When an organization so proud of all their plaques of all the free funding and free donations and free land , free building supplies and free money giving to them by people and businesses so proudly displaying in the entrance showing how much money they have collected on the wall when you enter the building in my life yet this free shit never trickle down to the people that need it most. I have never seen more outdated, old shitty equipment, furniture or free garbage just placed in a building in my life !
And they don't care about the people living here when you call to complain they just keep quoting spec's and code by-laws.
Where is all this Funding going ?
Right into their shitty little pockets!
It's appalling !
It’s not an immediate one so no one would think to consider it a crisis. It’s more of a “once this thing happens I’ll do it” kind of plan. I have no desire to hurt anyone. In fact I love them all too much which is why the pain is so intense. There’s just nothing left to stay for and I know that it’s never going to change. This pain isn’t one I’m willing to live with. I’ve been around long enough to know how it goes. It gets better for a while but then it starts up again and I’m the target. I just can’t take it anymore. There’s nowhere to go that I can escape to. I can’t turn myself into someone else just to satisfy them. Nothing I do is ever going to be good enough. I’m not being dramatic either because it’s right there in the words they write to me. I’m not imagining it. When the only reason you have for getting up every day hates you or doesn’t care if you live or die then I just don’t see the point anymore. So that’s my confession. As soon as that one thing happens, I’m outta here.
You know. For me it has been like 1000 pins and needles in my head, sudden chills and tiredness. My wife got it first, and mostly had a terrible sore throat.
The song Creep by Radiohead brings back bad memories. It still hits hard and I hate that about myself.
I confess that on the occasion I either pick up, or someone gives me an art catalogue, I don't actually read the text/essays in it. Instead, I just flip through the pictures and then stuff it somewhere on one of my bookshelves. Art language/writing is - for the most art, and at least to me anyways - nothing more than inaccessible and posh (in the arrogant sense) drivel. I love and appreciate art; but, the crap critics and curators are prone to pennig at best can put you to sleep, and at worse exorcize demons - I swear. I do not think I am lone in thinking this way either. One needs either to smoke a tonne of crack or guzzle a bottle of throat and brain-burning Icelandic potato vodka before taking a crack at understanding some of that stuff.
save money. I always wonder how people do that. Friends who roughly make the same amount of money and have almost the same budget as I do seem to have managed to save money. And I have to have you know that I don't make that much. Some of them even have their own family and some of them are the only one in the household who brings money in. I have no money but debt. What am I doing? How do people do that? Where did you learn how?
Is it wrong that the first thing that popped into my mind looking at some old tintype photo is Dam that girl looks good.
I like wierd foods. I'm curious to try things like deep fried meal worms and rocky mountain oysters. Bring it on.
One of the worst things about having a chronic illness is knowing that your condition makes you unreliable at times. I hate being that person who lets other people down because I’ve had to cancel plans. It’s one of the reasons I tend to isolate myself, because I can feel their annoyance and frustration with me. I don’t blame them because I’m annoyed and frustrated too. So I feel like I shouldn’t even bother trying to make new friends, because I know that sooner or later they’re going to dump me because of it.
When I was very small I liked to look through my baby book; see the pictures, the lock of hair, and beautiful cursive in my mothers hand. The past few years I’ve become more curious about my birth. The answer is often that it was a difficult time and it’s best I not know. Not know what? The baby book mysteriously misplaced, and as I age and become more self aware I notice a concerning trend in myself that causes me to wonder, what happened?