Tag Archives: stunted

Nothing Lasts Forever

So I’ll be taking a break from blogging, not that I want to.  You see, the Internet Service Provider is more expensive than need be, and the last payment wasn’t enough for all the new demands.  No, this is not a lame excuse as part of that list I crapfted yesterday, this deals with a real issue.

It’s been only four months that I’ve had any-time internet access in my life.  Only four months, since November 11th, via the phone.  I also saw in those first days just how slow it was using it.  It took hours to get “TV Fanfare!” up.  And it was truncated; the virtual keypad was used to retype something already written.  I could’ve transferred the blah via USB but didn’t know that then.  (Can you imagine typing 5,000 characters on a virtual keypad?  And without two days of experience?)

IdidNOTpressTHATAnd just how agonizingly expensive mobile data is—I was in a panic, setting my own limits.  This method of access is discouraging, to say the least, on top of an already discouraging living experience.

So many things…so many things that, to the average person, “simple,” “easy,” are hard here.  But it was a good thing, in a way, that I didn’t retype some vulgar jokes in the process of getting TV Fanfare! up.  (Detectives Bullock & Dix in Gotham, too easy.)

Sure, there was home access before…that time in the late ’90s—a land-line ISP…via modem.  You know, dial-up, voicing that annoying noise to make it clear it was connecting?  And not even 56Kbps; 28.8—under 4 KB a second.  Mobile access may be unreliable at times, but it’s never been that bad.

AOLAnd AOL.  Even as a child, I ended up choosing AOL’s basic web browser.  Ooh, I got some rad HyperCard stuff and a cool, non-animated X-Files GIF there…

Difficult as things are these days, I’ve still taken things for granted.  We all have our ways, being used to the blessings of the day in life.  We all forget about the labor it takes to get even the food on our plates, and few of us even know the origins and workings of our electronics, the resources, the water—yes, water, used to make chips in your PC, water that becomes polluted.  And what it takes for electricity alone.  And my phone’s touchscreen is covered with smudges.



How timely this is, that my 31st birthday is only a few weeks away, and I’ll be largely in the dark again.  Apart from gahd-awful cable news.

It’s not literally Dark Ages stuff here.  But in a way, it is, that the pests have a higher chance of carrying on than me.  The likely reality’s that this end of the family tree ends with me, how vulnerable, weak and dependent I am.  I too often scream muffled cries for help

Oh, there is hope for better days.  Unfortunately, my dreams—even my dreams now are warning me about my incompetence.

Anyway, I’ll check in when I can.  The Contact page is there in case anything serious happens too. …Maybe if WordPress didn’t subject us with so much code overhead, this wouldn’t be happening.  (Okay, it’s not quite right to complain about a service you haven’t paid into.)

Now, before I go, I just want to thank the people that have been reading this far.  My writing voice is heavily-edited that my fears don’t get the best of things.  I know very little of what I put up here actually resonates, and I know people are busier than ever, but thanks for making it clear that I’m not alone.  It goes a long way to know that this hasn’t been for nothing.  No milestones, just gratitude.

Thank you.

No More…?

Always easier said than done— “no more.”  “No more, will I live like this.”

Yeah, so I tried creating a Facebook page earlier in the month.  I created another email account, I liked the Supernatural page.  And then, the next day round, I couldn’t get back in.  No mobile number, no govt.-issued ID (basically, no life?  too bad.).  So… one like on Supernatural and that’s it.  So far, the account appears deactivated, so I’m not sure if the Like is even there now.

No more?

Yeah, so another part of the plasterboard ceiling came down.  The section right above me where I sleep.  The upside out of this: it didn’t come down on me, it landed nicely facing the door to the room, beside the bed.  The downside: I can’t sleep in that bed anymore.  The contaminated leak water is dripping on my pillow.  I must sleep in the other room, with a bed that hurts my back.

I mentioned the collapsing ceiling issue before in 2012.  And, stepping to take half of the plasterboard that collapsed outside, the floor before the front door went through; you can see the basement.  “How poor, there’s a hole in the floor!  —Watch your step!

I hope people get the trouble I’m in.  And I’m trying to tell this without fear.

This whole time… in a sort of captivity.  And oh, we’ll be moving to an apartment, my mother says, with her normalcy bias and the rotting house; I wonder what decade that’ll occur in.  Fear… Sorry.

Before things started all physically falling apart, for years I’ve been alone in this house.  To the detriment of my mental health—no friends, not even conversation.

If ever a time I needed someone to talk to… it would be all these years, and now.  Once I finished High School, there was nothing, no one.  Get it?

And I let Eric and another Eric down.  (Strange— similar first names.)  I rejected so much out of fear, and it literally kills me.  I ignored/forgotten people altogether… what should I have gotten but people ignoring/forgetting me in return? (I need to grow, but people seem to just let me down, and I guess I’ve taken it out on possible friends.)

Oh, you know it’s bad when the only live conversation I can get is Big Brother: After Dark.  This season isn’t bad, though; CBS/TVGN allowed Frankie to respond to a letter he got, last night—the death of his wonderful grandparent, with the same name.

The house I live in— this evil house… keeps me tethered.  Like a low-grade evil, affecting the inexperienced, the vulnerable (i.e., me).

I can’t change much, and I can’t grow without help.  I want to, I need to.  But even a no more stance… what’ll that do?

What’s in the cards?  Can you…insert cards that shouldn’t be there? Wait, that’s cheating.  …Wild cards?…


…But after all this, all my hell, there is still reason.
There is still and always reason to believe in optimism.  (But you still have to raise your standards!)

Why do I hate this blog?

I’ll make a reply to Ms. Bumble in a whole post.  Unlike Becca (on CL’s turn for the better, writing about the worst), there is this person that is impulsive enough to step off the ledge.  Still not on FB, though.

This is another rare live post, and I’m immediately available for comment.  For a couple minutes. It’s also very useless, because I’m not really saying much useful. This is also what I get for forgetting to copy that Dating Sites… post… thing… draft.  This is like an e-mail … being sent to everyone.  People hate that.

Why does he hate this blog?
The same reason most people hate it: it’s not very good. Not very good at all. Turns out, Christie’s comment was a mistake.  With such low resolution numbers, anything could be SPAM.  342 blocked by Kismet.

Intentional or not, things around here get misunderstood in the blink of an eye, and people stop talking to you altogether, seeing your words as anger, agenda, just-plain-ego, etc.  And the only people left also misunderstand.  Following those implied rules at WordPress, I try to be nice by not pointing out the stupidity of some people.  And sometimes (sometimes) that can get bottled up.  So many words that get Bottled.  Except this BottledWorder Breaks not Bends, and can’t help it.

To hate your blog, your avatar (and Blavatar, btw, means Blog-avatar), and not garner— er, garnish… find a replacement.  A soft hell— still limbo no matter the “change.”  With a bad vocabulary.

As far as the programming goes…
People steer away from that too.  A “math genius” that can’t figure out $#!t for getting a 2.5-D game to render everything 3-D in several years.  Step-by-step, and, like this blog how he and it parallel… how a “failure of a person” is reflected in a failure of a blog (and that’s a worthy subject—an ugly blog, an ugly person).

Everything takes forevery-ever.  Because it is one person doing everything— someone turned down every time he asks for help.

And it is not like him to say “forevery-ever.”  But that’s not as bad as reaching for, “interesting stats.”  Sorry to make so many things at the expense of others, but… (and there’s the ‘but’ too).

There isn’t much wondering why this “adamjasonp,” whoever that is, fails to communicate almost all the time.  There isn’t much invested in his existence to talk about.  He is real, but not important.

(Live, the words still flow out in a way that’s not appealing.)

Sensitive, but… full of crap.
Despite the Non-Deletion policy, I should erect a poll on whether to delete this blog.  Yes?  No?  Do it in the form of a comment, ’cause I’m not signing up to put an actual poll thingamajig up.

Oh, the title, AND he wants comments— an agenda!

Bipolar mess: just sayin’

Copyright 2012 Stephan Pastis

I had two potentially “funny” posts mostly prepared, but screw it.  I hate myself, my presence again.

After making another ill-timed comment (and wanted it deleted—not something you can do here), beating myself up over it…

…Being put off for a day in seeing the Golden Shower post at A Clown on Fire (and missing the “meme/spoof” point of Monica Balucci doing that before in an ad), laughing my ass off in nonsense, editing like hell…

…Seeing that Starz movie with Nick Stahl and Olivia Wilde—I forget the name…

…Googling my name, seeing how awful, illegitimate my presence is…
(Do I need the thesaurus for ‘awful’?)

At least I’m saying something that hasn’t been prepared (live).  And that probably makes this whole thing a mistake too.  Etc.  Whatever.  I’ve not understood the attention so far—I don’t want more.  If you’re not sure if you should be following, go away.  A rare sight for that expression at WP….Maybe.

Addendum: the name of the Starz movie is On the Inside.


on tables, on shelves, and on floors,
of books, and mags, and of papers;
recent or new, aged ten or more—piles, they become less safer.
These papers are used, less ‘reading,’ more ‘leaks’
of ceilings and sinks, piled paper for weeks.
And each week a new mag—and bags, many balled,
and stored in bags, within bags, and thusly marked for:
clothes, materials, and “saved” on a chair,
in more bags, always slide right onto the floor.
Continue reading Waste—High

Thursday: Need to write … ?

It takes forever to get anything done. The previous post needs fixing — the parser automatically converts double-line-spaces into paragraph breaks.  “Heart” was written into the 16th, but it was published late on the 19th.
I get what I deserve for…reading others’ blogs?  Well, doing it all morning, ruining the schedule.  Runed, I tell ya’, runed.  These posts include E.A.’s “Yucky stuff,” and B.F.’s “Pass the salt,” where Shelly eats olives, beef bouillon, old taco meat with spaghetti sauce and extra salt, and sardines, only to ask for the pickles.
This time I’m going to be frank.  That is until I edit out the offensive language, and then it’s no longer frank, but screw the horoscope, the “hold back on your words.”  When you’re invisible, it doesn’t matter much anyway.  And ordering screw.
Continue reading Thursday: Need to write … ?