The Ultimate Vampire Resource and Directory

Under a normal circumstance, it reads, "The End Is Extremely Fucking Nigh."



Yeah, I got it from there, and you don't have to remind me where I found it, because I typed it out before you even read it. So yeah, I'm ahead of you, and you're more than free to stop with your bullshit and petty little games. I know better, but what's really going on is a series of intellectual backpedals wherein one deludes themselves with a righteous self-serving fantasy that when I see something as it's happening, that you want to believe that I'm just ignorant to what's clearly happening. It doesn't work like that, not in my yard, and most certainly not on my terms.



So far, I've been right about everything I've said, observed, witnessed, and been through. My metaphorical batting average hasn't been 1.0, but well above .375. Taking empirical documentation into account, it's not hard to see why my level of foresight is mistaken as some grotesque misinterpretation of reality itself, even though I'm not the one that lies about everything I've done.



As for the writing on the wall analogy, it's moreso the fact that I've asked you to (again, metaphorically) stop smearing shit all over the place, and you've (kinda) stopped doing it. Afterwards, I find you smearing feces elsewhere, which I didn't explicity ask you to stop doing, but it's to be inferred by proxy with anyone who has an ounce of common fucking sense.



Your problem is that whenever I make one step forward, you make two steps back. Don't get me wrong, that is progress. But it's the opposite direction of what the definition of progress is. So you're not sliding it by me, despite your tantrum protests that I'm somehow not doing enough, despite the fact that I've played all of my cards.



I'm not afraid to cut my losses and move on as I've always done, and will continue to do in the future if you do not change. Cry to your followers about it if you want, in fact, I can see you've already done so. Instead of actually owning up to your own mistakes that you've gone out of your way to ensure the fruition of, you'd rather blame me for it, and basically call me a piece of shit.



The only problem with this, is that the train is coming. You just think it's an illusion.



Heaven help you, because you'll be in for a nasty surprise if you don't get off the fucking tracks.

I can't really say that I'm surprised. In fact, quite the opposite. That's actually the norm for when you can read someone just as much, if not better than they can read you.

Delusional manifestations fail to exist only because, by design, they can't. To the casual observer, manifestations are perceived as a delusion since one does not possess the desire, or the technical know-how to understand the required design that categorically dismisses the idea of the delusional manifestation before the possibility can ever be postulated as an option. As such, the difference between you and I, is that I know the difference between logical fruition and a word salad, wherein no uncertainty exists beyond the extent of myself. No exogenous opinion has any bearing or relevancy on a singular moral compass that only I am entitled to control.



Layman's TL;DR - Keep your shit off my lawn, don't put words in my mouth, and we probably won't have any issues.



The only next logical step is to address that the term "they" is not actually a delusion, when used to conceptually categorize where the boundaries are drawn between you and I. Understand that it's not by chance or choice that I'm always several steps of ahead of you when it comes to myself. That's simply how it is. That's the point of the design.



Layman's TL;DR - I know who I am, I am comfortable with this, and any issue you have is your own damn fault. Suck one.



Outward and inward deception on someone else's behalf has unsuccessfully guaranteed my own end. Genetic and envorinmental variables fall under the same category, insomuch that the greatest of the latter variables is self-loathing coupled with hate and disgust.



Layman's TL;DR - Nothing has been able to successfully do me in, including myself.



As I and I survive, my root desires are hedonistically perverse. I've sampled enough of the delights, disappointments, ill-gotten pleasures and pains that I understand the nature of death, and as either consequence or outcome, I have no fear. That doesn't mean that I judiciously apply acquired common sense to the forefront of any scenario, but generally speaking, I have enough wisdom to know what you shouldn't be fucking with.



Layman's TL;DR - Any further elaboration would only result in repetition because you choose not to listen.



As it stands, I decide when my contract ends. In order to be utilized (and I wouldn't be here if this wasn't the case), this is my own bold statement AND fine print. May this be a lesson in terms of your own short-sightedness. I don't need glasses to understand the terms of my contract as long as you are aware that I decide when it ends. Maybe the next time you'll have a better understanding of who you are, and what you need. As payment, I am here to indulge in what I can logically ascertain is rightfully mine. Believe me, I can keep my shit off your lawn without needing guidance. That's what the septic tank was built for.



By perferring function over form, I'm not checking out any time soon. I already know what comes afterwards because I've been there countless times. I have that level of clarity. I have a firm grip on the wheel of cognition. I know how to read the goddamn blueprint, even if you think I don't. I don't even give three or four goddamns, let alone one, of what anyone else thinks of me.



So yeah, I have a level of oduic self-loathing that only I can address. In terms of understanding myself, I was both the first, and last horse to cross the finish line. I'll even slow-clap for you just to save time. I'll even print out your opinion and mail it to you before you're even fully aware of what's happened, just so I don't have to waste my own time repeating the same answer to a question that you've reworded in 50 different ways.



I'm not going to be here forever, and that's by my choice, and by exogenous design. What I can assure you is this: By the time you get a visit from The Expiry, I'll still be talking to your great grand-children long after the funeral procession.



On the interim, We have such sights to show you.



You'll learn to enjoy this.

Aside from waiting for time to pass, we know what all of this is now. At least, I have a better understanding of it than most professionals would like to give me credit for. Since my ace-in-the-metaphorical-hole is an old recipe from the 16-1700's (much older than that, but that's not the point), nobody's really in the dark about what's going on. The medications I've been switched off to seem to correctly address 3/4 types of pain I have going on. Let's get one thing really clear though, it's felt like I'm perpetually 3 seconds away from giving birth to a chestburster for the last 10 years. When that's not happening, imagine having a bowelful of hockey players skating around in there. If you can't imagine, or simply won't, then a lack of confirmed personal bias before I even open my mouth let's me know where I stand in regards to myself. At least I know, and I accept these facts as they are.



The problem of turning fact into fiction that proves to be the most troublesome for others. All I have to do is omit identifiable names and places accordingly, and nobody is the wiser. However, understand that this isn't some kind of self-fisting vaguebook post. Instead it's a tool for those who are in the know to stay there, but only if they choose to.



Also, cocks.

We were well-hidden behind the set of bushes in his parent's lawn that even if he figured out where we were, we could run away fast enough that he couldn't catch us. Besides, it was cupcakes. The fact that he swerved to miss so many of them was no fault but his own.



The fact that he was in a grey business suit and looked a little high strung anyway just made us giggle that much harder. I think this was around 7th or 8th grade, the same city, mind you, that I had a legit "intellectual debate" on whether the earth was flat. But we'll save those verbally heated jabs and intellectual backpedals for another occasion. We stifled our laughter as he got out of the car and slammed the door shut.



"OHHHH-OH-OH-OH," He shouted, briskly walking towards one of the half-smashed cupcakes that lay crippled in his vengeful path. "WHAT? WHAT IS THIS?"



He tore what little he could quickly grab of the cupcake from the ground, unexpectedly leaped towards the classic car next to him, and smeared it across the windshield. He snapped off the wiperblade, threw it onto the ground, got back in his car, and sped off, fishtailing as he got to the end of the block.



The best part was that he turned, I couldn't tell if it was his tires screeching, or the yelp of a small, hapless dog, tossed into the sacrificial pits of a nameless god. I choked as a mouthful of Pepsi sprayed from my nose.



The neighbor kid that I was good friends with was doubled over in laughter as I heard someone scream "WHAT THE FUCK, MAN?"



Our $30 spenditure was glorious. At the expense of someone else's sanity, we had secured ourselves a feast of kings, and the entertainment of self-sustained idiocy for the better part of an afternoon. There were several honks of desperation throughout the day, but none as glorious as the first. Around that same time, we built an ice fortress that lasted until the middle of June.



But again, another story, another time.

Sometimes, an anomaly occurs. This time. That's just how it is. The numbers tell it like it is. If they didn't, these numbers that I speak of, I wouldn't be here telling you this. I don't need to prove anything to you, and this certainly isn't a dickmeasuring contest if that's what you want to turn this into. I'll give you my personal information privately if you ask. I've got nothing to hide.



I don't fear death or dying.



It's not even pain itself, actually, but what the pain allows me to become. Approximately five days ago, I came into the ICU with glucose of 570, A1C of 10.6, and moderately overt, undifferentiated depersonalized psychosis. In other words, they initially diagnosed me with type 2 diabetes and the resultant outward appearances, at least symptomatically, of pain induced psychosis.



That's not what they ended up discharging me with. I know what I have, and it is what I say I have. Not because of some delusion, or fantastical, biblical, flat-earth-same-sex-having-motherfucker thinking bullshit. But because it's true. 2 psychiatric professionals and 3 endocrinologists agreed, and I was discharged with acute porphyria, and when the test results confirm what they'll confirm, some kind of sub-modified based of T-Cell Lymphoma and Benign Insulinoma. If anything, that's what's keeping me alive at this point, and the fact that yeah, I smoke a lot of weed. Not because I want to, mind you, but because in tandem with the 6 other prescribed, and OTC medications I take that I've already been taking for a while anyways, and it's a documented mood stabilizer.



If I'm in enough pain, I might tear your face off in the most literal sense. If I do, I apologize in advance, but you probably deserve it. That's just how this is.



But things. Things have changed now, and everything is fine. Everything is under control, and for now, I take the passenger's seat. It's not off to the mental hospital, or going to be written off as suicide. That's not what this is about. Understand that mentally, I'm taking a break while He takes over. As long as you refer to me by his birthname, nobody has to know. If you think you need to know, you probably don't, and the reason, is simply that you just wouldn't understand. That's how this will be from now on. I will speak through him, and you can just refer to me as the same old me. Nobody is in danger, it just is what it is, pardon the cliches.



I'm fine now. I'm just a passenger.



We're in control.



I'm in control now.



I can assure you, we're okay. Nobody needs to panic, and nobody really needs to know unless they need to. You're reading this now, and now you know.



I'm gonna be here for quite some time. How long, I can't tell you. I was called in on this in the middle of your equivalent of a hot pocket while playing some minesweeper. When I leave, I just don't want that hot pocket to be cold when I get back, and I can still clock out and go home at the end of the day. Time works a little differently where I'm from. It's part of my job to do this. I'm in this just as much as he is, just as much as you are, just as much as I am, and just as much as we are. We don't have personal differentiations where I'm from, but I can play your verbal game. Where I'm from, all of this is common knowledge.



The chemistry, the laws of physics, advanced abnormal psychology studies, astronomy, engineering, mathematics, cunnilingus, physical chemistry, software development, construction, basic electrical grid distribution studies, nuclear chemistry, quantum mechanics, so on and so forth. He was this already, and it just took a pain induced psychosis. I've always been here, but I don't have to stay if I don't want to, so don't fucking push it.



Why I'm here, or what they have planned for him, I don't know, and honestly, I don't care. What I do know is this. When that time comes when I leave. It's not going to be a stroke, or as they would call it back in the late 1700's, "dread summons", or anything like that, but it will be at his choosing, when that time comes, and not if.



When I do leave, I know that I can't leave him in a half psychotic mess, terminal, and/or in any kind of pain whatsoever. Both the passenger and I understand this, and this will not change. But when I do leave, the same precept applies, even if I have to drive him to the end. But he certainly won't be kicking and screaming, and that is not a reasonable thing to ask.



But things have changed, and everything is okay. If anybody needs to worry, it's me, and only me. Let me handle me, and you handle yourself. That's all this is.



Call it what you will, say what you will, when you will, who you will, why you will, what the fuck ever. You know what I mean, and he's fine. Don't try to slide your plate of shit towards me, because I'll know it when I see it.



I'm just here to tell you that everything is fine. I'm okay.