Day 15

In a moment of heroism and bravery, I disregarded the 91° heat and drove to the bum park to snap some daylight pictures so I could complete my faux missing person investigation. I texted the pics to the lady with the wayward son, along with this message (photo 2 is the one above): I showed the bum on the left in photo 2 one of the pictures of your son.  He's never seen him, but he added this comment: pretty fella like dat ain't have no problem gittin' one uh de university faggots to take him in fo a few days, long as he dues what's expeck-ed.  Of course, no such conversation occurred.  That’s an example of the illness. So small, in my regard, in relation to other of my misdeeds, I wouldn't even register it as illness, or a crime, unless specifically trying to diagnose myself. Had I not been conducting this field experiment, trying to scientifically document my illness, I would not have thought twice about it, nor registered it as a crime against humanity, which it was. I deliberately lied, in the hope of compounding her existing anxiety about her son by planting the suggestion in her mind he may now be a rent boy. What a horrible thing to do. Small, yes. But horrible. Done only for a brief moment of the sadistic pleasure of cruelty (probably not nice of me to take the bums' photo, either, and involve them, without their consent, in my mischief). This, of course, points out the folly of my scientific study. Trying to determine the triggers of the illness, and note the circumstances when it flowers into crime?  The answer is obvious. The reality, as my missing person investigation-turned-assault proves, is that every day I live is a crime against humanity. I can’t speak for others, can make no claim for the universality of the condition, but I would not be surprised if I am not alone. I could even prove I myself was a victim, a lesser victim, but still a victim of the lady I victimized in the missing person investigation, in an attempt to posit universality, but why add pettiness to my list of crimes?

Intensity: 100%

Frequency: Every day.

Factors: CASE CLOSED.

Day 14

I was going to drive to the bum park and snap some daylight pictures, and conclude my faux missing person investigation. But it was just too hot. 91°. I decided it would be better to spend the afternoon and early evening in an air-conditioned movie theater. The choice of films reflected the astounding decline in the American film industry. A Superman movie, a Fantastic 4 movie, a car racing movie, a dinosaur movie. I picked the I Know What You Did Last Summer remake, which is so bad I am typing part of what will be today’s entry from inside the theater. I am about twenty-five minutes into the movie, and it is an incredible and artless bore. Earlier, I was at the concession counter. Three *people* standing behind the counter did not notice me until, several moments later, I alerted them. A fat white girl was struggling mightily to open a box of straws. A young white male was doing some unknown thing to the popcorn machine. A black male was staring at his phone. “Does anybody who works here work here?” I axed. The fat girl gave up on the box of straws and provided me some minimal customer service. I have now returned home and no longer have any desire to say anything else about Day 14. I did no harm other than to myself.

Intensity: Nothing.

Frequency: All zeroes.

Factors: When I was a teenager, the 1970s, American film was truly first-rate.  Now it is shit.  

Day 13

I spent many hours, well, some time, at least, pondering the question [here is the framework: a lot of people, maybe most people, intentionally or unintentionally, hurt other people because the action through which they hurt other people gives them pleasure. However, like the euphoric high from a narcotic or stimulant, the pleasure is short-lived. Often the resulting guilt and/or depression lasts much longer than the pleasure. Some few of these people will even try to reform themselves. They understand the pleasure is brief, and alters nothing of the fundamental nature of their life, and oftentimes complicates it to a high degree. Yet despite this knowledge, over and over and over again, throughout a lifetime, a person will intentionally or unintentionally hurt another person for its brief reward.]: why would I do a harmful thing knowing the action provides no lasting benefit? Is life so grim a few moments of pleasure must be stolen from somebody’s well-being? Some people’s lives are undoubtedly that grim. But most of us, no. Why do *it?* The final truth of the answer, after boring down through boredom, self-pity, temporary biological or psychological urges, biological or psychological defects, is life is NOT experienced as a supernatural event, what some religious or primitives call a precious gift or miracle. If we thought life was a treasure, we would act more carefully toward others. It is probable many people view their own life as a treasure, but cannot see equal value in the other. Jesus said all things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them. This is the fundamental law we violate without ceasing (admittedly, many may violate it by less injurious means than myself or others, but violate it all do). This means, in simple terms, we love ourselves, and hate others. The question is, then, not why would I do a harmful thing knowing the action provides no lasting benefit, but why do I not do it even more frequently? I have no genuine regard for the other, but I hold back from possible consequences. If I knew I could act freely, how low I would go. Am I alone in this? This is probably as much insight as I will ever have. As long as I am chained to this body, I will be subject to its forces, forces I am unable to change, forces I endure as long as I remain interested in avoiding consequence. It can be physically and mentally exhausting to endure these forces, and eventually we take a break, especially as we do not comprehend the victim as being of the same value.  It is my opinion this is a universal component of human nature (this is the root of the illness of which I have been speaking for the past 13 days, with the fever being the signal we are ready to take a break from enduring the forces of our flesh.  Of course, we must mention the flowering of the illness, in acts of abuse, vary greatly from person to person. To mix the metaphor, no two snowflakes are alike).

Intensity: 94 degrees outside today.  Too hot to get worked up about anything.  At least, until the sun goes down.

Frequency: You run and you run to catch up with the sun but it's sinking, racing around to come up behind you again.

Factors: We must now determine the factors influencing the frequency of the illness.  Is it primarily environmental stressors that modulate the forces of our flesh?  If not, wouldn't we abuse the other on a regular schedule (unique, of course, to the individual)?

Day 12

As I was driving down to the bum park last night I realized that lady on the phone never asked me how I was or what I’ve been doing or any of that shit. No contact in twenty-five years and just demands a favor like I borrowed ten bucks from her yesterday!  Although I have done some horrible things, I still think I am better than everybody. LOL.  Maybe I am?  What if all my problems in life are because I have never realized who I truly am?  I am my own worst enemy.  Look at me, sacrificing my time to do this stupid favor for a selfish bitch.  In the unlikely event I see her son, I'll stab him in the heart.  JK.  I don't even have a knife.  I am proud to say I do not have, nor have I ever had, a weapon of any kind.  I'm not a pussy.  I've went through life on nothing but faith.  Of course, no people on earth have more faith than the Palestinians. These all died in faith, not having received the promises, but having seen them afar off, and were persuaded of them, and embraced them, and confessed that they were strangers and pilgrims on the earth.  Who is that, but the Palestinians?  Naysayers, white naysayers, anti-Christs, might say the Palestinians had no choice but to have faith, and therefore their faith is not genuine.  These naysayers say this while they run off to get chemotherapy to treat their cancers, so terrified are they of their impending deaths.  Anyway, I parked a block from the bum park.  I felt like Harry O on the job as I went through the park.  Nobody even remotely resembled the bitch's punk son.  See this loser:

 

I went up to him, held up my phone with a picture of the stupid bitch's idiot son.

"You ever seen this white boy?"

The loser gives me a stupid look.

"Huh?"

"I ax the questions.  You seen him or not?"

"You a cop? What is this?"

"Maybe he offered to blow you for ten bucks?"

"What?  Get outta here!"

I took a bunch of photos.  I took enough photos from different angles, bums in little groups, so I could make it look like I was there two or three different times.  I'll text them to the bitch, a couple a day for three days, I'll drive by one afternoon and take a couple daylight shots from the car.  LOL, it's more than most people would do.  I took this one purely for artistic reasons:

 

I call it: Fruit Box At Night In Bum Park.  Anyway, I woke up today in a peculiar mood, with a mild illness fever.  I wanted to abuse somebody.  Why?  What would trigger this?  Why would I want to degrade somebody, pervert them, soil them?  Why cannot I properly internalize all the Lord Jesus Christ did?  I should be harmless as a dove.  Obviously, I am not.  

Intensity: Mild.  Will need to avoid certain stimuli.

Frequency: This is Day 12.  All things considered, it hasn't been bad.  Of course, I have went have much longer, sometimes years, without the illness flowering into significant malignancy.

Factors: Need to contemplate the question which has forever bedeviled God's people.    

Day 11

I’m just now waking up. It is 4:25 PM. LOL. I received an unusual phone call in the middle of the night. Or early in the morning. However you look at it. The ringtone woke me up at 3:16 AM. I know that time is the same everywhere. But in the caller’s mind, time was ‘three hours earlier’ because they were sitting in the state of Oregon. I was too tired and, frankly, too surprised to receive the call to correct the caller. The caller was a female I worked with decades ago. She was a co-worker. We flirted with each other on the job to kill time. She weighed too much for me to ever seriously consider fornication. Anyway, as she began explaining something to me, the reason for her call, I was extremely surprised as well as tired. Why on earth would this person be calling me after at least twenty-five years? She was saying something about her son when I interrupted her. “How did you get my phone number?” That’s all I gave a shit about. LOL. She was telling me something about her son in what seemed a somewhat unfortunate situation, yet I wanted to know how it could be possible for her to have the means to bother me in the middle of the night. Or early in the morning. However you look at it. “( ) gave me your number.” Yup. We text each other during football season. We are Michigan fans.

Me and ( ) and the lady on the phone worked at the same place. It surprised me that ( ) and the lady on the phone were still in touch. ( ) had never once brought her up in the last ten or so years we have been texting about Michigan football. Then again, why would he? But then again then again, why would he feel he could give out my phone number? That irritated me. This is all gonna make me sick, I thought, this kind of irritation could provoke a mild fever that could burn into something big. All the while I’m thinking these things over, the lady on the phone is explaining a thing to me.  A thing about her son. I am comprehending what she is saying even while I am thinking my own thoughts. I will synopsize what this broad was taking a long time to say: I lived in the town where her son was last seen. Local authorities were of no help to her. So she wanted me to go to a certain spot he was seen at, go twice a day or night at random times and see if he was there, or anybody was there who “looked like they could help.” I laughed out loud at that last part. I said without thinking, blurted it out really, "I’m supposed to just talk to some stranger and say 'can you be of help,' like, what to some old lady, some kid, some bum, just anybody?"  "I DON’T KNOW." She literally shouted. At 3:30 in the middle of the night. Or in the early morning. Whatever. There was a pause in the conversation. Not that it was much of a conversation. There was a pause in her talking at me. I just sat there in my bed. This was unexpected. The timing. I don’t believe in coincidence. I’m in the middle of recovery, trying not to relapse, trying to ward off illness. Trying to save people from me. I couldn’t help but think this was meant to fuck me up somehow. “Just feel it out, OK?" she finally says. “Oh-kaaay,” I said. I’ll synopsize the rest of the shit: she told me how old her son was, she told me about the circumstances that led to this stupid shit, she told me about the person who claimed to have seen him at the location I was supposed to go to, she said she would text me a couple of pictures of her son, if I would just go a couple of times for the next three or four days, she knew it was unlikely anything would come of it, but at least she could tell herself she tried. As she said this last part I was thinking well, she could’ve flown out here, got a hotel room and been at this place all day but I kept that to myself. Maybe she was poor.  I don’t know. Whatever. I wouldn’t have the kind of money for that kind of shit.  Anyway, I agreed.  After the call was finally over, it took me forever to fall back asleep.  I ain't going down there now.  There would be nowhere to park.  I'll go late tonight.  Take a quick look.  LOL.  Stupid.

Intensity: Zero.  Sub-zero. LOL.

Frequency: Dormant.

Factors: This will take my mind off my own illness.  That is good.  But. . .this location the son might have been seen at is the bum park downtown.  If I should happen to see one particular female bum down there, this could all become problematic.  There will definitely be an opportunity to commit a crime.

Day 10

I woke up today and it was already hot.  It's 5:30 pm now and 95 degrees.  No AC in this council flat.  Too hot for the illness to flower.  In this heat a person cannot summon the energy to be criminal, unless directly provoked.  Whenever it is hot like this, and I sit and sweat in my council flat, I forbid myself from feeling unfortunate.  I imagine the people being exterminated.  Slowly, cruelly exterminated.  What have I to grumble over?   Perhaps wickedly (certainly without justification), I congratulated myself for not being a tribesman or a tribal supporter. Their crimes are demonic. My illness is piddling in comparison. It doesn’t even exist in comparison. It can’t be seen. An entire nation participating in a ritual sacrifice. And the Western world denies or looks away. There are still hundreds, perhaps thousands of Christians there under the vicious rule of the tribespeople. When Jesus was crucified only John and a few women stood by. As tribespeople are torturing and murdering, Christians among the victims, the church is nowhere to be seen. Why should I then trouble myself over my illness? So what if I hurt one here, hurt one there, bother one here, bother one there, shame one here, shame one there? Why trouble myself? I cannot be certain I was chosen before the foundation of the world, but I can be certain I was not if I do not hate my life in this world. The effeminate Western clergy and their pew-warmer cultural Christians and *traditionizers* will contend Jesus did not mean what He said and did not say what He meant when He said we must hate our life in this world. They are liars who love the world, love their life in the world, fear death and do not believe in eternity. Probably all nicer people than me, LOL.

There is nothing more pitiful than a human being who denies Christ. What are they really saying? I’m OK as I am. I did the best I could. On balance, I’m good. It wouldn’t be fair to damn me because I don’t believe I need Christ, especially since the Higher Power has been so coy about all these things. My illness brings me to Jesus. Look at the sick people in the New Testament. They did whatever they could to be near Him. They heard His voice. Heal me! I believe! they cried. Look at all the nice people who dismiss Jesus. LOL! I’d rather die in the gutter than live thinking I was OK. Jesus, despise not my prayer though You know me to be a sinner, but spare your people from the demonic tribesmen.  

Intensity: Zero.

Frequency: Dormant.

Factors: Instead of illness, I feel dread.  That I already passed away.  That the last eruption, the last flowering of the illness was fatal.  The death seed was planted.  The dread is the death taking root.  It is not the death I dread, but the dying.  Having to speak of it with four or five people.  The hassle, having to placate or accommodate them.  But why take thought of this now?  Why let tomorrow's burden ruin today?  

Day 9

Cranked out a reply to prison correspondent. It was tough. There was nothing of interest in his letter. Just a commentary on the Menendez brothers’ case, and the implications it has for his case. Usually his letters are more interesting, full of praise and questions concerning white actresses (both porn and so-called *legitimate stage or screen*). Anyway, I replied with my unsolicited thoughts about President Trump’s welcome threat to arrest Obama. Very few people need to be in prison more than the war criminal Hussein Obama (who should also be investigated for the suspicious deaths of at least two homosexuals who were close associates). Anyway, the trap from Day 8 is still in the process of being escaped. I was sloppy. I assumed since I locked myself in my home, I was safe. Therefore, my guard was down and I was suckered into a situation that could end in madness or death. I have no doubt this will seem a preposterous exaggeration to anybody who stumbles across these words. But that is only because you do not know the context. In yesterday’s entry I stated:

I will never be specific about the crimes or the illness. It doesn’t matter, and would only upset the tiny number of people who can stand me.

That was not entirely truthful. There is an additional reason.  By not being specific, I encourage any reader who happens across it to assume the worst, as that is what is most common to human nature.  I also desire, though am not certain of its success, the reader to judge themselves favorably against me.  But merely imagining a hypothetical reader judging themselves favorably against me makes me rejoice.

The Lord answers prayer.  Driving home today from the Plasma Donation Center, I saw this:

I was immediately sick at heart.  My soul grieved for these little ones.  They have no idea of the horrors that await them.  I am much, much further down the road than they.  I know their futures.  The pain and suffering they must endure made me weep.  I am old and hardened, at this stage my own misery amuses me, you see how it pleases me to write of it.  But these little ones are not calloused.  They are still fresh in this Hell.  They have likely only received a few kicks yet.  The reality of their future anguish released me instantly from the trap of Day 8.  On their behalf I spat in Satan's face, and he fled.

Intensity: I survived a rather feverish 48 hours.  

Frequency: Abating.

Factors: Yes, I survived a rather feverish 48 hours.  But at what price?  The knowledge of the agony the little ones must suffer is a hard coin to mint.