Daily Archives: January 4, 2011

Being Bipolar When The World Is Just More Juice

Battery analogy.

You feel like the nodes when the electricity makes its connections with the tines.

YOW! That hurts like a motherfucker!

All the other people in the battery are contained, doing their battery job, waiting to be used.

Society likes it this way. They call you “bipolar”. Then they tell you that they do not understand the disease fully or what triggers it.

You know, though. You know one thing; that when someone throws a rock, you yell. Most people don’t like having rocks thrown at them. It’s pretty darn weird to them when you stand up and say “hit me with that rock again, and I will fuck you up.”

This is a strange way for society to thank you for being upset, isn’t it?

Here’s bipolar in a nutshell: when something is sad you are very sad about it. When something pisses you off, you are very pissed off about it.

This tends to cause people to think that you think you are important,and are therefore sick in the head. It’s not too far removed from schizophrenia, where you actually can feel the couch’s pain and it talks to you. As a bipolar, you think of how many trees were wasted to make that ugly couch.

I think that about sums up what I have to say about bipolar. Schizophrenics cannot speak your native language anymore, but you can, as a bipolar. This makes you very dangerous to the status quo. Because you have the power to tell people what human weasels they have become. And so they put you away before you hurt someone. But you wouldn’t. You’d just rant and rave, unless you take violent drugs, which many bipolars are attracted to.

Take heart, bipolars; they can put you away but they can’t shut you up for long. Because you’re not insane, you are very fucking pissed. And they hand you pills to “quiet” you. Take them, because your benefactors don’t want to hear what you really think. Consider it a favor to them that you take the drugs to quiet you, because the last thing you want to do is hurt someone. All bipolars know this. We don’t want to hurt; we believe in mercy more than the Virgin Mary herself.

They don’t believe you, but you know what to do. Stop worrying about it and do what your loved ones say, because they only want the best for you. And what could be better than to be cared for in this manner?

2011:The Year We Make Contact With Doug Martsch

The spam filter has caught me another fine gem in what is promising to be a long relationship of links with a doomsday website. Today, I am on notice that liking “Built To Spill” is a sign of the Apocalypse, the one this year. I don’t want anyone to get confused by other previous doomsdays, lest they be misled that I was part of those as well.

I post Ancient Melodies of the Future’s “In Your Mind” a week or so ago. It goes a little something like this, if you don’t know the ditty:

The symptoms of our getting older,
the problems that say we don’t mind,
most of us never get over
memories mingled with lies.
Coincidence gave a confession,
that no one’s allowed to forget,
I don’t want to give the impression
that predestination is set.
And distance will increase the danger,
with certainties never enjoyed.
Regarded as equal yet stranger,
ignored, then embraced, then destroyed.
Observing the process will change it,
afterwords even if you
subconsciously rearrange it,
it doesn’t seem any less true.
The remnants of fog disappearing,
and even transcending concern,
disturbing but somehow endearing,
conditioned to never unlearn.
And no one can tell me to listen,
and no one can tell me whats right,
cause nobody has my permission,
and no one can see in your mind,

The magnifications explore,
there slowly emerges a pattern,
and details you normally ignore,
you notice really what matters.
It isn’t a time or a place,
only an ebb and a flowing.
A permanent repeating space,
occurring, connecting, and growing.
And no one can tell me to listen,
and no one can tell me what’s right,
cause nobody has my permission,
and no one can see in your mind,
in your mind.

Now by itself, this is a very impressive pop song dealing with time, space, human nature, and what we think is reality in under four minutes. Chances are Doug Martsch was not prepared for writing the theme song for the end of the word, especially in 2001. Unless of course you you think 2001 is equally significant, that is. It may make Martsch’s prognostications much more powerful when the voices in your head agree.

So, to wit: If you listen to Built To Spill, and you are reading these words, you are responsible for bringing about something very terrible. Thoughts, songs and jokes are no longer permitted here due to the heinous nature of pitiable crimes of expression. I shall continue to monitor the spam box for other warnings.

You have my word. It’s all I’ve been given.

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