...and I say that because I know how I am. I'll set out to create a unified project--in this case, a collection of somewhat linear accounts of bizarre-O happenings that have been, well, happening in my life--and I'll completely flub up somewhere, getting myself confused. Therefore, I'm sure many stories will become cross-referenced and re-introduced a million times. I'm not losing my mind.
And on THAT note...
The posts in this blog take place almost exactly three months after I was discharged from the loony bin. I remember how I got there...relationship drama that went on long enough for me to develop a paranoia for the world at large. Hanging out with friends got a little weird and I had it in my head that they all knew something I didn't. This inevitably led to my mismatching stories from multiple conversations which then became an epic mission of mine to figure out the secret meaning of what was buzzing all around me. You'd think relationship drama would lead to some other kind of dramatic reaction, but maybe all of this seemed more tolerable. But it wasn't.
The night before I was taken to the hospital, I was hanging out with my best friend who had just returned to the States from living abroad. Mind you, she had been overseas for a year, teaching English and making money, while I was at home racking up all kinds of misdemeanors and finding myself in very unappealing situations (to my surprise, they'd get even worse AFTER leaving the hospital...), but that comes later.
Anyway, we drove to the gas station to get cigarettes and I was just having one of the most God-forsaken panic attacks of all time. Airplanes were actually missiles that were planning to air-raid my house. Could I tell this to my friend? No. If I did I'd put the burden on her to help me escape...and besides, she wouldn't want to anyway...she was inside buying a pack of cigs so I could have my last one; I just knew it. Plus, she kept saying over and over again how she "missed my voice" which clearly meant two things: one, I wasn't speaking in the correct tone of subliminal militant brainwashing that the entire world had become conditioned to speak in...and two, shame on me. Time for death.
I guess Sarah was just a reminder that I really hadn't been doing shit with my life, but man I was gonna do everything in my power to not come to terms with such a boring theory. However, this blog isn't called "Conspiracy Inquiry" for nothing, so before you assume I was just a psychotic nut, not all of this was stuff I had seen on tv. In fact, that's what made all these odd "realities" even scarier, the fact that nobody seemed to understand or want to believe where I was coming from. In a lot of ways, I had pretty reasonable explanations for all my beliefs. I was probably dropped LSD and had no idea. No, but seriously.
And those guys at the bar...jeez...with the crazy eyes who kept pushing their way into my personal bubble just to maniacally tease me with "OH YEAH...It's happening..." well, they did NOTHING for my nerves because they didn't need to say anymore; I knew exactly what they were talking about: a pseudo-Rapture was being created by the Catholic Church in preparation for December 21, 2012...the supposed REAL one if you're into that stuff...and the chosen "good people" would be put on an airplane and sent around the world to spread the glory of Rock and Roll, while us "good for nothings" would be buried alive by the self-proclaimed Devil worshipers. More importantly, they meant that at this very moment, people were being murdered...people that I could have had the chance to protect, but never did. War was breaking out and I wasn't a valued fighter because I refused to dance the demon dance.
But again, just wait until I actually start from the beginning.
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