The Ultimate Vampire Resource and Directory

Waking up, drenched in sweat, in the throes of adrenaline overload. I'm not even sure where I am for a few moments. Lightning ripples across my field of view, and I can feel my kidneys burn with each pulse, pulling me along for a ride of chemically induced fear.



This isn't the kind of fear that one would hypothetically experience in stressful, life-changing scenarios, or events involving physical altercations. I was not blessed with such a luxury. This is what we call a night terror, even to a lucid dreamer. This is why I started self-medicating at the age of 13, and took the initiative to educate myself on the various effects of not only major classes and families of pharmaceutical drugs, but also the effects of naturally occurring chemicals found in nature. I also took the time to educate myself on the topics of poisons and their corresponding antidotes.



I did this because I could. I did this because nobody could stop me. I did this, so I would have the ability (but not necessarily the reason) to forgo sleep for a few days at a time. I did this to forget, but more importantly, I did this to escape. Death was, and still is, of no concern to me.



Retrospectively, I question the notion that the modern interpretation of God (if it exists) was ever there during the darkest of hours. When you survive the seemingly unwarranted, relentless assault of what a normal person would consider physically or psychologically traumatic events, you see things in an entirely different light.



The light that once was, now only serves to illuminate what you no longer want to see. What you no longer wish you could see. That's when you start to realize that the image is a bit grainy. Perhaps the reality itself is a little too jarring and gritty upon closer inspection. The atmospheric scent quickly becomes acrid, and the world seems to smother you with the same open arms it greeted you with. The rules of life never changed, but what happened, is that nobody told you what those rules were. Nobody wins.



That's not the work of "God" anymore than it is some half-baked fantasy whispering malevolent ideas in our heads, which, I will add, are easily explainable by human nature itself.



Statistically speaking, everyone is a lost cause. Live with it.

Cross-tolerance amphetamine withdrawal is a bitch. I'd like to make one thing clear before we begin. Yes, I smoke (both) and occasionally drink. Technically, 2 out of the 3 are actually dangerous for you, and I'll let you guess which one it is.



That's what I thought; Sit the fuck down.



After going cold turkey, I initially had no withdrawal symptoms. There was also a brand of energy drink that I had been consuming almost nonstop, without realizing it had ephedra root extract in it. The thing about ephedra is that currently, it's legal to grow on your own, you just can't sell it anymore. I think this was around the spring of 2003, which the sale of ephedrine-based products was still legal at the time. Sobe Drive, was its name.



It wasn't until I realized that my body didn't care what type of amphetamine it was, as long as it could be metabolized and processed as a stimulant. I was drinking 6-10 of them per day, and as my housing was already paid for, I could afford to buy it in large quantities. I just knew that I liked it, that it tasted roughly like cherry-strawberry-watermelon kool-aid, and it had a lot of sugar in it, something I've always craved. As it stands, I have to consume large amounts of sugar, due to AIP/PCT and CCI (resulting from under/non-production of amylase.)



Once I'd cut all sources of ephedra from my diet, the real fun was waiting just around the corner. I can remember the first time it happened pretty vividly too, because I had no idea what was about to happen. It started off feeling like a really bad nicotine craving, which is unusual, since I rarely crave nicotine, despite having been an off-again-on-again pattern of smoking for the better part of 20-some years. If I can't afford it, I simply stop smoking.



At the time, I was talking to a friend of mine when it happened. After I'd quickly chainsmoked 3 cigarettes, I noticed that my right hand started shaking about halfway through the third one. She asked me if I was okay, and I said, "I think so. I don't know. Uh...um yeah?"



A few seconds after I made that statement, I started having an indescribable craving for something like cheap like half-purity grade cocaine, but much stronger. Something like a gram or two of meth mixed in with mac and cheese, as I had ritualistically done two or three times per month for the better part of 7 years. Of those, I was probably addicted for at least 3 to amphetamines as a whole. A large bottle of Stacker 2's with ephedra would last me 5-7 days.



Then came the anxiety. At that point, I excused myself from the conversation, and simply said, "I think I'm going to take a dump."



We both knew it wasn't true, and it wasn't until after I'd experienced muscle spasms, blackouts, nausea, and vomiting that I realized I was experiencing withdrawal. This was merely an omen of things to come.

It had been done through a friend of a friend, they had a paper to write for class that had to be done by the end of the week. Late afternoon was when I got back, and just as discussed, 3 lines and 1/4oz was sitting in the top drawer. Immediately, I packed a bowl, snorted a line, and sprinkled some of the remaining dust on top.



The easiest part about doing these things was that it was fairly easy to cover up. Burn an incense stick (Egyptian Musk, for the professional stoner), and breathe into a modified exhaling apparatus filled with a few fabric sheets that had been sprayed with Stetson. The end result was a scent, slightly reminiscent of a stereotypical upscale frat house.



Once I was done with that, I chased a xanax with some beer. A short while later, I decided to take a nap. Before I finish the rest of this story, I would also like to mention that I had also been at the end of roughly a 4 day Amitriptyline binge. How I'd managed to get a hold of them was relatively easy, a friend of mine had been given a prescription for them, but didn't like it for some reason. It wasn't until much later that I would figure out why.



Hazily, I recall waking a few hours later to a massive nosebleed. I sat up quickly, while wiping my nose to see if I was actually bleeding. Oh yeah. It was real.



Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a dark, faceless figure standing a few feet away. Since my vision was still rather blurry at that point, I assumed (incorrectly) that it was one of my roommates coming in to get something. "That's not what I'm here for," He replied.



Before I had a chance to formulate a response, I found myself held up by the neck several feet above the floor. I did briefly recall having seen part of his clothing, which looked like it was sewn together from the primordial essence of nightmares. I looked down, blood still steadily pouring from my nose, "This is where this nonsense ends," he roared, before slamming me down onto the bed.



From there, it felt as though I had been assfucked with at least a few thousand volts of electricity, along with the feelings of remorse for every crime I had committed, along with those that I hadn't. It didn't take long for me to tap out from that, so to speak.



I didn't so much come back to my senses gradually, but instead, found myself in the middle of a cleaning frenzy of the part of the wall that had clearly been the recipient of a front, angry choke slam. I knew this because there was blood near the back of my neck, and head. I'd even found some on my right ear, along with a mild concussion.



From what I could recall, he had one blue eye, and one green eye. What made this seem even less believable was that they were neon shades of blue and green, to a greater or lesser extent. They both had a mixture of each, but his left one stood out as a more prominent light neon jungle green. His right eye was more towards an off-hue turquoise with a splash of neon sky blue. None of this made sense at all.



I didn't even ask how it happened. It had to be a hallucination or psychotic break of some kind. That was the only explanation.



Just keep wiping, and if you're lucky, it will all just be a bad dream.



Just keep wiping.



It'll all go away.



Don't tell anyone.



They won't believe you.



Maybe it never happened.



God hates you, you self-righteous drug addicted little fuck.



You're what's wrong with this world.



Delusions. Hallucinations. Dreams.



This will never go away.



Just let me die. Please, erase me.



These were probably some of the phrases that I uttered as I slammed my head against the wall repeatedly, with the bed scooted underneath me, like a bizarre adaptation of the Hail Mary. I wasn't even getting a blowjob in a confessional for fuck's sake.



When I worked at a McDonald's in the northern part of Texas for about a year, one of the managers that I worked with was particularly religious. He always asked me to tell him some of my stories involving drug use, and sometimes, those stories involved sexual escapades as well. After he had asked me a few times about it, and seemed insistent on knowing what made me quit after 7 years of heavy drug use.



When I told him that, minus the part about figuring out how I'd managed to get blood onto an awkward, inexplicable place, his jaw hit the floor. If you're reading this, that was the second part I didn't tell you about. Don't take it personally.



Anyways, that's what made me quit cold turkey. Cross-tolerance Amphetamine withdrawal is a bitch. That shit will make you puke until your eyes bleed.

For quite some time (c. 1997), I have always used the name "idbeholda" in regards to the internet. It's also a cheat code in the original Doom. Depending on the site, the community, and/or my own twisted amusement, I would create multiple, fictitious identities and sometimes dozens of profiles. When it came to filling the gaps, that was quite easy.



The internet is essentially multiplayer notepad. Nobody wins, nobody actually has a relevant, real-world score of any kind, and more importantly, few will ever remember. Achievements are good filler for an obituary, though. I don't plan on "retiring" anytime soon, despite having Chronic Depression and PTSD, and ignoring the possibility of either my body biochemically shutting off, or simply going crazy from the side effects of Porphyria and a few other weird little "mutations". But we'll get into that at some later point in time.



If something did happen, I have another lined up to take my place. Believe it or not, free will gives you a whole lot of options when you play Outside. Naturally, that also applies to Multiplayer Notepad. They, sorta, you know... co-mingle as well. Eventually, we all meet our end, and this is my way of bypassing laws of nature, by creating an abstract concept in an artificial construct. Writers do it all the time. Just look at H.P. Lovecraft, L. Ron Hubbard, and King James.



By that time, hopefully, I can just braindump to a hard drive, and modify an existing AI algorithm. The second part is a hell of a lot easier than it sounds, and it's already been done probably thousands of times since the 70's. Realistically, the first part would make things a whole lot easier, but that's not the case, at least at a standard commercial level.



Within this general scope of "idbeholda", I have established multiple pseudo-identities to categorize things that I do. Don't get me wrong, I'm not claiming to be superhuman, that's not what I'm claiming at all. But there is one thing that I do have complete control of: Conciousness.



What happens to this after we die is still apparently a heated debate, but also realistically, the hallucinations encountered during near-death or death-revival situations are typically the result of the brain releasing one last dose of DMT before it goes out. The statistically improbable scenarios that have occured, that can't be explained are actually to be expected given a large enough population sampling. As it stands, we're somewhere around 7 billion. That's also roughly 7 billion assholes. That's a lot of collective shit, and really unsettling when you stop and think about it for more than 20 seconds.



The purpose of this post is to provide contextual backdrop for later stories, and to clear any confusion that may or may not exist. Either way, whatever.

Naturally, as I begin writing this, I have to take a massive dump. I suppose that one could draw the uncanny parallels between what you're reading right now, and what's coming out of my anus (with moderate speed) at this very second.



I felt like sharing this brief, but common experience amongst most living organisms. Thanksgiving may have come a little bit early for some of you upon reading this, thankful that I didn't post some high-res image for the internet to stare back at.



It was thick. It had wrinkles, and divots, and tapered off slightly at the end. It was a sight to lay eyes upon, that's for sure. So, the next time you take a dump, make sure you have a jar of Vaseline in case of severe constipation.

COMMENTS

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xXxPaynexXx
11:37 Mar 22 2015

Hey. At least you were upfront and honest about it all...LOL Some around here can't manage that too well.

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idbeholda
15:39 Mar 22 2015

Oh, believe me, there will plenty of Shit Stories that I'll be sharing in the near future :3

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POST COMMENT

When it's come up as to why I quit cold turkey from high doses of amphetamines, I just tell them, I woke up one day and didn't want to do it anymore. The 7 Year Binge started when I was 13, and ended when I was 20. I'm 33 now. Looking back, it wasn't necessarily the drug use itself that was a problem. Don't get me wrong, it was a fun ride while it lasted, and if I had to go back and change anything, I probably wouldn't. The reason being, is that it would have likely transformed me into the faceless one that stares back in the mirror occasionally.



Let's get one thing clear. I know who I am. At heart, life itself is a game of chance, just like poker. I deal with the hand I've been dealt. Philosophically, sometimes, the ends justify the means. I know there is at least some statistically significant minority that will object, tearing their faces from the screen, disagreeing with things that I've done in abject repulsion and/or fear. If anything, that is entertaining to me. If I get a rise out of you in the process, don't take it personally. Alienation is a calculated risk I take.



It's not like I'm afflicted with some innate, abnormal sociopathic disorder co-morbidly bound to an undifferentiated schizotypal personality complex bordering on a bizzare, concocted fantasy that there is also an underlying dissociative identity disorder as well. That's a fucking cop-out.



Generally, I don't give a shit. If it involves me in any way, shape, or form, I do give a shit. As such, I will tilt the odds in my favor in any way I see fit.



That's just the way things are. Hopefully, you have the testicular fortitude to get your panties out of a twist.

Let's make one thing really clear. I'm not afraid of death. I'm not afraid of dying. In a sense we're all slowly dying, it's only some of us are going that route quicker than others. You're destined for death the very fucking day you're born. I'm not immune to this fact, and if anyone makes claims otherwise, they're clearly out of their mind.



We all die. No exceptions.



What I deal with is intense neurological pain with an exacerbation of medically documented psychiatric issues. As a primary coping mechanism, I prefer not to deal with emotions at all. They're one of the dumbest parts of long term primate evolution. In layman's terms, I think emotions are incredibly fucking stupid, but have to be dealt with nonetheless.



Due to a long-term sequence of corresponding psychologically traumatic events, I can handle life-or-death problems without so much as breaking a sweat, or batting an eye. Pointless stress, unwarranted drama, and childish schoolyard bullshit are things that I don't put up with at all.



When it comes to accomplishing goals, I also believe, given the circumstances, that sometimes the ends can justify the means. This is a key philosophical principle that I cling dearly to. Nothing will ever change this. The only way you'll be able to change my mind is if you pry it from my cold, dead hands. This isn't due to any form of circular logic or reasoning, that's just the way things are when it comes to self-evident reasoning.



Subsequently, I fear no aggressor, as the worst they can accomplish is to alleviate chronic physical pain. If being dead means feeling no more pain, then I consider that a bargain. But if I choose to meet that end, let it be of my choosing. That is a choice that only I decide. If given the circumstances, a deity may condemn me to eternal suffering due to unbearable circumstances, then that is not a deity I choose to believe in.



You can worship as you may, but I can assure you, I believe that if we disagree on the principle of allowing an individual to choose their own end as being an issue of right or wrong, you worship the illusion of a false prophet, whatever that may be.



This is not a cry for help. Move along.

Before, during, and after the 7 Year Binge, I was a lardass. 5'10.5" - 287lbs. The fact of the matter is that I have self-destructive tendencies.



I could be all new-agey-hocus-pocus self-indulgent bullshit.



"It was a pre-natal memory locked away at some point, so if you would hold these two dildos so we can read your engram..."



Yeah, fuck all that. It's a series of genetic mutations that result in a neurochemical imbalance. That, and I don't produce amylase. If I were born in a different place at a different time, I probably would have died before adolescence. I have extensive medical documentation that I'm more than willing to share if anyone thinks that this explanation is complete and utter bullshit.



Other than papercuts and bone fractures, things that would register to most people as pain are actually pleasurable to me. This is excluding the currently existing chronic, intense neuropathic pain, and general achiness from arthritis if I don't stretch and crack most of the joints in my body at least 5 times per day. Nonlethal electrical shocks don't really faze me. Burns, cuts, and blunt force trauma generally register somewhere between a tingly itch to a friendly tap.



While the above information in no way relates to this story, it should give you a little more insight into what kind of general pretenses to expect later on without me needing to further elaborate.



Incidentally, it turns out it wasn't a torn ACL, but a compartmentalized fracture comprising about 75% of my kneecap, starting from the inside and working its way out. I was still walking around on it for the better part of a month until the MRI request had been sent in. The office assistant claimed that it was sent it in the day of the first appointment, while the insurance company claims that it wasn't sent to them until nearly 4 weeks later, and only after they called the office to request a fax of a request for the MRI that should have been faxed weeks prior. Apparently, the only reason the insurance company called to cut through that thick web of half-retarded fuckery was because I had contacted them to figure out what, exactly, the goddamn holdup was. I can't make this shit up.



Also, if someone tells you that a steroidal shot in the knee with what I distinctly recall something that looked like a needle the length of a baby's forearm doesn't hurt is either a filthy liar, or they've never had one done before. It hurts like a motherfucker.



Now, on with the actual story, presuming everyone has lost interest at this point in time.



I've been with a lot of women, compared to most men. One of my close friends has slept with over 300, so by his standards, I would still mathematically qualify as a virgin, despite the fact I've had my dick in a lot of holes. 39 to be exact.



I've been with an extensive variety of women, a few older, some younger, some rich, others around the same age, and yeah, a few fat chicks. This part, however, directly ties in with the story, as my next explanation lays the groundwork for how this event transpired. In retrospect, I should have just gone with the smoldering hot latina stripper, despite one of my cardinal rule of not dating strippers.



Briefly, I had dated a black chick with two kids, but I lost interest after she told me that she was intent on having a bi-racial child, even if it meant signing full parental rights over to her. That's not to say she wasn't a nice person, but I knew it was probably a bad idea. Her reason for wanting me to knock her up was because she thought I was the hottest white dude she'd ever seen. Again, I can't make these things up.



Around that time, while I was working as a hotel night auditor/network administrator I played World Of Chatcraft on Elune as Brainnomlz. While I had to perform a lot of tasks throughout the night, such as printing out paperwork, balancing daily ledgers, and eating leftover bacon from the previous morning, I actually had a lot of free time. The reason I took the job was because I wanted money, despite the fact I was living with a couple who understood that because of an injury in my left leg, I would probably be unable to work anything other than a desk or office job of some kind that didn't require me having to stand any length of time for more than about 30 minutes.



Unfortunately, things fell through when the wife of the couple became delusional and borderline psychotic. Thankfully, I had saved up around $2500 in my bank account, which enabled me to find an apartment, and have the house fully furnished, electric, water, gas, and internet hooked up all in the same day.



During my time on Elune, I took over (for the most part) the entire server marketplace, and quickly established my dominance as a shit-talking, ass-beating, one-man farming empire that nobody was able to compete with. The goldmaking was relatively easy since bags were always in demand, as new characters were being made on a high population server on a frequent basis.



If I didn't feel like farming, I would usually buy out any competitor's inventory, temporarily increase the price for a short time before bringing them back down, thus ultimately circumventing the law of supply and demand. Anyone who has mastered monopoly will tell you this, because it's true. That's also how corporations run their businesses. A multiplayer auction-house is no different.



Believe it or not, on an MMORPG, this will attract a plethora of attention, good, bad, and inbetween. Mostly, when it came to interacting with other players, generally, I was not a pleasant experience, unless we were making some sort of business transaction.



When females would interact with me, I erred on the side of caution by assuming it was some middle-aged balding neckbeard sponging in his mother's basement. I mean, realistically, who needs friends when you have a receding hairline?



The couple that I had stayed with (and before his wife had a complete mental breakdown), called me into the living room where he was playing at the time. Beer in hand, I asked him if he wanted another as well, and he said, "No thanks, I'm good. There's this chick on here with the name ("monkey", "lover", and I think maybe a two or three digit number, but I'm not sure*)."



I think I was on my 7th or 8th one at that point, so with any luck, 2 more and I would have a pretty decent buzz. That asterisk between the parentheses isn't exactly what he said, but it was something to that effect. As a bachelor, an unspoken rule is to at least have an unopened 24 pack handy at all times, in the advent of unexpected company.



The following Monday, him and his wife were planning on taking a weeklong vacation, leaving me to have free reign of the house for the better part of 9 days. "Well, how do you know it's a chick?"



"I don't, but she's got a pretty warped sense of humor."



"Fair enough."



"I think you two should talk to each other, maybe you'll have someone you can be antisocial with when you farm."



"Meh, why not."



A few minutes later, we started talking, as I was farming. To nip any pretenses in the bud, I made it pretty clear that I wasn't interested in anything from anyone over the internet claiming to be female. The females I had met over the internet in person turned out to have more issues than Stan Lee's comic book collection. I'm not even joking. But I'll save some of those stories for a later time.



She asked me for my number, and I gave it to her, making it clear that I wasn't interested in dating anyone, let alone talking to some dude pretending to be a chick. I can generally tell when a male is trying to sound feminine, and vice versa. To my surprise, it was indeed a chick. She told me how Rick and Jess (not their real names) were going to be out of town, and even though I didn't know her, that maybe having company over at that time would keep me from losing my sanity without some kind of regular social interaction.



"I usually get shitfaced drunk, watch horror movies, retrogame, sleep, shower, go to work, and occasionally eat. You're not going to be entertained unless your idea of a good time is spending at least 2 days out of the week completely shitfaced drunk while watching slasher movies and playing sega genesis games, and generally, spending most of your evenings half drunk. I'm not that interesting."



"I don't care. We can have drinking contests. I'll even suck your dick."



"I've already told you, I'm not interested. You weigh significantly more than I do, so the answer on that last one is no."



"Okay, we can skip anything sexual."



"Sounds good to me."



I'm not sure how much she weighed when I first met what eventually turned out to be a raging lunatic with a strong preference for physical confrontations on a regular basis. But that came much later. She was fat. Just no.



We spent most of the week completely shitfaced, as I had managed to save back about $700, so I could take a few days off, buy a ton of booze, a stack of large pizzas, several jumbo bags of various snacks. I knew she was fat, so she would probably have most of it demolished by the end of the 4th day. Much to my surprise, I ended up eating most of the food.



From what I surmised, her weight problem wasn't because she couldn't drop the fork, it was probably a metabolic disorder coupled with a case of moderately severe water retention. She told me that she really, really wanted to lose weight, and she had done everything she could think of, and nothing worked, not even fasting.



I had a general idea of what the problem was, so I suggested a few dietary changes, such as eating primarily vegetables and fruits with white meat, along with consuming grapefruit and cranberry juice on a regular basis. The next time we met, which was about 3 months later, she had dropped what appeared to be around 70lbs.



"Can I at least give you a blowjob now?"



Make no mistake, she was still pretty fat, but she gave some pretty decent head. I'm usually not a fan of getting blowjobs simply because from my own personal experience, most women aren't as great as giving head as they may like to think.



Eventually, she moved into the house that I'd rented because of the fact that she somehow ended up living with an older couple that (I kid you not) was The House That Shit Built. I mean this in every literal sense of the term. Each word that is capitalized in that all-encompassing phrase have equal emphasis as the other words that it contains. I was not letting her move in for sex. I just couldn't imagine someone living in that kind of filth with no real way to escape it and start from scratch. In a sense, she became a charity project. I'm not even going to sugarcoat it.



A few weeks after she moved in, I rented a truck to go down there and get what stuff she had that could be salvaged, and bring it back up. Mathematically, it was cheaper than renting a U-Haul. It was also the first time I'd driven a truck with enough mass and acceleration behind it to theoretically explode a cow directly upon impact with no discernible damage to the exterior, short of a quick spraydown at a local carwash.



Thankfully, that didn't happen, but I did manage to make it from Amarillo TX to Cleveland TX in far less than 8.5 hours. On the way back, and luckily, I was pulled over for going 98 in a 70, but was let off with a warning when I explained to the officer that I had a deadline to get the truck back to the dealer before 6pm to avoid an entire day's late fee, which would cost even more than the speeding ticket that they were most likely going to give me anyway.



Before he let me go, he said, "I'll go ahead and tell the dispatcher about this, just so there's not any confusion. Just do me a favor and please make sure you don't cause an accident, or wrap yourself around a pole. I could get in some deep shit for not citing you."



This is why it pays to have a clean record anytime after the age of 25. But the strangest roadside attraction was yet to come.



I had been awake for close to 48 hours solid by the time it was all said and done. The sun had gone down by the time we were about an hour and a half away from some outskirt town of Houston called Cleveland. Having spent the better part of the time driving nonstop, we came across one of those odd, small-chain all-in-one truckstop/gas station/fueling center/bulk food/souvenir smorgasboard of the strangest themed warehouse-sized convenience store/deli I've ever seen.



The more I explored this borderline, acid induced, trans-dimensional hole in the fabric of space-time that could only be explained by either some really disturbing schizophrenic hallucination, or, at best, some nearly-forgotten piece of local folklore that would piece everything together, allowing it all to make sense. Neither was the case. I'm at a loss of words to adequately describe the overly friendly, yet vaguely ominous atmosphere that's usually the setup for a grade-b slasher flick.



After peeing, and discovering that no severed limbs or suspicious red smudges were present in the bathroom, I continued to roam around, keeping in mind where items were located that could be used in self defense in the advent that there was something more sinister afoot. Thankfully, this was not the case either.



I sampled some of the jerky and different types of fudge, which there seemed to be a near-endless supply of, each with base flavors of chocolate, peanut butter, vanilla, coconut, and a plethora of flavored variants that I figured would be easy to make, but had never really thought about making, let alone trying. If memory serves me correctly, I eventually settled on some kind of off-menu 3lb fudge sampler box that I insisted on paying extra if it was too much of an inconvenience.



I also ordered 14 shots of espresso in a large cup. The employees gathered around to watch as I drank the multi-flavored concoction. At that point, I could only assume a few things:



1) There wasn't a lot of night traffic.

2) Perhaps they were intrigued that someone would buy 3lbs of fudge and drink 14 shots of espresso out of a single cup.

3) They were simply admiring the shape of my skull.



30 minutes later, we were back on the road. The 14 shots of espresso helped a little bit, but just enough that I wouldn't start succumbing to microsleep. A short while after that, things got really interesting.



There appeared to be a traffic jam of sorts in the middle of the night, with road flares, and men directing traffic. I wasn't for sure exactly what happened, but my gut instinct told me it was probably a small traffic accident. As we inched closer, it became apparent that it was at least a 3-car traffic accident. I'm not sure if there were more, but they had the jaws of life, what appeared to be an industrial sized disposal crate, and a small crane at the scene of the accident.



Just from the ambient glow of headlights, there was glass shrapnel everywhere for a good 50-60ft or so, somewhere in that approximate range of measurement. It almost sparkled like glitter, and was amazing to just look at. About an hour later, we finally made it through, but as we left the accident behind us, I noticed something unusual by the side of the road, but I couldn't precisely determine what it was, so I slowed down.



Apparently, during this twisted heap of a collision, somebody lost their head. Lost their head as in decapitation. The neck separates from the rest of the body, and is launched a good distance away from the original scene. But it wasn't just a human head. It was half of a human head. I'm not entirely sure what kind of gravitational force, or perhaps an advanced physics equation transpired, but it was enough that the head didn't bounce, roll, or disintegrate upon impact.



Once the head hit the ground, it just kept moving along with a significant amount of sustained angular momentum that the pavement ended up becoming a metaphorical cheese grater, with the remainder of the cranium coming to an unsettling rest, leaving a streak of crimson behind it.



Thankfully, it wasn't a hallucination, because she happened to see it as well. On our way back through, during sunrise, apparently, someone had missed a stray eyeball and, I think, part of a finger during cleanup.



The fudge was fucking delicious, though.

Life is controlled by free will and statistical probability. When two or more events coincide at the exact same moment, it's called synchronicity. Depending on the circumstances leading up to the event, an individual may or may not experience or believe in some kind of higher power was looking over them, or some equally profound philosophical paradigm that permanently alters their view of the world in some deeply significant personal manner. This isn't one of those tales.



To serve as a pre-illustration for the next entry, my current geographic location is one where unwed single mothers with children fathered by different men, mobile methlabs, drug addled miscreants, and incestuous, white trash "couples" conducting knife fights in a McDonald's parking lot over who slept with the other's cousin. It would be wonderful if I could say with the greatest certainty that these regular spectacles were simply a figment of my imagination.



But they're not. And nothing about these individual situations happening on a large enough sampling is anything out of the ordinary. What actually makes this gargantuan clusterfuck of "what is this, i don't even" that much more awe-inspiring is that within this general vicinity, there stands a majestic bronze ram. Not just any bronze ram, but one that's intentionally anatomically correct. What really concerns me about that, in particular, is the peculiar (and probably unnecessary) detail that went into its bronze-cast scrotum... In full view of the public. Few seem to notice, however, which says even more about the population as a whole than it does about the individual contracted to parlay metal alloys into, essentially, a scrotum with hooves.



The exact date and time, I don't really remember. I was walking back to my apartment from a kegger, having an abdomen full of cheap booze, weed, and having received a rather vigorous and skillful blowjob approximately 30 minutes prior. With all three of those basic desires fulfilled, I decided to go home, eat, and then sleep. What I didn't count on was the roadside attraction that greeted me when I turned the corner.



Only a few dozen yards from where the ram's scrotum majestically hung from its underbelly, there were two vehicles, one of them being a police cruiser. Instead of moving along, I decided to lurk in the shadows and watch this spectacular drama unfold before me.



The second was a red, off-road vehicle of some kind with the windows completely fogged up, and a handprint smeared from the inside in a downward fashion. If I had to make a guess, one of the couple had either probably climaxed, or slipped and impaled their anus on what was, in all likelihood, a stickshift.



Or it could have just been the fact that all of the windows were fogged up from a sexual escapade involving dentures being placed in a solo cup filled with Natty for later use. The reason I mention the remote possibility of false teeth being used in some aspect is because from the distance that I was observing, and the ambient light of the parking lot, it was pretty clear that the female occupant hadn't put them back in, presuming she even had them. Soon, it became quite apparent that the female occupant was most likely a prostitute.



I arrived at this conclusion when I clearly heard her sexually proposition the officer. At that point, I decided to take the side alley home.



Seven years later, I would experience another roadside attraction. It certainly wouldn't be as strange and foreboding as finding a human pelvis completely intact, along with what I would assume was the matching femur in the storage cellar of a dilapidated building that I was clearing out for partial demolition and renovation: It qualified as strange enough that I could equate it to seeing any David Lynch film for the first time, but not psychologically traumatizing enough to warrant the re-evaluation of one's own life situation.