An addict takes a holiday
Streaming SomaFM Drone Zone: Stevie Be Ret - Maya & Aliens
It was a cool, cloudy morning, the twenty-fifth of December, and I could feel the heavy, ocean-laden wind tugging at my coat and dampening my holiday spirit (what little bit I had). I had only crawled out of bed moments before. It was a quarter to eight when I walked out the door on my way to a eight o-clock coffee "date" and really wasn't all that embarrassed by my cat-hair covered Brooks Brothers' sport coat and greasy blue jeans. This outfit was complete with black wool watch cap, decomposing leather combat boots, and matted hair. I suppose my lack of self-consciousness had quite a bit to do with the fact that I was on my way to see my old hook-up, not the kind of appointment one gets prettied up for. A holiday doesn't bottom out much lower than that.
A month ago, I was a sober man, or at least I possessed that label of sobriety that gives one a sense of purpose and self-worth. Ludicrous or not, that label is missed when you become an addict. Why? Well, why does anyone want what they don't have? By now anyone reading this might assume I'm a waste of a life. I try to do no harm; other than that, I'm not sure if I care what other people think. Anyone challenging social expectations (Puritanical/socially conservative Western ideas) should expect to be met with hostility. Besides that, I'm not the one reading someone else's blog....
Thursday 3 weeks ago was pleasant but chilly. I rode my bike down the hill (Twin Peaks) toward Golden Gate Park, near the Panhandle. Then, I changed course steering to the East and rode a dozen or so blocks through the Haight-Ashbury neighborhood, then went a few blocks up the hill again, turned West, and headed to Mason, just off Haight, to a cafe where I go to study sometimes. I hopped the curb and rode up onto the sidewalk to the street corner shaded by live oaks and some other green trees that look the same year round and don't really lose their leaves during the winter in the temperate climate of San Francisco, California.
As I'm wrapping my cable bike lock around the one pathetic tree that is scraggly and has lost most of its leaves, I think it's odd to hear someone calling my name, "Robin?" I turned and had no idea who this woman was who obviously knew me. I was surprised when she said she was Dara Shimer, my hook-up from years ago, 5 maybe. She was sitting alone with a paper and a cup of coffee at a table outside of the Cafe. (My x-girlfriend, the Lovely but Tragically Insane Angry Ingrid who I have blogged about before, was friends with her and had introduced me to her years ago when she first showed me the thrills of the needle).
Dara was sitting at a small wooden table in front of one of the large store-front windows, her back to a large potted jade bush. She is the kind of person, what I imagine to be the1 American stereotype of a worrying and concerned Jewish mother, who will greet you with a cheerful smile and a plate of cookies in one hand, but (breaking the stereotype) in the hand hidden behind her back is a tray of syringes and dope.
Recognition occurred slowly like buried memories being dredged up from the murky cesspool that my mind has become since I last knew her. Her hair once black has turned white, her once plump matronly body is like a wire hanger supporting baggy clothes, and her face is shriveled like an old apple. She was my regular hookup for dilaudid, oxy, and heroin. Whatever she had, I needed. Tbe last time I saw her, years ago, she was lying on her living room couch, not moving, pale, sweating, simultaneously vomiting and squitting (uncontrollable squirting of diarrhea). She was sick from heroin withdrawal. She had been cut off / her source had gone missing. I don't remember what she said if she said anything. Maybe I just didn't bother to ask. She had asked me to buy her a pack of Marlboro Reds (tobacco) cigarettes. She was dry - no more dope and didn't even have money for a pack of stinky cigarettes...
My gf, who is lying in the bed behind me, is trying to sleep. She says that I'm making too much noise and need to get to bed. I have been trying to finish this single journal entry for a 2 days now. She has been in a bad mood lately. More on that later. To be continued.
Sasha Shulgin suffers a stroke
This is sad news, and such a genius should not be short on money. And this is a reason why Jersey Shore is a travesty - they do not have money problems while a person who played a heavy influence on the development of North American and European popular culture and society can't afford to pay for medical treatment.
Alexander Shulgin, who re-synthesised MDMA (ecstasy), a drug that fuelled the 1980s acid house dance craze. Photograph: Tim Coleman/Rex Features
Alexander Shulgin, the "godfather of ecstasy" who became famous for discovering and experimenting with a host of psychoactive compounds, has suffered a stroke.
His wife, Ann Shulgin, confirmed today that the 85-year-old was in hospital in San Francisco. "Sasha had a mild stroke over [last] weekend and is still in the hospital, where they are treating him. He will be undergoing speech therapy for a while," she said.
Shulgin, a pharmacologist and psychedelic drug pioneer, has been demonised by anti-drug campaigners but also hailed as a counter-culture hero by many more. His work has covered the synthesis of hundreds of psychoactive compounds and his research was published in the 1990s in two books, TiHkal and PiHKAL, which he wrote with his wife. ....
My name is Mike Power and I wrote that Guardian article posted above.
I figured it would be good to get the story out as widely as possible, and checked with friends and contacts of Shulgin before I wrote it.
I also wanted to give Ann a chance to respond, in mainstream media, to the inevitable speculation that her husband's use of psychedelics had caused his stroke.
She was happy to hear that so many people care about her husband.
The best thing anyone can do to help is to give money, and to circulate this link on their social media pages.
(Especially the first one as the facebook Wall is getting crowded and the appeal info is slipping down the page).
Tweet and retweet using the hastag #helpshulgin
With a little work, the Shulgins' financial problems can be solved, painlessly, in days.
It is possible nowadays to reach hundreds of thousands, millions of people in seconds. A few dollars off even just half of those people could amount to an awful lot.
Big 'n' Veiny
The gf is gone to help her sister across town (in San Fran). She said she will be gone for about 1 week. And I feel like a load has been taken off my mind, if you can relate. Yesterday evening, I was thinking about what to do during my freedom: do some studying, ride my bike to China Town and try to cop, go for a long run, eat some kratom.
The kratom store is only a few blocks away and I get along with the people who work there. China Town, on the other hand, is a couple of miles away through traffic and the only people I see selling anything are assholes. So, I decided to go to the kratom store. I bought some kratom for myself and a bag of catnip for the cats. I rode my bike home, threw the bag of catnip on the living room floor, and swallowed several purple capsules of kratom extract which I would follow with powdered leaf. I added water to about 10 grams (eyeballed) of the powdered leaf, stirred it, and took a swallow. I gagged. It is one of the most disgusting things I've ever tasted. I held my nose shut with one hand, held my breath, and finished it. Then, I drank a 1/2 glass of sweet orange juice to try to counter the extreme bitterness of the kratom aftertaste. Then I dry heaved for a moment but managed to keep down the drug. Jankem (a gas made from fermenting raw sewage supposedly huffed by Zambian street children) probably doesn't taste this bad.
While doing this, Elooise Cat had torn open her bag of catnip, scattered piles of it on the floor and was rolling in it and eating it. I went to my desk in the next room to do some reading. Every few minutes, Eloise, high on the catnip, would walk up to me, rub against my ankle purring, then when I reached down to pet her, she would hiss and (try to) bite. Reminds me of my gf. One minute she's (the gf) is kissiing me, the next nminute without warning, she's shrieking at me at me ready to scratch my eyes out. So, at 1/2 hour after eating the kratom, I am getting very warm, numb, and itchy. I have a lot of entergy.
So I wanted to burn it off and play some Grand Theft Auto, a video game that I installed on my laptop several years ago. It's a car-driving game, mostly, where you play quests to win a race or kill a crime boss. Patts of it are really hard. I can't get past this one quest called "Big 'n' Veiny." In it, a "spank-head" (spank is the name of a fictional narcotic in the game) has stolen a crime boss's (El Burro) shipment of donkey porn magazines titled "Big 'n' Veiny." The player's job is to track down the spankhead, run him over with your van, and return the magazines to the publisher, El Burro. This should be easy since a trail of magazines spills out of the open back of his truck as the "spanked-out" thief drives to his hideout. You follow the trail of magazines as you drive a van through downtown Vancouver or wherever it is set. But the catch is that you have to beat a fast timer in heavy traffic. I've tried dozens of tiems, but even when cheating, I can't beat it.
Anyway, had to quit because the fast, panning game movement was making me need to barf. I had to lie down right there on the floor by my desk so my stomach would settle. I probabaly should have taken some Dramamine as a precaution against this kind of motion sickness. After a few minutes, I felt better and got up to the bathroom. Strangely, I had the impression that one of the gangsters from the game had gotten into the house and was following me, always standing ni the shadows or the periphery of my vision so I could only catch brief glimpses of him. Then I took a quick shower, went to bed. Didn't sleep for several hours. It was mostly going in and out of half-waking dream sequences in a very warm, numb, peacefu,l and pleasantly snug place.
Today, I feel sick to my stomach from my kratom hangover. My gut is bloated and tender, and my head hurts. Just looking at the computer screen makes me queasy. I'm going to try to make some coffee and see if it will make me feel better.
If the shit fits, wear it.
Listening to GG Allin. I saw him live once when I was a teenager in Richmond. I like his earlier stuff, but by then (early 90s), he'd really gone down hill. The highlight of his act was him ripping off his clothes, spewing shit all over the stage (took laxatives/enemas to get theeffect), rolling around in it, throwing the feces into the audience, then the audience rushing the stage to kick his ass. A couple of my friends from the DC area had told me about it so I went.
I finally got the Infinite Jukebox working (mostly). The server boxes fill a real jukebox (it's getting hot) that I'd bought at a ayrdsale and then gutted. The last of the project was cleaning circuit boards with Duster and acetone, 4 hours of fighting IRQ conflicts, and several days of scanning IDv3 tags. But I still need to figure out how to set up a distributed MySQL database or whatever you call it so the 4 servers in there will link up smoothly. right now it's a kluge. The GUI is a touch-panel computer screen I found in the trash the other day. Ideally, you will be able to touch the screen to search (and use a mouse and keyboard when needed) to search through the catalog. Actually, 4 catalogs on 4 separate mySQL servers in 4 boxes that are controlled by a php script running on an apache web server and linked to Mplayer. I know nothing of programming so figuring out enough php to make a script that could do this was a headache.
I'm a dumpster diver. I've found a good part of my wardrobe in the trash or in boxes along the roadside. A while ago, in fact, I found the piece of clothing that would be the genesis of today's mis-adventure. It is a black T-shirt with a Kope Luwak logo and a picture of a spotted civet cat. Someone is hold up her tail (like a lever or crank) and she is pooping out coffee beans into a cup. "Good to the last dropping" is the caption. The meaning remained a mystery until somebody stopped me on the sidewalk (in San Fran) and asked me if I'd ever had kope luwak. I hadn't yet bothered to look up the meaning of those words so the stranger obliged: Wild civet cats on an island in indonesia eat coffee beans and then poop them out. Farmers gatehr the beans and use them to brew coffee. He claimed the coffee tastes extremely good and is a delicacy or something. Hmmm, sounds interesting. I asked him where I could get some. He didn't know. Just not here. Intrigued, I began seeking it out. No luck finding anybody who sells in the Bay Area, but I found one place in Portland (where I am now staying for a few weeks): Legare's.
I tried to make my own coffee this morning. My gf usually has it ready before I get out of bed (6 or 7 am), but she is staying with her sister for a few days. So I thought I would try to make my own. I had a pound of Philz coffee beans. Philz Coffee, along with Blue Bottle, have the best coffee (that I've found) in San fRancisco. So, I ground some beans in the electric grinder. Then I put some ground coffee into the Krupps coffee machine. It's an espresso-style coffee maker, so you fill a metal basket with the grounds, put some water in it, and turn it on. So far so good. But then, the 1st thing to go wrong: I smelled smoke. I realized that I had forgotten to put water in the coffee machine. So, no coffee came out, of course. But worse, without water in the boiler to keep the temperature below 212F, the machine overheated and burned the ground coffee in the metal basket. I must have really been hungover from the kratom I ate last night -- I didn't realize my mistake until I smelled it burning.
Well, I thought the grounds would still be OK. They're only scorched a little. I mean that's how StarBucks beans smell. They just call it a "dark roast" or something. So I tried again. I put water in the machine this time adn brewed that coffee, but what it eventually produced wasn't drinkable. Then I remembered that I'd been wanting to try kope luwak for a while, so I thoguth this might be a good day to try it.
So, I wanted to get into the moood. I changed shirts and put on my Cat Shit Coffee T-shirt and rode my bike to Legare's. Legare's is an Itallian style coffee shop and is the only coffee shop I have ever been to that has such an extensive selection of hard-to-find (in the US) beans... I ordered a cup. $15. For one cup. That's a lot, but it's been a quest and I would try it once, and if I liked it, maybe have it again on special occasions. It was brewed in a french press. I drink the coffee: Smooth body. Earthy and aromatic. Holds itself together.
Coffee has, among it's many wonderful health benefits, the property of stimulating the movement of one's bowels. Drink it daily and it helps keep you "regular." The ride home started smoothly except for a little rain, but right after I crossed the Ross Island Bridge over the Willamette River, my back tire went flat. (Since my injury, I had to give up my motorcycle, but I've been riding my bicycle more). Strange hwo flats happen more often in the rain. So I locked my bike to a rack in front of a nearby restaurant, and walked 2 or 3 miles toward home. Soon, I was really starting to need to poop. It was during the last mile or so when my bowels throbbed and spasmed threatening disaster...... I slowed down to a stiff-legged walk to try to hold it back and not jar anything loose.
Ã cul de foirard toujours abonde merde (Relais. Gargantua. I, 9). [a filthy asshole never lacks for shit.] I'm not sure how to relate this quote to the current entry, but I remembered it while I was doing that disgraceful stiff-legged walk down the city streets on my way home. 10 more minutes of walking and it's oozing out. Yeah people, I pooped my pants today. It was like toothpaste sliding down my leg. I'm getting close to home. Maybe 1/2 mile and it's starting to burn. It is getting squished to where I had chaffing on my inner thighs from a run yesterday and setting that wound on fire. And the friction. It feels like bits of sand are being ground into an open sore down there. Maybe it's gritty bits of undigested kratom leaf rubbing themselves into my chaffed skin. When this has happened on long runs (the reason I try to remember to take a dump before I leave the house). Because of wehre I usually run now - on trails in the woods or near the woods or bushes or in nooks in the base of the cliffs along the beach, or places with toilets, I can take care of the problem when it comes up. But here, there is no place to go, no trees, secluded bushes, restaurants. All resedential here. Get to the covered patio behind the house where I'm staying. Now, I cant' make it into the house. There's some old newspaper in the corner. I drop my pants but I can't even get it on the newspaper. I crap all over the concrete instead. SPLAT! It seems to explode as it comes out. There's shit splatter and spray all over the place: the cement patio, some made it to the newspaper, on my pants, on my legs, on my hands, on the wall, on my other bike. What a filthy mess. shobble to a bucket and expliode again. Boyle's GAs Law in action. P1V1=P2V2. This shit and the gas it contained (I fart a lot) was under relatively high pressure, and when released, teh compressed gas expanded explosively, propelling in all directions the shit in which it had formed. I had to take a shower and change clothes.
I just stumbled on a website devoted to a supposed phenomenon known as "gang stalking." This activity looks like an urban legend to me. It's just too preposterous to be real. Anyway, this website (or one like it) looks like the source of inspiration for the author of one of the journal accounts that I follow here on slashdot. Sadly, that journal seems to me to be a work of fiction, but it has had a few good moments. If anybody besides myself ever follows that journal, this website might make for about 2 minutes of amusing reading. I thought I'd share it.
United we stand. Divided they fall.
Welcome to Gang stalking World
Welcome to Gang stalking World
Gang Stalking is a systemic form of control, which seeks to destroy every aspect of a Targeted Individuals life. Using occupational health and safety laws, warning markers can be added to a targets file. Once a target is flagged, a notification is sent out, and the target is followed around 24/7 by the various communities that they are in. A covert investigation might be opened, and electronic means used by the civilian spies as part of the covert monitoring and surveillance process.
The citizen informants can be parts of these community oriented programs, but are often just average citizens. Everyone in the targets life is contacted, advised as to why the individual has been listed or flagged. Advised not to discuss the notification and asked to be a part of the ongoing, never ending monitoring (systemic harassment) process. This process is covertly designed to destroy the target over time, leaving them with no form of support. ......
SIGNALS FOR OBSERVATION
1. Watch out! Subject is coming â" touch nose with hand or handkerchief
2. Subject is moving on, going further, or overtaking â" stroke hair with hand, or raise hat briefly
3. Subject standing still â" lay one hand against back, or on stomach
4. Observing Agent wishes to terminate observation because cover threatened â" bend and retie shoelaces
5. Subject returning â" both hands against back, or on stomach
6. Observing Agent wishes to speak with Team Leader or other Observing Agents â" take out briefcase or equivalent and examine contents
LOST MEN'S WEDDING BAND $ REWARD
LOST MEN'S [sic] WEDDING BAND $ REWARD
I follow some of the blogs here on slashdot. Sometiems they are interesting and I post replies. I posted this as AC in someone's journal the other day. He mentioned something that reminded me of a ring I'd found:
Your story about the headphones and the guy who goes around town leaving things lying around to see who picks them up reminds me of something I found. The other morning, early, I found a gold and diamond ring on the steps on my way to school. It's fairly large so I'm guessing it's valuable. I picked it up and set it on the hand railing in a highly visible spot where the diamond and gold could reflect the morning sunlight, thinking the owner would quickly retrace his steps and find it. But that night, it was still there. So I took it and put it in my pocket so some seagull or some other animal wouldn't take it. Anyway, I put it on my desk, intending to turn it nto lost and found when I get a chance. Then I forgot about it until now. So, what would you do: keep it as a ground score, turn it in to lost and found, or do something crazy like mail it to you at your church?,
I wont' bother pasting his entire reply, but he said to give it away. ....
You say to give it to the first person who likes it? I left the gold and diamond ring sitting on a hand rail alongside a heavily traveled stairway outside. It was in the sun in a highly visible location. It sat there all day, and I guess nobody liked it. It feels heavy and looks expense -- but I don't know how to appraise its value. Anyway, it's not worth enough to anybody here to bother pawning it.
It's been 3 weeks since I found the ring. Right after I found it, I had put it on my desk and starting keeping a lookout for "Lost Ring" signs. Until now, I hadn't find any signs. Also, I have been busy and hadn't gotten around to locating the Lost and Found where I could turn it in.
Then, yesterday, I saw this sheet of Xerox paper posted at a kiosk on campus. It was printed in large, clumsy capital letters with what looked like magic marker. The handwriting was so crude that it looked like a child had written it. Even the grammar was not correct. It made me think the owner didn't care much about recovering his ring. Not only that, but for as much as I walk around campus, it's the only sign I've seen. It was dated 2 days after I found the ring so I assume it is the one. However, I'm still not sure if it is a man's ring. I couldn't get it past the first knuckle of my pinkie. But maybe it is and it belongs to an Asian male (tiny fingers).
Anyway, the ring has no value to me. It's too small, and the design is tacky. Of course, I don't consider this to be a "ground score." I think I will either give it to lost and found, and then call the number on the sign telling him where he can pick it up and not try to collect any reward. Or, I might call and ask that the cash reward be donated to a local homeless shelter of my choosing in exchange for the ring's return. I will have to find a good one that requires its residents to fill out a lot paper work and sign their names multiple times. The kind of paperwork that takes a good 15 minutes to do, stresses you out, and makes you feel like you've sold your soul. And the kind of shelter that makes the residents DO SOME WORK AND HOUSEHOLD CHORES in exchange for eating and sleeping there.
Anyway, I thought this next comment in the other person's journal was odd. He or she goes on a rant that makes about as much sense as a tweaker on a 7 day binge. Actually, I had a friend in college who suffered from schizophrenia. He would go into these episodes where everyone was out to get him and would rant and rave and get do twacked out shit and get locked up. That's what this reminds me of. Then he goes on to suggest that it is his ring and that he gave it to someone who in turn gave it to a child so he would be suspected of pedophilia. Again, sorry for the lack of formatting. HTML tags are no longer working for me
I was going to quote his or her journal, but I don't want to start anything with him. For the same reason, I won't name him.
BTW, how come my HTML tags won't work? I've tried putting the paragraphs I've cut and pasted in itallics, closing with forward slash i [/i] and [\i]. Neither works.
edit: just figured it out. I was using brackets instead of
Recap: nearly 1 year ago, part of my hand was amputated following injuries sustained in an accident. The accident was with heroin. I accidentally injected myself in an artery. The damage was nearly instantaneous and I soon had gangrene in all 5 fingers. Up to the time of my surgery, I was freaking out and needed a quasi-anonymous place to vent. I've read slashdot for years so I thought I would take advantage of its Journal resource. I also wanted a private place to vent where my girlfriend (at the time) wouldn't spy on me. Unfortunately, this didn't work out. All she had to do was snoop in my browser history. She read my journal found some things she didn't like and proceeded to berate me and make me sleep in the basement for what I had written. That was one of the reasons for my inactivity this past year. That and I still can't come to terms with this.
As a side note, for therapy, somebody suggested I go around to area schools as part of the DARE program. The idea being that I would 1) serve as a living example of why some drugs and methods of ingesting them can be very bad and 2) face my issues head on. I haven't mustered the courage to go around and give talks at schools, but I thought I could try to do something by following up with another journal entry.
Here are some gruesome before and after pictures I took with my digital camera. I posted some of them in an earlier entry.
Before surgery: http://img72.imageshack.us/i/armandhand.png/
i can't believe i'm going to have my fingers amputated on an outpatient basis. this is what i was told by the surgeon.
the pain is driving me crazy.
i have an appointment with a surgeon next monday. i guess he'll take it from there. my wound care doctor told me today that i'm going to need to get the show on the road. i'm scared.
civ4 rhye's and fall mod
AC: THANKS for the suggestion! that rhye's and fall mod was not working was indeed a patch issue. after patching my cracked civ4 installation, i was able to get rhye's and fall to load, and i've been playing it. i've been listening to old skinny puppy tracks while i play.
GOD'S GIFT MAGGOT.
i've read that as early as the 11th century, when antibiotics had not yet been discovered, fly maggots were used to treat chronic wounds or arrest necrotic spread. some species of maggot consume only dead flesh, leaving nearby living tissue unaffected. the most commonly used species of maggot used was/is the blowfly [calliphoridae] maggot, and among this species, the green blowfly [lucilia sericata] is preferred. This practice largely died out after the introduction of antibiotics.
In modern times treatment is usually surgical debridement, and excision with amputation is necessary in many cases. Amputation was also used on the battlefield during war in the 19th century to counter gangrene, among other things. the american civil war was a notable occasion for such amputations. Antibiotics alone are not effective because they do not sufficiently penetrate ischemic tissues.
Recently, however, maggot therapy has regained some credibility and is sometimes employed with great efficacy in cases of chronic tissue necrosis. in january 2004, the food and drug administration granted permission to produce and market maggots for use in humans or other animals as a prescription-only medical device for the following indications: "for debriding non-healing necrotic skin and soft tissue wounds, including pressure ulcers, venous stasis ulcers, neuropathic foot ulcers, and non-healing traumatic or post surgical wounds."
GOD GIVES MAGGOT
in february 2004, the british national health service permitted its doctors to prescribe maggot therapy.
treatment usually lasts a few days. pain is managed with Rx. after the 2nd or 2rd day, the wound becomes smelly and sloppy. then, the maggots are easily removed when their work is done.
MY FRIEND MAGGOT.
on the subject of maggots and other vermin, homo in la jolla's journal stinks. i've checked it for updates several times over the last few weeks. NOTHING interesting. sometimes somebody leaves a comment, but this gets quickly deleted. is he baby-sitting his journal to make sure nobody's comments stay up for more than a minute? passive aggressive? why not disable comments? or even better, post that stuff privately. CRAWL BACK IN AT THE END OF YOUR HALO
when i began this journal, i thought it was relatively private. i rarely post comments except as AC. is there some feature that allows people to browse and search journals?
MAGGOTS FILL THE BRAIN
i'm still addicted to opiates
i have not yet lost my hand.
i had 6 pints at a bar on Haight earlier in the evening. this did nothing to help the pain but made me teary eyed concerning this whole ordeal. i am now at the end of the rope mentally, physically, and spiritually concerning my present pain level. thoughts of escaping through suicide run through my head with alarming frequency. i've been suicidal before over emotional pain, but the pain i now experience surpasses that by many orders of magnitude. i guess what keeps me from it is that i don't want to cause anyone grief.
civ 4 working
hand hurts like a motherfscker.
thanks for the link for civ4 hacks. i downloaded the fake disk image, mounted it with alcohol120, ran safedisk4 and got it to work. unfortunately, i still can't get the rhye's and fall mod to work. maybe i need to patch up to the latest version of civ4? i will try this later.
stats. been working on stats for the final version of a journal article that will be published soon. it has already been accepted by the reviewers for j phys. i'm 1st author. proof you can get pubilications almost 2 years after having worked at the company and then been laid off. my previous advisor just won a laskar award.
1st cup of coffee at 'bean there'. on my way in and out of the building, i've been trying to avoid the innkeeper. he has been getting nosy. every time he sees me he has this sinister knowing look. then he asks me how i'm doing and if there is anything he can do. how am i liking my accomadations... . i havent' told him about how my accident happened. but he has asked.he reminds me of uriah heep. he's tall and gangling with wispy red hair and lashless eyelids. he moves oddly [jerking and awkward, kind of like kramer on seinfield]. i wish ellen hadn't hired him.
just put on some public image ltd videos. didn't sleep well. not only the pain, but the psychic noise from the german nurse who lives in the room next door (the caspian room) was distracting. Heida was churning some mental muck half the night. i stied to shut it out, but her bed was too close and her thoughts too laden/charged with emotion. i tried to shut it out. it was like a speaker getor a single conversation standing out slightly above the background din in a noisy room. she's worried about some kind of deadline. she didn't muck through all of the b.g. so i don't pick up enough to really get the big picture. Finally fell asleep.
then the dreams began.
suddenly felt a rushing sensation. then i was jerked through somethihng. in a book store. a shopkeeper, who resembled an elderly aleister crowley but with hair, was organizing books. he started telling me about some of croley's life that nobody had written about. crowley had a dungeon and torture chamber secretly built in his later years. his scecret life. gradually, the speaker's words began to take form as he described the dungeon and the horrible things that crowley did in there. i could clearly see the horrific torture rituals that crowley performed on his victims. in one, crowley held a blond woman captive in the torture chamber. i was standing behind him witnessing the scene. she was restrained but vividly conscious. he had sliced a hole in her abodomen, reached in, and extracted her intestines, still intact and functioning. then he haed carefully coiled them around her entire body. she looked like a puffy maggot with the bloody guts ringing her like the body 'segments' of a worm. oinly her head was sticking out of the gory body wrapper. i watched, fascinated, as her intestines writhed and spasmed in their peristalitic movements.
my pain level is off the chart tonight. shooting nerve pain is difficult to bear. it's hard to concentrate on anything except finding a way to escape.
i wish i had a woman in my life right now. but it was a woman that made me seek refuge from emotional pain in the first place. i say "made me" which is denial. i just cope poorly. she didn't put the needle in my arm. only i am responsible for that.
the tag/date/accnt is from the doc.
a tale of misogyny - continued
1st coffee at cole valley cafe.
pics of my hand. the middle pic is the fasciotomy. i warn you that the image is gruesome.
the novelty of evony is wearing off. i liked the idea of being able to pkill other people in civ-type knockoff. but it turns out you can't even destroy their cities. kill their troops, steal their resources, and farm their gold. that's it. lame. what's worse is that to do well in the game, you've got to buy game currency [not gold] with real money. the game currency gives yo the abilityto develop a higher level of armanent, tech, fortification. without spending 100s$, you will only be a mediocre player. strategy and skill counts for nothing here. the only thing half way fun about it anymore is offending people in world chat with my screen name.
AC's suggestion of playing civ4 with the rhies and fall mod tempts me. i've never played that mod, but it sounds good. i remember installing it on an old laptop i found in a hospital dumpster a few years ago. when i first played it then, i think i started in the late evening. i got so absorbed in the game taht the next thing i knew, it was dawn of the next day. i kept playing another day and night before finishing 1 game. afterwards, i was seeing little cities, nuke blast sites, little warriors running on the sidewalk as i rode my bike to a coffee shop that day.
so, i even looked for that old laptop in my crate of electronics and found it. but, i keep getting a message to please insert cd. the game is installed, but i can't find the cd image [i used to mount the image with daemon tools or alcolhol 120 or sting then be able to play it]. i never had the cd. the no-cd crack won't work without at least an image of the cd. my internet connection is too slow to download the 1.4 gb image file.
I'M SO HIGH RIGHT NOW
I'M SO HIGH RIGHT NOW
teh pain is still off the scale, but it doesnt' bother me as much.
i've been playing 'evony' all day. that's the game that slashdot has been advertising recently. i think the images in the ads were what made me want to play. one of the ads has sparkles coming out of the model's nunus. 'anything to please you milord.' good lord you should have seen what i read in the news today.
10:34 PDT NAIROBI, Kenya (AP) --
Authorities in Ethiopia and Kenya have seized more than 2,600 pounds (1,200 kilograms) of bloodstained ivory from about 100 illegally killed elephants at airports, the head of Kenya's Wildlife Service said Wednesday.
Read more: http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/n/a/2009/09/30/international/i071922D08.DTL#ixzz0SwhhJh3r
why is this still happening in the world? greedy fools are going to hunt elephants to extinction for their ivory. on evony, my screen name is 'lord AIDSFaggot.' motherfscker and cocksucker were already taken:( anyway, that's one of ingrids nicknames for me so it fits. [she uses it [in her shrill, castrating voice]] when she decide she's going to throw a fit in public because i won't buy her sthing she wants. ] i'm playing on server 69. on the subject of HIV-infected gay men, my friends rick and chris [a couple] have moved to boston.
i've decided to post some pics of my injury. as soon as i find the usb cable.
the pain is off the charts. my scrip barely takes the edge off. looking at my hand brings tears to my eyes. i'm reminded of hand of a mummy i saw at a museum. my fingers are black and shriveled up to the first knuckles. the rest of my hand is red, blotchy, swollen, got black patches... the edges of my poor fingernails are still very even just like they were the last time i trimmed them before the accident. i think they grew a little bit since then.. never again. i should post pics.
i got up before dawn. traffic woke me. morning coffee at cole valley cafe. piglet was working behind the counter. her sidekick Rat Girl was mooching free food off her as usual. like she needs anything to eat. she's so damn fat, she could go a few months without eating and be fine. the owner needs to spend more time there baby-sitting that twit he's got working there to keep her from stealing so much.
i titled this entry 'crazy train'. i just read hilj's latest journal entries and some of the comments. HILARIOUS!@$!@$#!
i think what keeps his rants interesting is that tiny possibility that he might be a real person and not a work of fiction by a dedicated troll. that and AC keeps posting funny 1 liners in response to his journal entries that evoke a 2 hour diatribe in hilj's next journal entry.
she cut holes in my undies
got up this morning around 7. piddled around my room for a few hours. walked downstairs to check mail. ellen leaves every body's mail on a marble table in the foyer. just inside the front door to the rooming house was a paper grocery bag with my name on it. i opened it and inside were half a dozen or so pairs of my undies. upon examinatino, i noticed that someone had cut holes in each one. i vaguely remember having left these at A___'s condo. she's still not speaking to me.
i just spent a long time typing this in once. i clicked 'save', but instead i was directed to some error page and my entry was deleted. i'm re-writing the whole thing.
my misfortune occured on sep 10. a few days later, a compartmental fasciotomy was performed to relieve microvascular pressure few days later at ucsf . i was hospitalized there for a week and received dilaudid and morphine in my iv. i was given percocet 10/325 (pfsst) when i was released. after having gone through those, i got a prescription for hydrocodone 10/325. finished them. now i'm only getting tylenol 3s. i take 1 every 6 hours and my doctor wants to see the bottle every visit to make sure i'm not doubling up on them. fscking A! quadrupling up doesn't take the edge off and barely keeps me from withdrawels.
During my stay in the hospital, Angry Ingrid crap-flooded my cell phone mailbox. she left 49 messages that went on for over an hour.
i feel like i'm in a patricia highsmith story. Angry Ingrid is Swedish, blond, blue, tall, and a former model whose mother is also a former fashion model. she was born into a country club lifestyle but is also kind of a townie. i met her in college at a coffee shop where i used to study. she was my first long-term gf. we dated on-and-off for several years. i really loved her and trusted her and had no idea of the dangerous things she was to later expose me to. i was naive then. she was the one who first turned me on to the pleasures of heroin and cocaine, and to the thrill of the needle.
like a female highsmith character, angry ingrid is a real peice of work. she is fond of claiming she has been raped during her adolescence. in fact, she still claims a new rape every year or so. she is obscessed with an x-bf from hs. his house looks like the batman mansion. every now and then she goes on about how he supposedly drugged and raped her in highschool. and then again a few years later..... she tells a convincing story, but knowing her the way i do, i'm sure this is a lie (or at least a gross exageration) that she tells in order to gain sympathy and manipulate people.
she also enjoys creating public scenes. not getting her own way usually sets her off. one time for example, when we were at neiman marcus, she saw a $500 sweater that she had to have. i was, of course, expected to pay for it. i patiently explained to her that i didn't have the money for it - i'm a poor college styudent. well, we were in a partiallyh secluded hall way by the bathroom when the inevitable argument really broke out. suddenly she shrieked, "HELP ME I'M BEING RAPED" in her shrill, earsplitting voice. before i knew it, i was tackled to the floor by a security guard. scenes like thta (and worse) happened \more and more frequently the longer i knew her. another time i was outside on the patio of the condo we were sharing at the time. she wanted me to come in and talk to her. i didn't want to because she was acting funny. so she called my parents and all of my family for that matter. told them i was stealing her allowance and keeping her prisoner. stealing her food... i eventually broked up with her. or so i thought. unfortunately, she's the kind of person that one doesn't break up with without her permission (like the Seinfeld episode). we've been living apart for more than a year now, and i've been trying to see other people. mostly my relationships have failed since then. inga is quite the cock-blocker.
so, the day of my accidnet [thursday], angry ingrid did some bad things. surprise surprise. 1st thing in the morning [6 or 7am], she woke me from my dxm daze honking her car horn. i got out of the bed (though i try to avoid beds and prefer to sleep on the floor on account of the intense pain that overly soft beds cause in my back. but this one was firm enough that it wasn't so bad. i can't do anyting about it anyway since the Shaharazad room [where i'm living]came furnished.] she was on the sidewalk outside the rooming house yelling up at my window for me to get up. i didn't want her to disturb the other residents, and if she did so, i thoght her behavior would get me in trouble. also, i was still tripping balls from dxm. -i had quaffed 2 bottles of robotussin dm the night before.
i was still pretty messed up, and in my drug-addled state, i buzzed her in. for some reason, i thoguth that if i was accommodating, she would behave and we would have a good time. also, a_ still wasnt' speaking to me after she threw me out on account of my having barfed after eating her smelly vag. so inga was pretty much my only chance of female company. she cam ein and the first ting she did was pick up a marylin manson cd. she started screaming at me and said i was a faggot for listening to marylin manson and that i was having buttsex with tom across the hall in the queen of sheba room. yes, that's really what it's called and tom is gay. she broke it and threw it at me. other than that, her mood was OK. so i thought things would go well. but remember, i had just come down from plateau sigma and was still too far out of my mind to realize how dangerous the situation really was and that it was not ok at all. i staggered into her car. i was doing the classic robo walk. robotussin, and other drugs that inhibit or block nmda receptors [phencyclidine, mk801, ketamine for example] tend to do something similar to the gate. she noticed that i was walking funny and said, 'why are you walking like that? did you get butt-hurt by your butt buddy tom?"
she drove me to cole valley cafe. as soon as she parked, i opened the door and puked up red robo goo all over the sidewalk. i stumbled out of th e car. we went into the coffee shop. i was still tripping hard and hallucinating like a motherfscker. the walls looked like they were embedded with untold millions of extremely ornate, animated heiroglyphs that would have taken an army of cgi animators to construct. she made me pay for her large tripple skinny soy late [easy on the soy] with an extra shot and a shot of hazzlenut what-the-fsck-ever she orders. i had to lean against the counter. i was too incapacitated to stand without swaying drunkenly. i had a plain cup of coffee for myslef, but after drinking it, i soon regretted it very much. i had to piss like a motherfscker. one of the side effecdts of a dxm is that it constricts the sphincter of smooth muscle lining the urethra. take enough of it and you can't piss. the muscles get too tight to pass fluid. if you drink too much fluid while your urethra is shut tight, your bladder will rupture unless you get a catheter. but my fears were baseless. i peed around noon (after someting like 12 hours of having to pee). that afternoon we had lunch at her step faterher's yacht club in sausalito...... then i got into her car again and ingrid drove for a while.
after my "golf" journal entry a few weeks ago, i had promised myself never to iv again, not only that, but i was going to quit both h. and c. i had planned to quit cold turkey... failing that, i would try a methadone clinic, but never h again. but as fate would have it, things didn't work out as i had hoped. ingy parked and reached up her skirt and whipped out a packet of mexican brown h. i couldn't resist. i told myself i would comprimise and not shoot it. what i did was melt it in water and squirt it up my nose where it would absorb. this method still gives a pretty good buzz if you do it right and keep your head back so the water doesn't drip out of your nose. it smelled kind of like raw fish and vinegar - like ceviche. then i would taper off.
she prepared a shot of heroin for herself . she cooked it in a spoon. i went next but without injecting it. she started driving again and became paranoid later as we drove. she had me hide the heroin in my underpants.
she was talking about some high level lsd dealer (cleston L., named after the town drunk by his grandma in the village where he was born since his mom didn't know who the father was) she claimed to have known had gotten out of prison and had sent peopel after her. cleston had been high up in the lsd dealer world. he had the resources to hire a small private army of dead-end-kids driving around in black SUVs [but i remember it was vans not suvs as ingrid thought. maybe he changed his fleet and image.] and armed to the teeth. she flipped every time she saw a black chevy suburban or waht-the-fsck-ever it is. she kept asking if i'm involved in this. 'who's paying you?"... she was becoming more agitated. "are you working for cleston?"... i finally said "WHAT THE FSCK!!!@$! you're crazier than a sackfull of assholes!". by now we were on 101 going south and past san francisco. the tone of her voice changed immediately.
she said 'what did you call me?" and just went apeshit and started punching me and floored it. she was passing all kinds of traffic on curvy, crowded 101..
i started freaking, not that i wasn't before, but this was too much. after what seemed like hours, we got stuck behind some very slow traffic...i opened the door and jumped out of car. and slammed the tar out of depression and trauma. i rolledonce. i got up. the adrenaline rush had kicked in... it overcame the feeling of nausea and i was finally able to run without wanting to barf. she was driving back and forth along the road , kept turning around and yelling my name, then crying and pleading 'it's me ingrid, come back! bwa wha wha and trying to get me to get in the car. holdign up traffic and causing all kinds of problems. i ran to the beach and hid for a while then caught a bus home. that evening after i got home is when i had my accident.
since getting out of the hospitcal, for the past few days, i've been wearign a plastic bag over my han dbecause of te smell. i've been tring to avoid elen and the 'inn keeper' who reminds me of the sinister uriah heep from david copperfield.
tom came over today. [he lives across the hall in the queen of sheba room.] he offered to get me high. ellen was gone, so we felt like we were safe if we didnt' blow th e marijuana smoke otu the window.we hot-boxed the shaharazaad room (my room). only a few close peopel knwo about my accident. tom is 1 of them. i felt comfortable with him around. he's closing on a condo in just on the other side of sutro hill i nthe castro in a few days. his boyfriend is leaving him bc he doesnt' like the condo....
tears flood my eyes as i think about this. i'm so disgusted, so mad at myself. i feel guilty for feeling sorry for myself. a future of being deformed looms over me, and it looks bleak. i'm in a lot of physical pain. my friends have abandoned me. like the man who crosses paths with a female highsmith character, my life is ruined.
tales of misogyny part 1 - losing my hand to heroin
i will describe an accident while slamming heroin. i have not yet lost my hand. it's a few days since the accident and my fingers have turned black.
i'm still addicted to opiates.
i need to vent here. i'm going to rant and rave. i just need to have a pity party, and i hope i don't offent anyone. and sorry for not capitalizing. i don't know if i will ever be able use caps correctly again.
i usally use a 1 ml rig with a 5/8 inch point. i asked for a 5/8 inch needle at the pharmacy, but they gave me 1 1/2 inch. i had used these before, and i knew they were tricky and notorious for bruising. the shorter point is better because it allow for more control and you're less likely to go all the way through the vein or hit the arteries which lie deeper than veins.
i fixed 500mg of mexican brown tar heroin and figured i'd hit the vein in the crook of my arm where i usually do. i was careful and went in at a shallow angle. i hit the main line on the first try. i had bought only 1 point because i had planned on JUST ONE hit. well bugger me dead after about 10 minutes i started leveling off and i wanted another. i carefully cleaned my rig and drew up the second fix. 500mg of tar heroin will fuck you up nodding hard. the light was dim, and i thought i was sticking the same place. nope. my hand caught on fire from the inside like a motherfscker. I HIT AN ARTERY. it hurt BAD!
I thought it would ok. i dismissed it thinking the dope would harmlessly diffuse though the walls of the capillaries and dissipate into the surrounding tissue. but i didn't know the dope would clog the microvasculature in the tips of my fingers. the end of the line.
later i started to worry and got on my motorcyle. i was going to drive up to the er and have a doctor look at it. i soon found that i coudn't squeeze the clutch. i couldn't feel my hand much less move it. so i tried using my right hand to operate the clutch to get myself started. soon, i was getting dizzy. i decided i needed to get the fsck home. i figured what the fsck i will speed shift it home. i crashed. i kind stranger helped me pick up the bike. i called tom to take me home. i don't remember much when i got home...i just collapsed with the thought that i'd wait and see what would happen when i awoke. when i woke up, my hand was blue, and i couldn't move my fingers or my hand at the wrist. to my relief, the pain was gone for the most part. i figured this was like the night i spent cramming for an organic chemistry final sitting in a kneeling position on a wood floor. i couldn't feel my feet for a few days, but i was fine later. i didn't know then that i had already developed necrosis in some of my fingertips.
so where does misogyny factor in on this? well, it's all about inga, and i will write about it later. now, the pain in my hand and forearm is off the charts, and i can not focus on typing.