i am so mad at the good people right now i can barely keep my fingers on the keyboard here, ok drove around the block 210 times before could recognize the trailer i live in, but i made it, inside w/my cats and cigarettes, ok, hush, quiet, chill, it's ok, i'm home. safe as milk from all the good people.

webpage up and running, thank you, that's why they gave it to me, ok if you say so:

a place for you to put your feelings, right, ok number one i hate my computer, but you are not a good person so i don't hate you, and i know the computer will soon be my friend.


i have a message for the good people:

leave me alone. shove it up your ass and leave me the fuck alone. believe me this is for your own protection, you make me want to hurt you like daddy strangled baby kitten in front of crying toddler who was not supposed to pee in bed and simply must be punished for badness.

i know. you are not a perpetrator, you're tryin to make the world a better place, it's a giving thing, a contribution, this is all good stuff, god knows i need help, but what you do through no fault of your own is perpetrate, and when i say uh-oh, that's a bad area, let me tell you what i need, you say, no, no one is supposed to need that, that's not normal, this sounds like your psychosis, normal people shouldn't need all that.

Yo, dumfuck, you forgot three words:

Why do you?

But that's your bad area, huh.

Here's our fight:

bad people:

shove it up your nice clean ass.

good people:

shove bad people under rug. Oh wait, first get degrees in social service, put sign on door: here to help and open for business, here comes one now, nah, too scary, shove evil bad history under motherfucking rug. Call it help.

That doesn't make you a bad person, you can do good work in this world, the planet is teeming with nailbiters, help them, Oprah, John Gray, and Dr. Phil, they're on call right now, the population they serve is your population, their clients are your clients, now you can help me too, and the whole wide world, by keeping me from turning into a mass murderer, you do this best when you leave me alone. 

Your help is killing whatever hope I have left, whatever innocence, wonder, motivation, etc that i have no choice but to put into your hands is destroyed by lies and evasions which fuck up my cognition, the constant denial that what happened to me matters, is still going on, and probably will for the rest of my life, in your face, my face, internally (oh yes) and sometimes externally (not here) but the worst mindfuck of all is the fear of fear, this is something you wear all too well.

Your feelings matter more to me than they do to you, i want to protect your feelings but i can't accomodate the insult. You're so wrapped up in your self-image as good helper, you can't admit to yourself that some human misery sickens you beyond your capacity therefore in your eyes that never happened, and if it did it does not count, matter, continue, bear looking into, etc. 

Argue with me, thanks. Let's say these things did happen and everything else i just said, let's say it's all true. What would that mean to you? Do you see what I'm doing here? I'm doing your therapy, but i know you are not my mom, i know all of us are doin our best and we're in this together.

You still here?

The nailbiters are calling. Go make yourself useful.

Oh by the way I am in fact being carried right now like the weak and needy woman I am, coming home finding food on my doorstep, answering machine messages sayin have you slept, are you takin your meds, turn off the computer and order a pizza, webasters, I have two whole webasters who listen to me rant and rave at 4 in the morning about html, which is a fucking deception if there ever was one, we'll get to all that, and movies, i found a movie on the front seat of my car Van Gogh life story, where did that come from (bad area).

Listen goddamn it,I'm being taken care of right now, gettin nurtured and looked after by all the BAD people, do you read me, the only people who want (you really need to want) and are able to get it is the bad people. At the top of the list is of course Dr. Fuckhead, who I'd strap to my back before leaving my house, he is an actual bona-fide, pure and undiluted shit/piss/blood/vomit/guts/bullet/knife/razor blade/blood all over the fucking house 

genuine psychiatrist who knows what his job is all about, he unfucks my head the good people fucked up, and you think that's bad, he's a psychopharmacologist.

Here's us, 2002--

Come on in everyone, we have drugs for that now, the nailbiters are making us rich good chemists.

Freud's dead and buried. He's under the rug, unresolved childhood trauma, that's a thing of the past, a Victorian relic, our drugs are making all breeders free of the pathology his kind addressed. 

What happens to the ones in between time frames?

Walking nightmares. Let's hurry up and help them. Throw them away.


nothin but troubled

think about that,













Copyright 2002 Robin Plan and troublewaits.com.All rightsreserved.