My Descent Into Psychosis

[Metron2267]

You have a brilliant mind that seems to function well at times.

By contrast you have a closed loop repetitive mind that simply recycles and regurgitates the same dreck day in and year out.

[VC]

By contrast you have a closed loop repetitive mind that simply recycles and regurgitates the same dreck day in and year out.

Sure thing Metron2267. Bwhahahaha!

Did you ever make it past 200+ posts per day here? Please break your previous record -NOT. As someone might say: Faggot or Gay. Cause you just couldn't resist to pull-out your whale dick to bait him:

He had him at whale penis...

We know:

oh, metron. *sigh*

[Metron2267]

As someone might say: Faggot or Gay. Cause you just couldn't resist to pull-out your whale dick to bait him:
We know:

Do ya?

Funny old thing is - you never get fromaged when MD or Paladin or DPS go all Gaydar, now do you?

Selective targeting like that only confirms your:

[VC]

Guess "you" Metron2267/26 Horses had a free get out of jail card as Karo.

Azraa, you do some really funny cartoons. Real talent. Do you do artwork too?

Maybe that's something that can help, if/when you're sometimes dipping back down into darkness. Nothing like making some awesome cartoons like this one.

Any samples of artwork too?

[AZZERAE]

Azraa, you do some really funny cartoons. Real talent.

Thanks.

Do you do artwork too?

Yes.

Maybe that's something that can help, if/when you're sometimes dipping back down into darkness. Nothing like making some awesome cartoons like this one.

I used to be extraordinarily prolific. Drawing used to feel like it helped, a lot. Then, somewhere along the line, my relationship with it as a practice changed. The past few years, the darkness just gets me down, and I can barely do anything. I feel defeated, and it makes me sad. I'd love to do more cartoons, but I've lacked the motivation and can't seem to muster much willpower anymore to do anything.

Any samples of artwork too?

I'll get some together. The fact you've been so encouraging is sweet, and I appreciate it. Sorry I'm so testy at times.

[VC]

Paranoia III

The Whirlpool of Transparent Masks

[...]

Something inside me ushered a few thoughts into a particular direction â€" that being the masks. I shook my head in disbelief and sprang to my feet, looking everywhere for one of those peculiar faces that circled me before. How odd this whole situation had turned out, I whispered to myself. I needed something to chew on, and sure as can be, a plan unfolded explicitly in my mind. All I was to do was follow it!

Is there a Part IV coming soon?

[VC]

I used to be extraordinarily prolific. Drawing used to feel like it helped, a lot. Then, somewhere along the line, my relationship with it as a practice changed. The past few years, the darkness just gets me down, and I can barely do anything. I feel defeated, and it makes me sad. I'd love to do more cartoons, but I've lacked the motivation and can't seem to muster much willpower anymore to do anything.

I'll get some together. The fact you've been so encouraging is sweet, and I appreciate it. Sorry I'm so testy at times.

BellGab should be a very entertaining and amusing motivational outlet for your cartoons. This is hilarious:



Bwahahahaha!

Yeah, post your artwork too. Please.

[AZZERAE]

If you really cut yourself, then people shouldn't be showing you the knife ignorantly.

You have a brilliant mind that seems to function well at times.

Mutilation is the most sincere form of flattery.

[VC]

Mutilation is the most sincere form of flattery.

Consign these tendencies to your funny writing antics around BG, mutilate their deserving ends, and twist your sharp edginess into your deepest cuts by and by the flattery of your imagery and your other magic arts.

It's your bloody artwork. Nice avatar. Love your cartoons.

[AZZERAE]

Nice avatar. Love your cartoons.

That's very nice of you to say. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you for the kind words.

[AZZERAE]

Paranoia IV

I should've discontinued, I should have stopped myself. But I didn't. Whoever knows me knows I never can.

Reaching out for help when you're knee deep in life-wrecking, the position is dire. I couldn't sit straight. I couldn't move. I couldn't look at her ... least of all in the God damn mirror.

I held the pen knife my grandfather had given me, between that flesh and mine, and ripped, began tearing them apart. They were siamese no more, ex-circus freaks and blood. Earlier that day doctor hadn't even been in town and I'd delivered a newborn piglet. But, I thought something was a little off when I looked down in the pond and the Koi were gone.

I ran out into the street. Motherfuckers were sending smoke signals, somewhere, or trying to at least. But I couldn't see them, and they were in another country and had hidden my rocks and trees.

Losing ones nerve never a good look I played it cool. No one had less than me, I strolled streets proud and looking calm.

When the blood started to gush out of the tenth story windows I began to panic, or rather to look unsettled- that I couldn't help. My friends all worked continuously, night and day... shifts did not exist. I never saw them and began to wonder if I still had the right to call 'em friends.

Then the finger came out the sky, and the little surrounding me glanced and ran around in panic, trampling some I shrugged.

These days seemed more one long night, and never before an evening I had participated in. I sat on park benches and a faceless mass approached.

Wherever these faces went I felt drawn to and giggled uncontrollably ... not aware of the control they had over me. I mirrored the lack of face and off I peeled mine.

They all brought logs and pins and razors and we stacked them in a pile. An hour prior I'd drifted off to sleep to the awful scent of my fathers alcoholic breath.

I realised none of me were going anywhere, and gave up.

[VC]

I'll get some together. The fact you've been so encouraging is sweet, and I appreciate it. Sorry I'm so testy at times.

good to see you around.  i still appreciate all of that gabcast artwork you created.

[VC]

I'm emigrating. My inclination is to the United States, but I don't know if I 'll be able to take the racial strife. I often think to myself: where in the world can I go for a humble but decent life without the violence and anti-white sentiment from blacks or Muslim extremists?

Is that why you moved to Indonesia?

[VC]

  Why the 'brown girl' subterfuge?  Just ask if he's queer (British). 

You (Azz) have posted often referring to yourself as a male identity (heterosexual), even having GF's and seemingly intimate relationships with females, but, then again, you also post often as if you are speaking in a female persona from a female perspective and are writing here as if you're a female attracted to males too. Is this just part of some "role play" or mental game you're playing here, or are you somehow a "blended gender" identifying as both male and/or female as you so determine is "as needed" when posting here?

You went personal after K_Dubb and called him Gay, but you really do like/love him, so this whole situation with your psychosis has gotten the better of me with my curiosity to understand what is really going on "in here" with your mind and gender identities. This place is insane to begin with, but maybe you'll give a sane and honest response if possible.

[AZZERAE]

Is that why you moved to Indonesia?

No.

[AZZERAE]

You (Azz) have posted often referring to yourself as a male identity (heterosexual), even having GF's and seemingly intimate relationships with females, but, then again, you also post often as if you are speaking in a female persona from a female perspective and are writing here as if you're a female attracted to males too.

Is this just part of some "role play" or mental game you're playing here, or are you somehow a "blended gender" identifying as both male and/or female as you so determine is "as needed" when posting here?

My boyfriend and I share this account.

You went personal after K_Dubb and called him Gay, but you really do like/love him, so this whole situation with your psychosis has gotten the better of me with my curiosity to understand what is really going on "in here" with your mind and gender identities. This place is insane to begin with, but maybe you'll give a sane and honest response if possible.

I'm fond of K. Dubb, and don't remember calling him gay!

[VC]

My boyfriend and I share this account.

LOL. Since when?

[VC]

I'm fond of K. Dubb, and don't remember calling him gay!

[VC]

Is this part of your psychosis?

The Doors of Perception are Opening. Decode this BellGabers:

There was/is a Tootsie Wootsy that trolled both boards pretending to be dying of cancer that was nothing but an act of lying to troll and play on people's sympathies. Maybe you're the same person, or, more likely, you got that same idea to copy TW and use schizophrenia as your sympathy play instead of cancer?

It’s hilarious that she thinks she’s getting to us. Adorable even!

get sober, my friend 

Sober me up 

how can i do that?

Up to you...

we;ll think of something, honey 

SHE IS YOUR CANCER
you know the one you told us that you have (in your brain) to trigger us and to gain our sympathy.
So now stop whining and start dying slowly from it with some reasonable measure of dignity.

Oh my beautiful liar

Oh my precious whore

My disease my infection

I am so impure

Guess the crackpot is gonna talk to herself on both her accounts now.

I tire of this.

Bellgab is a skid mark of its former self I’m afraid these days.

And you are an artist.

I did in fact grow up in South Africa ...

Do you do artwork too?

Yes.

I used to be extraordinarily prolific. Drawing used to feel like it helped, a lot.

[VC]

For those that believe in Whitley Strieber... A True Story:

Azzarae continues his psychosis by delving into Whitley Strieber's life to find some meaning and purpose for his life and/or his social media. His mental illness has produced an ET through his window.

Save yourself years of recovery from Whitley's programming by reading about what happened to this guy, Jasun:

Prisoner of Infinity: UFOs, Social Engineering, and the Psychology of Fragmentation Paperback â€" April 30, 2018


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jqrr0EmjlFo

Jasun Horsley has an awesome website that has a vast collection of Blog posts and Podcasts that cover Social Engineering that can relate back to The Paranormal. He had an obsession with Strieber's ideas and other "followings" for more than a decade before he realized how "controlled" he was by such interests.

Here is Jasun's website with intro about his Strieber book:

https://auticulture.com/prisoner-of-infinity/

If you're going to be obsessed about such topics, then I think Jasun can help you from becoming entrapped in such beliefs and becoming more mentally ill as Azzarae is about such matters.

His podcasts are here:

https://auticulture.com/liminalist/

If you prefer the written word, then here is his blog:

https://auticulture.com/blog/

[AZZERAE]

Paranoia V

The last money I saw, which I earned myself, was a couple hundred bucks, and that was over a month ago now. For weeks I’ve been too incapacitated to do more than do my daily ablutions, get dressed and plop on the couch in exhaustion.

I thought I saw a glimmer of hope a week or so ago. But it was a flash in the pan, and nothing more. Today, I awoke to a new level of numbness - one I’d never experienced before. It slowly morphed from that to a hollowness of a different sort, a kind of “empty” if you will. Just a peg down from neutral.

It’s not silly. It’s no longer a joke. As the day progressed (or regressed) a dark cloud began to form above me. It was black, and it poured acid rain style depression. No tears, luckily. But, you know, being depressed without an obvious cause - as the chemicals in your brain shift and slither around - sure is a downer (for want of a better word).

I just sat there, slouched at my work desk, my art supplies scattered around haphazardly, waiting for me to at least try. But I didn’t. I fucking failed again today, for the 30th time, to do a single thing. I live in my head. My affect is blunt. I’m suspended above myself, in solitude, and when noise or light pierced through that I recoil in horror.

I can watch hardcore porn, or the most vile horror films one could imagine, and not bat an eyelid. But people ... my God, no, please ... give me a rope or a handful of pills. I can’t take more than a few hours of it before I’m fantasising about being firmly 6 feet underground.

What will my future look like? When I can’t lean on these crutches prescribed to me? Will I have one?

Anger began to build in me, simultaneous to the deep, dark, low sadness. I couldn’t understand what the hell I was experiencing! This hasn’t happened to me with this intensity since before I began seeking treatment, and walked through the doors of my saviour, psychiatry.

It’s true that you fall for your therapist. And hard! But you also get suspicious ... you hate them, they scare you ... as they sit there despondent to your dump truck of emotions. They’re used to it - the feelings of the haunted - spilling, flowing, circling their drain. But they’re there, the muted, neutral sounding board, and they’re that to everyone that they can reach (if they’re willing).

The thought of thanking her has crossed my mind more often than I’d like to admit to myself. I’m hopeless, worthless and unable to resolve any of the things that cross my path. But I have to follow blindly the lead she sets out before me and trust it’ll hold when the going gets tough.

So I sit here, fist balled up. Veins protruding. Blood rushing through my face, teeth clenched. And I pound inanimate objects, like the desk. My senses are so acute, I can detect muffled this or accentuated that from kilometres away.

But I’m scared in this moment - about what exactly I should do. I can’t articulate well enough the devil that interferes with my progress, who sends obstacles to me in the form of my own loved ones facial expressions. I can’t detail the feeling of being watched by the demons always hanging around not far off to the side of me. If I tell someone they’ll think I’m nuts, because I already hide so much of what I go through for fear of how severely I’ll be viewed by others.

The voices are gone, but I got a command today. I try not think about it. These things are finding new ways to get to me. They’re less prominent now, and they hate me for that. I can’t entertain that these are spirits, I just can’t. Medical excuses so far have been a God send in the truest sense. They keep me from the rabbit hole. That rabbit hole I’m filling up, shovelling every last bit of gravel I can salvage. I need to seal the entry points and vacate the place these shadows lurk.

My mind tells me one ... no, a couple ... uh, multiple things all at once. And at other times, I sit, mouth agape, hollower than any empty thing you could fathom, and I’m just fascinated ... with four walls ... because I’m viewing an invisible projector, that is so close to real I am affected by the intricate details of its contents ... only they’re nothing, and I’m no one, and this all feels just like a dream ... and I could float away while observing myself from above, as I die a thousand deaths, and am reborn in manic depression, to die another day.

I don't know if I can muster the courage to pretend to give a damn much longer, but I know I have to at least try.

[AZZERAE]

Paranoia VI

Tomorrow. Yeah, I'm sure I'll feel something more than emptiness and apathy tomorrow. It's just today is so ... Ugh. It's hard. It's hard to pick the pen up and get going. The tasks I need to do are so fucking simple, yet they're impossible when I feel like this.

I can't do anything now. What's that behind me? I'm sure there's someone there. It feels like the Devil is perching on the windowsill, but he hides himself from view just to fuck with me.

Nobody cares about the human garbage I've become. I'm a waste to everybody who ever had the displeasure of coming into contact with me, for Christs sake.

I hate the reflection that snarls back at me in the mirror and laughs, mockingly, because it wants me dead. He can't seem to get me to kill myself, though. Because, luckily, I'm too fucking flat to so much as put a foot into a sock or a shoe.

I just don't care. The only things that hold my attention are inside my head, but have convinced me they're outside of it. I don't even know what you're saying when you're speaking to me in our conversation anymore. My memory erases itself of anything it's taken in in a matter of seconds.

And I think I'm happy because I'm dumb. These pills present me with a clean slate every day. I'm stuck in one day, every day, and people laugh at me when I mistake today for tomorrow or yesterday for today. I can't seem to keep track of the date, time or flesh out a schedule anymore.

Every day is just an amorphous blur, nondescript and gone, along with the recollections I had of my own feelings or inaction I've been living inside of for the past however many months it's gone on now.

Why does everything seem so goddamn pointless, and inaccessible to me? Why don't I care that the roads I wander down feed into each other and lead to one dead end I won't even acknowledge once I get to it? Why am I unable to feel my body any longer? It's like it's not even here. I'm a consciousnesses without a direction or a goal.

Well, maybe somewhere, sometime I once had a goal ... but I never reached it. Because I forgot how much I wanted to achieve it once I became engrossed in the movies in my head.

Its nothing I can determine, what will occur, today, tomorrow.  Every day I give up before I begin because I just don't recognise the individual behind the wheel of my every move.

It's not a case of forward, right or left ... but backwards ... and further, every day.

No one would believe me or sympathise, if I were to attempt to put this all to words. Not even the professionals I pay to give me their attention are interested anymore in my recovery, because I simply can't seem to articulate that although I resemble a mummy at this stage (with the amount of band aids I have stuck all over me) my problems have only gone from raw, incessant, emotional turmoil, to numb, empty apathy so intense that I literally have no will to end it anymore, but I'm also incapable of experiencing any emotions whatsoever, and therefore my entire existence has been rendered meaningless.

See, I never considered how different things would be, once my old problems evaporated, and were replaced by a vast, immovable force, like the new phenomena that has engulfed the prior me.

I'm no one anymore, I'm but a shell. I sold my neurons to big pharma, without considering the impact it would have on me down the line.

While its true that my perceptions were clouded immeasurably by the afflictions I housed against my will, I just float through days now with a happy go lucky nihilism that's so zen its cost me more and more.

My career has long since been flushed. My desire to make any impact on the world is nonexistent. And I'm being lied to by the people who's job it is to make sure I prolong my life of suffering and agony, because the wide range of emotion I once possessed, I've been robbed of. By tablets? By doctors? I can't seem to understand the complexities and nuances of my own paranoia, so I wear it like an orange jumpsuit with shame, while I clutch at the steel bars of psychiatry I landed myself in.

There is no coming back from being the guy who lost his mind and wound up delirious and babbling incoherently. I am told to move past things that happened when whatever it was first snapped in my brain. But that's easy advice to give, you know? I don't think these people understand, because I'm able to dress up my depression in a well groomed, smiley, surface level mask and bodysuit, so that they don't learn the actual depths of my darkness. Because I decided, somewhere along the line, that that'd be too much for them. That I better not tell them all there is to know.

Because I'm "doing better" now, you know? If I fuck up, then it leaves a blemish on your practice. I wouldn't wanna ruin anything for you, you know.

Sometimes I'm too nice, polite to a fault. Always shooting off my mouth at those who simply don't deserve it.

I don't know what to do. If this is the best it gets, it never gets better. Does it?

[AZZERAE]

Paranoia VII

Why is everybody so close? The proximity of them to me is putting me on edge. I want to freeze time, to capture it all in a snow globe and have the freedom to fly over the city without the God damned, motherfucking walls of body heat closing in on me like mechanical walls in a modern day gallows.

My body is a gulag here. I need your help, I need my space. I'd rather be invisible or nothing. Anything is better than this.

Noise. Banging, talking, people. You lock us up for fucking months, and then you open the floodgates and the ceiling is the floor. I detest every living thing that has air in its lungs, or possesses the ability to be bellicose and audible.

I need silence. You need to sit down and shut the fuck up, now. I can't take another word. Everything is throbbing, pulsating and rumbling. My ears are about to bleed. Just sit the fuck down, please.

Why can't they be alone with their thoughts? Why did I have to be punished like this? I hate any sound out of any mouth or any throat making agree-upon meaning out of the things in their heads.

I want to jump, I seriously do. I need to have silence. I can't take the edge that's in this city, and I don't want to be blamed for not being able to stomach it, ever.

Please, just a minute. Can we pause? Stop the world, I wanna get off. What possesses people to start moving around and slamming their doors and cupboards? What is the real point of rearranging furniture, and cleaning out the dirt that was swept under the rug for weeks?

You're doing it to your God damned, motherfucking SELVES. I can't take it anymore. I can see why people take submachine guns into public places and just squeeze. I can't take another minute of this shit, but I do.

What is the urgency, for these maggots to squirm around from one mound of dirt, hollowed out, to another? Christ. It just goes on, and on and on and on...

Bullets, bidets, bigotry. I need my space, I need my time ... And no one, and I mean no one, is going to rush me to any self created finish line. I don't do tricks for treats ... I am incapable of the rush.

I want to die in my coffin, in peace. Save the funeral attendees, please. All they'll do is muddy up the grave site, and console one another because whatever it was I could do for them I can no longer do.

You are nothing but an opportunity for people to take responsibility off their hands. All these years, of burden after burden, and they can finally breathe free. Jesus. Housework? Why? I'd rather die in my filth, the way it was intended.

Call it shit where you eat. Call it what you will. But I can't seem to shake the way my hairs stand on end at the slightest rustle of leaves. I need my space, quietude, silence, contemplation.

Why do they need noise, and interaction? Why are they so desirous of having hollow back slaps and self righteous encouragement, especially, from people who mean nothing in the greater scheme of things.

Why would I be any different from you? Why would hatred be appropriate, love? None of it has the weight or meaning attached to it that you think it does. If this incessant disruption would just cease for a fucking millisecond, I'd breathe a quiet sigh...but it wouldn't make it go away.

What do you do when someone is coming apart, and the only thing that can save them is a little white pill, and some consolation from a paid ear? They don't care about you, and you're more trouble than you've ever been worth.

Subdued paranoia, brooding, wallowing. I'm still annoyed, and ready to charge at the many red flags around me. Fuck this shit, I hate myself and this situation so much right now nothing anyone could ever say could ever lift me out of the pit of darkness I'm slumped in, bleeding to death. I hate the taste of the tears. But most of all, I hate that no matter whether I live or die, this agony continues.

[AZZERAE]

Paranoia VIII

I lost a good friend this week. And I think I'm beginning to understand why. Something has taken a tighter hold on me - something that isn't me.

In my ignorance, I thought it was a "show"! In the absence of understanding just what is going on here, I have massacred the figurehead of angels: and ultimately, set fire to a peace treaty clothed in twin wolves of my own perception.

Apology tour canceled. Pity and shame are eating my tiny, beaten heart. And there is more than just one supreme Devil playing all my strings. The different versions of the Azzerae you know are not him - instead demons are using this physical vessel of mine as a revolving door.

One minute I hate my friends, the next I adore them? Tell me something is off ...  that this is explained simply by psychiatry! I wish I could believe it. I have lived with (and continue to) a wide array of demonic presences, and the door has always been open to them.

If we take a trip down memory lane, all the way back to that night that I stared into a Pentagram and recited the words that, in summation, devoted my being to the Devil, I realise I need much more than tranquilisers, stimulants and cognitive behavioural therapy. I need a spiritual spring clean. But how do I get them to leave?

Its going to hurt. I know it is, because many people have tried to scare them off with the name of Jehova. I wish a simple "I'm sorry" would stop, and take away, all the horrific things I've done to others - in terms of emotional masochism, macho posturing - and lastly, abuse.

I can't even see myself beneath the murky river of Narcissus, because the "me" that stares back at me (aside from being obstructed by dirty ripples) is whatever evil being it is that is currently having a stay in my body and brain. Wait ... but I can think for myself ... and my thoughts are my own, and the Schizophrenia has been dissolved by chemical warfare internal to my tortured psyche.

I've gone to war, held views that weren't my own, and twisted lies around the insides of my eyes as window dressing, serving them all up as "straight talk" and never thought to question why I have multiple streams of consciousness splashing around across the muddy walls of my mind as they do.

I look like an asshole. I've lived a hundred other lives. That's because I have been here before!

When I banter with the inner chatter of whoever else just arrived, while whoever else just left, I know I've come too far at this point to begin to disregard a single word I'm writing. You demons and I have had good times, and there's no denying that. But its time for you to leave now. Because I sure as hell am not going to shuffle my emotional reactions like a deck of cards, and have you sow discord with the words I construct with my own mouth that aren't mine. You are at the wheel, and this is an incredibly difficult feat, to push you out of the driver's seat, and not crash the car.

You're changing the scene outside the dashboard with your black magic and inhuman ability. I've been so deceived all this time, and this event has unfolded while I even seemed happy, or nonchalant about it.

How was I to know that my depression was really just muted malaise, that apathy I felt for so many years was created inside me, the festering and fermenting of my inner workings (right down to my chemical make-up) and you've had me HELD HOSTAGE: truly, an awakening must happen now.

But as intelligent as so many people say I am, how do I go up against the Devil himself? And how do I be sure that I don't tell the wrong person, and wind up either on stronger medication, or in a psych ward? What if I seek help from some Priest, and his demons are legion, and convince the demons in me that I call the whole thing off - or say a few "hail mary's" and a "glory be"?

I don't identify as Catholic, I don't hold so many of the beliefs I've tried to pretend I do, and now the wolves are going to eat me up from inside ALL OVER AGAIN and I have to sit here and clutch my white flag?

I can't do this anymore. I can't be told there's something dark inside of me ... and ignore it. But what options are there for someone so steeped in spiritual bondage? And someone so ruled by apathetic, subdued, yet subtly fearful, shattered visions? I have abandoned myself, and yielded to a translucent, intangible Stockholm syndrome that comes off as nothing more than the ramblings of a madman.

How is it, that for years, everything that I joked I was, I turned out to be? Are words really dainty, pleasing-to-the-ear spells? Magic, that create conscious streams of being, and that perpetuate the unjust (or just) actions of the sentient? I will not remain unconcerned in the face of ludicrous claims about simulated retelling of events I never witnessed - not in the spirit, nor with my physical eyes - I am here, bleating in agony at the Shepherd in the Sky, to please, NOW, rescue me from this Hell of my own making!

I must proceed, but for now, I just don't know how I'll solve this agony of the soul. There is no one to help me up now, because I have murdered all my friends ... and any acquaintance? well, I think that speaks for itself, Ouroboros.

HELP ME, I AM IN HELL NOW!

And I'll be going further downward, via a sinking feeling, like quicksand, into the darker, hotter floors soon. Will there be any hope left in a year or two? Why does all the progress I make look like stagnation now, with these new revelations? Because of the self-hypnosis ... Because its easy to sit in that chair (back then) and sing ones praises for three quarters of an hour.

You need to stop this now, and you need to devise the exit plan on your own. No one can do it for you at this point, because you shot them all, stabbed their backs and fronts ... the daggers went clean through, don't try salvage body parts with stitching or with rolls of bandage! THEY'RE ALL GONE NOW and the ONLY ones left have always told you what you wanted to hear anyway, which is why you kept them around.

I'm pleased I've made this discovery, but there is an inner paralysis present right this very minute that is palpable, and that scares me, truly. I've gotta get them out. But I need to possess the spiritual strength to evict unwelcome evil. Jokes aren't gonna cut it anymore! Self-efficacy was the diversion, and to subvert this principle now requires an unrelenting, exhaustive analysis of the inner workings that are almost impossible to execute years in to this host-parasite Kabuki theatre - a rigorous separation of the barnacles from the Cetacea ... prepare for vomit, heads spinning backwards, and an identity crisis of the id.

So; I have a long way up this staircase. And I need to collect my things.

[Jackstar]

The different versions of the Azzerae you know are not him - instead demons are using this physical vessel of mine as a revolving door.

If only there were some simple way to resolve that.

I am here, bleating in agony at the Shepherd in the Sky, to please, NOW, rescue me from this Hell of my own making! [...] HELP ME, I AM IN HELL NOW!

I'll have a lich dispatched to your location immediately. Could be Mom, could be a bear--I really couldn't tell you. You'll be fine either way, surely.

Meanwhile, quit your crying. Thanks in advance.

[Stellar]

My Ascent into Psychosis Mania.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DrwlFTqS_bg

[AZZERAE]

quit your crying

Grapefruit is the only one crying, with your oppressive demon seed mutating within, subject to the "pro life" policy foisted upon her.

[pate]

I think it is the last few seconds that matter, hear:


https://youtu.be/tjKHQeRSvjk

It is a good song, but the entire album should really be reviewed from start to finnish before making just judgements.

I still find it amusing, even after the 20 or so years...

This was "off the hook" back in the days!  Now it probably sounds stupid, but man;  the "battle raps" between Dr. Octo and Chewbacca Uncircumsized were epic.

-p

[AZZERAE]

Paranoia IX

Welcome to the world of humourous rape. Welcome to the empire of motherfucking sick-fountains flowing with vomit. The new age, and belief in filthy infectious and destructive behaviour.

Don't you see? We are the new age of Hate. A generation of Satan's robots. Follow the black cess pit of evil in your heart and you know you must. We have finally reached the point of no return.

Hell's gates are open to the pain and filthy behaviour going on in your own chauvinistic little mind. The concepts and tools we must use to destroy ourselves and eliminate all possible positivity has arrived.

We must let the Anarchy run free and trick the inner demons into thinking we're on Jesus, Allah, and Krishna, Hanuman or Ganesha's side. These holy pieces of brass monkey shit will only sink in your beautifully infected minds and black souls if you open the door of hate. Ask yourself if you've given your soul to an Islamic God and it's powers this day. And if you haven't, I suggest you start to Hate. Hate is the only key to Anarchic destruction.

Signed,

Fucked and in Mental Illness
and Physical deterioration...

AZZERAE

[Jackstar]

Welcome to the world of humourous rape.

"Honey, one of the kids opened their third eye again."

We must let the Anarchy run free and trick the inner demons into thinking we're on Jesus, Allah, and Krishna, Hanuman or Ganesha's side.

My old 5 jobs. /flex

Ask yourself if you've given your soul to an Islamic God and it's powers this day.

?SYNTAX ERROR

Fucked and in Mental Illness
and Physical deterioration...

Quite honestly, I still think that Apex Water might help. That being said, there's not a lot I can do to help passing travelers when they're both dickless and they've both shutdown both protection grids and they're both two hours travel distance in opposite directions by the time I notice. How about a nice map? Doubles as a crossword puzzle.

AZZERAE

I'm not gonna lie, the things you do to promote your podcast are next level. Alright, alright, you got me: I will take a listen.

In Minecraft Hell. At least it'll be warmer than this joint. Heh heh. Oh! I just had a dream, in which I was smoking weed! Like, a lot of it. Some guy gave it to me while the world was dying of loneliness. I'm not gonna lie, any dream where you get to smoke a lot of weed is a pretty good dream. Unless it's Indica.