Listen/purchase/ download for free: Hating Ass Bitches & other Children’s Allegories by Adam Thorn is the Living Flavors Daily
Someone put an old defunct Wurlitzer studio piano out on Taraval and 33rd a few blocks from the Post Office when I was dating a zombie in San Francisco and had a questionable job at Thrift Town. The Post Office was grim and antiseptic. Susan was not diagnosed but no antipsychotic could rid her of zombilitic inclinations. Thrift Town is a store in the Mission district of low prestige where recovering drug addicts, faries, and old people work and the first thing I saw was a man masturbating with a ten dollar bill in the McDonald’s bathroom. Susan Sea Shanan. Susan’s ancestors were Japanese and Jewish and established themselves in The United States of America. Her skin changed from a dark yellow to burgundy when she was enraged by some type of personal injustice or some issue happening on a macro level. The piano we came across was made, not by Germans as the name implies, but in a factory in the Midwest on an assembly line. The body was compressed so that it could fit in living rooms beside television sets at the expense of much hope of tuning with overtone structures or playing anything that sounds respectable. The sort of instrument designed to play on drunken New Years nights and late Sunday evenings. The 1975 brown Wurlitzer sat there alone there like a one eyed race dog, an unruly tenant that hadn’t paid the rent, discarded, out of tune, an unwanted orphan refugee bastard lonely beneath the apartments on the hill neither I or Susan could afford even if we combined my income, our grandparents incomes, reversed our debt from college loans then multiplied it by 3. Ocean pattern curtains are much more affordable. Susan was a functional zombie then, around July. The general tendencies towards haunting graveyards, stalking prey at night, and eating brains were all well controlled although anyone would notice the thin line of saliva surrounding her mouth after she’d been alone with her cats for long periods of time. She walked, talked, owned a blackberry, did some trim work, cooked with passion, and road the BART from San Francisco to the East Bay to see her parents or her sister with the other well adapted functional zombies. She attended various musical and cultural events and occasionally said a full sentence to me. Susan once had a machismo boyfriend with a seven inch penis named Nasser who’d led her around on the therapeutic arms of social charisma. This allowed her participation in various social events. She’d taken acid with him a few times, done the whole burning man thing, and eventually his penis sought out new territory. This factored into my theory of how her condition was exasperated.
“Play something,” she says. Droplets fall from the cloud that hovers.
“It’s starting to rain” I say.
“We shouldn’t just leave it out here, maybe we can get it tuned.”
I played one of my classical music tricks that are left over from memory being alone with a piano for a year in a cottage apartment in North Carolina where I made many great things of subtle artistic merit. All great things are achieved from misery or love or a combination. I played some dissonant chords that sounded melancholy. The L rumbled down Taraval along with cars. The piano isn’t hard for indie rock kids or digital hipsters, you rely on unexpected 7ths and it sounds interesting, dreamy and jazzy. Susan walks up in the black skirt she’s wearing, stood beside me and tried the configurations of chords to a Radio Head song that I knew.
“Yeah, that’s pretty good.” I showed her what a triad was. The octaves are out of tune with one another. “You want to take it home?” she manages. In the grey pitiful drizzle we push the Wurlitzer up the hill with a dolly I burrow from a quiet Cantonese guy. We plant it in her garage. The mail of Davis Ry Brooks has come in droves. His subscription to ESPN, Sports Illustrated, modern hiking, and Economic along with the electric bill, and some stuff from SAT Catalyst Prep are scattered on the stone floor amidst the barrage of West coast paraphernalia, surf boards and discarded art projects and electric guitars included. When Daniel comes down the stairs his fingernails are painted neon green like his nights. He stands six foot five or so. He’s the designated homosexual of the “co-operative”. Co-operative here just means that everybody is usually naked or high. “ Oh, a piano” he says, sits down in a horrible dust coated chair and plays some Bethoveen. He looks better than it sounds. It’s that piece that people are always taught at the age of twelve and keep with them while they pass the summers and crave cock, coke, and escape. He kisses Susan on the head as if I’m not there but at don’t understand at this point that zombies have to be kissed by homosexuals in San Francisco so that they don’t blow their cover. “By kids” he blows me a kiss.
The Economics of Having Social Anxiety in Middle Class America
This paper is meant to outline my personal experience with misuse high doses of Clonazepam Wafer Tablets and suggestions for finding healthy coping mechanisms for what is commonly referred to as “Panic Disorder” in the DSM4 but really it’s just something you have to deal with. If you are having a problem with medication refills or withdrawl right now do not by any means call a suicide hotline, emergency room, or tell a police officer because they have no idea what you’re feeling. It has the potential to make the situation worse. Call a trusted friend with, a safe connect*, family member, or your doctor if possible. If you have no connections it takes three weeks to get off. Distract yourself with music and visual stimulation. You won’t die from this but if you just stop the medication immediately it’s going to be painful. As an aside, if in jail mentioning that you’re on this medication can be helpful at intake but throwing pussy fits can get you thrown in a mental hospital for a period of weeks.
My name is Tom. I grew up in a small town with a population of ( ) that is moderately liberal. I wasn’t severely mistreated as a child or bullied more than the average kid in High School. I didn’t realize exactly how difficult my life was going to be until my senior year of High school. One night I woke up in a cold sweat, shaking. At the time I thought one of my friends had put acid in my food. I sat in the downstairs family bathroom unable to sleep or think with any semblance of linear structure. My memories of those first few days and nights are mostly gone from my memory. I remember the only thing that got me through the nights was the safety of the bathroom and the familiarity of the surrounding horizon. The digital 9:30 on the horizon. All those Facebook friends, get real ones first.The problem of insomnia and disassociation with reality went away after a few days and it went into the back of my mind while I spent the summer riding a bicycle around Hamilton Lake and working on a music project with a friend. Having excercize, friendship, family. I lived in Oakland and San Francisco, California for two years in May 2011 I didn’t have that much going for me besides a supportive family and a couple of friends. I was homeless for a period of three months after losing a job for pulling a knife on somebody at work because they kept giving me instructions. I was having a rough day because I was out of a “harmless” substance a doctor had put me on at the age of 18. The prescription was too get filled. I’d even sold some of it to some junkies outside the San Francisco library. I dipped into a pitiful bank account to purchase the plain ticket back to Greensboro for 232.00 dollars plus tax. After being homeless for a few months where I slept on the BART until four a.m and hiked in the woods I dipped into a pitiful bank account to purchase the plain ticket back to Greensboro for 232.00 dollars plus tax. I stayed in the San Francisco Airport for two weeks spending over thirty dollars on small sandwiches. I have what is commonly referred to as panic disorder. Living in a monstrous metropolis was actually the best thing that every happened to me. The individual is provided a degree of anonymity while simultaneously being forced and encouraged to interact with people.
Because of three missed appoinments with a therapist I was refused to have the medication authorized for refill. The people in charge of these centers are concerned more with liability most of the time unless you find the right one. After seven years of being on the medication and several unintended periods where I was forced to wean myself off of the medication it seems unlikely that this is going to be a pleasant experience in the middle of February in a studio apartment. Please excuse any spelling errors in this paper. The problem with the withdrawl symptoms isn’t the physical pain, vivid nightmares, shortness of breath or even the tenseness of the every muscle in the body. These symptoms are all experienced with the common cold or after month long stretch of immobility. The real problem is that I feel like I’m going insane as many people report. So it’s better than being a member of the Donner party. I was recently refused service from my doctor because of missed therapists appointments which are mandated protocol in order to see a psycisian. So, in order to even become a client of many “clinics” you pay 150.00 for an “assessment fee”. The assesment, in a very southern sense of the word, consist of you sitting through a scripted interview that is meant to figure “What is going on in that dang head of yours” and very subtly steer you towards upselling, think car dealership. For some people this is useful. In my mind, everyone has had brief periods of suicidal ideation (most of my friend’s have an artistic temperament), weeks of sadness and grief due to the loss of a job, spouse, or death of someone close to them, perverted thoughts. I returned to the XXXX in July of 2012 to participate in one of their Substance Abuse programs. Because of a lingering DUI I had on my record from when I was eighteen. This choice was based upon the knowledge that the charge wouldn’t go off my record for two more years unless I had certified proof that I’d finished a substance abuse program. This ended up costing me around 1000. But all that’s wrong with me is that I care or cared too much about what other people think. Life becomes a walking cycle of feeling fear. The role that you rehearse the most is the one you tend to become. There’s the guilt of old girlfriends and emotionally abusive things that I did. The abandonment of every friend that I ever had from elementary school on drives the feelings of isolation home.
The whole set-up leaves any intelligent person paranoid. The first night in my home town last summer was insane. A friend fronted me some money until I got set up. This is what real friends do. That place seemed like the loneliest place in the world. No one would pick up the phone except for a couple friends. The bike ride down to Bessemer for outpatient therapy at the xxxxx was at least a work out and a sort of play with having a sense of structure to the week. It meant having it rubbed in my face that I’m more sensitive than some guy straight out of the southern ghetto or a heroin addict who’s afraid of saying too much because her husband punches her for talking to other men. It felt sort of like an absurd joke because I didn’t feel deeply that I have much of a relationship with alcohol and the drug I was addicted to is used to treat alcohol withdrawl. The key to not being fearful is to be comfortable with your body and your ability to interact with the world in a productive way or at least in a way that transfers to other human beings as social legible and acceptable. Like before, fear and panic is self perpetuating. To state the obvious: the more you worry about feeling embarassed the more you tend to choke up out of fear or put yourself into a situation where you have to do have the least responsibility possible to do anything. If you sit in a room all day because it lowers the possibility that I’m going to feel ugly in front of someone then you aren’t likely to feel pretty anytime soon. When I apply for jobs in person it’s horrible. As I’m talking I can feel the economy of language break down. Whoever I’m talking to gives me this up and down look. Women are usually nice about it because it’s more common. Male employers usually view the awkwardness as a sign of weakness and will call you a faggot under there breath. Completely ignore all that, they’re complete idiots. Even when I do work a job, I do everything possible to get away from people because they have eyes. The world of employment in America, even the personality is to be charismatic, confident, a fast thinker and talker. The work force accomidates for people with shyness less than they do for the severely retarded. That’s right, it’s easier to get a job if you’re severely mentally retarded. If you have cerebral pausy or multiple scelorosos you can be confident that you’re less likely to lose your job over a situation. My case has been that an employer sees me not engaging with the public and thinks I’m being antisocial. They don’t understand that the avoidance is due to an intense panic.
Becoming dependent on a drug isn’t wrong. It’s problematic because you become constantly occupied with where your medicine bottle is at. You carry it with you on long car trips and get a little suspicious when you go couch surfing or sublet a room from someone. In the time that I’ve been cognizant of what is medically referred to as Panic Disorder I’ve had one person use a latter to crawl in through a window and blame the shattered glass on prostitutes. You’ll want to learn self defense because some people do that sort of thing. Good luck from someone who knows.
Tumblbot, you should know very well that an inoperable robot is what turns my gears because then I can fix it and it will sit there and ask me questions or I could program it to ask me questions that it takes me half an hour to figure out such as “Why does my mother own a fake plant.”
This album was written and recorded out of a friends suggestion that I write and record fifty songs in fifty days. Obviously I haven’t gotten that far. Some of the tracks on here are beautiful and a few of them are horrible. Some of them, to the horror of my neighbors, were written at three a.m and to compress the process I just go for five hours straight. Just on coffee these days. It works for me because your energy isn’t interupted, you don’t have to wait to find the same emotion again. Although, not mean to be insincere, some of the songs are written in an emulation of country or of folk. “Calling All Cars” I wrote completely scared out of my mind. “Sacred Rites” was written with a girl I found hitch hiking. “That t-shirt’s bomb” is about the dream of the Civil Rights Movement. “Comedy Acts of Questionable Origin” is an Eight minute experiment in folk opera. “Dark Knight” is written from the Colorado killer’s point of view and is in no way meant to condone walking into a movie theater a killing people. The recording quality is terrible. Influences draw from Delta Blues, modern singer/song writer formats, i.e., a lot of the dejected looking guys you see on Music Mag covers leaning against trees in plaid shirts who look like they cry when they make love.