god is eternally blissful-
pose artfully nude in the bedroom mirror
stare at your beauty as you floss
turn into a neutrogena commercial as you wash your face.
clean glasses. put them back on. become a glasses model in a glasses advertisement. helplessly wave the white flag and view life always from angles that have nothing to do with anything other than their own separate anomalous solipsistic arrogant placenta-bubbles being satellites, circling their clumsy eclipses that they circle around the planet.
i know it is up to me to record their life spans for them. i must honor the shit that hides in trees and spies. the ninjas. the thumbelinas in the roses. the dogs that believe i am theirs. (never drop your beliefs. beliefs don't set you free. believe in this gravity.)
so everyday at least five zillion times i think, between other tremendously revealing thoughts, "i can't wait until it's nine pm."
nine pm is the time when i take my night-time medication. i sometimes experience either the direct effects of the medicine or the conspiracy is true for once in the history of conspiracies, and i'm experiencing the totally unorthodox, anti-organic
(although all is organic)
placebo effect, which is better than a nocebo effect if you ask this gullible personality, proving that meds for psychopaths are nothing but sugar pills that don't do anything but make us navel-gaze. what kind of life is this? sugar pills, and dependency on sugar pills? regularly i go back and forth between believing opposing extremes (i.e how i'm so fucking brilliant then how i'm so fucking retarded). they can't possibly be working if that happens.
what kind of life is life without the sugar pills?
...the kind that validates the mental illness, as if everything else doesn't already. it isn't SUBDUED anymore. the kind where disorganized-tasting radiators turn into rare m.c escher artworks- ones he gave up on, which clearly emanates, and i'm back in time with him. the kind where i have no control over my facial muscles and my expressions are out of control, but the constant despair, even in this true joy, tells me i'm just faking it for attention. the kind where i'm meditating with the barcode of a book on my third eye and my hand on my heart because it says "doctors without borders" on my shirt, and i believe in these causes, so the meditation will be electric. the kind where my psych ward roommate is seriously loudly and wildly masturbating in the bed next to mine, and i am so freaked out by this, yet completely ready to join in, that my vagina starts masturbating itself. and then the thought of horror movies....noooo. turn back. turn back. that's when the gay delight that the light is a play-pretend peek into a subway station turns into complete sorrow over everyone that has ever died. the kind where i am stressed out over this and other things, and it becomes the worst migraine of all time. then doctors that you'll never even see again come in to observe you because stupor of this caliber is just that fascinating.
god is god.