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  • I’m a Psychopath

    I have been living Groundhog Day for over 18 months. It’s the same story, different day. In perpetuity. I have no idea what will break me free from this. I am imprisoned, unable to move forward with my life. I do not have grief, as one might imagine, no. I do not even have frustration (anymore.) What I have left is the tiniest ray of hope that is constantly diminishing. This is how I die. Fighting voices in my head that are irrational, fearful, and full of lies.

    I happen to know at least part of the time, these voices are the woman I am forced to live with. My job was thrown away. My career summarily demolished. My brain crushed, unable to function. (It is slowly returning to me; these words are proof of that.) I was returned to the seat of despair: my parents’ home. To watch them kill themselves on food, apparently. I am fighting for my life. I even told her so. She doesn’t care. “Do you want a banana chip?” she asks me, thinking I am hangry when really I am just finished with this mess.

    I am taking it all away. The horde of dried, ancient food that is almost a decade old. I give it to neighbors in need, knowing it’s not really food. But they don’t know that. I do. It’s psychopathic. Except there’s Free Will anyway. They don’t have to eat the offering. They can throw it in the garbage. They can supplement it with fresh vegetables and meat. They will not, I don’t think. I feel sad as I watch death creep to their door step from mine.

    At least the boxes of bad foods will stop coming. Chock full of carbohydrates, full of sugar, as if old people aren’t diabetic from eating much of the same. As if old people can eat unlimited carbohydrates. As if carbohydrates are the building block of life. They are not; protein is. Peanut butter is not a sufficient protein source for any human body, let alone an ancient one falling apart at the seams.

    We see high blood pressure in the doctor’s office and go into denial about it being our food stuffs. We see cardiac arrest and deny it’s the Coca Cola pumping through our veins. We pull the wool over our eyes so we can appease our taste buds, starving the rest of our being from proper nutrition. We go on crash diets, trying to achieve our “ideal weight” when it truly comes from eating that which we are unable to digest. Our sedentary lifestyle is failing to jostle our internal organs and stimulate proper digestion. This is why runners can eat anything. But, in a world so fully overpopulated, running should be a heinous crime. You should reduce your caloric intake and be a couch potato so that the whole of humanity can live. (Right?) Or maybe we just keep too many people alive past their expiry.

    I am not suggesting we force people to end their lives, but we could (at the very least) provide them with a choice. Euthanasia. You know, if we legalized it, we could structure our entire end of life around it. You can choose to die with dignity. Before all your organs cease to function. You could force these people through therapy, or you can embrace their Free Will and allow them to end themselves whenever they like.

    I am a psychopath because I was forced to stay alive. I value the Greater Good over any individual’s wants, needs, or emotions. You, person, reading this, are insignificant. You are one in over 9 billion human souls on planet Earth. I put value in the meek. Those less than. Guess what that means? I ally myself with the plants and animals of Earth. The Earthlings everyone fucking forget about.

    Yeah, fuck you, too. Die already. Be part of the solution instead of the problem. I’m voting YES for Euthanasia. What are YOU voting for? Are you going to make me continue to stay alive despite my death wish? Are you going to force me to age and die without dignity — if I can manage to make it that far since my mother is hell bent on killing everyone in this household, just like she killed my father.

    “I had to make something, tee hee,” she said to me, after cobbling together the most disgusting combination of bull shit from this cupboard of death: elbow macaroni mixed with cream of chicken soup. I’d left for my daily trip to the store and she concocted a porridge of death and despair. Within 24 hours she agreed with me that it belonged in the garbage and took my offering of macaroni mixed with boiled egg and mayonnaise instead. It’s literally the cream of chicken soup, long past its expiry. She thinks those numbers are suggestions. Plus, I’m currently intolerant and/or allergic to dairy, so she poisoned me. I’ve told her I can’t eat it sixteen times at least. I even make a stink every few months, getting pissy and throwing things with dairy in it away to make my point stick. She does not give a shit.

    So she’s sentenced me to death alongside her. And now the toilet won’t flush. This is a systematic problem with her eating her chosen diet of DEATH! How on Earth is she clogging the sewer main? I know in St. Louis, my house had a problem with water like this, but the sewer lateral collapsed. It was made of clay. That is not the case here. No. Care to guess? DO YOU!?


    So now I have to do emergency maintenance — AGAIN. This happened over and over before I put her on my diet and now it’s BACK. And she’s too sick to get off her ass for more than fifteen minutes at a time, clinging to things so she can keep her balance. THIS IS HER DIET. When she was eating what I make her — clean, living food — she was able to stand for up to 45 minutes at a time no problem, touching things for balance on and off. Now? Now she’s back to dying.

    Are you taking care of an old folk? LOOK AT THEIR FUCKING FOOD. Throw away everything with sugar in it. Throw away everything canned or mix it verily with salads and other living foods. Even nuts are better, sitting around for months or years; they’re still alive, as long as they’re raw. Reduce those boxed carbohydrates down to one sixth of their diet. Remove all saturated fat and replace it with unsaturated fats (oil.)

    Another great side-effect of this diet is that there’s less toilet cleaning mess every week. I’m telling you, shit clings to the candida. I’ve been trying to feed her oregano oil and beef bone broth to get her better, but it’s like she’s felt like shit so long she cannot conceive of getting better. She even tells me how she gets better, then goes back to eating just like she used to.

    Oh, I had to fix something, tee hee! Forget that I leave the fridge full of fucking food to eat. SHE had to fix it. SHE had to have control. And when she’s in control, people DIE.

  • Take 2

    I’ve been posture training for two years, two months, and a few days. I found an interesting article that shows pretty much exactly what I’ve been doing, but my body is a mass of pain every time I do simple stretches. I know, right. Doctors will tell you to stop if you feel pain. Except my subluxated vertebrae are actually much closer to alignment than ever before, so honestly, it’s worth the pain. I know one day I will be out of physical pain.

    Too bad I can’t say the same for my mind.

    I hear all kinds of shit that ain’t me, y’know? It’s awful. I have no idea half the time if it’s even God talking to me or not.

    Bye bye, assholes.

    So, the real entry, shall we?

    That’s right, tons of assholes just hit the back button or swiped past my entry just because I mentioned God. Good for them, you know? They determined God is a waste of time and bam, they’re gone. Why? Because God doesn’t serve them while they gallivant around, doling out heaps of pain on others and blaming everyone but that guy in the mirror for everything that happens to them.

    I can prove you are the problem in your life if you keep reading.

    1. You have toxic people in your life you do not set boundaries with. You absolutely need to set boundaries. BOOT THEIR ASS TO THE CURB!
    2. You have habits that are self-sabotaging, like staring at the ass of every girl that goes by, even when you’re standing next to your woman. Or perhaps you remember every negative thing that was ever said about you and remind yourself on repeat every 120 seconds just so you never get your hopes up to be anything more than that negative thing that was said to you out of someone else’s narcissistic pain and misery.
    3. You always point the finger at someone else before yourself. YOU are PERFECT, YOU KNOW!
    4. You spend all your time dwelling on whatever bad things happened that there is no time for good things to happen.
    5. You don’t know what you stand for, so you fall for everything.
    6. You harbor ill will for an object, a place, a person, or a thing.
    7. You objectify beings that have feelings so you can ignore their feelings.

    It’s really impossible to fully inspect three different versions of the Epic of Gilgamesh whilst distracted by Earthly matters. I spent hours on it, happily, and wanted to continue even further. I read most of the Wikipedia information on the poem and discovered the Akkadian version is likely the original version, but the “standard” version is the Babylonian, it seems.

  • The “Deli Boy”

    I hate this insidious voice in my head that has nothing good to say. Do you have one? Was it put there by some asshole who abused you? Kick them in the balls, that’s my advice. If you can’t do it literally in the real, do it in your mind, as least.

    In fact, I formulate perfectly good sentences in my head and practice saying them and my mouth tries to leave out key words. This is really beginning to blow. It already sucked, but now we’re to “blow.” [Mega Maid!]

    I’m talking to myself to kind of prepare for the inevitable, except the inevitable no longer seems like a valid option; whatever affliction I have — and I am reassured over and over again it is telepathy — is really getting in the way of me being myself. My Self is “a prostitute,” the voice offers. “You whore yourself out for money.”

    Keep going, asshole. Tell the whole world your point of view. I’m waiting.

    “You are, summarily, a shit stain. A no good two bit whore. A dirty whore. [A new voice] And I’m going to kill you. [Softer] Okay stop right there! That’s not what I said!”

    God: Of course it isn’t. You wouldn’t be able to live with yourself as a murdering fiend if you said it out loud and meant it. You already tried to starve this woman once already today by denying her a simple sandwich. You talk her out of eating at least once a day. You tell her she’s a fat cow, a heifer, a lowly creep, a whore, and anything else that crosses your fucking mind while you sit around, alone, just U + Ur Hand, hating on a woman who refuses to continue taking your shit. What gives you the right to be here, asshole? You’re Daniel. As in the Biblical sense. And you’re fucking annoying.

    Crystal: Which one was Daniel again? She tries to think about it.

    “Daniel:” No, stop. I don’t want to listen to any more of your autistic bull shit, woman. Get out of my head!

    God: You dare to tell her to get out of her own head as if it was yours? Wow. Just wow.

    “Daniel:” I don’t want to hear her role-playing talking to the deli man anymore. She’s been doing this for nine fucking months!

    Ben: Daniel’s the one who got away.

    Crystal: Away? Away from what? She tries looking it up. Oh, right… the guy in the den of lions. Who has a den of lions sitting around, anyway?

    Well then, it looks like I can be me for a moment again. This is really inconvenient, you know, and is the whole reason I have to keep role-playing asking the deli man out on a date (or accepting said thing when he asks me out.) That’s never happened before, so it seems 1000% unlikely. Especially since Benji likes to butt in and tell me all kinds of lies.

    He’s the king of lies, y’all. God called him Satan once. I thought he was being hyperbolic, but honestly now I know why the twat is going to try to kill me. That’s right… God and I have heard about thirty reasons why but I finally have one that sounds about right. It goes a little something like this: HE TOLD ME HE PULLED DOWN HIS LITTLE SISTER’S PANTIES ONCE. I didn’t do the math until God made me, but I believe she was about 8 or 9 years old and, as the oldest, he was in the range of 16 or 17. This act will nail him as a pedophile if I tell the courts of law. I absolutely believe the psychopath would destroy me to keep his status quo of a mild-mannered middle class white guy that gets away with, well, everything. Including giving two or more children herpes.

    Good luck, Benji, cuz if you murder me, the police will check out my computer, which leads straight to this blog. I guess that part doesn’t quite matter so much to you, but it will if you succeed in your twisted little mission. You should have looked under your desk before you started accusing me of stealing your jump drive full of child pornography. Unfortunately, telepathy isn’t enough of an edge to call the police and send them to his residence at Haywood Manor Court.

    Now, in other news, how does one go on a date when one is allergic to dairy and everywhere in the city serves dairy? How on Earth am I going to ever go on a bloody date again?

  • The Tao, Chapter 78

    The Tao, Chapter 78

    Water is the softest and most yielding substance.
    Yet nothing is better than water,
    for overcoming the hard and rigid,
    because nothing can compete with it.

    Everyone knows that the soft and yielding
    overcomes the rigid and hard,
    but few can put this knowledge into practice.

    Therefore the Master says:
    “Only he who is the lowest servant of the kingdom,
    is worthy to become its ruler.
    He who is willing tackle the most unpleasant tasks,
    is the best ruler in the world.”
    True sayings seem contradictory.

    — Translated by J. H. McDonald

  • Gilgamesh and Inanna

    He couldn’t have her and it hurt his pride. He had her once, taking her to bed on a daily basis and having his way with her as he pleased. It lasted for years as he preyed upon her, taking every last shred of her dignity away. His gaze kept wandering to everything but her, his words praised everyone but her, his actions bespoke lovingkindness but they were hollow. They were a means to an end: to gain permission to rut around with whatever doth pleaseth him.

    She would not give him this permission. He was too ethical to simply cheat, or that is what he tried to make them all believe. Instead, he begged her to give his lust to others. Finally, as her walls crumbled from his apathy to her emotional being, she said to him, “Do whatever you want and see what happens.”

    He charged forth, as if this were permission to rut around, to sleep around with whatever he thought was goodly. He cast his net far and wide, seeking anyone at all to answer his call for pleasure. No strings attached.

    It turns out most people want to attach strings. He was unable to find scores of whores as he thought was inevitable, admiring himself in a reflective pool of light. He was handsome. The stuff Gods were made of. Surely, he could attract many honey bees to taste of his nectar. He told her a lie: “I’m gay.” All the while, he sought more womenfolk to put flat on their backs and live through his “expert love-making.”

    The woman he had felt spurned. He had told her that his new lover was a man seven times. Seven times in a row, he said he was loving a man, not woman. Seven times in a row, she had objected, somehow knowing it was woman. After the seventh consistent lie, she decided to believe the liar. That was the downfall for him. He crushed the very last thing that grasped her close to his bosom. He destroyed the very last pin holding her in place. He detached the last string between them. Severed the tie. Burned the bridge. Destroyed all hope for ye who entered here.

    She packed up all her goodly things, the color draining from his abode as her baubles left sight. The life depleted from his surroundings as she made her exodus. Within days of their last courtship dance, he was attempting to woo her, to lure her back into his bed. He tried every trick he thought had worked in the past, exposing to her that he was, indeed, merely a psychopath. His actions were driven by narcissism rather than feelings.

    He had to get back at her. He had to tear her down and beat her to a pulp. He had to defame her before she could defame him. To be the believable party, he had to spin his story first to all that would hear. He told another lie, and another, alienating her from her tribe. He would destroy this bitch, once and for all. How dare she leave his smoldering gaze, his dancing cock, his lust for what he saw in the mirror (or was it his siblings? or is he pedophile? Oh, wait, I forgot, he’s gay.)

    All around them, the temple she built was razed to the ground. She merely stared and watched him do so. She had expected this, truth be told. He had a broken heart and did not wish to acknowledge it. She had known she would bring him great sorrow — nay, grief — by leaving. He continued to shackle her to him unjustly and she turned to her inner Self for the guidance to disappear from his clutches. And so she did, at great expense, abandoning her empire of wondrous deeds, abandoning her people, abandoning her job, abandoning everything, even hope.

    She read a list of affirmations she wrote to herself daily, trying to remember the goodness inside of her. If she was idle — and she was often idle in the illness that fell upon her whilst that beast was raping her — she repeated it, again and again. One day, they would become true again from her perspective. It took over 1,000 days for those words to begin to ring true again. Yet, they did.

    Despite losing absolutely everything she ever built, created, or had, she was on the road to recovery. Despite his campaign to destroy her supposed ego, all he did was expose his own desperately destructive disdain. His true colors now flapped in the wind for all to see; he was green with envy, for one thing, and red with rage for another. He was yellow as a coward facing Humbaba (or a lion, if you prefer.) He was black with vitriol, though he did his best to hide that. It’d make him less credible as the hero, after all.

    He would attack her again. He had found a reason to do so. He had searched long and dug deeply, looking for proof of her banishment, looking for her new residence. He had a reason to put her in jail, he thought. He had a way to strike back at the bitch who vanished from his presence. All he had to do was accuse her of theft. For, you see, he was missing a jump drive, a thumb drive, a memory stick… and upon that memory stick was something most heinous. He was certain it was in her possession and she would blackmail him with it. CERTAIN!

    It was full of images of naked children. Child pornography. Images he put on that jump drive, that thumb drive, that memory stick. And all he had to do was find out where she was and report her to the police.

    This very act would be his undoing, ultimately, for she did not possess this particular mechanical wonder. She took nothing of his, at least not intentionally. Perhaps a few items had been left behind of her own instead, items that irritated him for he was not prone to actually solving problems and instead allowed them to endlessly build up, snowballing into epic issues to tackle like Goliath and the beast.

    Does he know that creating a false report to the police is punishable? Does he realize the can of worms he shall open with this preposterous report? Does he know that the girl has already gone to the police on an unrelated matter and the police now know who she is and what she looks like? Does he understand the preposterousness of his accusation?

    She, the daughter of a pedophile, supposedly has images of pedophilia in her possession? The daughter who plans to sue the man posthumously but is not even sure she can? Does he know what this will look like to the police? Does he know it will backfire and he will have to suffer being searched by the police, all of his computer equipment seized and investigated, and his previous cell phones sought after to decide if he himself is a pedophile?

    Well, don’t say we didn’t tell you so. Stay tuned for the most epic court case of American history, y’all. And have a nice day while you still can. ^-^

  • Code Cracking: The Epic of Gilgamesh

    1. Men think Gilgamesh, the destroyer of worlds, is a hero. [Source, Andrew George, page XII] “it tells of one man’s heroic struggle against death”
    2. It’s a tale about narcissism [Source, Andrew George, page XII] “the only immortality he may expect is the enduring name afforded by leaving behind some lasting achievement.”
    3. Somehow Gilgamesh is seen as a hero at the end of destroying sacred forests and forest guardians: “From all this Gilgamesh emerges as a kind of cultural hero.” [Source, Andrew George, page XIV]
    4. Gilgamesh is afflicted with delusions of grandeur. He must become immortal so that he can oppress the locals, to continue his tyranny. “the delusive promise of eternal life” [Andrew George], “The city is his possession, he struts through it, arrogant, his head raised high, trampling its citizens like a wild bull. He is king, he does whatever he wants, takes the son from his father and crushes him, takes the girl from her mother and uses her, the warrior’s daughter, the young man’s bride, he uses her, no one dares to oppose him.” [Source]
      Note: All stresses on words provided by me, this author!
    5. The sheer number of times the name Gilgamesh appears in this poem is astounding. Narcissist, she hisses.
    6. Gilgamesh is a murderous fiend. “The tavern-keeper Siduri… was gazing off into the distance, puzzling to herself, she said, wondering to herself: “That fellow is surely a murderer! Where is he heading?” [Maureen Gallery Kovacs, page 36] He pre-meditated murder while speaking to Ninsun, his mother, telling her he will go to the Cedar Forest and kill “Humbaba the Terrible” [forest guardian]. [Page 12 of same source.] In fact, the word KILL appears 27 times in this version, 31 times in George’s version, and 30 times in the prose composition third version I found that has no author to attribute. The word MURDER appears once in two versions but four times in another — of course this is just a translation preference.
    7. Money and refinery is listed throughout this tale so often I could vomit. Gilgamesh even seeks to immortalize his BFF in a jewel-encrusted golden statue once he dies. He cannot accept the man is gone and will do anything to keep from letting him go and allowing himself to grieve. This is also typical of narcissism. Anger is the gatekeeper of sadness. Denial comes before anger. First, one tries to feel nothing, but then we cannot function in a numbed state. That is normal of all beings. However, if you find for yourself that anger is a gatekeeper to sadness and simply embrace the sadness — for we all have something to grieve all the time — then one can take a shortcut to the end: PEACE AND EQUILIBRIUM. This entire epic poem is about Gilgamesh refusing to face his emotions. What are the chances it’s entirely metaphor? Furthermore, two out of three sources vilify the woman who tames Enkidu as a harlot and whore, which means the victor (GILGAMESH, HINT HINT, WHO WROTE THIS ATROCITY) had very strong angry feelings about a woman who no doubt spurned him and would not give her body to him. He raped her and her father had some things to say about that, which ended up with his BFF dying. Whoops. I guess there were some consequences after all, even for a tyrant king.
    8. The tablet attributes the entire city as Gilgamesh’s doing, but he conscripted lesser beings into labor. He may have begun as a servant-leader, or tried to, and perhaps that is why the first stanza speaks of him so adoringly, but it quickly falls into a more accurate portrayal of a monster, calling him a rapist and then a murderer. Yes, let’s call him a hero, shall we?

    Now, I will do the world a service and write a new version of this epic tale from the three sources I have. Stay tuned… it might take me a few weeks because I despise Gilgamesh.

  • Research Day: The Epic of Gilgamesh (3)

    I am already pissed off by page 2 of this poem.

    “Gilgamesh does not leave a girl to her mother(?)
    The daughter of the warrior, the bride of the young man”

    Or in my second reference of the epic poem:

    “The city is his possession, he struts through it, arrogant, his head
    raised high, trampling its citizens like a wild bull. He is king, he does
    whatever he wants, takes the son from his father and crushes him,
    takes the girl from her mother and uses her, the warrior’s daughter,
    the young man’s bride, he uses her
    no one dares to oppose him. But
    the people of Uruk cried out to heaven, and their lamentation was
    heard, the gods are not unfeeling, their hearts were touched, they
    went to Anu, father of them all, protector of the realm of sacred
    Uruk, and spoke to him on the people’s behalf: “Heavenly Father,
    Gilgamesh—noble as he is, splendid as he is—has exceeded all bounds.
    The people suffer from his tyranny, the people cry out that he takes
    the son from his father and crushes him, takes the girl from her mother
    and uses her, the warrior’s daughter, the young man’s bride, he uses
    her, no one dares to oppose him. Is this how you want your king to
    rule? Should a shepherd savage his own flock? Father, do something,
    quickly, before the people overwhelm heaven with their heartrending

    And from the third source?

    “‘[Though powerful, pre-eminent,] expert [and mighty,]
    [Gilgamesh] lets [no] girl go free to [her bridegroom.]’
    The warrior’s daughter, the young man’s bride,
    to their complaint the goddesses paid heed.”

    The second time I cringed is when they speak of Shamhat:

    First source:

    “Go, trapper, bring the harlot, Shamhat, with you.
    When the animals are drinking at the watering place
    have her take off her robe and expose her sex.
    When he sees her he will draw near to her,
    and his animals, who grew up in his wilderness, will be alien to him.”

    Second source:

    “Said Gilgamesh to him, to the hunter:
    ‘Go, hunter, take with you Shamhat the harlot!
    ‘When the herd comes down to the water-hole,
    she should strip off her raiment to reveal her charms.

    He will see her, and will approach her,
    his herd will spurn him, though he grew up amongst it.’”

    Third source:

    “He made the journey, he stood before Gilgamesh in the center of Uruk,
    he told him about the savage man. The king said, “Go to the temple
    of Ishtar, ask them there for a woman named Shamhat, one of the
    priestesses who give their bodies to any man, in honor of the goddess.
    Take her into the wilderness. When the animals are drinking at the
    waterhole, tell her to strip off her robe and lie there naked, ready, with
    her legs apart. The wild man will approach. Let her use her love-arts.
    Nature will take its course, and then the animals who knew him in the
    wilderness will be bewildered, and will leave him forever.”

    The trapper found Shamhat, Ishtar’s priestess, and they went off into
    the wilderness. For three days they walked. On the third day they
    reached the waterhole. There they waited. For two days they sat as
    the animals came to drink clear water. Early in the morning of the
    third day, Enkidu came and knelt down to drink clear water with the
    antelope and deer. They looked in amazement. The man was huge
    and beautiful. Deep in Shamhat’s loins desire stirred. Her breath
    quickened as she stared at this primordial being. “Look,” the trapper
    said, “there he is. Now use your love-arts. Strip off your robe and lie
    here naked, with your legs apart. Stir up his lust when he approaches,
    touch him, excite him, take his breath with your kisses, show him
    what a woman is. The animals who knew him in the wilderness will
    be bewildered, and will leave him forever.”

    She stripped off her robe and lay there naked, with her legs apart,
    touching herself. Enkidu saw her and warily approached. He sniffed
    the air. He gazed at her body. He drew close, Shamhat touched him
    on the thigh, touched his penis, and put him inside her. She used
    her love-arts, she took his breath with her kisses, held nothing back,
    and showed him what a woman is. For seven days he stayed erect
    and made love with her, until he had had enough. At last he stood
    up and walked toward the waterhole to rejoin his animals. But the
    gazelles saw him and scattered, the antelope and deer bounded away.
    He tried to catch up, but his body was exhausted, his life-force was
    spent, his knees trembled, he could no longer run like an animal, as
    he had before. He turned back to Shamhat, and as he walked he knew
    that his mind had somehow grown larger, he knew things now that an
    animal can’t know.”

    I have come to the decision that all three versions are important taken in tandem, but the third source is likely the most true to the history that took place. There is more to this version of the story than the other two, which possibly comes from translations with some liberties. However, it is the most believable version of Shamhat and it does not shame her for being the owner of her body. The other two versions shame her, calling her a harlot and a whore. I think I’ve found the origin of victim shaming and so on, y’all: narcissistic kings in ancient Mesopotamia.

    Absolute power corrupts absolutely, said someone famous somewhere.

  • The Tao, Chapter 77

    The Tao, Chapter 77

    The Tao of Heaven works in the world
    like the drawing of a bow.
    The top is bent downward;
    the bottom is bent up.
    The excess is taken from,
    and the deficient is given to.

    The Tao works to use the excess,
    and gives to that which is depleted.
    The way of people is to take from the depleted,
    and give to those who already have an excess.

    Who is able to give to the needy from their excess?
    Only someone who is following the way of the Tao.

    This is why the Master gives
    expecting nothing in return.
    She does not dwell on her past accomplishments,
    and does not glory in any praise.

    — Translated by J. H. McDonald

  • Soul Sight / Face Blindness

    I just realized that I am not exactly afflicted with prosopagnosia, or face blindness. I mean, I can’t really see faces too much in my memories, but it’s so much easier to remember at least the outline of a person and the individual characteristics they espouse, like the color of their hair or eyes or the shape of their ear, if the person is openly being themselves.

    There is a man in a deli somewhere(T.M.) who stares at me, hiding his true self day in and day out. I’ve seen his soul… he’s miserable and he’s trying to hide it. At least, that used to be true. His vibration is rising over time. I suppose it’s probably a woman good enough to build his esteem. That seems to be what women are for when a man isn’t serious about settling down. An ego boost. Narcissistic supply.

    However, today I can see the produce guy I’ve been calling Phil without a problem. I’ve only seen him about a dozen times. He walks around, being himself with a smile. Our eyes met once half a year ago or more, that’s all it took to get his soul signature. He’s happy to have a job, I imagine. I would be, too. Especially a job that left me with my brain in tact to work on another project after feeding myself dinner. My former role took all my brain capacity. I had hoped to move beyond that, but I never did… now I know it’s because of how sick I got.

    I’ve seen the man in the deli at least 200 times. And only just recently have I been able to see more than a bandanna in my brain. He keeps trying to take his soul signature back from me, too. This happened before, but not quite like this. Men who are very strongly themselves are like staring into the sun. Men who are not being themselves are like muddy water, fuzzy at best and quite dark between the eyes. It’s true for women, too, but there is a difference between how those souls feel. Men are more like electricity and women are more like water or a gentle thrumming. I believe this is probably tied to rape culture, where women are expected to stand aside so a man can “be a man.” Or a rapist, more precisely, overpowering those around him with his own wants and desires. Those who are muddy are fuzzy are likely being raped.

    The main thing here is wondering why. Why? Why does shielding the soul block my capability to remember faces? Is the recollection of others a kind of rape to that person? I’m sort of built to avoid doing things without permission — that is, of course, until I’m faced with a senseless dictatorship ran by someone with little to no rationality. Rational people seek democracy and irrational people tell you to do what they say, not what they do. Hypocrites. Every single dictator is a hypocrite! A rapist, and a murderer, to boot.

    You might be wondering if the souls of popular celebrities or infamous politicians are on display. THEY ARE. They’re not afraid to overpower others, most of the time. Now, some celebrities hide themselves, but not all. It depends on if they’re taking a role that resonates with their true self. Thus, I feel like I know Bruce Willis, for example, because he tends to take roles that do not interfere with his true self. (Although lately he’s been playing villains, but then again they are villains that have a reason to be villainous, too… not just thugs. He is not resonating in that role very well, but if he continues to take them, he just might.)

    Oh my God, Sansara! Do the entire pantheon of famous people ever!

    Benedict Cumberbatch, you say? Yes, he is playing himself as Sherlock and Dr. Strange. Can’t you see the similarities between his expression of the characters? (I’m totally cool with this, by the way.)

    Angelina Jolie? Nope. Maleficent might be her most Self-like role. I’m sorry I don’t watch all your movies, Ms. Jolie.

    Tim Curry? Hmm… well, of course, he peeps out a little here and there in every role. Study his eyes while you look at his face and you’ll be able to see it for yourself. CLUE is absolutely one aspect of that man, yup. I think he loved being Frank-N-Furter, but I don’t think it’s him.

    That’s enough. Hone your own soul sight, you lazy bums.

    The questions still stand:

    1. What circumstances lead one to hide one’s soul?
    2. Why is it important that I see someone’s soul to be able to see them in my mind?
    3. Why do you care? About what? THE DELI MAN! I’m not going to tell you.
    4. What can one learn from soul sight?
    5. What does it mean when someone’s soul shines brighter than the sun?
  • Research Day: The Epic of Gilgamesh (2)

    Source: Spark Notes dot com.

    A summary of the summary:

    Gilgamesh is a narcissistic slave monger who rapes whomever he pleaseth within the walls of HIS city.

    Enkidu is made by the Gods to battle Gilgamesh and ends up becoming his friend after losing a wrestling match for blocking Gil from raping a newlywed bride.

    Enkidu is seduced by a woman’s wiles at the urge of another MAN. However, she is SHAMED for her part in this epic poem. This is the reason he goes to Uruk to battle Gil.

    Together, Gil and Enkidu rape a cedar forest, cutting down trees and stealing them. Because of their theft, the “terrifying demon” Humbaba fights the thieves. Supposedly Shamash assisted in the destruction of the forest Guardian. They take the stolen wood back to Uruk to create a new gate.

    Supposedly, a Goddess entreats Gil out of “lust.” As if Goddesses have this kind of problem. She is spurned, according to the text, though we all know men who don’t get none when they try to rape women call them WHORES.

    Anu, Ishtar’s father, is completely PISSED THE FUCK OFF over his daughter being raped by this beast called a man. He sends the Bull of Heaven to punish these two childish beings, which brings seven years of famine. Sadly, the bull dies at their hands, which causes the Gods to meet in council and decide to kill Enkidu. Enkidu is ill, probably via poison, suffers hallucinations painfully, and tells Gil of the underworld, leaving Gil heartbroken. (Perhaps they were more than friends.)

    Gil, narcissistic bitch that he is, thinks his grief is greater than anything else a human being can experience, so now we have hundreds of lines about that grief. Faced with his own mortality, he goes forth to seek eternal life, just like the NARCISSIST HE IS!

    As if the gods would allow a raping murderer to have eternal life.

    The narcissist continues being classically narcissistic, either slaying or persuading everything in his way to let him have what he wants even though he doesn’t deserve it. (Ain’t that the way with pretty boys, ladies?)

    Gil journeys to Utnapishtim (NOAH.) Noah tells him of the great flood that the gods sent to destroy humanity and how he was given instruction on how to avoid the consequence himself via Ea, a god or goddess of wisdom. He was told how to build the arc, how to save his family, seeds, and animals. To ensure humanity would not die off completely, Noah is granted everlasting life.

    Noah’s wife (supposedly) convinces Noah to tell Gil about a miraculous plant that restores youth. Gil takes the plant to the elders of Uruk to share, but a snake steals it while Gil isn’t paying attention. Sounds sus to me — did the man sleep with the woman?

    Gil has finally reconciled the fact that he is mortal, having journeyed through his grief. He knows he cannot live forever, but humanity shall persist. He sees the city he forced others to build for him as an enduring achievement, the closest thing to immortality to which a mortal can aspire.