Lucid, artistic, and above all readable depictions of ego breakdown, beyond confessional, universal in its appeal, as is any existential breakdown universal, very much of the moment, always of overall human relevance, not many of whom are willing to examine in any detail, many are called but few are chosen, the difference with me:

i can write.

Dr. Fuckhead and I are back on track again, wait til you hear what's wrong with me, it will crack you up.

Meanwhile new meds on the way pronto, no more spieling, no more urgency, no more va-va-va-voom, good-bye clarity, visions, beneficence, schizophrenic metaphysics, amnesia, insomnia, charisma, no more ignoring cats, no more “abortions”, no more smash-ups, no more fun. No more aging 5 years in one month, as usual female vanity wins the round.

manic me:

running girl running toward city of refuge.

medicated me:

refuge, who gives a shit about refuge? Seinfelds on. 


Hypo-mania is what avails my consciousness of the beauty in world around me. This is when I notice the different colors in the leaves of the trees, this is when I see whole world in one grain of sand, was manic the day I noticed the chord progressions in the song I SAW NICK DRAKE, their absolute perfection, the genius and the tribute, this is when I recognize the world's genius, holding soapy hands above the sink, spellbound, starin at the speakers in voracious admiration, rest of the house burning down.


This is also the time I am in too big of a hurry for all you fucking obstructionists, like the drive-thru clerk at Jack-In-The-Box who wants to waste my time giving me change for my last twenty which I just threw in her get-out-of-my-way-face for a diet coke, which is my daily meal for entire sweet ride and it makes me gag too, but even crazy people gotta eat, hey, who has time for this shit, keep the change, I am peeling outta parking lot blindly, let me show you some ambition, heading straight into traffic at 40 mph an hour, either these fuckers kill me or they don't, after all it's only a movie.

I'm sorry, it is big trick of nature, nature is a mother, her name is Psychorella. When manic I am very very way too happy to be her scattered chimney cinders. This is also the time it might be time to die. This is how I think. I understand the philosophers, my professor even emailed me that my paper indicates ability to understand thought processes of philosophers is straight A shit, few people are capable of this. Right, not enough people insane enough to understand existentialism, which we all know is very useful knowledge to have in 21st century capitalist America. Funny friendly funny place where we worship our genius chimney sweepers on Court TV. If you compliment me when manic it will take tremendous restraint not to punch you in the face. This is the bad side of lunacy.

All the sweet nature poetry socializing good stuff that takes me back to mania will mean a hill of reruns in 36 hours w/out your help. Medication is heart shaped drugs, makes psychotic people love themselfs, but reduces public threat to social contract, WHAT A HAPPY COINCIDENCE IS THIS, but we have our own prescriptions to knock-out your prescriptions' side effects, aka subcultural community. This is only thing internet is good for, everything else is my mom.


We go fast now, will stay up all night throw out topics of discussion to get into later, am getting responses now, so far so good, smart people reading trblwts, smarter than smart, first fake husband turnin up, hey how did you find me, let's not get lost this time, where did you learn to write like that? 

Don't answer. As soon as I figure what I’m doing you will be first contributor, but I will not have you comin around here criticizing bob dylan, that shit stops now, I am the editor, remember who taught me how to edit 14 years ago. You said We do not go begging at Bantom, we practice what we don't know, we want the airwaves and we want 'em now. We had em then, we have them again.


Our final public knock-down-drag-out was in bookstore on Guadalupe street, I had just paid good money for a Dover book and you were so furious you could barely speak. I understand now, hon, Dover Books are Satans Publishers, ripping off the public domain like it belongs to them, when they couldn't figure out a metaphor if it fell on their building like a big building falls on empty metaphors. Ouch. 

Still when manic i always have no self control, will buy five Dover Thrift editions with yesterdays food money knowing it's wrong, but as existing Queen in all of Sugar-Coated Slutdom fuck you mister policeman, this is my money. In other words, welcome back jeffrey darius smith, now if you will put down the sword of Damocles for five minutes and stay this time, we might get some fucking work done, but  for your information I am now big-bitch-big-former-fake-wife-big-sister- wearin-wigs-web-witch-big-bitch-now, makin decisions, no bullshit, no nihilism, no stupid questions, no mundanes, and on top of it all no promises. From you, thanks. Happy nightmare baby, you're home.


I hate to say it but things might start getting confusin around here, I am not well and troublewaits is implicated. So, 2 steps back, all day w/doctors and I deserve a reward, bought artists notebook twice the size of Oprah's ass, and big black charcoal pencil, so now we have 2 separate sources of material: notebook and computer; who is gonna keep the story straight? Will do my best to provide some structure for webaster. He says looks like time to promote the site, prepare for the flood, but I am not speakin to him square again 'til he explains how come capitalists get to wear blue jeans and no one calls them insanely ill.

Disturbed Identity Disorder, lookit up, mogul.


Before trblwts I was mad at world, when manic I love the world, see possibilites can't see when straight, today I see a sunshiney day when insanes and mundanes get along just fine, mutual harmony, seeing it play out in front of my eyes, right now, knowin it may not happen in own lifetime, knowin that's not no excuse, no reason not to try, right?


See, capitalists in blue jeans are what you might call oops your slip is showing, maybe that's why they keep us around to clean their toilets and fall in love with, all their impression management (read Irving Goffman, go, now!) takes a lot out of mundanes, then crazy people come along and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk away mundane's existential dilemma for the day; vicarious thrills, they wish, this is their mistake, face it, you need us: major literary works they read, wishin they understood: Tolstoy, Hemingway, Shakespeare, Fitzgerald, Virginia Woolf, etc etc all crazies, art on richly painted textured family room wall: put there by nuts, no, mundanes are not against us, just don't like having us in full view, bouncing up their little world so much, too bad feels like total disrespect and exploitation from crazies perspective, but things change, that's what crazy people are put on earth to do, sorry, read history books, thanx.


Dr. Fuckhead and me now talk like this, he used to go all wavey arms yellin "tangent! tangent! goin off on tangent!" but we learn together now in 3 year kick-ass relationshop.

Last time he was furious b/c how I am lately and I said don't tell me no venture capitalists come in here, ok, goin without eatin or sleepin for 5 days straight all wound up about new business project, and he goes, right, and those businessmen go insane Robin.

Tell me about it, I buy their products. 

This is what alienists used to do for a living, make meaninful connection with tortured soul. Hard to come by out there these days, huh?


I am starving for an opinion, if you don't have opinions, I will give you mine, which will motivate you to come up with something/anything to fight me with. This is how people have sex both on internet and off. You can work here. I fight like I fuck, whatever it takes to get Seinfeld involved. When I express revulsion for you reader I fully entrust you to fight back and take care of yourself. If you think the problem’s bad now, just wait til I solve it, huh, topics for destruction, lay them on me, meanwhile a few things have crossed my mind- 


    the mentally ill are useless eaters?


Take, for example this thing called:


Art does not exist for rich people to hang on their walls, while WORKER spends life in flophouses, art is made by and for mental cases, this is our only reference point for living in horrific man-made world, art is ours, 


Shame on trouble for perpetuating negative stereotypes, not every artist is crazy.


Artists who are insane (majority, read a book, thanks) are blight on landscape. Who's pushing negative stereotype now, backstabbin ho? I’m quoting Gunther Grass, bitch:


 “Art is so wonderfully irrational, exuberantly pointless, but necessary all the same. Pointless and yet necessary, that’s hard for a puritan to understand.”


Well, if you love your psychiatrist so much you certainly have a nice way of showing it.

Glad you asked, Dr. Fuckhead fucks with my head, that's his job, as for the pique in the moniker, my very thorough grasp of the social history of his chosen profession, well, ya know, it moves me, ever since Gramma Connie on mama’s side was the love of my life until the lobotomy. Wonder where that came from? Something in the water, huh. Makin impatient people explain themselfs is boorish ignorance, tiresome blandishments, falls under rubric of "flaming idiocy", your hometown. They miss you there, we mean it maaaaaaan.




trouble’s thinkin cap

about to blow wreckin town

off the map,

one day

you'll thank me for this too.

Unless of course you kill me first.









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