Where the hell is Obscenewish to explain to you all how things like reactive attachment, lack of object constancy, lack of occupational salience, chronic severe insomnia, cerebro-cortical underarousal, PTSD symptoms, solipsistic egocentricity, chronic dysphoria, severe akathisia (im rocking and jerking in my chair as I type this), malignant inferiority, and anhedonia could become sigfnificant obstacles to my perception, apprecition, and reciprocation of love. They also tend to severely undermine any positive incentments or any concerted efforts to pursue it.
Don't be mistaken, this is not about me seeking pity or consolation, or even about why i don't have a strapping young smooth, chiseled, socially integrated, euthymic, boy toy. If anything this is a vaguely malevolent ultimatum that I would really like to deliver myself from. The screen name is actually meant to be an ironic statement about my general condition. The hideous freak in me cannot be soothed by sore ego balms like sex, companionship, or compliments. They are nothing but more hard, cold, sterile, golden objects to poor old King Midas. I feel like I'm stuck somewhere between the worlds of Vonnegut's Harisson Bergeron and Kosinski's Painted Bird. Patience and good will towards socially integrated fagots is one of my scarcest resources.
To any of you out there who might understand the significance of this- my lowest hospital admission GAF was 15! I can't really be anything less than a hyper-irritable, paranoid and sadistic dick without divalproex, gabapentin, guanfacine, venlafaxine, memantine, ropinirole, and temazepam. That wild look in my eyes is due to a global dysfunction of my sympathetic nervous system. People accuse me of being a fucking tweaker or a cluck. My life sucks as it is but more often than not some buster-ass fag tries to insinuate that I am just a weak willed loser, but they still try to stay just within my good graces enough to make a clumsy attempt at getting in my pants.
I won't stand for it anymore, just the slightest whiff of that kind of egregiously flippant attitude from the guys I meet makes me MAD. I can't really enjoy sex with all these fucking drugs in my head. I'm not even worried about attracting anybody. I'm not a promiscuous or desperate little histrionic lap dog like GETTOKNOWIT. Guys should really be more worried about exactly what I think that they deserve, because as Nietzsche once wrote, "out of the eye of your judges there always glanceth the executioner and his steel". This is not about me lowering my standards to get sex partners, this is about me desperately looking for the reason and the means to embrace one of the most basic and necessary sentiments that unites human society. This isn't about them not fully appreciating me, this is about people not fully appreciating how horrible and savage my instinctive reactions tend to be.