitely my scene.


And...I don't know if it happens to everyone, but I was born with this...this...certainty....in my head: that I'm bound to be alone.

I just feel it. I just know it. Can't explain; it's just there - you shall die alone, in front of computer porn.

Well...at least there's one thing I can say with the same certainty, and even some pride along too: I've never hurt anyone.

I haven't touched anyone, either.

Ah, the rantings of a crazy man. I guess if there were some psychiatrist reading this, they would use it as an example of what happens to a man that has lead a life similar to mine - a modern hermit. That only leaves the house to go to work, and after nine hours, get straight back to his Tower of Solitude, the fucking dusty attic.

At least I'm not alone up here. I got Gideon. I'll talk more about him in a specific entry.

Yesterday, didn't happen.
It crashed.
On me.
Like a million bricks.

Man, let me tell you, having a defective brain is a pain in the ass. I've been struggling to just have a normal life since I was 14. That's when I remember it had gone defective. That's the exact point where my life turned into a nightmare, each day worse than the previous, and so on...for almost 20 years.

Now, I was almost positive I was definitely cured from my depression, but the strange outburst I had yesterday, it almost made me mad. I nearly had a panic attack, while sitting on my easy chair, by my computer, in the safety of my home.

Thankfully, there are always meds. Over the years, I've been a guinea pig - trying all sorts of mental medication, many of which had side effects so severe, I couldn't use them. I remember, one that I took about three years ago - it generated an infinite loop of involuntary leg muscles random pullings and contractions, I took it for two days and said, "Fuck this shit", then the doctor put me on fucking Risperidone, and Venlafaxine. Risperidone steals all fun out of your life. You just don't find anything funny, interesting, alluring, or whatever you name. It just turns you into a robot. Venlafaxine acted as sugar pills for me, even with a high dosage of 225 mg/day.

Then I found THE Doctor, the right one. Expensive as shit. But well worth it. He noticed I was digging my own grave, and gave me one single option of treatment - with Parnate, a MAOi, meaning, it's a fucking badass antidepressant. The strongest one, according to the doc. But, even before he'd let me get into his treatment, he sent me an PDF via email that I should read, about Parnate and MAOis. It's rather serious. One slice of aged cheese can kill me, or at least lead to a hypertensive crisis, that may lead to a stroke.

I was feeling suicidal enough already, like a friend of mine had put on, to pass on this treatment. I accepeted it. And it changed my life. Changed my brain. Suddenly, I could laugh again. Belive me, I spent nearly 4 years or so without a laugh. It gave me strength to be back on a workout routine. It gave me joy.
Of course, there are side effects. I take two pills in the morning then another two by lunchtime. When I take the second dose, well...just don't try to do anything sexual with me. Because it won't work. Nah. For at least five hours, I'm fucking limp.

Times like these, are the only ones that being alone makes a difference. I won't disappoint anyone during the "limp phase". At least I got this going for me, which is nice. (insert meme picture here)

Well, now I know one thing - I'm still prone to have episodes like the one I had yesterday. Black Wednesday. Oh, and look at the date! 13/11/2014. 13th. You sneaky bastard. I should've known it.

I just hope it doesn't happen again anytime soon - It was a fucking nightmare, I almost told my boss that I couldn't take it, that I needed to go home - but sticked around my useless job nonetheless.

It made me remeber the painful process of Venlafaxine withdrawal, that I had to do before taking Parnate. Venlafaxine, like I said, it was almost like swallowing sugar pills, but of course it wasn't - it IS a drug. That I took for four years. When I had to clean it off my system, the so-called "withdrawal crisis" happened. It was a fucking nightmare. Not much unlike it was yesterday. I cried for no reason, I had no strength, I had no will to live. And every day the dosage was lowered, it made it ten times worse.

Then I began on Parnate - and man, let me tell you, how I've changed. At least on a more positive mental viewpoint. I still got a lot of problems to deal with - I have a fucking ludicrous job, with a ridiculous paycheck, I've got no lover, I've got a ton of things to work on yet. But now, I got at least some faith in the future.

I'm still a misanthrope, I got no money to spend on bars looking for someone. Adn to be honest, I detest public spaces. I hate clubs. So, what should I do?

Well, I don't have this answer yet - I thought that maybe I could mingle with the furry fandom, but, like I said, This thing is rather impossible for me to deal with. I've never seen a site getting these many updates.

And I'm fucking shy, I am. Even behind a fake identity(of course it's fake), I can't stop being shy. I am not witty to leave interesting comments.

So here I am. The man who talks to himself. Ah well, everyone does it, in their minds. I just put my thoughts on these journals. I thought being more "active" here would inspire me to draw again, but...I see some of the artwork here, and I feel fucking ashamed of my doodles. And, to be honest, I haven't really drawn anything since 2011. Anything creative I'm doing these days is directed only at my "six-strings ladies", my guitars, my amps, my pedals and whatnot.

Here's to someday I'll find this so-called motivation....for now, my mind is at least "at peace" again. And that is good.

Please, let it keep it that way. May the 13th never happen again.

Why, oh why.
Why nothing good really lasts?

20 years of struggle. 20 years of my brain trying to kill me, bit by biyt - "you are worthless," "you are a freak," "you've got no talent," "you're gonna die alone in front of PC porn."

Then, in September, everything changed. I've found this amazing doctor that gave me the strongest of antidepressants - one that has a very rigid dietary restrictions to follow, otherwise, you could end up dead - and they worked. I swear, they worked. I felt alive and happy for the first time in 20 years.

Now, since monday...the fucking drug seems to not be working anymore. All my bad thoughts are coming back, like a leeve breaking down. Flooding me with all this so-well-known-to-me feeling of nothingness. Of being nothing. Of being less than nothing.

Thoughts like suicide abound. Feelings like I'm falling down the black hole of nothingness, they are here again.

I just can't beat this thing. Just can't. Fuck my life.


Why are you back? Why?

Fuck you, depression. Fuck you to hell.

It's the story of my life, summed up in one word - "depression".

Have you ever had it? For real, like, a disease that you got to treat with meds and shrinks and etc? If not, you're not depressed. Maybe just bored. Or hungry.

I've got it. i've always had it. Been struggling with it since I was 14 or something. Always had this cloud on top of my head. Following me everywhere I go. I had struggled with doctors and shrinks of all kinds. Even herbalists. Even florals. I've tried everything.

The pest doesn't leave.

When I thought I had found "my cure", a drug so strong and so strange, that it has several dietary restrictions - Parnate is the drug - I felt blessed for almost a month. I was okay! Everything was okay! No matter what I'd do, everything would turn out right.

As of monday, the drug seemingly lost its battle with my brain. It WANTS to be depressed. I swear, it's just like it NEEDS to be depressed.

And to someone like me it means, literally, "Oh shit. Not even the most powerful drug in the pharmaceutical world will heal me. I'm fucked."

I'm fucked. I literally am. Because I can't afford a doctor, a shrink and pay for all the meds at the same time. Not on my lousy salary.


"Always look on the bright side of death..."