Typical Idiots:

So, I am at the smoke shop today that I frequent everyday to buy items.  The clerk rings the cost up to $27.89.  I pay with debit and don't think twice about it until I am at home when it occurs to me that $27.89 is the wrong tally.

The correct tally on the items that I buy is $37.64.  I buy two smoke packs at $8.75 each after tax, which equals $17.50: but, the register always charges $17.49 for the two smoke packs that I buy.

I also buy a twelve pack of beer at either $17.62 or $17.86, depending on the pricing quotas which are constantly changing at the smoke shop or else any shop even if there are no tax hikes.  Today, I also buy a cigarette paper pack at $1.53 after tax.

The math on the items equals something close to or exactly $37.64, but the clerk charges my debit card $27.89 for the items.  The difference in tally cost and actual price is $9.75 when the difference should be $8.75 on the tally of one smoke pack that the clerk does not register.

There is a discrepancy in not only the actual tally and the charge tally of $27.89, but also an unaccounted for $1 in the difference between $9.75 and $8.75 on the price of one smoke pack after tax that was not registered by the clerk.

I call the store and ask for one of the managers whom I know and with whom I am friendly to explain, but the managers have left for the day.  The clerk who serves me at the register in the previous hour when I am buying the items answers and tells me that the managers have left for the day.

So, I explain to the clerk the math with his register when I purchased the items in the previous hour and he says: "nope.  I charged you the correct price.  I rang both smoke packs."

I tell him that the math don't lie and he hangs up.  I am going up there tomorrow with a résumé when the managers are there.

I remember in Ballard, Seattle at the radio store buying a radio with my mother that the clerk at the radio store tried to short change my mother by $35 on a radio.  I remember telling my mother: "count the change before you put that money away," and she did to find it $35 short in change.  You better believe that the clerk was shocked to be caught!  He paid.  And, at the time during 1996 when I lived in Ballard and my mom and me were buying a radio: I had just been diagnosed with schizophrenia.

Always count your money, even out of the ATM! 

I was blocked from commenting in the Bangor-Daily-News-on-FB 11/10 08:57

Here is what somebody had to say to me when I wrote "stuipid people deserve their stupidity" about a slum house fire where six people died recently: 

"Mr. B, if I were you, I would worry about KARMA. You hateful, mean-spirited troll." 

I also received death threats in the thread. Now, the BDN has deleted all the comments in the thread: except for the above comment to me. 

Point of fact: I feel bad when people or animals die prematurely, but really ... "stuipid people deserve their stupidity," and that is a fact! 

An Attempt to Clarify and Communicate with Family and Others about Me:

In a letter from -B- that I received when I was living in Bellingham, WA during fall 1995, the letter contained a closing line of: "opinions are like assholes, everybody has one."

I remember that the letter was two pages on front and back of one page and that I thought it a rambling letter until I read the closing line, which struck me as implying that I was an asshole for having traveled to Bellingham, WA via Maine and across the USA originating from Gaborone where my decision to leave -EH- and -JL-'s compound in Gaborone culminated with -JL- shouting at me and kicking a white, plastic chair towards me at an outdoor lunch table.

The argument between us was that I wanted to learn how to write and wanted to go to libraries and read so that I could learn to write.  -EH- and -JL- offered me one of two other choices for me to keep busy while in Gaborone: aerobics instructor class or scuba diving in a swimming pool.  I did not want to do either class, but I enrolled in aerobics class during evenings at the gym and spent days at the University of Botswana library.

I left Gaborone due to irreconcilable differences between -EH-, -JL- and myself in that I did not have space to pursue reading in libraries and learning how to write as I was practically illiterate at the time with only a high school diploma, which did not amount to much in terms of educative processes for me.  I was almost "stupid" at the time and knew it.  

So, I decided during fall of 1993 after my first hospital visit in NYC when I was attending SFSU that I wanted to "learn."  Learning for me meant reading and writing.  Upon arrival in Bellingham, WA: I immediately sought out the university library and spent twelve hour days over three years reading and writing in the library while sleeping in my vehicle over the three years.

During June of 1995, I enrolled at a community college in Bellingham, WA and signed up for an independent course study titled: "Write like Hemingway."  The professor with whom I studied writing like Hemingway whose initials were -CV- stated to me at the conclusion of the course that I had found my "voice," as in a writing voice.  -CV- issued an A for the course at the end of summer 1995 and shared my writings with his literature class.

However, during June of 1996 when I was diagnosed with schizophrenia: I literally lost the "writing voice" I had garnered during the write like Hemingway curriculum in terms of not being able to verbalise coherently or write coherently.  I thought and mentioned to -EH- in an Oregon motel room where we stayed over a weekend trip at the time that I needed a "home" as to a reason why I was diagnosed, given that for everybody: it is 50/50 environmental/biological; with some people 30/70 and other people 80/20, depending on ratios.

Part of my thinking as to a reason for my diagnosis was such that I had never known a home base in my life with my family spread out all over the world and no personal contacts or networks to whom I could go to for reprieve in Bellingham, WA or anywhere.  I knew nobody but the one so called friend -K- whom I originally went to Bellingham, WA to visit with -K- stating to me that I had come to his "turf," i.e. Bellingham, WA.

So, I decided to move to Maine upon invite from -B-.

Since moving to Maine having been diagnosed with schizophrenia during June of 1996 in Seattle, WA and hospitalised once before 1996 during June 1993 at a hospital in NYC where I was immediately put into an isolation room on the ward for three days without anybody to talk to other than a doctor for five minutes of each day that I was in the isolation room, I have been called as many epithets as an auctioneer can spit out in a spiel.

I would posit that I won't repeat the epithets that I have been called for sake of not turning this piece of writing into a "rant" and keeping the tone communicative, but I will repeat them anyway with a disclaimer that the epithets have hurt my feelings over the years.  Whereas I would be angry a lot due to the frustration of being called epithets because of whatever reason (stigma? judgement?), I am now concluding that epithets I have been called are what people think of me: as in peoples' opinions of me.

Epithets that I have been called since moving to Maine during October 1997 are: pathetic; crazy; teatsucker; motherfucker; schizo; you hear voices; alkie who swills his drinks with sperm; it's all in your head; zero credibility; faggot; mentally ill (as in "what are doing with him: he's mentally ill" to two different girlfriends of mine over two different dinners); chicken; basically nuts; don't have anything to do with him, he'll make your life a living hell; manipulative; lunatic; I'm going to fuck you, fuck your family and god is going to get you; money talks, bullshit walks; you have milked schizophrenia for all it's worth; why doesn't he pull himself up by the bootstraps; etc.

The epithet: "it's all in your head," triggered me into hanging myself at the property in Portland, ME on May 29, 2008 because I had had enough of -EH- saying "it's all in your head" to me for years on end since 1996 when I was diagnosed with schizophrenia.  To this day: I cannot and could never communicate anything with -EH- on a verbal, communicative level.  As of late, -EH-'s twin sister concurs with my assessment in my trying to communicate with -EH- in that -EH-'s twin sister has said to me that she was my age now before -EH- would let her finish a sentence.

During 2010 over the phone, I mentioned to -JL- that I would give up trying to talk to -EH-.  -JL- said to keep trying to communicate with -EH-.  Since 2010, I have tried to communicate with -EH- to no avail.  It would not matter if I told -EH- that the sky is blue.  -EH- would not take my word for it and she would have to consult somebody else about it.

The conclusion that I draw is that epithets I have been called are reflective of my family, my family's friends and strangers' opinions of me and the definitive conclusion might be for me to disappear as it is obvious that I am considered a kind of pariah to other people (including family) because of whatever reason.

However, I have a cat and dog to think about in life: not to mention a wife!  So, I am not sure what to do at this juncture in my emotional state concerning family.  I understand that it is almost impossible for an impression to impress upon an impressionist who created an impression, but I need to know if the communication herein is clear enough to elicit a definitive conclusion about me from -EH- and -JL-, among others in my life to whom this piece of writing might be of concern.

Am I going to be threatened with eviction?  Am I going to be banned from -EH- and -JL-'s home, as has happened?

Bear in mind: statistics show that 90% of the two million people who are diagnosed with what I am diagnosed are unemployed.  95% smoke.  77% of cross genre media depict people diagnosed with schizophrenia as psychopathic criminals.  3% of people diagnosed with schizophrenia are in jail: a statistic which reflects inmates from general populations of the USA.  Lastly, my doctor has said that a lot of people in the community have "misjudged" me.

So, as a last ditch attempt to elicit a definitive conclusion about me from people whom I have known all of my life: do people wish me "dead" or to disappear because that is the conclusion I draw and the conclusion which has been impressed upon my conscience in light of herein context?

On another note: I am a self published author who may have an opportunity to be hired as a Peer Educator in a psycho-social class at a college in Maine.  If I secure a position as a Peer Educator at the college, I may be able to vend my books and/or require reading of my books for students in the cla$$.  I am currently engaged in talk of my securing a Peer Educator position at a college with a State of Maine vocational counselor who has read some of my writings and raved about them saying to me that I am an "excellent writer."

It would seem that "reading without reflecting is like eating without digesting" in that I have regained my voice in writing which I lost during 1996 when I was diagnosed and that my writing voice might pay off in the not too distant future, as of October 2014.

Other prospects are odd jobs to which I apply and sometimes secure and other times do not secure. Some jobs that I have held in that past were at a university for eight years simultaneously working as a superintendent at the building where I live in Portland, ME until I hung myself and quit everything due to the fact that I gave up life because of epithets impressing upon my conscience without my being able to communicate otherwise about myself or experiences: just deemed "basically nuts!"

In the coming weeks I am going to decide if something on the communicative level with people in my life has changed with this herein last ditch effort to communicate myself to people in my life and if not: I will be taking the dog and cat back to their respective pounds where I adopted them, leave the vehicle in the driveway at the Portland, ME property and board the Greyhound to eat baloney sandwiches outside of San Francisco City Hall where homeless people convene, or, die in a ditch.

I was never on a so called "acid" trip or called -JJ- when I lived in SF like -JJ- insisted during February 1993 and -PL- asked if I was on acid or that I called -JJ- in a call -PL- placed to me at 7PM PST February 23, 1993 while -PL- was in Rochester, NY in order to ask me if I made that call in my dorm room at SFSU on 802 Font BLVD, SF, CA.  I did not know -JJ-'s phone number at the time, as -JJ- contested that she did not know my phone number from notes on record during the time.

At the time, I was beginning to go to A.A. with a sponsor in S.F. and when I heard that I was accused of calling -JJ- with baby at 5AM CT during the previous week of February 23, 1993, I was livid at some New Yorkers with whom I went to school in New York because I thought that the New Yorkers with whom I went to grade school had pranked -JJ- stating that they, the New Yorkers with whom I went to school, were me saying "I am eight people" and that I was on acid and that they, the "pranksters," would take care of me.  (I have since read -EH-'s notes from Gaborone about the incident at the time and have the notes in possession today, October 26, 2014: the which I have thought that I might scan and post on a blog).

The point: I implore family and others to "not judge, lest ye be judged" and to open a communicative with conclusive, conversational relationship with me for the first time in my life at my being 41 years old.  I have tried to communicate the details herein verbally for years on end to no avail and I have supposed that it has been wasted time for me to try and mend trust bridges with family over "lies" about me.

Hence: if I am not able to communicate to -EH- about -EH- paying $229/month to the cable company between 2013 and 2014 when the subscription cost is $118/month or that squirrels come into the attic at the Portland, ME property off of tree limbs in the back yard and the limbs need to be cut back by an arborist with -EH- retorting that squirrels come in the attic off of power lines in front of this property: that the power lines need to buried, etc.; then, I give up and either need money to maintain the dog, cat and wife or disappear. 

Meanwhile: I continue my search for some kind of a paying gig and/or community involvement so as to offset accounting from -EH- with a job shadow on October 27, 2014 @ 8am until noon at a dog kennel or else odd jobs and I will be hearing about a Peer Educator position by next week or the week after next week. 

Otherwise, if my relationship statuses with my family continue on the tract that they have been on since eons ago: then I might just have to disappear.  I just can't stand the love/hate relationship that my family and others present to me in my communications with family.

If I tell y'all on January 3, 2014 that it is fifty below outside and that it is predicted to be a coastal storm with no more than two inches of snow and thirty degrees above 0ºF the next morning and to put the dogs in the mud room on paper instead of letting the dogs outside to pee: then please believe me and do not call me "lunatic" and "mentally ill" while locking me out of the house without my dog in fifty below temperatures!  

I hope that this message clarifies and communicates with family and others to whom it may concern about me and my being.  I only ask that I be afforded a little respect as a human being, the kind of respect that Russ, the dog, taught me in how to treat Patch, the dog: "it is important not to overlook love." 

Sincerely, -JB-

NPR Facebook Exchange about Ebola:

me: their blood transfusion donations are worth millions...

xyz: Oh good idea! Let's exploit them since they're poor and have no options. Do you really think that, if their blood was used, they would receive any benefit from it?

me: My statement is a facetious statement about the way of the world much in the same way that a flat chested woman can raise 100,000$ for a b00b job and I can't raise $2 for http://peersponsorship.blogspot.com as well as the fact that 1% of the world's population who live on NYC's Park Ave. has accrued more wealth than the poorest 50% of the world population leading to profound income and quality of life disparities in populations up to and including a lack of clean water and food for at least 75% of the world's populations while people fill a pool in Vegas (a desert) so a dog can swim in it.

Depletion of world, natural habitats through exploitation of resources (which caused the Ebola outbreak in the first place along with civil wars and mass scale devastation to human and animal habitats) is just so Steve Jobs, et al. can own a super yacht and you and I can type away on a crappy computer that would not work were it not for exploiting the Congo of its minerals causing militias to manifest over greed. Don't talk to me about "exploitation" when I am chronically unemployable even as a dishwasher and must panhandle to rub two dimes together!

"Johnny on the Spot:"

"Richard!?  Richard!?"

Richard hears his mother call his name with urgency from the front door while he lounges on the sun deck out back drinking beer and smoking cigarettes on a crisply, cool fall evening in New England at a log cabin.

"Coming..."

Richard immediately rises from the lounge chair on the sun porch and enters the door to the house off of the deck.  His father is half on a couch and half on the floor in the living room recovering from a hospital visit and cannot rise to go to the bathroom while Richard is visiting having driven his mother and father to the cabin home from a hospital twenty miles away.

"Alright.  Take my hand," Richard says to his dad as his father tries to lift himself up off of the couch and half on the floor, but his father slips with socks on the slick wood floors of the living room and falls back onto the couch.

"June!  June!"

"Here.  Take my hand again," Richard says propping his left foot against his father's right foot at an angle.  "You won't slip.  Look at the angle."

In a sudden moment of confidence in his son, Richard's father grabs ahold of Richard's hand and Richard at 155 pounds pulls his dad of 250 pounds off of the floor and couch into a standing position while Richard leads his dad to the bathroom, holding his dad's right elbow with his left hand and holding his dad's right hand with his right hand.

"Don't reach for that!  It has wheels and will slide out from underneath you.  It won't support you," Richard says to his dad as they walk a few paces to the bathroom and his dad reaches for a table with wheels.  Richard's mother, June, hovers in the vicinity of the son and dad seeing to it that her husband is put to bed in the downstairs bedroom after urinating in the bathroom.

Richard stands by holding his dad's right elbow as his dad urinates into the toilet and then they shuffle at his dad's pace to the downstairs, guest bedroom in the log cabin.

"There.  Now aren't you glad that you sent me to that Iowa wrestling camp?"

"Yes.  Yes, I am."

"What did he say?"

"Never mind."

"No.  What did you say?"

"All I said was aren't you thankful that you sent me to that Iowa wrestling camp ..."

June, Richard's mother, removes her husband's sweat pants and underwear at the door of the bedroom while Richard's dad stands about to sit on the bed, but the pants are swaddled around his dad's ankles and Richard exclaims:

"Why did you do that?  Oh!  Jesus H. Christ!  Alright, dad ... talk small steps to the bed, very small steps.  Shuffle or you'll trip."

Richard's dad sits on the bed just in time before falling on the floor again tangled in his sweat pant bottoms around his ankles.  June brings the urination bottle that the hospital issues earlier in the day at discharge.  Richard's dad lies down and asks for a phone.

He calls his friend who lives up the road.

"Should I take the medicine?" Richard and his mother overhear Richard's dad say over the phone.  "I can't manipulate anymore ..."

Richard and his mother stand at the kitchen sink within steps of the downstairs bedroom door and overhear the conversation.

"Why would he call Gil for medical advice?" June, Richard's mother asks.

"Because he plays a doctor on TV," Richard retorts: a joke at which his mother laughs.

Later in the night after Richard's dad is asleep and after Richard helps his dad once with urinating in the bottle that the hospital issues saying "just stick that cock in there and piss," Richard checks the urination bottle to see if it is filled, but finds out in the morning that his dad empties urine from the bottle throughout the night without Richard's help.

Locales of My Life:

La Luz, New Mexico
Current city

Bethel, Maine
Moved on October 1, 1997

Seattle, Washington
Moved on June 1, 1996

Bellingham, Washington
Moved on September 1, 1994

Gaborone, Botswana
Moved on January 1, 1994

San Francisco, California
Moved on August 1, 1992

Atlanta, Georgia
Moved on August 1, 1991

Southborough, Massachusetts
Moved on September 1, 1989

New York, New York
Moved on August 1, 1983

Bracknell
Moved on September 1, 1981

Freetown, Sierra Leone
Moved on September 1, 1973

Lubumbashi, Zaïre, (Democratic Republic Congo) June 1973
Hometown

What I Know about Ebola:

Ebola is a virus first detected in villages along side the Ebola River and it is named after the Ebola River in the Congo during the early 1970's.  At the time of the first detected outbreak of Ebola, the Ivory Coast soccer team is supposed to play against the Congo (then known as Zaïre) soccer team, but the Ivory Coast contends that the team doesn't want to go to the Congo because of Ebola. However, the governing soccer franchise administrators say that if the Ivory Coast team does not go play the game in the Congo, the Ivory Coast forfeits.  The Ivory Coast team goes to the Congo, plays and when the Ivory Coast scores the first goal, the Congolese crowd stands up and jeers: "Ebola! Ebola!"

The 1970's Ebola outbreak is either stemmed or runs its course with several of the Western doctors in the Congo at the time succumbing to the virus.  It is thought that the Ebola virus is transmitted through an exchange of bodily fluids between people and people are first infected with the virus by eating so called "bush meat," such as bats and monkeys.  (Monkeys are also thought to have infected humans with the AIDS virus, or, HIV through someone being bitten by a monkey at some point in time.  AIDS or HIV is also spread through direct, bodily fluid contact, but unlike Ebola: does not survive in open air).

During the 2014 outbreak of the Ebola virus, news reports are stating that the Ebola virus could mutate into an airborne contraction of the virus akin to the flu: if the epidemic in West Africa is not stemmed.  (The CDC admits that Ebola might be airborne on October 14, 2014).  As of October, 2014, approximately 9,000 people in West Africa are dead of the Ebola virus and two confirmed cases of Ebola are contracted by health professionals outside of West Africa: a nurse in Madrid, Spain, whose husband is quarantined and whose dog named "Excaliber" is euthanised, and a nurse in Dallas, TX, USA, whose husband and dog are quarantined while authorities burn all of their possessions and vacate their neighbours from adjacent domiciles.  There are other suspected cases in the USA at regional hospitals, such as at Mt. Sinai in New York City and Maine Medical Centre in Portland, ME, but tests prove Ebola virus is not detected in those cases.

Also, at least six Med Sans Frontier doctors in West Africa contract the disease and are life flighted in a specially equipped plane from West Africa to Atlanta, Nebraska and on October 13, 2014: a German doctor is life flighted to Germany for treatment of Ebola.  The German doctor dies of Ebola in Germany on October 14, 2014.

Further, it is thought that the first case of Ebola during 2014 is in Sierra Leone by one individual who then transmits the virus through bodily contact with a relative who then contracts the virus and Ebola spread.  The entire country of Sierra Leone is put on lockdown while health workers go from house to house searching for Ebola victims so that the victims can be isolated immediately.  Concerns are that people touch one another, fawn over sick or dying family members and then contract the virus themselves through bodily fluid contact, such as sweat.  A lot of mistrust towards governments and health workers in Liberia, Sierra Leone and Guinea at first is shifting to heeding the calls of best health protective measures by, for instance, thumping a chest when saying hello instead of shaking hands.

Lastly, news of Ebola is causing widespread panic in the USA and elsewhere as people do not understand what the virus is and there are no definitive explanations of what Ebola is and is not other than it is deadly.  Best advice: don't mention the word Ebola (not even a joke) on a plane, in a school or anywhere people might misconstrue what is said and then HazMat is called!  

One wonders if Ebola is the "end all" of the human race in that nature is taking its course to restore natural habitats that are depleted by humans in that there is less than 40% left of the world's wild lands or natural habitats without influence of humans (a statistic which mirrors the extinction of the dinosaur on the earth in that the earth could not support the populous dinosaurs).  So, nature runs its course through releasing a virus like Ebola out of earth's elements coupled with depleted food sources and natural habitats.  Thus, extinction, or, the threat of it! 

HUMBUG

I guess that I really am a "humbugger."  It dawned on me from what people say to me that nobody can stand being around me.  I don't know how my wife puts up with me, if nobody else does.  And, a lot of the time: my wife doesn't put up with me!  This phenome seems to recur all the time in my life: where I find other people cannot stand being around me.  The guy from the next door house out back used to call me "Mr. Annoying Man."  I overheard another neighbor say to someone else do not have anything to do with me, I'll make their lives a living hell.  Other people have said that I am difficult or eccentric, hyperverbal and even hologramic, like a Robin Williams.  Other opinions are that I am a hard person to get to know, but once you get to know me: I am a good person to know.  One recent person that I met said that I am hard to listen to.  Never minding all the epithets that I have been called in my life by people near and far ...  Not to mention a diagnosis of SZ!  A doctor said to me recently that a lot of people in the community have misjudged me.  I am not sure what to believe or what the solution is so that I don't burn all proverbial bridges with people and continue to try and grow within the world of life by being employed and biting my tongue more often.  

Short Life History of JBS:

The large, open-spaced house is nestled on a lush hillside off Spur Loop Road with a westerly overlook onto the Atlantic Ocean in the tropical city of Freetown, Sierra Leone.  Spur Loop Road is a road which circles a ridge of a hillside replete with cinder block houses and corrugated roof tops so that when it rains during monsoon seasons, the patter of rain is thunderous on roofs of houses.

The doctor who stitches my forehead when I fall head first onto cement from the top of washing my mother's Renault 4 automobile lives a half mile down the road.  The doctor is the same doctor who administers seven rabies shots in my stomach when I am bit by another neighbour's dog.  During the seventh rabies shot, the doctor releases hold of the syringe with needle in my gut and I stop screaming at the pain, bewildered.  Rabies shots hurt.  Doctors, lawyers, wealthy business people, government officials, etc. live in the Spur Loop Road neighbourhood.

One evening, on a Sunday night, after having spent a weekend out of the city at Tokeh Beach where I learn to steer the Renault 4 down sand tracks sitting on my mother's lap, my mother, father, brother and myself are sitting on the large veranda of the Spur Loop House playing board games when my dad is alert to a red and white, Coca-Cola box truck which is parked a short distance from the front gate up the driveway.

Sensing commotion, I venture up the driveway to the gate and peer into the culvert street where my dad is wielding a baseball bat banging on the box truck and yelling for my mother to call a friend and tell the friend to bring a gun.  My dad turns to see me at the gate and yells for to go inside the house, which I do but not before I glimpse the back of the box truck open and some ten to fifteen African men clamber out of the truck scurrying from my dad into bushes.

I wonder at the time how my dad knows the box truck is an ambush plot orchestrated by the gate watchman whom my dad employs, but now I see that it is obvious to anybody who can calculate many variations of any situation or circumstance from experience.  For one thing: it is unusual for a Coca-Cola box truck to be parked in front of the Spur Loop gate on a Sunday evening and not to have the watchman notify anybody in the house of it.  Either way: we survive possible mutilation, thanks to my dad's irate temper while wielding a baseball bat!

Africa is very beautiful.  "Ah!  But, Your Land is Beautiful," as Alan Paton's book is titled.  I am born in Lubumbashi, Zaïre, live in Freetown, Sierra Leone until 8 years old when I pack for English boarding school in Bracknell, Berkshire until I am 10 years old.  At ten years old, I fly to New York City from London, UK where I am greeted by my dad and brother at JFK airpot for a crowded subway ride into Manhattan on the afternoon of a rained out Diana Ross concert at which people riot.

At 15 years old, I pack for prep school in Massachusetts leaving NYC and at 17 years old: I find myself in Atlanta finishing high school at a public school because I am kicked out of prep school for drinking.  I apply to one university, San Francisco State University, leave Georgia and drive a pick up truck across the country to San Francisco meeting with a friend from grade school on his way to Washington State.

I live in SF for one year and a half until December 1993 when I drive with a futon in the back of my truck to Idaho where I meet my family over Christmas.  I sleep in the back of the truck on a futon in ten below temperatures.  I drop off the truck at an uncle's house in Arkansas driving across the country from Idaho with my dad, my second time driving across the country.  Leaving the truck in Arkansas, I fly to Gaborone, Botswana where I stay with my parents for six months until May 1994.

By June 1994, I am in Maine for a brief two weeks and on the road to North Carolina where I stay at a beach town sleeping in my truck.  I drive to Georgia where I visit with family and then across the country for the third time where I sleep a night at James Canyon, New Mexico, which is at a ten thousand foot elevation up a steep, mountainous road.

Long story short, I live out of a truck with a futon for three years in Bellingham, Washington where I catch up with the grade school friend whom I meet in Chicago my driving from Atlanta heading west to San Francisco.  In 1997, I move to Maine.

All told: I drive across the country eight times and visit Africa and Europe countless times over my life until 27 years old when I move to where I live now in Portland, Maine.  I live out of a bag for the first twenty-seven years of my life and call home is where you hang yourself now.  I seldom leave the house and do not like to with an anxiety off the rector scale about being stopped by police forty-five times in Maine.  I would not board a plane or travel further than within northern New England as to say if I board a plane: they'll reroute it to Bangor!  My primary wish for my life is to die never having been a convicted criminal.  In a world where "all cops are criminals and sinners saints," it is very easy to be falsely accused and such instances happen to me in regards to authority at about the same frequency as racially profiled people.

I don't know why people are scared of me that they think that they have to call police on me, but they call.  It is kind of like my "hurry up and wait" bumper sticker: I think that it incites road rage directed at me where some other drivers honk when behind me and flip the finger at me while crossing the double yellow to go around me when I am trying to parallel park.  If I parallel park with signals while someone crosses the double yellow to go around me parallel parking and I ding their vehicle, it is not my fault: the other driver crosses the double yellow.  Sometimes, I think that I am born just to be the cause of everyone's problems or that I live my whole life just for someone to invade my rented apartment, beat me up and have police tell me "don't call us anymore!"  Anyway, that is the most of what my short history consists without ranting, I hope!

Suing the American Psychiatric Association:

I am looking for an attorney to help me sue the American Psychiatric Association for the culture of stigma that exists in communities, media and the public's perspective against a diagnosed person when a person is diagnosed with a major mental illness diagnosis out of the DSM IV.

I have extensive personal evidence and records of stigma against me in my community as a mental ill diagnosed person as well as a quick search on the Internet will result in many applicable and evident documentation of stigma, including renowned psychiatrist Dr. E. Fuller Torrey's quote of "schizophrenia is the modern day equivalent of leprosy."

As no person is autonomous in this world and it takes two to tango, I can document verbal and physical stigma against me on the part of police in the community wherein I live, mental health staff at clinics to which I have had appointments, family, so called friends and strangers resulting in a degenerative well being for me: such as excessive suicide ideation and a suicide attempt in 2008 for which I was hospitalised for the eighth time in my life.

Frustrated:

Of all the ways that I have tried to communicate ideas, plans, experiences, life events, etc. or try to communicate about those things are always met by devil's advocate rebuttals and retorts that end in people hanging me out to dry.

I have no way of expressing anything utilising the English language, much less to a lot of people with a tongue in cheek, lexicon repertoire in utilising the English language to communicate my thoughts.

I find that I cannot communicate verbally with a lot of people due to the fact that most in this community are the kind that if I look at someone funny: they are liable to beat me up.  The world is full of con men and narcs who call the police over nothing.

I am tired of my situation and need a change.  I need somebody to whom I can communicate through talking in English.  Sometimes, I will say a word another person doesn't understand and the person will have a perplexed look as if they don't understand what I just communicated, but the person will not interject and ask what a word means in constructs of English language to express thoughts and ideas.

Fed Up:

The next door house is hosting a loud, underage party singing Happy birthday to the nation on the night of the 4th, 2014 and set off fireworks amidst tinder box houses all built circa 1910 with dry timber all up inside the erections at caterwauling teeny-boppers being prompted to "drink, drink, drink."

I managed to drown out the noise with my 10,000 BTUs.

They are the same neighbours from out west who move here, have no idea and accuse me who has been living here for thirteen years of ransacking change out of their vehicles.

What I don't understand about the time that everybody's tire is slashed is why the tire slashers didn't slash two or all four tires on all the vehicles and rip apart the windshield wipers too with a key swipe across the paint jobs on the vehicles that night!?!  (I guess that they didn't think of it!)

Not the first time that I am accused and it is a plethora of times that I am accused from everything like stealing heat living above another apartment when I explain "heat rises" to a list too long to list here without it reading like a rant.

All I know is that if I even "squeak" my chair or speak an octave higher than a whisper, the police will be knocking at the door because someone calls them on me: much more if I am to host an underage, drinking party keeping the neighbourhood awake with fire crackers and "drink, drink, drink" chants...

The news that "general assistance"...

http://www.pressherald.com/2014/06/12/maine-to-halt-funds-for-illegal-immigrants-aid/

The news that "general assistance" (food, water, clothing, shelter and refuge from elements of society and environment) will be denied anyone, anywhere is further proof that people involved in pursuing such an agenda are "xenophobic" and most likely do not know what xenophobia is and of what it is a product, as in to determine psychologically what a person's motive is in denying people (not to mention, animals) basic life support in a society of the "plenty greedy."

I'd have to diagnose the officials who legislated the agenda of denying "general assistance" are guilty of at least several cognates according to the "Seven Deadly Sins." Yet, they that institute such a measure attend church for TV cameras, it seems.

I was homeless for three years living out of a truck in Washington State, locking myself in a library twelve hours per day and attending the local churches' suppers: at least five suppers per week at different churches.The closest thing to a church supper by church ladies for the homeless in Maine and in New England and in a lot of places is a liver and peas brunch.

The Maine delegation to cut off general assistance to approx. 1,000 people saving $1 million / year while the same delegates pay $1 million for a 6-month plagiarism study on welfare fraud in Maine is akin to throwing acid into a pool because of racism, xenophobia, bigotry, etc.

America is a land of "plenty greedy people" when multi-billion dollar corporations are offered incentives and essentially, kickbacks in off shore accounts and other tax incentives while outside CEO headquarters: a homeless man/woman/child is told to move along because he is holding a sign trying to make a buck.

Word Art:

EYES

WEEPING
EYES, RENT IN TWAIN, STRAIN TO SEA
WIND WEARY MAGNOLIA TREES AND
WYNTON BURRS REIGNING FREE
SEE ICY SEAS FACE CLIFFS
WHY RELAX MOON EYES
DRIVE WEARY STRAIN WAN
RACE LEFT A NEST A FELT SEA
WE SAW NEW DABS WAX & WAN
BE IT TO THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE
WYNTON WIND AND EYES RIVE TO BE
WEEPING 

EYES.
Can an eel sense bias in news?
Dictum ensures enabled, sane,
Slanted, unbiased sensibilities
Biased by sensible, new news.
Sensing biased, slanted news,
(censurable au-real sensibilia),
News slants are sense biased.
Eels and you ensure sonar by
Uncanny ability at said dictum.
Sensibilia-what may be sensed-
Enables dictated, slanted rants,
Dances of banter on the screen,
Incensed chances at audiences,
Among Ben Franklin and buttons.
ZYGOTHiX-samson sees delilah babbling Babylonian-XiHTOGNEZ
ZENGOTE-clamorous monkeys taunt human audiences-ETOGYZ
snowe balls "alack in unity" deigning to dignity;
concordant collegiate limy crowned king cowers;
concomitant conflation commodes contaminates;
raised tables serve statuesque night goddesses;
cairns crane sane paths amidst mountain views;
banes of existence come in shadows of a name;
sips of wine while I dine is no crime as I rhyme;
as Don Quixote, if ass gets stuck in ditch, pull;
rat race inducts are efficacious deliberates;
clinical literary license evokes critical lies;
voracious appetites flaw character code;
scintillating flecks flicker flights of fancy;
glitteratti models quote cinched monks;
diabolical extremities cloak split minds;
altruistic stipulations create quagmires;
colloquial variations constipate phonetics;
lines cognate to limitless means and ends;
invisibility invokes a stymied, vacant cry wolf;
intrepid limpid dissipates bray into bloody frays;
vociferated vernacular vei|s vanity violently vying;
teeming tenacity tantalizes tendencies to telepathy;
intimate indecencies inspires articulate conspiracies;
coagulate correspondences circulate correlated words;
a cad ass sits, splits and plunks dynamos flushing to sea;
creepy crawls crammed creamy crimson cones in collision;
plucked hens cluck amuck countering cornice cockle-dudes;
synaptical claps placate cystic clans pining nay say sin pangs;
slain saints nit salt in latin sanity saying it to tan city tic slacks;
sublimate supplications surround serene super sonar sounds;
in yesterday, yonkers yammered yarns to yummy mummies;
a neologistic moniker pneumatically abraded sensibilities;
assimilated simplicity pitched charisma against entropy;
latent lament lingers long into wailing moons waning;
vaunted vanes verily vilifies venison during season;
acrylic cream flakes mint tulips to sate passion;
sinisterly claimed core blames nomenclatures;
every hair is counted by contrary countries;
see icy sea face cliff, why relax moon eye;
limber limbic system intensifies pleasure;
"out damned spot," bloody red summer;
allegoric limericks sharpen stony wit;
phobic inflection fuses flagrant fins;
fearsome flares invite vindication;
sully syndicates extrapolate toil;
carbuncle skin reflects boons;
Alone, men ride many miles;
no sun shines, croon loons;
broken bony remains blare;
fortunes trickle conniptions
to fall from window frames,
as pea seas waver & crash.
___/..___

Words that appear only once or up to 34 times in the King James Version of the Bible using a bible search.

Goodman:

Knots mirror greyhound funerals

A clear beam to elect a happy fourteenth.

A physician, idle in the eleventh, was in an earthquake.    

Weave late ewe with a lent network on a penny and lick tie!  

... can music chastise a lewd, black thief to lose a void cross, 

He spit in the fifteenth hole to discern dance and being sorry... 

Whether thirteenth, eighteenth or thirtieth: shower, lace and a frog.  

A dart loops a pigeon toe in apple haven where rail ware vanishes.  

A shrewd, twisted pick positions a demonstration which is hale and rue.  

A coward motions at crashing planets verses chant magic in a visible vault.  

Pictures of a dull babbler termed Beans are: manger, shelter, a sixteenth of a circle and oars.  

An owl tail magician and carpenter nail by degree a soft teacher signet and simple quarter pipe.  

Lieutenant: abase seventeenth egg in fiftieth ink pen on eighteen Hearth Square, by diverse cow.  

A crave for cool, apothecary, weed twigs and a rampart against sixtieth Latin, science-angle apes.  

Adder sting is cinnamon sour; mustard and lentils are quarrels for eternity with an invisible fortieth mote. 

A tortured, yellow-bastard vagabond was rude to a lady with brown paper, a rash and in motion to decease.  

Words that appear only once or up to 34 times in the King James Version of the Bible using a bible search.

A tortured, yellow-bastard vagabond was rude to a lady with brown paper, a rash and in motion to decease.  

Adder sting is cinnamon sour; mustard and lentils are quarrels for eternity with an invisible fortieth mote. 

A crave for cool, apothecary, weed twigs and a rampart against sixtieth Latin, science-angle apes.  

Lieutenant: abase seventeenth egg in fiftieth ink pen on eighteen Hearth Square, by diverse cow. 

An owl tail magician and carpenter nail by degree a soft teacher signet and simple quarter pipe.  

Pictures of a dull babbler termed Beans are: manger, shelter, a sixteenth of a circle and oars.  

A coward motions at crashing planets verses chant magic in a visible vault.  

A shrewd, twisted pick positions a demonstration which is hale and rue.  

A dart loops a pigeon toe in apple haven where rail ware vanishes.  

Whether thirteenth, eighteenth or thirtieth: shower, lace and a frog.  

He spit in the fifteenth hole to discern dance and being sorry... 

... can music chastise a lewd, black thief to lose a void cross, 

Weave late ewe with a lent network on a penny and lick tie!  

A physician, idle in the eleventh, was in an earthquake. 

A clear beam to elect a happy fourteenth.

Knots mirror greyhound funerals.

Goodman:

JSB

Self Published Books of Portland Scribe Available on Amazon:

Three Ideas for Employment:

Peer Support w/ Therapy Dog & Sponsorship: whereby I visit retirement centres and a hospital ward with my trained pet therapy dog, except that I need non-profit sponsorship so as to issue receipts for contributions to help pay for the dog's vet and food and any emergency, even though he is insured at the time of certification.  Non-profits will not sponsor my dog and me as 1099 workers so that I can issue receipts and apply for city grants, about which I investigated further with the city over the phone.

I call the city to negotiate a $10/hr. job picking up trash around different neighbourhoods in the city as there is a lot of trash collecting to do.  I explain that I pick up trash around the city on my own time. The city said no to the job and sent $100,000 worth of equipment to the street in question the next day to sweep the street.  Trash is still collected along the bushes of the street and it would have cost the city less than $100 for me to pick it all up.

I call the city clerk's office to inquire as to whether it would be OK if I dress as a clown and hold a sign that reads: "Jokes $1: Books $10."  The city clerk says to me over the phone that I can dress as a clown and sell self published books on the street, just that I cannot sell "Mark Twain" books: that I am protected under the First Amendment.  I am stopped by police within five minutes standing on a curb honking my horn at passing traffic hoping for a handout.  Across the street is a man with a "homeless: no drugs" sign.  The police tell me to move along snapping a photo of me, but they don't say anything to the man across the street.

Portland, Maine - Life is Here:

New England is the Capital of Assholes, imo:

I have been living in Maine for seventeen years and I have made maybe one friend who has never conned me or ridiculed me of something outside of my wife.

I have given much to this community and nobody returns the favour, except my wife and one friend. I have gifted strangers and acquaintance alike and never is there a return. I have volunteered at various non-profits. I have worked for eight years at a U here.

I go to a coffee shop for fifteen years almost everyday and I am always treated like shit without even a hello, how are you today ever when the baristas treat others with light banter. Just a "what can I get you?"

Wherever I go: people call police on me and have called me a number of names from pathetic, crazy, chicken, schizoid, asshole, motherfucker, faggot, teatsucker, basically nuts, zero credibility, I'll kill you, alkie who swills his drinks with sperm.

The above listed are all names that I have been called since living in Maine on top of being stopped by police forty different times since January 1998.

The name calling and one or two beatings for which nothing was done except to me being hospitalised. The pain in my rib nags everyday since July 4, 2001 upon a home invasion and it is now 2014.

----------------------------------

New England is the epitome of great people: imo

have been living in New England for many years and I have made many friends who never conned me or ridiculed me of something including of my wife.

I have given much to this community and everybody returns the favour, including my wife and many friends. I have gifted strangers and acquaintance alike and usually there is a return. I have volunteered at various non-profits. I have worked for eight years at a U here.

I go to a coffee shop for fifteen years almost everyday and I am always treated like a friend with a hello, how are you today when the baristas treat others with light banter. Just a "what can I get you, valued customer and friend?"

Wherever I go: people never call police on me and have never called me a number of names from pathetic, crazy, chicken, schizoid, asshole, motherfucker, faggot, teatsucker, basically nuts, zero credibility, I'll kill you, alkie who swills his drinks with sperm. Never, not once.

If it weren't for the nagging pain in my ribs from a common household accident on July 4, 2001 life here would be GREAT!

----------------------------------

New England is the Suburb of Gookballs, imo:

I have been living in Rhode Island for thirty-seven years and I have made maybe one friend who has never conned or raped me of something outside of my daughter.

I have given nothing to this community and nobody returns books to the library, except my wife and one friend, Duffless. I have gifted strangers and acquaintance alike with photos of penises and never is there an arrest. I have volunteered at various abortion clinics. I have worked for eight years at a Welding School for Retards here.

I go to a coffee shop for fifteen years almost every year and I am always treated like Hitler without even a hello, how are you today ever when the baristas treat others with enormous cleavage shots. Just a "what can I get you, kikeface?"

Wherever I go: people call police on me because they think I'm black and have called me a number of names from pathetic, crazy, great courageous person, schizoid, asshole, motherfucker, faggot, teatsucker, basically extremely competent, 100% credibility, I'll invite you into my home, alkie who spills his drinks with a guy named Sherm.

The above listed are all names that I have been called since living in Delaware on top of being stopped by hassidic jews forty different times since January 1998, to haggle over corned beef.

The name calling and one or two beatings for which nothing was done except to me being hospitalized. I was hoping to be invited to the White House for a formal apology from President Reagan. The pain in my rib nags everyday since July 4, 1968 upon the Tet Offensive and it is now 1984.

The 40th Time:

"Jesus!  How you doin'?"

"Alright man."

"Come on.  Follow me."

"Where are you going?"

"Over to the corner to panhandle.  Come on."

Richard leads Jesus through a park walk on a bright day in May to the corner.  Richard sets a bag with books down on the ground along with his water cup and holds a sign standing on the curb that reads: "Jokes $1: Books $10."  Richard also holds a self published book and a clown horn in his hands dressed in full clown regalia.

"OK, man.  I'll be over here."

"OK, Jesus."

A man holding a "no drugs: homeless" sign stands across the one way street on the driver side of vehicles passing and Richard stands on the passenger side of drivers stopping at a red light.  Richard and the panhandler on the other side of the street exchange words being jocular.

After about five minutes, a bicycle policeman pulls up from behind Richard standing on a curb holding his sign.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm selling my books.  What!?  Did somebody call you?"

"No.  This is my patrol.  I patrol this area.  What does your sign say?"

"Jokes $1.  Books $10.  I talked to Bud at the City Clerk's office this morning in lieu of Janice and he said that I am well within my first amendment rights to do this."

"Where are the jokes?"

"The jokes are in my head.  Do you want to buy my book?"

"I don't have any money.  OK.  But no weaving in and out of traffic."

Richard thinks to say: 'and, you have a job?'

"I'm not weaving in and out of traffic.  Can't be right in the head to stand in a median."

A police cruiser pulls up along side Richard and the bicycle policeman on the curb.

"He's selling his books."

"Books?"

"Yeah.  Can I borrow ten bucks to buy it?"

Richard hands the book to the adolescent passenger in the front seat of the cruiser who, it seems to Richard, is a plebe in the police force.

"That's the first time I have stepped off this curb," Richard states to the bicycle policeman handing over the book.

"He's masturbating in the front seat..."

"He's masturbating in the front seat?  Who's masturbating in the front seat?"

"That's what it says right here."

"So, what!?  What are you going to do: vet the book?  They sell these at the bookstore in town.  I made eighteen bucks off of them.  So, are you going to buy it?  The book is ten bucks."

"Where are the jokes?"

"The jokes are in his head," the bicycle policeman interjects.  "How much do they sell them at the bookstore?"

"Uh ... I don't know.  Whatever."

"OK.  Let's just take a picture of you.  Maybe some of the boys down at the station will buy your book."

"Hold up your sign and the book," the bicycle policeman says.

The picture is taken by the policeman in the driver seat of the cruiser out of the open passenger window stealing from Richard's soul his clown spirit to exercise free speech.  The cruiser turns the corner and the bicycle policeman says that Richard's dog tied to a post off the curb might need shade.

"I'm out of here anyway, soon.  I am not accomplishing much here."

"OK."

The bicycle policeman rides off down the street.

"That's the fortieth time," Richard yells across the street at the homeless man holding a "no drugs: homeless" sign.  "I have to go write a short story.  I'm out of here."

"Good luck guy!"

The 39th Time:

"Morning."

"Morning."

"I'll be right with you."

"OK."

Richard waits for the waitress to serve a table.

"Now.  What was it?  Sausage, egg and cheese?"

"No. No.  Bacon, egg and cheese.  Actually, I want two.  I need an egg and cheese and a bacon, egg and cheese."

"OK.  Let me get that right in."

"Wait.  I'll pay first."

"Oh.  OK."

The waitress about faces and walks towards the front counter by the front door through which Richard enters the diner and he pays the waitress.

"Those'll be ready in just a few minutes."

"OK.  I'll be right back."

"OK."

Outside, it is a wee hour and the sun is not risen yet at a dark hour of dawn.  Richard sits with his wife and dog in their vehicle parked in a spot in front of the brightly lit diner.  He begins to roll a cigarette from his pouch on his lap when three policemen stride up to Richard's window shining flashlights at Richard's face through the half rolled down window.

"We had a report that you were driving erratically."

Richard reaches to roll down his window.

"What is that?" the officer states shining his light into Richard's lap.

"Oh. This?  This is just cigarettes.

"Were you driving erratically?"

"No.  I came from where I live, up the hill, down the street past the convenience store and I stopped for all the red lights and red flashing lights."

Richard places his hands on top of the steering wheel in plain sight while looking out at the inquisitive officer questioning Richard while two other officers stand at ready with shining lights at Richard's face.

"Well, we had a report that you were driving erratically and that you might be drunk."

"No.  Nope.  I just woke up from an eight hour nap.  I just ordered a breakfast sandwich.  I ordered two of them.  One for my wife.  This is routine for me.  I am here often."

"OK.  You got your breakfast sandwich to go?"

"Yes."

"Well, you seem fine to me.  I don't know why they would call.  But still, I need to see your license.  Do you have your license?"

Richard reaches into his left pocket to retrieve his license from his wallet.  He hands it to the questioning officer.

"Alright.  Sit tight.  I'll be right back."

Richard overhears the questioning officer some steps away from his driver window radio dispatch while another officer keeps a light on Richard in his driver seat with hands on top of the wheel.

"That's thirty-nine times, Jenny."

"I know."

Richard's vehicle radio drones news programming while Richard, wife and dog sit awaiting the questioning officer to radio dispatch.

"Alright.  You're all set.  Here is your license back."

"OK.  But can I mention something?"

"Yeah.  Go ahead."

"This is the thirty-ninth time I have been stopped.  The thirty-ninth time someone has called the police on me in this town."

"Since when?"

"November 1999."

"I see.  Do you keep track of this stuff?"

"Yes.  I keep a log."

"When was the last time you were stopped?"

"March 1, 2013.  I was at the tire centre and someone called the police.  I was sitting in my camping chair in the parking lot waiting for my truck to be serviced when I was stopped.  Said he had a report of my being messed up."

"Was there another time?  Sometime a little while ago?  Where you called us?"

"Oh yeah.  January 5th or 6th of this year.  That was after that fifty below day.  I had windburn.  But listen: I tried to clear this up with Joe Freedman, but he is hard to get in touch with.  You know, the mental health liaison?"

"OK.  I see.  Well, you're all set tonight."

"OK."

Richard re-enters the diner after the inquiring officer strides off into darkness of a parking lot along the side of the diner and the waitress hands to Richard a brown, paper bag with two tin foil wrapped breakfast sandwiches in it.  Policemen who question Richard enter the diner for breakfast at a large group table in the back of the diner, a hotspot for early breakfast.

Outside, Richard and his wife eat their sandwiches then drive off into the city's night for a coffee at a convenience store on their way home.

Fukuoka Disease

The Fukuoka disease is a disease to which Opfo users are susceptible.  The disease originates in the Prefecture of Fukuoka and manifests when an Opfo user chooses "Fukuoka" as a location, which abbreviates to "fuk" in the Opfo forum posts.

The Fukuoka disease is akin to the Wichita Falls Syndrome in that the abbreviation for Wichita Falls is "wtf," or else: "what the fuck," whereas "fuk" simulates "fuck" in location abbreviation for a post on Opfo.

So, upon explaining the Fukuoka disease as what happens to be an amazon woman psychiatrist on November 15, 2011 after people are calling my doctor who is out of town: the substitute amazon woman psychiatrist asks me all about the Fukuokas and I tell her about how the Fukuokas are akin to the Tapiocas out of Long Island and while I am seated on the four seater couch in the clinic office with a doctor and nurse, I tell them Obie One sits on side along with the Tapiocas, Fukuokas and myself who is schizophrenic.

More than that: I explain the good of the Fukuokas in staving off homeless people from bumming a cigarette on the street, how homeless people bumming a cigarette run off saying "my head ain't screwed on right" forgetting about a cigarette when I tell a bummer about the Fukuokas.

The amazon woman psychiatrist uncrosses her legs in her business skirt and suit. I see her turquoise underwear amidst pubic hair, which I believe that she does not shave on purpose.  The amazon woman doctor asks the fat nurse to leave the office and close the door behind her.

"But, why doctor?  I want some of his action too."

"Really?  But I don't like fat nurses.  Doctor?  Can you give me a blow job and fuck me silly?"

"Yes, indeed!  ... Out nurse ... this is a patient-doctor meeting now."

"I'll get your cock yet, mister," the nurse states leaving the office and closing the door.

The six foot, amazon doctor slips out of her navy blue skirt revealing stockings to her crevices and garters holding stockings to her hilt.  She straddles me on the four seater couch and pulls aside her turquoise coloured panties.  I grab on to her firm buttocks and thighs, rubbing.

My cock is hard fucking a doctor for two seconds that I last on the couch and I cum inside of her pussy impregnating her through my "stork" fantasies, as I find out later when DHHS contacts me with a bill for child support.

NPR Story 4/6/14

While listening to NPR's "Rape on Campus" story on April 6, 2014, it occurs to me out of my experience at elite schools that rapes and other vile, hazing behaviours are often unpunished in ivy league environments such as Amherst or the Groton School (i.e. Zeke Hawkins circa 1998) because the coterie code of conduct at such institutions seemingly fosters and condones such vile behaviours among elite (as in wealthy) student bodies: as the "Rape on Campus" story suggests in that the victim is denied counsel for her issue and told instead that "men will be men."

The Jimmy Two Heads Paradise:

"Well, he's mentally ill.  Why would you have any thing to do with him?"

- a quoted statement by two different people in my life about me to two different girlfriends of mine at different times over dinner -

One girlfriend runs out into the night crying and saying "there's nothing wrong with him."

Another girlfriend thinks it rude that it is mentioned at the dinner table and I fuck her silly a few more times until I move on to the next girlfriends.

So, I am at the nurse appointment after a medical test some years later and the nurse asks:

"How many partners have you been with?"

"I don't know: hundreds?"

"We only go up to 50+."

"OK. 50+. Will that include you, nurse?"

"Why yes: your mentally ill aura is too much for me to withstand."

"Bend over the desk and turn on some porn, nurse. It's time for my sponge bath!"

"Gladly!  They don't call you 'Jimmy Two Heads' for nothin'!" nurse Hatchet exclaims in a delightful whinny tone of voice while pulling up her white, nurse skirt and bending over the desk when the doctor enters the exam office.

"Nurse Hatchet!  What are you doing!? Umm ... Umm ... Never mind ... I see now," the 27 year old resident doctor states as her eyes wander across my manliness with pants around my ankles.

The six-foot-woman-doctor removes her khakis and white panties with pink polka dots on lace hems to her ankles bending over the desk along side Nurse Hatchet and I comply with medical orders sticking my clean, cut, experienced, penis head into each of the specimen's four orifices from behind them.

Cream of some young guy splatters the faces of the specimens hungry for more filled orifices, kneeling and swapping spit-cum when I am done with them after about two strokes per orifice.

I see a urologist who snips my seminal vesicle which feels like chilies passing from the day before so that Nurse Hatchet and the doctor's whose name I don't catch become pregnant in a fluke 2% chance that my seminal vesicle grows back, which it does.

So: I have two rug rats running around Nurse Hatchet and the six foot woman doctor's ankles playing "beep-beep' with matchbox cars on floors in Belize where there are tropical breezes and snorkel expeditions up vaginal shaped canals with either or both of my partners and other specimens of female persuasion who long for "Jimmy Two Heads."

Assessing Self-Esteem:

I think about killing myself every waking hour, several times per hour.  I experience suicide ideation whereby I imagine myself in any number of suicidal situations or plans.  One suicidal ideation thought that frequently crosses my mind as of the last few years is to "just go out under the bridge over 95 where the homeless people shit and slit your throat."

I determine that I experience suicidal ideation thoughts first when ten years old upon moving to New York City from overseas.  I stand at the window when ten years old and think about plummeting twenty stories to the below concrete.  I am in my forties now and still experience suicide ideation thoughts.  I attempt suicide when I am 35 years old by hanging myself with a rope, but even then I am not successful at suicide and: in my mind with low self esteem, not successful at anything in life.

I feel like I am a failure and embarrassment to myself, my family, people whom I meet and to people in the general community.  I am unable to secure employment or seemingly to make ends meet to earn money in spite of a zero point, zero parking ticket driver's license, clean background check and a command of the english language in written form while others are felons, con people or illiterate and yet are able to secure employment and/or garner an income.

Since working at a university and as a super of a building for eight years and quitting after attempting suicide by hanging myself, I don't see how it is fair for my "Peer Support w/ Therapy Dog & Sponsorship," non-profit solicitation idea would engender my call being routed to the Attorney General of the State wherein I live while there are legal marketing groups who solicit everything from end of life insurance to supposedly legal charities which are bogus in that the groups pay points on solicitations considerably diminishing the contributions.

While my two successive dogs since 1997 and myself perform about 200 visits as of 2014 to retirement facilities and hospital children wards under the auspices of "Peer Support w/ Therapy Dog & Sponsorship," my dogs and me solicit contributions in the community and online to help pay for running costs of visits.  But, good luck to me in parting people from their money for "Peer Support w/ Therapy Dog & Sponsorship" with commentary as "what are you doing that for?" or "get a real job" or "well, you'd never do that with my dog."

Further, I am told by a State representative that I am not allowed to establish a non-profit such as Peer Support w/ Therapy Dog & Sponsorship.  So, I stop visiting other people's parents and grandparents that other people don't visit at retirement facilities.

I try a clown gigging idea along with self published books.  On the day of the Boston Marathon bombing in 2013, someone calls police on me while I am dressed in a clown outfit drinking a soda pop from a brown paper bag.  Person says to me that I would be easy to find.  By being a clown, I learn that a typical caucasian male is likely to beat a person dressed as a clown and a hispanic male is likely to tip a clown.  So, I stop dressing as a clown with a sign selling self published books.

Now, I apply to anything and everything with my résumé on job sites to no avail.  All I ask is a position at about 63 hours/month paying $760/month.  No one acknowledges my efforts and I am unable to even interview for positions with no networking skills in spite of living in this community with permanence.  I don't know anyone who is willing to employ me at 12$/hr. for any hours.

Thus, with a rib contusion from where I am punched during a home invasion during 2001: labor is uncomfortable for me rendering painful spasms in my left ribs for which I am diagnosed four times with x-rays.  Yet, the people who perform the home invasion during which I am beat down are all successful bankers and lawyers now.

I feel like I am put down more often than not by various people in my life due to my diagnosis of "schizophrenia" whereby I wake up everyday with the thought: "oh god! not another day with schizophrenia."  I feel like I am stigmatised by anybody and everybody who has a mind to know my diagnosis because of "schizophrenia" and the word's connotations in the public's eye as broadcast in media that people with "schizophrenia" are "a criminal element."

There are exceptions, yet I feel miserable about my life and capabilities with low self esteem and a supposedly "mentally ill" mind, which causes good for nothing, basically nuts, crazy, teat sucker, mother fucker, chicken, schizo, asshole, zero credibility, pathetic and alkie who swills drinks with sperm comments directed at me by just about anybody in my life so that I believe the commentary and the commentary is a part of how I think about myself today.

In other words, I feel "put down by the world" time and time again and when I try to stand up, I am quickly put down by someone simply flipping a finger at me for parallel parking while they cross the double yellow around my vehicle to my thinking "I live my whole life just for this moment when someone flips the finger at me trying to parallel park," mirable dictu ad infinitum.

I hope for change in my thinking and the right to pursue happiness and thereby feel happy, but I feel that it is out of reach in regards to the nature of my life in the community wherein I live without capability to secure employment or develop some income generating idea.  I feel that "I am losing the battle" for life and the only time I feel at ease is when I sleep.

Yet, there is no help from anyone for my condition in spite of keeping health professional appointments since 1996.  No matter the medication or therapy, I still deal with suicidal ideation thoughts on a daily basis and I deal with them since 1984.  My two pets are the major reason I don't succumb to suicide ideation thoughts and act the thoughts out.  If I am able to secure employment at a living wage, I think that my thoughts can remedy in terms of the suicide ideation thoughts by being able to practice cognitive behavioral therapy more readily and having a purpose to each day of earning money at something I like doing as a job. 

Diagnoses and Prescribed Medicines:

1. malaria
2. epilepsy
3. schizophrenia
4. schizoaffective
5. bi-polar
6. tuberculosis
7. dipsomania
8. polydipsia
9. hyponaetremia
10. COPD
11. high blood pressure
12. vitamin D deficiency
13. inflamed lymph nodes
14. flu
15. addiction (tobacco)
16. suicidal ideation
17. stigma
18. rib contusion
19. sprained ankles
20. poison ivy
21. head trauma (scarred)
22. tardive dyskenisia

-------------------------------
1. vaccines -
2. penicilin - 1980
3. tetanus - 1980 to
4. dilantin - 1984 to 1987 - SEIZURE

5. haldol - 1993 - SZ

6. risperdal - 1996 to 2002 - SZ

7. benzodiazapine - 1997 to 1999 - SZ

8. paxil - 2000 - SZ

9. naltrexone - 2000 - DIPSOMANIA

10. cogentin - 2000 to 2001 - SZ

11. zyprexa - 2001 - SZ

12. depakote - 2001 - SZ

13. prolixin - 2002 to 2014 - SZ

14. hydrocodone - 2003 - UROLOGIST
15. lithium - 2008 - SZ

16. isoniazid - 2010 - TB

17. seroquel - 2011 to 2012 - SZ

Thinking Things:

Negations:

"Just go under the bridge over 95 where the homeless people shit and slit your throat."

"Just kill yourself, now."

"Nobody wants you around anyway."

"Nobody likes me."

"Maybe I should just kill myself."

"Hang yourself.  Find a tree limb and go out and hang yourself so nobody can save your life."

"Everybody wants me dead."

"I'm a good for nothing schizoid."

"I am a pathetic, crazy, teat sucker, asshole, mother fucker, piece of shit, chicken, schizoid who hears voices, alkie who swills his drinks with sperm."

and so forth ... which I want to supplant with thinking along these lines ...

Affirmations:

"I have the love of my dog, cat and wife."

"I love myself and cat, dog, wife."

"I am a good person."

"I am kind hearted."

"I like life."

"The world can be beautiful."

"Focus on the good of things."

"I have a lot to live for."

"I am enjoying myself and am never bored."

"I am eager to be out and about working around my community."

"In general, I like people, places and things and have an open mind."

"I respect myself and others."

"There are many more people in worse condition than me.  I should practice empathy and enlightenment of my condition in the world relative to others."

... and so forth.

Ratio'ed Environmental and Psychological Triggers:

For 21 years as of 2014, I have suicide ideation everyday since my first of nine schizophrenia related hospitalisations: three hospitalisations during the fall of 2002.  I think that my suicide ideation is triggered by my thinking of the word "schizophrenia," as in "oh god! not another day with schizophrenia" every day upon waking.

When I think of the words "schizophrenia" or "mental illness," it conjures thoughts of stigma that surround the term: stigma of which I believe am victim.  I think that in general, the public is disgusted by the term "schizophrenia" and people who are diagnosed with it, which renders me with a sickly feeling of flu like symptoms due to seeming, irreconcilable differences in the community where I live.

Inter relations with people are sometimes difficult for me because I perceive people to kick me in the knee if I have a bum knee the way I perceive people to stigmatise me because of my status in the community as a consumer with a diagnosis of "schizophrenia."

So, I need a brainstorming model for thinking "outside of the box" considering a "world view" of people, places and things.  I need to be able to account for the fact that life is good for me marrying last year to a long time girl friend, a warm place to sleep and two loving pets while others are in much more dire straits.  I need to act without expecting.

I try "getting away" from the whole "schizophrenia" dialogue in my mind by seeking work only to have doors close and I try "embracing" schizophrenia by writing about it in blogs which I publish into books.  It is like "schizophrenia gets me down and won't let me back up" with stigma that surrounds the label in media and, as a result, in communities among people who know me and don't know me.

I don't think it far fetched that when the landlord coops chickens in the back yard, kids in the neighbourhood where I live cluck like a chicken when I am around different parts of town due to famed, local journalism about me in a weekly newspaper as to founding a radio theatre group circa 2000 to 2001.  Yet, when I explain my suspicion to various health professionals and others including family that I am being ostracised in the community: I am told that "it is all in your head."

I lose my "voice" to schizophrenia and have only begun to regain my "voice" as of the last two years by writing about experiences and thoughts on different subjects.  I consider myself as trying to follow the "Socratic" teaching of not being offensive to people and exemplifying etiquette inter relationally, yet I lapse in composure when at odds with someone who is apparently "out there and not there to help."

So, concerning suicide ideation: I think that I have identified the cause of it by citing internal thinking triggers and triggers in my environment.  Now, I need ways of coping with the "elephant in my head" (namely, the word: "schizophrenia") and move on in progressing days of my experiences and "thinking" at forty years old.

Is there or are there solutions to the mere word "schizophrenia" incurring "suicide ideation" in me and are there solutions to coping with others in a location where I haven't the best of luck with run-ins where I live between myself and others?  Is there a way of keeping from being angry over memories of past, negative experiences surrounding what I think is because of "schizophrenia," which also triggers "suicide ideation" in me?

Stigma at Odds:

I work at a university for eight years and I am allowed to bring my trained, pet therapy dog with me to work for the first seven years until my supervisor tells me that I have to see the ombudsman for permission to bring my dog to work with me.

I walk across campus on a Friday during the latter part of winter in 2007 to the ombudsman's office.  I step into the ombudsman's office from the cold and await to be called for a meeting while the ombudsman immediately receives me stepping into the waiting room calling me into a back office.

Sitting at a table across from the ombudsman, the ombudsman begins to ask questions as to why I need to bring a dog to work.

"Because I am schizophrenic and everybody is scared of that!"

"How long have you been schizophrenic?"

I stand up like a bolt.  I say that I am leaving.

"Oh!  You can't just come in here ..."

"What!?  Am I in trouble?"

"No.  You are not in trouble."

"Then, I am leaving."

I leave the ombudsman's office at the first question, which triggers suicide ideation in me due to perceived stigma because of my diagnosis.  A year later during May 2008: after random people in the university system are posting signs on my office door that dogs are not allowed, I hang myself with a rope at home.  However, my then girlfriend saves my life with help of a carpenter who is working on a lower floor at the house.

When I am released from the psyche ward after two weeks, I go to the supervisor who sends me to the ombudsman during 2007 and quit.  Before quitting on June 11, 2008, I ascend the elevator to the President's office where my supervisor's supervisor has an office.

I tell the supervisor's supervisor that when the ombudsman asks me "how long have you been schizophrenic" during 2007 because I bring a pet therapy dog to campus (a pet therapy dog with a history of providing comfort to retirement facility residents as well as admitted, hospital children), I have a good mind to ask the ombudsman "how long have you been black?"

Needless to say, I quit the next day on June 11, 2008 from a $12.64/hr job after eight years starting at $9.89/hr on June 12, 2000.

The ombudsman is not the only experience for me at the university involving stigma due to my diagnosis.  During the first two weeks of my employment at the university, two supervisory co-workers invite me to a baseball game at a stadium nearby campus to which we walk. 

At the baseball game on the clock during the latter part of June 2000 after two weeks at the university job, the two supervisory co-workers return to bleacher seats where we are seated with hot dogs and one of them says "he's crazy," assumedly referring to me who can't sit in the sun because of adverse reactions from a medication that I am prescribed.

People at seats below where I am seated are turning around and speaking in gestures seemingly about me saying:

"Do you see any friends here?  I don't see any friends here."

I assume the comment refers to my one time letter to an editor at a newspaper about animal trapping whereby I begin my letter with "my friends of Maine, my heart palpitates," calling for an end to trapping in Maine because my dog is caught in a trap not five minutes into woods.

I commute from two hours north of the university during the summer of 2000 due to stigma seemingly directed at me by not only co-workers and supervisors, but by street urchins, strangers and others who see me around town on my bike with my dog in a basket on the back of the bike.

People say things out of thin air around town when I am present like "go back to Kansas" and "Dorothy" in reference to a commercial radio station advertising an event at the time of Pink Floyd music mirroring the Wizard of Oz movie.

To sum up: if there is one thing that angers me more than anything else, it is people who would assume to know about another person yet do not know themselves and so stigmatise those who appear or are in a compromised position or status in life.

I accept that people judge others based on everything from appearance, hearsay and actions, but what people in general fail to do is question their judgements and actions regarding minding one's own business.  My motto at the university during my probationary, first year on the job is "say nothing, do nothing, keep your nose in your own papers, respond only and do what you are told on the double."

After the first year of probation, my eventual supervisor before the office is disbanded during June 2001 says to me in the office that "you have this down to a science, don't you Jim?"  It is a year of living by my motto at the university before I am able to communicate that "sane" people ain't all that!

I keep the university job for eight years to the day and quit because I hang myself fed up with irreconcilable differences between myself and other people in my life due to my diagnosis of schizophrenia and the stigma it incurs.  

Like I tell the ombudsman: "because people are scared of that," as if for the general public the word "schizophrenia" does not conjure scenes of axe murderers pillaging everybody in sight.  Am I talking out of my ass as to how long the ombudsman has been "black" compared to the question of "how long have you been schizophrenic?"