(no subject)
Another week has been spent either at the university or just loafing around, or going to the doctor. First, I went to see the doctor at the Kelvin Grove campus, one of the two campuses located in the inner part of Brisbane city. Later, I would tell at least one person that the Kelvin Grove campus and district really remind me of a cleaned-up Parramatta (the actual city of Parramatta, not the whole district). And the sad fact is that I miss the old place. I miss the fart-smell of industrial products wafting in from Smithfield. I miss the well-connected, well-planned rail network. I will probably miss the well-timed buses even if I go back there because the bus company that serviced the Greystanes/Parramatta/Merrylands junction when I was there has since gone out of business and been replaced with the much lousier company that serviced the Castle Hill, Ashcroft, and Villawood areas among others. But what I miss the most about the general Parramatta district was that diversity was more than just an advertising catchphrase. Even autistic adults have somewhere to turn to for reassurance, support, and fellowship in or in somewhere connected to Parramatta.
You might have noticed I have slacked off a lot in terms of posting entries in this journal just recently. Good. One thing is that, as I said earlier, I have been talked into signing up on Facebook and generally have more time or energy to devote to it. The other is that I am really just sick of writing the same thing over and over without any discernable change taking place no matter how many walls I smash with my head. I defy anyone to read an entry from recent months, then read an entry from 2005 or so, and tell me they were written more than a week apart. Honestly. This year has been especially difficult for me because I went into it with so many promises ringing in my ears that I was utterly drunk on them. Even if only one of them turned out to be true, I told myself, I could comfort myself with the fact that someone actually kept a promise. Well, as I should have expected, none of them turned out to be true. Were I one of Jack Kirby's or Stan Lee's Mutants, my power would be to make normies see, hear, smell, feel, and respond cognitively to everything I experience as if they were in fact me. It would give a whole new meaning to the Frank Zappa song title The Torture Never Stops, I can assure you.
Two people, not counting myself, have reminded me that my birthday is approaching. The first was a tech support person who works at the Internet Service Provider I use. If I could have altered the laws of physics to enable myself to put my arm down the telephone, through the copper wires, have my fist come out the other end, and punch them in the face, I would have done so without blinking. X-Men envy syndrome? You better believe it! All kidding aside, however, the only difference between this birthday and the five before it is that I will not spend it in the wasteland of forsaken potential that my family moved to a while ago now. It will not surprise anyone to learn that each approaching birthday in that piece of shit town had been accompanied by an attempt at suicide by insulin overdose. Now, I will not bore you with stories about how unpleasant an insulin overdose of that magnitude can generally be, but suffice to say that if spending a birthday in a given place makes you want to kill yourself that way, you have a really big problem. Sometimes I wish my special power could be to wipe places that expect you to slash a smile into your face whilst you feel your soul being sucked out off the face of the Earth.
So I rocked on up to the general practitioner at Kelvin Grove and had a bit of a chat with them. They still want to hospitalise me, but I have impressed upon them that whatever problem they perceive with my reaction to all the toxin swelling up within my sobbing soul, doing so in time to miss out on the subject's objectives being completed will only make that worse. So we looked at the results of the blood tests that she gave me paperwork to have performed at a more local lab. Much to my surprise, all the health indicators that diabetes specialists use to measure a person as if having a HbA1c within normal parameters is the sole indicator of how healthy a person's life really is were within normal to excellent ranges. The only point of concern from the lab's point of view was that my blood glucose level at the time of testing was 0.7 mmol/L (for those who do not know, normal is between 3.5/5.0 to 10 mmol/L). Considering that I had a stumbling/convulsing fit in the local shopping centre not five minutes after I left the lab, it would have been nice of them to appraise me of that information before I left the building! It is not as if that particular test is even time-consuming anymore (I can do one in my own home in twenty seconds flat if I have the right equipment).
All bitching and kidding aside, however, the GP at Kelvin Grove had earlier prescribed me with Avanza, an antidepressant with the active ingredient being Mirtazapine. I have been taking these diligently ever since, but they have been producing some very weird reactions (as I warned her they would, and tend to do with autistic brains). For one thing, if I have the taste of any drink product such as Pepsi Max or diet Coola-flavoured cordial on my tongue, the tablets tend to taste like cat urine as they dissolve. For another, I am really unable to concentrate or focus on anything as I go about my business. My brain is literally racing from subject to subject with no logical or sensory connection whatsoever. This also causes some serious problems with the visual sector of my brain, as I am literally visualising a whole series of random images that make no sense at all. If you told me chrome-plated monkeys urinate fire as fleas dance with clothes pegs through their fur coating, I would see that in my mind's eye as clearly as I am seeing the text I am typing right now. I think perhaps medications like these are not the best way to go. At least the Risperdal made it easier to control the frequency of seizures.
Now, this is where it gets really fascinating and frightening (from my point of view at least). Yesterday, I turned up at the university and participated in some practice filming for the project that we are supposed to hand in soon. Because the actor playing the main male role in the piece was not present at that time, I volunteered to stand in for him, mainly so the lead actress in the piece would have someone to react to. Now, the rest of the group is talking about putting me in front of the camera for the actual production! Egads. I mean, I can understand that if the person they had lined up for the part does not turn out to be reliable, they want to have someone to fill the position. But I am no actor, and whilst acting was a fantasy I entertained briefly during my school daze, therein lies the problem. It is just too closely associated with my boyhood for me to do without seriously courting disaster. And in this context, disaster means flying into a violent rage, burning down the nearest school I can find, and attempting to jump through a window, just to name some of the events that formed a sort of acting out around my fourteenth to eighteenth birthdays. Fortunately, the window incident only ended with me out cold on an unfamiliar floor, but you get the idea.
Opposing this train of thought or feeling is that acting in front of a camera for any sort of production would be a good way to grab the necks of present-day David Shuster or Colin Cobcroft and paddle them in the face with my dick. My dick in this instance being the fact that I got the job done and simply did it because I could. Or not. Considering how this whole university exercise has proceeded, I honestly do not really feel like sharing the results with anyone who knows me from before the year started and is still alive. Who the hell knows anymore, honestly? Nothing will truly satisfy me short of stringing fukkers like them up and bashing them with a baseball bat to the beat of a good GG Allin song like Die When You Die. Even just visualising it as I listen to the song, complete with other visualisations such as Rundin Stonehelm delivering a fatal headbutt to a pair of Goblins, is far more satisfying than any passing mark (or any mark for that matter) any lecturer can award. And if any of them can see this, I especially want to impress upon them that pigs flying backwards by explosively farting out of their mouths is more likely than me saying things like this and not meaning every single word of it.
And that concludes my brain-dump for this... whatever time it is. Please kill me. Until next time, if that ever takes place, keep the following in mind: People who insist that they have ever done anything entirely on their own should have their eyes gouged out, their eardrums burst, and their tongues torn out.
You might have noticed I have slacked off a lot in terms of posting entries in this journal just recently. Good. One thing is that, as I said earlier, I have been talked into signing up on Facebook and generally have more time or energy to devote to it. The other is that I am really just sick of writing the same thing over and over without any discernable change taking place no matter how many walls I smash with my head. I defy anyone to read an entry from recent months, then read an entry from 2005 or so, and tell me they were written more than a week apart. Honestly. This year has been especially difficult for me because I went into it with so many promises ringing in my ears that I was utterly drunk on them. Even if only one of them turned out to be true, I told myself, I could comfort myself with the fact that someone actually kept a promise. Well, as I should have expected, none of them turned out to be true. Were I one of Jack Kirby's or Stan Lee's Mutants, my power would be to make normies see, hear, smell, feel, and respond cognitively to everything I experience as if they were in fact me. It would give a whole new meaning to the Frank Zappa song title The Torture Never Stops, I can assure you.
Two people, not counting myself, have reminded me that my birthday is approaching. The first was a tech support person who works at the Internet Service Provider I use. If I could have altered the laws of physics to enable myself to put my arm down the telephone, through the copper wires, have my fist come out the other end, and punch them in the face, I would have done so without blinking. X-Men envy syndrome? You better believe it! All kidding aside, however, the only difference between this birthday and the five before it is that I will not spend it in the wasteland of forsaken potential that my family moved to a while ago now. It will not surprise anyone to learn that each approaching birthday in that piece of shit town had been accompanied by an attempt at suicide by insulin overdose. Now, I will not bore you with stories about how unpleasant an insulin overdose of that magnitude can generally be, but suffice to say that if spending a birthday in a given place makes you want to kill yourself that way, you have a really big problem. Sometimes I wish my special power could be to wipe places that expect you to slash a smile into your face whilst you feel your soul being sucked out off the face of the Earth.
So I rocked on up to the general practitioner at Kelvin Grove and had a bit of a chat with them. They still want to hospitalise me, but I have impressed upon them that whatever problem they perceive with my reaction to all the toxin swelling up within my sobbing soul, doing so in time to miss out on the subject's objectives being completed will only make that worse. So we looked at the results of the blood tests that she gave me paperwork to have performed at a more local lab. Much to my surprise, all the health indicators that diabetes specialists use to measure a person as if having a HbA1c within normal parameters is the sole indicator of how healthy a person's life really is were within normal to excellent ranges. The only point of concern from the lab's point of view was that my blood glucose level at the time of testing was 0.7 mmol/L (for those who do not know, normal is between 3.5/5.0 to 10 mmol/L). Considering that I had a stumbling/convulsing fit in the local shopping centre not five minutes after I left the lab, it would have been nice of them to appraise me of that information before I left the building! It is not as if that particular test is even time-consuming anymore (I can do one in my own home in twenty seconds flat if I have the right equipment).
All bitching and kidding aside, however, the GP at Kelvin Grove had earlier prescribed me with Avanza, an antidepressant with the active ingredient being Mirtazapine. I have been taking these diligently ever since, but they have been producing some very weird reactions (as I warned her they would, and tend to do with autistic brains). For one thing, if I have the taste of any drink product such as Pepsi Max or diet Coola-flavoured cordial on my tongue, the tablets tend to taste like cat urine as they dissolve. For another, I am really unable to concentrate or focus on anything as I go about my business. My brain is literally racing from subject to subject with no logical or sensory connection whatsoever. This also causes some serious problems with the visual sector of my brain, as I am literally visualising a whole series of random images that make no sense at all. If you told me chrome-plated monkeys urinate fire as fleas dance with clothes pegs through their fur coating, I would see that in my mind's eye as clearly as I am seeing the text I am typing right now. I think perhaps medications like these are not the best way to go. At least the Risperdal made it easier to control the frequency of seizures.
Now, this is where it gets really fascinating and frightening (from my point of view at least). Yesterday, I turned up at the university and participated in some practice filming for the project that we are supposed to hand in soon. Because the actor playing the main male role in the piece was not present at that time, I volunteered to stand in for him, mainly so the lead actress in the piece would have someone to react to. Now, the rest of the group is talking about putting me in front of the camera for the actual production! Egads. I mean, I can understand that if the person they had lined up for the part does not turn out to be reliable, they want to have someone to fill the position. But I am no actor, and whilst acting was a fantasy I entertained briefly during my school daze, therein lies the problem. It is just too closely associated with my boyhood for me to do without seriously courting disaster. And in this context, disaster means flying into a violent rage, burning down the nearest school I can find, and attempting to jump through a window, just to name some of the events that formed a sort of acting out around my fourteenth to eighteenth birthdays. Fortunately, the window incident only ended with me out cold on an unfamiliar floor, but you get the idea.
Opposing this train of thought or feeling is that acting in front of a camera for any sort of production would be a good way to grab the necks of present-day David Shuster or Colin Cobcroft and paddle them in the face with my dick. My dick in this instance being the fact that I got the job done and simply did it because I could. Or not. Considering how this whole university exercise has proceeded, I honestly do not really feel like sharing the results with anyone who knows me from before the year started and is still alive. Who the hell knows anymore, honestly? Nothing will truly satisfy me short of stringing fukkers like them up and bashing them with a baseball bat to the beat of a good GG Allin song like Die When You Die. Even just visualising it as I listen to the song, complete with other visualisations such as Rundin Stonehelm delivering a fatal headbutt to a pair of Goblins, is far more satisfying than any passing mark (or any mark for that matter) any lecturer can award. And if any of them can see this, I especially want to impress upon them that pigs flying backwards by explosively farting out of their mouths is more likely than me saying things like this and not meaning every single word of it.
And that concludes my brain-dump for this... whatever time it is. Please kill me. Until next time, if that ever takes place, keep the following in mind: People who insist that they have ever done anything entirely on their own should have their eyes gouged out, their eardrums burst, and their tongues torn out.