Journal Entries (May 7th–13th, 2013).

Tuesday, May 7th–I dreamt I was with some people, including a woman who was supposed to be my mother, on a college campus. We were going to go eat at a restaurant near the student union and a pedestrian bridge, but for months and years it had not received enough customers, and when we got there we found it closed and boarded up, with grey, vertical boards over the windows. The building itself seemed to have been built in the late 1960s or early 1970s of field stone and wood.

Off in the distance, beyond a fairly deserted valley and atop a perfectly round hill, was another restaurant and, I believe, a food court. I wanted to go there, but a friend (B___ G____ of Conroe?) balked. The special at this place was a plate for two–two pulled-pork sandwiches, two slices of pie, and two drinks for $15.00. He thought the price outrageous.

I tried to convince him that the price wasn’t so bad, and eventually we went over there and he grudgingly went inside. I can’t imagine why I went in, since I’m a vegetarian with vegan aspirations, but perhaps my subconscious isn’t aware of that yet. After all, I haven’t smoked in over a decade, yet still have dreams where I smoke.


I dreamt I woke up in a long, barren, empty dorm room, apparently Kirkley Dorm, with grey concrete floor, walls, and ceiling. It was on an upper floor, on the west side of the building, looking east out into the courtyard….

C__ M___ and some of his friends bounded in, ready for a party. They either had beer or sent someone to get it. Someone had a DVD of “Jaws” we were going to watch while we drank.

There was a noise in the courtyard and we went over to the windows to see what it was. There was a young couple out there, standing close to the west end of the courtyard. I think they wanted to get married. Not far from them was a tall, thin, dirty, badly-dressed white trash minister, who was pacing around erratically and waving his arms about. In a semi-circle just to the west of him stood a dozen or more cops, heavily-armed and heavily-armored, with their pistols drawn and pointed at the crazy preacher.

Someone from my group through a clear, plastic, lidded convenience store cup at the preacher and cursed at him. Then from over our heads came a large tire, which landed on the preacher and killed him immediately, to everyone’s great pleasure. We looked up and saw a group of young black men leaning out of the windows on the room one or two stories above us. Their leader was a young Tupac Shakur, and from the way he was smiling it was pretty obvious that he’d been the one to throw the fatal tire.

Next I saw some “Seinfeld” routine with Jerry and George where they made vague comments about creating a woman with a beautiful singing voice, a big nose, and two eyes that looked crossed, one of which was made of glass. This was supposedly a reference to Barbra Streisand, but it was never spelled out and was rather confusing.


Belle tried to wake me up this morning, rattling the newspapers and jumping into bed, but I just stayed put. I may even have gotten back to sleep. she tried again later and was successful. This was around 10:20am.

Here are some posts from the day:

Social media has taught me that I can have a violent hatred towards, and eagerly hope for the death of, people hundreds and even thousands of miles away from me that I will likely never meet.

It’s amazing how much room these hatreds take up in my daily thoughts.

It’s so frustrating not to have these people handy, where I could beat them to death.


Why are people so fucking stupid? Why do they almost always make the wrong decisions?


My increasingly dramatic inner life is taking longer and longer to write up in my journal.


Today was Food Stamps today, and since I was dreading going to the store I put it off for a couple hours, by which time it had gotten at least semi-hot outside.

I’d considered eating at Jimmy John’s sandwich shop. I used to patronize it a few years ago when I was still a carnivore, but there were so many things I didn’t like about the place that I stopped going. They always played shitty, annoying speed-metal at a deafening sound level. The air conditioners were always cranked up to full-power, with the vents blowing onto the tables, which in turn would blow the chip bags and napkins off the tables. And when they squirted the sandwiches with oil and wrapped them up in paper, they’d put a piece of tape on the middle of the wrapping, but never on the bottom, so invariably, when I ate the sandwich, the bottom of the wrapping would open up and dump oil onto the front of my shirt.

Again, I thought about giving them a second chance, but looked at the menu online and decided against it. There was one vegetarian sandwich–not vegan–and it didn’t sound too tasty. So instead I left the house around noon and went to McDonald’s, wasting $8.83 on two orders of large fries, two apple pies, and a medium mango smoothie.

I had been told the pies weren’t ready and that the cashier would bring them out to me when they were. I went over to the condiment counter and found a retarded female employee cleaning it. She stepped aside, let me get what I needed to get, then got back into my way. When she didn’t pick up that she was in my way, I excused myself, and she said she’d forgotten I was there.

I took a seat and began eating, and after I got my pies the woman came over and started talking. I was afraid she wanted to grab my tray and I very quickly said I was still eating.

She began commenting on my meal, especially the amount of fries I had. I said I was hungry for fries today. Then she pointed out that I also had two pies. Then she pointed out that I had one drink.

I was beginning to lose my patience.

A little later, after I’d finished my fries, she came over again.

And still later she came back yet again. I said I’d not quite finished eating. She said she’d wait. But then she got distracted helping another customer, and I stood up, finished my drink, bused my own tray, and got the hell out of there.

I next went to a beauty supply store to look for powder puffs that I could use to apply talcum powder to my body after showers, but no dice.

I walked past the Indian restaurant, and one Indian businessman was telling a story to three others. I grabbed a local Indian newspaper from the stand and walked behind them. They were all wearing gallons of cologne.

I went to HEB and spent some time looking at magazines. I found a new book of interviews with Pope Francis and turned to the section about the Pope’s private life and interests.

The interviewer asked if he’d known Borges. He replied, “How could I not?!” He said he would always remember Borges as a man constantly arranging, organizing, shelving, and cataloguing things.

When the interviewer mentioned that Borges was an agnostic, the Pope added knowingly, “But he was an agnostic who said the ‘Our Father’ every night before bed to fulfill a promise to his mother, and he died in the presence of a priest.” The reply put a shiver of joy up my spine and caused my eyes to fill with tears.

I tried to keep the amount of things I purchased to a small level, so it would not be a burden to carry home. Still, checking out was, as always, stressful, and the stuff in my backpack, though not too heavy, still hurt my back.

Belle, of course, hurt my ears with her barking when I got home. I walked her, and it took awhile after we got back for her to stop panting and for me to stop panicking.

I finally heard back from that therapist I e-mailed Friday. He also re-sent me an e-mail, which I may have missed or not noticed the first time.

Basically, he passed the buck, just like everybody else in this whole SSDI thing has been doing.

He gave me three links: to the local Social Security office, to a rather general site for hunting up therapists, and to a local law firm that handles disability cases.

He said most private shrinks charge between $1,500 to $3,000 or $4,000 for psychiatric tests, and made the rather obvious comment that I should try to look for someone who will test me for free or a small amount (something I’d already told him in my e-mail).

He said the Social Security folks won’t really consider social anxiety when trying to determine if I’m disabled. They mostly look at psychiatric disorders, such as schizophrenia, or mood disorders, such as Bi-Polar I and II and major depression. Asperger’s, which doesn’t sound like it counts, is a disorder determined by educational testing.

He said I should try to find a private evaluator first, as they tend to be more lenient. The second choice would be the free evaluators that Social Security provides, though they tend to be more strict and rigorous, because they want to weed out potential “malingerers.”


I watched four episodes of “Hannibal” on Hulu and thoroughly enjoyed them. I read a bit in Nichols and retired around mid-morning.

Wednesday, May 8th–I got up around 4pm. I took Belle on several walks, and for some reason she really strained at the leash and seemed to be fighting me. I take it there was some poop or something dead out there she wanted to eat, but I was holding her back.

I left a phone message with the second person the therapist from last week mentioned. It turns out she just works for MHMR, which I don’t want to join up with again….

I looked at an Austin apartment guide. Everything is either in the wrong location, overpriced, or lacks the features I require. There are a few possibilities, but the savings wouldn’t be all that great, I don’t want to live in the neighborhoods in which they’re located, and I was just generally underwhelmed.

I watched another episode of “Hannibal.”

Thursday, May 9th–I woke a little after 10am, walked and fed Belle, and packed up and left without eating breakfast. I took an express bus to campus, watching all the while as dark clouds gathered, hoping I’d not get caught in rain. I got off at the Co-op, then walked a couple blocks to Veggie Heaven.

I arrived during the lunch rush and was shown to the only free table, which had not yet been wiped down. The owner pulled the table out so I could fit in, but it was still a tight squeeze. She gave the table a very quick, not very thorough wiping. I moved a gift bow from behind the napkin dispenser, hoping the woman would take it away, but she ignored it.

A waitress sat a tepid glass of water onto the table and asked what I wanted to drink. I ordered Dr. Pepper, two fried spring rolls (which were very tiny), and the “Protein 2000” plate. The food was fast, cheap, filling, and tasty. While I didn’t exactly have a transcendent dining experience, I wasn’t really looking for one, and I didn’t leave the restaurant feeling cheated as I so often do when I eat out.

I then went over to the Harry Ransom Center to see the first major retrospective of Arnold Newman’s work since his death.

Here’s what I wrote […] about it:

It’s just about to close, and sadly, isn’t traveling anywhere.
Some of the remarkable images on display included this one of Allen Ginsberg in his apartment. You can see the books reflected in his glasses. It seems to represent all of Ginsberg’s diverse reading and learning:

Young Leonard Bernstein seems to telling us, “Wait’ll you see what I’ve got in store for you:”

And this portrait of Cecil Beaton is just spot-on:

But they also showed contact sheets and showed how Newman cropped, such as with this iconic image of Igor Stravinsky:

When I saw how he took a series of photos, and managed to kick one up to the next level and make it art, I squealed a little.

And then there’s this one of German industrialist and war criminal, Alfried Krupp. When we were doing cast photos for the play I starred in my senior year, I assumed this pose, but wound up looking more like a twat than anything else:

I stayed about an hour. The only things I failed to do was watch all of the video clips they offered. I’m sure they would’ve been instructive.

As I was leaving, I noticed some of the staffers opening up vitrines and preparing a “Great Gatsby” display, with various letters by Fitzgerald and editions of the books.

I pointed to the 1974 movie tie-in paperback with the gold cover, and commented to a senior staffer, “You know, there were actually two movie tie-in editions—one with a gold cover and one with a white cover.”

His mouth fell open, he struggled for words, but there was some noise from down the hall that drowned out his response.

I walked across campus. Hardly anyone was around. Is it “dead week” or have finals ended already?

I went over to the Blanton, and amused a lady behind the front counter because I already knew she was going to ask me my zip code. She gave me a new map to the building and I took a quarter from a container to use on the lockers. After taking a dump in one of the handicapped stalls in the sparkling men’s room, I began my tour.

This was to be my last time seeing the alumni art exhibition before it closed. I tried once more to get some good shots of favorite works, and also took some fuzzy pictures of some of the patrons, no doubt annoying a few of them. I then hit the European and modern sections of the permanent collection, as well as the plaster casts of classical statuary.

The last time I went to the Blanton, I got into a talk with a docent about artist Luis Jimenez, and I told her that there used to be an example of his work on the UT campus, outside the Art Building.

“No, that never happened. They would never have left his work outside like that.”

“But this was a long time ago. Over twenty years ago.”

“No, you must been thinking of someone else. UT’s never had his work on display on the grounds.”

Today I went back there, and after looking at all the art again I stopped in and checked in the little library they have for museum patrons. And there, in one of the catalogues of the collection, was a discussion of the work of Jimenez, including a mention that one version of his “Vaquero” statue was on temporary display on campus from 1989 to 1990.

Just like I said.


I had thought about going to the Architecture Library after Blanton, but it started misting as I walked back across the campus, and that soon turned into a light rain, so I just headed to the bus stop and waited fifteen or so minutes for an express bus.

When I got back to my neighborhood my feet and ankles were numb, as they always are when I ride that bus home. I stopped by Petsmart and Dollar Tree, in the latter getting very upset with the people getting in my way and with the hassle caused by the City’s plastic bag ban, which makes packing up groceries a chore.

It’s a very good thing that I don’t own a car or drive, because any time I’m in public and someone else gets underfoot or in my way, it takes all I can do not to kick him or her as hard as I can. God knows what I’d do with a car at my disposal….

Friday, May 10th–Belle kept trying to wake me up, and when she finally succeeded, it was still only about 10:30am. I took her outside. Apparently it had rained shortly beforehand….


I tried two more of the numbers that therapist from last week gave me. I left another message at one, and found the other was disconnected. The first woman called me back and left a message; she deals only with getting people into the system who are mentally retarded or who had mental problems or learning disabilities that appeared before the age of eighteen.


My future was so promising when I graduated high school. But none of those wonderful things I was sure I would have or achieve came to pass. And by that I don’t mean to see that I fell short of the mark and got some of those things but not all—I got NOTHING I wanted or dreamed of.

People that I knew who were less-intelligent or had less talent than I went on to have much more success, comparatively speaking, but even so, their lives haven’t been all that great either. There is almost no one that I know personally who has the sort of life of which I am envious.

I was sold a bill of goods, but none of it’s been really worth the effort.


Belle kept barking and being upset, so I figured she wanted some loving. She got onto the bed, and I joined her and we both soon were asleep. I don’t know how long I slept, but when I woke up I felt terrible, as if I’d been crying and sobbing violently. I was exhausted.

…My exhaustion joined up with my existing depression, my depression got a lot worse, and at one point I was crying.


I watched another episode of “Hannibal,” which cheered me up a bit….

I posted:

Everybody has taken leave of their senses and succumbed to bad taste and stupidity.


I read in Nichols before bed.

Saturday, May 11th–I dreamt I was walking either Fred or Belle. School was out, and we approached a sandy pit near a college dorm.

What was it about somebody calling out or singing, “Jesus! Jesus!”?
I gathered a pile of books, including one on Thomas Jefferson (I think it was Marie Kimball’s “Jefferson, the Road to Glory, 1743 to 1776,” which I have in a box somewhere), that had been left outside the dorm.


Belle tried several times to wake me today, but I didn’t get up until about 4:30pm.


I posted:

I’m awake and a whole new Day of Rage starts all over again.


And after my second walk with Belle:

Well, if such is possible, I’ve been witnessing the “Jersey Shore”-ification of Texas.

Everywhere now, especially in my apartment complex, I see these bull-necked, lumbering, knuckle-dragging, mouth-breathing lummoxes: backwards ball caps, wife-beater T-shirts stretched over a festering network of dirty, ugly, trashy tattoos, comically over-sized shorts or warm-ups, Adidas shower sandals, grotesquely over-developed upper bodies looking like the lids of grand pianos, glazed eyes like those of a cow just zapped in the skull with a stun bolt gun. They are never far from greasy-faced girlfriends or tricked-out cars blaring mindless, thudding death-metal, speed-metal, metal-core, dub-step, or other so-called “musical” atrocities.

They are a waste of food, spaces, and resources. They should be processed into glue.


Other posts I made:

“There is no bad taste—only taste and no taste.”—Leo Lerman


How the hell is it only 10:20pm? It seems much later


Editing my photos is soothing to me, almost like a form of meditation.


Is it my imagination, or has everybody been getting on everybody else’s nerves here lately?


Once, during a walk with Belle, I stopped by my mail box. Judging from the amount of stuff in there, I must’ve gone a week or more without checking my mail. How is that possible?

There was a nice Mother’s Day card with $10 in treat money for Belle from M___ C.

I spent part of the evening editing my photos of my three most recent trips to Blanton, and also talking to J___ D. on IM.


I responded to a questionnaire:

2. Would you date an 18-year-old at the age you are now?–It could happen. It would look weird, I suppose. I’m also unattractive, unemployed, currently considered unemployable, and dealing with some mental health problems now, so now would probably not be a good time for that sort of thing. But since no one I’ve found attractive has ever found me attractive, I think the likelihood of such a thing happening is slim.

3. Do you prefer to be friends with girls or boys? —Most of my friends are guys. Many of the females I know are the wives and girlfriends of my friends, and for some reason, many of them don’t like their men to have male friends. They feel threatened, and consider me a threat somehow. I don’t know why, since the worst thing I might do is drag their husband to a bookstore. The majority of my female friends are online ones, particularly women involved in animal rescue.

5. Can you commit to one person? —Absolutely. Fidelity would never be a problem for me

8. How often do you listen to music? —Usually every day.

18. Have you ever liked someone you didn’t expect to? —I’ve wound up becoming friends with people who initially annoyed the hell out of me. But I assume you mean like in a romantic sense. I’m sure I have liked someone romantically that I didn’t expect to, but I’m kind of fuzzy on the details.

30. Does anyone hate you? —I would imagine so.

34. If you had to delete one year of your life completely, which would it be? —They’ve all been pretty bad. But how about October 2006 to October 2007? That was my nervous breakdown after my dog Fred died.

36. Is there anyone you can tell EVERYTHING to? —No. Though there are some people who, if they got together and compared notes, could come fairly close to a full picture.


I retired some time after sunrise.

Sunday, May 12th– …Belle finally got me up some time after 3pm.

I sent “M____ C.” a thank you e-mail for the card and money she sent me and Belle.


There was a period of about a year-and-a-half to two years where I was actually attractive, but no one was interested in me.

Then I lost my looks and realized that no one ever would be interested in me. It took me years to gradually accept this, though.

But what I cannot understand or accept is that now, everywhere I look, attractive people are going for people who are much uglier (and definitely much stupider) than I am. That makes no sense to me at all.


When you realize someone is trying to re-enact a book or film in their own lives, and suddenly all the strange things they do make sense.


I haven’t been awake six hours yet and I’m already ready for this fucking day to be over with.


I got too tired and depressed to stay at the computer, …so I went to bed and read in Nichols. Since I was in bed with the covers pulled up, I fell asleep. I don’t know how long I slept. Later, I got up and worked on my photo editing some more.

Monday, May 13th–I forget when I woke up this afternoon. Belle had been making noise on and off for most of the day, and eventually succeeded in waking me up permanently.


There’s nothing like waking up overcome with a desire to cry bitterly, knowing that as I gain consciousness the reasons for this will arrive soon enough.


It was all I could do to walk my dog just now without bursting into tears in public.


I’m getting the impression here that everyone’s to a greater or lesser degree angry with everybody else.


I wish that one day I could spend the evening at a night spot as cool as Jack Rabbit Slim’s. But most of those I’ve been to are a let-down


Someone posted:

Your 20’s are your ‘selfish’ years. It’s a decade to immerse yourself in every single thing possible. Be selfish with your time, and all the aspects of you. Tinker with shit, travel, explore, love a lot, love a little, and never touch the ground.–Kyoko Escamilla

I responded:

Because after that you sell out, give up your dreams, compromise, settle for disappointing partners, embrace boredom and conformity, and generally fall in line for a slow, miserable march to the grave.

Or you try to avoid those things and either succeed brilliantly or go mad.

(Guess which one happened to me.)


Someone else posted:

Reblog if you’ve ever been called:

Attention seeker.

Responses included:

Well done society, yet again showing how pathetic the real world really is

The notes omg

I’ve been called all of them by my mother. Among others, of course.


I responded:

Has a bad attitude.
Full of hot air.
Not at all talented.
A poor writer.


I posted:

It feels as if I’ve had almost as many jobs as Homer Simpson.

“I’ve had a lot of jobs in my life: boxer, mascot, astronaut, baby proofer, imitation Krusty, truck driver, hippie, plow driver, food critic, conceptual artist, grease salesman, carny, mayor, grifter, body guard for the mayor, country western manager, garbage commissioner, mountain climber, farmer, inventor, Smithers, Poochie, celebrity assistant, power plant worker, fortune cookie writer, beer baron, Kwik-E-Mart clerk, homophobe, and missionary, but protecting people, that gives me the best feeling of all.”
According to an interview with Matt Groening, Homer has held 188 jobs in the first 400 episodes.


I’ve had at least 38 jobs, but it feels like 188.


Oh my God, will that trashy woman downstairs stop braying?! Go back to Honey Boo-Boo Land where you belong


Time drags on forever while you’re waiting for enemies to die or disappear.


Our society is guilty of the truly criminal practice of encouraging young people to grow up as fast as possible, to exchange carefree innocence for the empty allures of “feeling grown-up.” What no one bothers or even dares to say is what a stinking mountain of shit adulthood really is.

What I’m saying, kids, is it isn’t worth it. You’re being sold a bill of goods. Adulthood is a fucking unending nightmare. You’ll regret ever coming to this state.


I farted around. I never got around with messing with the SSDI stuff I planned to look into today. I made half-assed preparations for going to the library tomorrow. I looked at listings for apartment complexes where I don’t want to live


By all means, neighbors, have a big argument at 3am, because that *is* the proper time to do it.


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