I hate you.

PS--Aint that an interesting post? True, though.

2% of "love" is love.

I get a whole lot of emails from a whole lot of people who have the problems of the mental kind. Hey, who among us is perfect? It's a tough, tough world, and sometimes we don't feel so hot.

Every now and then, I get an email like this, and I just think...good lord, what is this person smoking?

Hey Bunny,

I just stumbled across your blog for the first time, and damn girl you must've spent your life looking for something: answers, purpose, a hiadus from "life"; regretfully, only to be eaten by one asshole only to be shit out of another. I can empathize only a few of your issues, mainly the alcohol and drug abuse. Yes, they numb'ed out all the loud mouth bitches tellin me what to do with my life, as well as the inner voice telling me im worthless. I started see'ing a shrink who would "console" (her word) "macabre" being mine. Realizing my life isn't worth living, and that I'll never regain the mental wit I had once had I resorted to the only thing my hackneyed self could do. Find the only place on earth where malignant brain tumors had been eradicated, AIDS diminished, Multiple Sclerosis cured; where mentally unstable people belong. Anyways, look up Abadiania, Brazil and check out whats so amazing about this place. I never believed in this shit, and still don'. All I can say is that after a two week visit, I'm back in the U.S chillen here free from The Captains' allure, and incredulously devoid of any drug paraphernalia. Believe it or not you can still get the answers and help you've been searching for, you'll even be able to settle down and lead a normal 30yrold female life... Anyways just check it out, it'll seem like bullshit but you can find sites with evidence that His shit actually works. The truth of the matter is that with current medical and psycological breakthorughs you wont be able to get the help you need/deserve. The dude in Abadiana CAN for a fact fix your psychosis and any other problems you may have. I myself am incredulous at this post because for some reason i care about your well being (wtf?). Also i feel like this is your only chance to save yourself from a bitter end like death/rape in an alleyway puddle of cat urine.

Dude's talking about "John of God." I don't need my amazing psychiatrist, I need to go to Brazil and pay 1500 bucks to have an "entity" stick it's fingers up my nose. Do yourself a favor, visit the site and feel really fuckin' normal for a tad.

"I'm fucking your ass!" he yelled.

There's not a lot between me and my upstairs neighbors, and if I can hear the pitter-patter of their little Chihuahua's claws on their hard wood floors, then they surely--at three in the morning--heard this jagoff yell, "I'm fucking your ass."

To his credit, it was a true statement, that he was having sex with my ass. It was also true to our situation about thirty seconds prior--the situation of the various parts of him that were in the various crevices of me--when he yelled, "My finger is in your ass!" Indeed, his finger was in my ass. His thumb, I guessed. I don't know. You can't really see what's going in and out of your ass on your hands and knees. You have to make a guess, or sleep with a douche like this, who will tell you exactly what's in your ass. Shortly after, when he yelled, "I can feel my finger in your ass on my dick!" I imagined it was because he could probably feel his finger or thumb through my ass on his dick.

But why yell these things out, really? Is it necessary? No, and it's not sexy, either.

To begin this entry, I must explain that I'm balls deep in recovery right now, and I find it absolutely exhausting. Every day is the same bullshit: trying to feel, trying not to let anger rule me, trying to detach from all the things that keep me...me. I can't drink or do drugs. I have to abstain from them, and I'm doing only sort of okay at that, and while I'm abstaining from those vices, I've got to figure out how to manage quitting sex, too. I can't do that. I'm too horny. Sex will have to be the vice I get around to quitting once I've figured out how to abstain from the rest of the nonsense. Perhaps I'll procrastinate on that forever. I am a very sexual person. That's why they call me Bunny, for christ's sake. I'm always humping.

So while I'm procrastinating about sex and allowing myself to have it, I'm also having a difficult time finding it. It's hard to get a good lay in a town where everyone's batshit, lives-in-the-woods crazy or over sixty. There are three attractive single guys in town who bathe, and I've done two of them already.

The first of them went missing, which was not fun. I was sort of into him, but he stood me up and it was a rather embarrassing outcome, not because he did it while I was in public sitting by myself over a glass of wine and a bread basket, waiting for him to show while everybody in town looked at me piteously, but because of who he is, which is a slacker. He does some sort of construction job for a living, can't keep a conversation going, has no college education, is divorced or separated with a kid and isn't particularly good looking. I've never had great taste in guys, but even for me, it was a stretch. He had nice eyes--a cuteness, a quirkiness--and there was something really naughty about him. He had a devious smile. He was a troublemaker; I like that.

He ended up being very good in bed, and I rather enjoyed being with him. Not just sleeping with him, but being around him too, in his presence. I don't know if my being "into" him was desperation so much as a clicking, or a chemistry. Some people...well, you really just ought to have sex with them. It's the right thing to do. You have compatible pheromones. It wouldn't be appropriate to maintain the distance between, according to the rules of nature.

But then he went poof, so what can I say but whatever?

After him came a few trysts with some lesbians. One on vacation with her girlfriends. A girl from New Zealand I wasn't the least bit attracted to. She was very pretty, but I wasn't into her, and I had sex with her anyway, for a reason I'll get to in a bit. It was the wrong and selfish thing to do, and I regret it, because it's not like you can have sex with someone without them figuring out you're apathetic about the act mid-act, and you're faking the moans and the pleasure, and if you do fake it, isn't it irresponsible? You can't just say, in passing, that you entered another body because there was just something interesting about her soft hair and pink lips, and the way girls are so very pretty. That's part of why I did it, though. They are so pretty. They're like cupcakes. Don't you want to eat a cupcake? It's not the most satisfying of meals, but so attractive, pink, pretty, sweet. You have to bite it, you know?

After that was a Mexican girl with short blonde hair and amazing breasts. Bulbous. They defied gravity, too big to be so firm. I fucked her on her boyfriend's pergo flooring while he jerked off on the couch. Here's a tip: don't fuck on pergo flooring. My elbows and knees were void of skin when I was done. I was a real mess.

After the Mexican girl was the guy who works the bar at the Italian restaurant down the street.

Now, this guy is right up my alley: aggressive as hell, bald (too much testosterone) and brutal in bed. He threw me face first up against a building and violated me, and dammit, that sort of aggression makes me happy in my special areas, fills me with a certain warm feeling of comfort and of coming home. Say you were a normal person, and you slept with this bald guy--it would be disturbing. But I'm not normal. For me, there was a sort of drifting back, like revisiting a lover long gone, one who broke your heart but still lingers in your memory, and for the life of you, you cannot forget him, though "him" is not really a man; its the pain itself. I find myself so unable to dissociate pain from pleasure, and though I've really tried to get the two going separately, this dipshit really pressed my buttons, and I can't seem to stop myself from thinking about him, the parts of him and how well he chokes while fucking--just the right amount of pressure so that it hurts but doesn't hurt too much and doesn't put you out. It's good for me. I know...I know...

I'm actively working to avoid him and all the others like him. I feel as if, with enough work, I can make a fissure there, and force it to stick. He's the past and the past was a shitshow. I don't want more of the past. Men who live here, they're the past. They're like me: fucked in the head. This seems to be the place you go to escape whatever abusive situation you were either in, or caused. These people are polarized. Dazed. They drug and drink or they're straight edge, and everyone has a dogma that's either completely out of touch with reality or unreasonably close-minded. It's a place for contrarians, people who who are different for the sake of being different, whether its reasonable or based on biases or no, and sometimes I'm disturbed I fit in here so well. God, what does that say about me, that I've entrenched myself in a little squirrel hole filled with loops and managed to blend in?

So, I decided after baldy to stick to vacationers to get my kicks. I didn't feel I needed to invite into my life the drama of the men who lived here, the baggage, the projection of so many succubae that weren't me onto me, evil she-ghosts I've got nothing to do with and probably don't even resemble much.

I fell into a bachelor party Thursday night with the intention of picking off the best man. I didn't know why him. Same with the girl from New Zealand, there wasn't much attraction, but my reasoning for having sex right now is this: I guess I feel, that if someone doesn't touch me, put their hands on me and define the limits of my body, the places where my skin ends and the rest of the world begins, then I don't exist at all. I can't begin to tell you how disconcerting that feeling that you're not real is. Fucking helps.

The bachelor party chose a bar, and we went to it, and naturally, the bar they chose was the Italian restaurant where the bald guy works. The universe, it seems, is merciless with its tests of our fortitude. I got plastered on bourbon, tried to maintain focus on the best man, because, really, he was the best man for me, though my body didn't want him at all. I figured I could force my body into it, like I could force a fissure. He ran his hands up and down my legs, saying they were soft, pulling my knee into his crotch and asking me if I felt how hard his penis was. I did. He was a talker, of course. I didn't need all the talk. Wouldn't it have been sexier to pull a girl's knee to your penis while talking about politics or some random shit, than to narrate the act? I felt like the bald guy would've known that.

This scenario was frustrating. I cannot tell you a single thing about the way the best man looked. I simply did not care. I wanted to have sex, and badly, but not with him. With the guy who sure to choke me, which I knew was wrong for me and a step back toward the shitshow, but I couldn't stop myself from wanting it, either. It was instinctual.

Sex is something, that when wrapped around and through violence enough, you'll have a bitch of a time unraveling the mess to its pure state and form again.

"Can you feel my penis? It's really hard." Yes, it was hard. It was, indeed, erect. There really wasn't a need to discuss it. "Do you want to fuck me? You're going to fuck me, aren't you?" It got to the point where I was ready to walk out and go home.

You see, there's this interesting thing happening to me, lately. Sometimes I find myself in a situation like this, where there's drama, and there's the destructive thing I'm supposed to do, faithfully--according to training and history--I ought to fall right in and end me, and then there's the overly moral voice opposing it critically, and instead of going with either voice, something in me rises up, detached and unemotional about it all and it says, "Meh. Go get a taco and watch some Arrested Development." That's the new voice, the middle ground voice. The voice that prefers solitude to violence, and doesn't really give a crap about anything, about drugs, sex or alcohol. It's a voice of reason. I've never had that voice before, and its still sort of weak in me, so while I heard it, and it's musings about tacos and Arrested Development, I went to bed with the best man anyway, and it happened to be one of the worst lays of my life. He was bumbling and awkward. He kissed with his teeth, and the talking didn't stop after we left the bar. He narrated everything, loudly. "Oh you're putting a condom on me. Now you're riding my dick. You're riding my dick. I'm feeling your tits. You're fucking me. Are you gonna cum? Huh? Are you coming?" I had to put my hand over his mouth to muster an orgasm, and I'm almost positive a taco and some Arrested Development would have been the better ending to my night. I drove him back to his hotel and he sat in my car, with lovely intent, telling me something about how I should really follow my dreams, a thing I don't have and never have had a problem doing. I wanted to tell him to dream big about getting the fuck out of my car and then go for it, chase that dream the fuck away from me, I'm tired.

On the way back to my house, 4am or so, I stopped at a convenience store for some Gatorade. An Estonian man with a black guitar was sitting on a bench outside, strumming and singing. He shouted something at me. He was bald and very pretty. Blue eyes, big muscles; cute smile. "You beautiful," he yelled. "You beautiful girl." I smiled, thanked him and went inside to buy my Gatorade. He followed me in and introduced himself as "Maximus Fedor Emelianenko," beating his chest somewhat hilariously while doing it.

"Come here and listen," he said, pulling me from the register to an open laptop perched in the corner, atop a stack of Sierra Mist. He put big black headphones--the leather-covered foam kind with the cord that spirals--on my head. Russian hip hop came through them. It was mellow and put me in a good mood, though I hadn't a clue about what was being said. The language sounded smooth and velvety. His computer began displaying a slide show of photographs, brilliantly taken. African men with great white beards in direct sunlight, against teal paint weathering off the wall of a taco stand, almost macro, so that every wire of fur on their faces had a story to tell. "You take these?" I asked. He nodded, yes, and smiled. I watched and listened, and Maximus Fedor Emelianenko began to knead my hip in a very telling way. "What are you doing tonight?"

It wasn't night. The sun was about to rise. I reeked of latex already, and I wasn't sure how I'd feel about myself tomorrow if Maximus Fedor Emelianenko and I did anything Sapphic after I'd done so many not very enjoyable Sapphic things with the best man for no reason. Could I really be that girl? A part of me was certain I could, the same part that wants the bald guy who works at the Italian restaurant. It said, "Go for it. He's incredible." The other part--the very judgemental, very critical part--said, "Are-you-crazy-it's-four-o'clock-he'll-prolly-take-you-to-his-car-and-rape-you-and-leave-you-bleeding-in-a-ditch-you-stupid-bitch!"

I decided I didn't want to listen to either of those voices. Instead, I gave Maximus Fedor Emelianenko a big hug, and told him he was very talented. Then I went home with my Gatorade to watch some Arrested Development. While the sun rose, I lay in my very soft bed, under my very soft covers and hugged my own body, for some reason. Probably because waiting for others to do it for you, when it is needed so badly, is a recipe for disaster.

There is this cult in town. Well, there's a lot of cults in town--cults that have orgies, cults that stand around a big rock formation once a year, hold hands, sing and wait for the space ship they're certain is in there to hover out the top of it, cults originally designed by the CIA's super-responsible MKUltra experiment that espouse a rather confusing dogma, which involves something about all life being a dream, and all consequence being inconsequential.

The cult that gathered on my front lawn, attributes some sort of magical value to the quartz crystal. A good magical value, not a bad one like that horrific puppet movie, A Dark Crystal, with the evil purple rock that sucked the life forces from little Gelflings and concentrated them into juices those vain, eagle-beaked monsters then drank to maintain youthful glow in their beak areas. That fucking movie. Oh, that movie ruined my dreams for two years. I couldn't look at birds of prey without flinching for half a decade, though I think my reaction to the movie was a severe one, since my family had our very own life-force-robbing crystal in the home I grew up in--not dark...blonde. It was called "Mom," and should you be strapped down and forced to look at and listen to its commonly brutal emanations, you'd suffer the same sort of depletion in your soul as the little Gelfling.

But I tangent. The cult, they wear special hats made out of copper wire, in the shape of a pyramid. At the top of the pyramid, hangs a little white crystal, which hovers over their brain, about two or three inches from their scalp. I'm not sure why. Perhaps it is supposed to infuse their brain with some of the magic energy in the crystal. Perhaps it is meant to keep aliens or "big brother" from looking into their heads. I do not know. Should I ever know that answer, I promise to share it with you.

They were in my front yard the other day, a whole gaggle of them, in their pyramid hats. But these hats were not the regular pyramid hats. These hats were modified to include chin straps, so these must have been the extreme sport pyramid hats, or something: the brain-infusing, crystal headwear for the cultist on the go.

Two of the pyramid people had divining rods in their hands, those sticks commonly used by those who believe in folklore to find ground water. They were shuffling around in large, overly-strappy leather sandals and white socks, slowly, with the pointy section of the stick laid out parallel to the dirt of my driveway, periodically calling out to each other, "I feel a vibration over here, Harvey. Yes, there is an energy here." Whenever they'd find an energy, a third pyramid person--Harvey--would come over and pull out a little pendulum necklace, which would be held in the area of the energy and would spin clockwise or counterclockwise. One of those "wises" meant "yes." One meant "no." I'm not sure which was which, and I didn't think to ask.

So, apparently--according to the crystal pyramid people--there's a portal to another universe in my front yard. My friend, Brian, thinks that portal is my crotch, and considering every girl I sleep with lately disappears into thin air right afterward, I think he might be right.

...you're too sweet, Doug.

I think you're a brilliant and intensely emotionally evocative writer. And a loving and touching woman. And a touch crazy, but it's only a touch and most of the time it's under control. Mild schizophrenia I suppose, which probably has some name or another.

You can and do use it creatively, as have many others. At this stage, a year or so past thirty, it's unlikely to progress and may regress.

Go bunny!

~Doug

But I don't have Schizophrenia. I'm not schizophrenic, schizoaffective or schizotypal. I'm not schizo anything; my psychiatrist says so. I do have problems, but I'm a normal neurotic, just like everyone else. I realize that may be a discomforting thing to read.

I also realize thought insertion/removal is a symptom of psychosis, I really do, and I don't have any other explanation for the phenomenon, which is an unreliable and untestable phenomenon, I know, but it is what it is, and I'm not going to pretend I don't see the world through the only frame of reference with which I'm able to see the world. At best, that's exhausting. At worst, that's a lie, and I'm not really into that sort of thing.

Furthermore, much like Science and Math, I do not have explanations for synchronicities/patterns, ubiquitous prophetic dreams, gut instincts, deja vu's, etc. That's a puzzle for our children's children to solve. Unlike many Scientists and Mathematicians, I'm a-okay with accepting for the time being that I do not know everything about, nor am I in complete control of the world. Only a nutbar would believe that.

I mean, come on guys.

Do you really think, that if I was schizophrenic, and my brain could invent all sorts of fantastical machinations with which to sync my conflicting inner and outer realities, I wouldn't invent my own X-ray vision so I could see naked bodies through clothing? Be serious. I would be "She Lube" from the "Planet Rimjob" in the "Deez-nuts" galaxy, and I'd have special X-ray visions and a magical vagina I'd use to smother my greatest enemies.

I was saying to my therapist last month, "So then that was the second time I tried to kill myself and it didn't work. Can't get my thyroid working, but a bottle of whiskey and a bottle of aspirin? No sweat."

That's a funny joke, I think. I laugh at that all the time. I laughed when I said it to my therapist.

My therapist groaned. She asked, "Don't you feel something--sadness, anger, anything--when you say something like that? You know that's you, right? Not some character you're writing."

"Uh..." She stumps me.

I don't. I don't feel anything when I talk about that stuff. It's a chronological order of idiotic actions, shitty interpersonal relations and self mutilation. That's my life, I guess. I don't remember what it felt like. I don't usually feel. I just get really fucking angry every ten minutes or so.

How many emotions do you have? There's a lot, or so I've heard. I don't know what they feel like. Maybe in the abstract. I think I have two: "pissed" and "fine."

I don't get just a little pissed, though. I get Incredible Hulk mad and break shit. I broke my hand on a wall last month, like I'm some goddamned steroid case. I was ashamed of myself. What, am I a twelve year old boy?

Sometimes I wonder if that Rage Virus thingy from 28 Days Later is totally real, and I catch it breathing in bits of infected saliva when someone sneezes in line at the bank, because all of a sudden, in an instant, like BAM, I'm a fucking cunt and I want to kill someone. Not, like, rip their intestines out or anything, but definitely kill them, and really for no good reason.

But I think Danny Boyle got the concept wrong--he must have--because, from personal experience, the virus tends to mutate back into "fine" in like ten minutes or less, and then it goes away, and the only lasting negative affect of the infection is the notion that not ten minutes ago, I wanted to kill someone I didn't even know for no good reason. That person then usually reminds me, not physically, but spiritually, of either of my grandmothers, and then I'm met with undeniable evidence that there is no such thing as a Rage Virus. I am just homicidally angry about the shit family I grew up in.

Though, wouldn't it be nice if there was a Rage Virus you could blame all your problems on?