Getting What You're Due - The $0.00000005 Worth Of Extra Coke Project

A disjointed blog entry.

So, since we last gathered, there have been a a variety of medical issues involving The Beneficiary, most of which have been resolved very positively, some of which are in progress but look to be fine, all of which involve lots of road travel.

A close relative of mine was been killed in a motorcycle accident. Yeah, I'm not the only biker in the family. COVID-style funeral stuff is pending. So that's fun. Just....fuck.

There was about a three-week stretch of probably medical-grade depression (unrelated to any of the above) that I've finally worked through. For a variety of reasons I can't avail myself of a more clinical solution to that sort of thing, so generally just have to grit my teeth, stay the fuck away from real humans, and deal with it. I am much better now, thanks, and no I really don't want to talk about it. Unlike many bloggers/tumblers, bleeding in public is neither my style nor of any value to me. Been there, done that, it always sucks.

For example, I follow a psycho-girl on tumblr who thinks she's a witch, prays to crystals, meets ghosts everywhere, thinks the universe is literally talking to her all the time, is subject to things bumping in the night that work out to borderline (or more) hallucinations, is suicidal about 50/50, self-harming (cutting and bruising) about 50/50, manically hyper about 25/75, thinks she is the savior of the world and distraught persons about half the time and spends the other half trying to find new ways to sabotage herself, her job, her life, her "relationships" (many of which are with scary, sorta-famous musicians who are literally dead, and the main one of which is with an utterly unattainable bone-deep loser who is "the love of her life" who lives many states away and who she's not actually been anywhere around for years).

She is, in short, a probably diagnostically extreme bi-polar with a horrifying back-story, delusional fantasies, chronic clinical-grade suicidal depression and a tumblr account. She's a good writer in her own self-absorbed, horror-show way though, I'll give her that, which makes her public psycho-girl pathology and erratic comet/moth-orbits diving into and away from self-destruction as fascinating as a PBS documentary.

Anyhow, these days every time I write a piece when I'm bottomed out, I read something of hers. And consider whether I want to be her.

Uhh, yeah, no, I don't think so. So those pieces get locked away into an encrypted diary where I can read them later and laugh at myself. These are extremely rare pieces because I don't fall down that hole much -- probably less than twice in a given half-decade, but I'll promise you, they're enough so that I NEVER explain to someone undergoing a depression that they need to "get over it," and have no patience with those who do. If you ain't been there, you don't know shit about hanging on by your fingernails.

Enough of that. This post was originally directed at the useless bint at Jason's Deli down in the City, and how it got redirected to psycho-girl is a mystery. (shrug) But there ya' go.

So, back to the useless bint. The one who's got masked people stretched in a 6' apart line behind her clear out to the ordering area while she fills her plastic cup with Diet Coke. Yeah, you goofy bitch. Wait for that foam to go down. The squirt a little more in there. Wait. Squirt. Wait. Squirt. Make sure you get that 75-cent cup so full that the liquid is rounded up over the top. Wait. Squirt. Wait. Squirt. Refills are free, but get it all while you can. Wait. Squirt. Wait. Squirt.

When I (third back in line) finally asked "Lady, what the fuck is wrong with you? Get out of the way!" she acts like I'M the problem.

Gawd I hate people some days.