An Exorcism in the Key of C Minor

I want this to serve as the prologue for my next book; meaning this one right now, one that I find myself trying not to criticize too often or else I'd not finish it. Regarding my I don't know, my penchant for mimicry, postmortem mimosas, mimetic postmodern sophistry (rejecting the traditional ideas on what a book should be (disrupting the austere approach of the who/what/where/when/why and how traditional literature is conceived)) I am writing this botched nonfictional fictional memoir that sometimes literally makes me sick, lightheaded and repulsed with myself; whenever I read it on an empty stomach, especially. Here are the 0 Reasons Why You Might Break Your Teeth Biting Into A Stale Bagel From Dunkin Donuts At One Point In Your Life.

  1. There is nothing tour de force par excellence about this.
  2. Just like my ugly personality in real life, there is not any appeal to commercial pacing/continuity with these bloated, degenerate mosaics of concentrated whimsy.
  3. I also abuse the technique of in media res to a nauseating degree.
  4. Try it out for yourself! Says a shrunken Beetlejuice kicking out his legs to an assumed slapstick jig, while strutting in the same spot and staring ahead mordantly.
  5. The "I" doing the thinking here is an impersonal one.
  6. As of habit to my loose lifestyle I do see too much irony in things. Mostly as a disservice to myself since I have imposter syndrome, living in bad faith from an existentialist's viewpoint. I usually make the choice not to make a choice.
  7. Nobody wants to read this.

Let me direct your attention to this phony mise en scene. You eavesdrop on a conversation between two Bethesda NPCs...

"Found through some light shoveling that 'anxiety' is a reported side-effect from the vaxx."

"Is that so?"

"No doubt about it—there was underlying anxiety beforehand. Didn't want to get the vaxx. My girlfriend cucked me into it."


The former NPC moving its mouth with pre-recorded audio dubbed to it, turns its head by script to make forced eye-contact with the other NPC, who has clentched teeth. “So now that I did get the vaxx I can speak from experience, albeit anecdotally. There is smthng in this vaxx that made my muscles cramp all over, like I was closing in on myself. This would phase over me at random with a sense of helplessness. Call it survival horror."

The conversation seems to interrupt itself. The two NPCs are stuck in conversation with their limbs twitching and defying human behavior.

"Self-control to regulate how you feel and respond to things is what saves you from completely losing your mind, or so I'd believe."

Alright, enough with all these impersonal you/me/we colloquialisms. All I’m trying to say is I had an allergic reaction to the Covid vaxx. My bias is that I’m not a huge fan of all the Covid propaganda. I haven’t seen a general practitioner in over fifteen years. Don’t know whether I have any underlying ailments or not.

So on and so forth. Hopefully I won't be to a number on a chart that represents those who were depopulated or neutered based on getting the vaxx. Right after getting the injection I basically had an instant sense of discomfort, with that kind of chest-tightening sensation that makes your sensorimotor functions amplify; I kept using my hands restlessly to reassure my body, rubbing my arms up, down, left, right, performing a cheat code for Big Head mode, as it were, massaging my neck, gripping my legs, clutching my chest and ribs. You get the fear of having the fear. There was this out-of-control physiological aspect to it. Wasn't thinking anything necessarily to provoke it, unless the background paranoia of believing I'd prolly be the one to get a brain hemorrhage or blood clot from it. The joke would be on everyone thinking I was suffering a panic attack and dismissing it at that, and then come to find I actually was having a stroke or aneurysm.

It’d come on very mechanically with a foreign-feeling to it, and no wonder ppl think there’s nanometals or some biological weapon in this. (The vagal reaction was ongoing.) This Covid vaxx was really intrusive in an artificial, synthetic way. I’d go as far to say unnatural. Even had psychosis for the worser parts of it, thinking what the fuck did they put in me, thinking everyone is a fucking robot-reptile of some sort conspiring against me. So, naturally, now my concern is I need to follow up with the second shot, but my body didn’t bode well even with the first Pfizer shot in it. (Didn’t bother picking which vaccine—they’re all bad associations to me.)

I’d be okay but then, again, it would intensify like an uncomfortable marijuana high, like my body is rejecting this shit and causing me to go into near-seizure, but too paralyzed to combat it. Like it’s exorcising a demon out of me. Definitely struck that fight or flight reflex. (But really it was a glitched vagal reaction in a way—and, no, you idiot, vagal is not short for vagina: vasovagal, you fucking faggot—no, not vasoline either, fucking dipshit faggot).

Idk I’m kinda being a lil bitch about it, but nah. There was something synthetic about this anxiety, though. I would know. This ain’t my first panic attack. It’s the anxiety sneaking up to it that becomes an anxiety attack, at first. And if that anxiety attack worsens, it becomes a full-on panic attack. So I’m suspicious of the type of anxiety the vaxx brought on. And now I’m in a shitty Catch-22 deal where I am bargaining out of futility, calling out the Covid vaxx for being unnaturally intrusive while those who are authoritatively for it try to soften the blow of its lethal injection.

Might sound like I'm exaggerating my preconceived notions about it. I don't want to think I am doomed now that I got the vaxx. Whereas everyone is all in white lab coats circling around my bed, tossing holy water at me: "It's fine, it's fine; you're just a hypochondriac." And then I'm all writhing and squirming: "But... you don't FEEL what I am feeling! STOP INVALIDATING MY PAIN." Bruh. You can't tell someone who's in serious psychic/mental pain that it isn't "real". That's emotional censorship. Pain is pain is pain is pain. Seeing my head do a hyperbolic 360 with Big Head mode enabled is the least of my worries.

Anyway the solution for me was to go outside and walk. Kinda funny tho. I guess I am Gump-pilled or something. People who walk a lot tap into some good shit spiritually, or so I hear.

Walking out in the cold drizzle by myself at night alone helped me get back in touch with the times I was a miserable young adult. But it was actually this subjective moment of like; "Here is the older me who hasn't changed fundamentally going back and seeing the younger me who thought I'd go my whole life as a miserable ghost". So in that sense I was the future ghost of myself, unchanged, revisiting the old ghost I used to be; and there was personal, transcendental closure there. That said, gotta wonder what the future ghost of the supposed future ghost I am now is doing? Oh, it's just my great grandfather Parmenides smoking a foul stogie, tobacco stains on his lips, face swallowed in shadows. Booooo.

It’s very important to stay present and grounded, and if you (speaking for myself here) can go out or do anything for the sake of living life carpe-diem like, hey. I’ll take that over becoming stunlocked by whatever is silently killing me at the time, preventing me from enjoying what I’d otherwise, ordinarily, derive pleasure from. That’s why ya gotta only keep those around who tickle ur phantombone. Not sure what that means exactly.

And there was a lot of pent up emotions and unresolved soulwork that I haven’t been able to sublimate in a healthy, productive way, so that all turn-of-the-screwed in on me yesterday and pretty much resulted in an ego death of sorts. You don’t need drugs for that if your mental disorders are hereditary, or you took a buncha miscellaneous drugs throughout puberty—or both—wink, wink… Stop doing that!

Just got a bad case of the damn heemy jeemies is all. I think going against my Will really irritated some post-traumatic type shit. I've dealt with that for a greater part of my adulthood. I've accepted it doesn't quite ever disappear for good. All I can do is take advantage of being chirpy when I am relieved momentarily, and tough it out when that, too, dissolves into the garbage of that deep, aching despair of wanting to be seen & recognized. Speaking of austerity. For what tributations have put a straightjacket on the better parts of my aspirations, wearing over me like some permanent hoodie that conceals how heavy my face carries itself, with my goddamn soul going along for this stupid ride, trapped behind the prison of my eyes, I walk into the valley of simulations, between alternate realities where I did die. In each simulation where I did die, there is a reflection of that pain manifest in this one. Don't ever let anyone tell you your pain isn't real.

To dissociate is to learn how to forget. And that, too, can backfire, profoundly. You are who you pretend to be. Might wanna be careful with that, ya know? Nah, fuck it. I'm gonna create this style of hysterical fiction that sounds like Charlie Manson blurting gibberish in the courtroom. Unquote.

On my path of learning to think for myself and not what society says and all that shit, there was a particular line from Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer memoir where he’d say he was the richest internally/spiritually when he was at his poorest financially/objectively. I’d resonate with that Jobian mindset all the more as I found myself homeless the second time; because I went from laying in bed all day disabled to not having the luxury of comfort to indulge in my self-deprecating thoughts. The emotional fact that I lived too much of my life believing I was some inferior person of myself while the greater version of me existed in some prime universe that I only serve as a folly to. Shit like that.

Enough about me. Let’s get forking geeked off some embalming fluid already. Yup. My inner Beetlejuice is still kicking. Time to write off a prescription to that character, and send him on his merry way to meet with my great grandfather Parmenides. You don’t want to know what you’re getting into here. Or maybe you do: out of morbid curiosity? Either way, I still know the difference between reality and satire. I just like to conflate the two for my own subconscious research. Why me, though? Out of anybody writing a book… why do I feel so entitled? Cuz I’m an irreverent dick, why else?

The closing music for this is provided to you by someone who was born with his soul sold to the devil, if I ever heard of such a thing.

(Update, lol… 2nd shot was alright, tbh. I got drunk all day and smoked a bunch of cigs like a fucking dirtbag poorfag idiot dipshit fuck.)



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