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.

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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!

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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.