You are Bewitched

It all commenced with Zappa. I needed to be reminded that the malady I am afflicted with everyday is as active as ever. It had been dormant but, in the progression of these months, it has been awakening, opening its vicious eyes.

Today I was not in the spirits to wake up but had to in order to end education faster. I had worn this little jacket I’ve had since the eighth grade; the one all the little brats made fun of. I used to wear it possibly once a week as my long brown hair covered it. Ha, now that I think about it, my jacket had an eerie resemblance to the one Pola Negri wore in Forbidden Paradise.


Anyway, after dressing, my sister drove me to my educational place. I played the sixth album of my favorite band and had a blast. The halls were deserted as the schedule was momentarily forgotten in my head. I walked in my mathematics lesson and saw that the instructor had assigned me a new seat. God yes, I needed a new one since I dread sitting in the front. I’m not a fan of breakfast (it makes me sick) and my stomach growls persistently. I sort of sat in the back next to this broad who was friends with an acquaintance I now strongly dislike. We were to take a Geometry quiz I had forgotten to study for. I had asked the teacher for help three times for my homework assignment and it still didn’t get through my head. At least we were allowed to use our notes! AHA! He was also kind enough to write one of the formulas on the board. So I took the quiz, guessed at some questions, and solved the rest of the problems with that blessed thing. The broad who sat next to me was writing with a mechanical pencil. The sound that it made was an excruciating shrill to my ears. I was so lost in the quiz at some point that even a visual of The Electromagnetic Spectrum seemed intriguing enough to stare at. So, I stood up and handed my instructor the test as I then felt disappointed with my acid hatred for math.

I returned to my seat, opened my school laptop and searched in the web for my Zappa’s Chunga’s Revenge. By God! That album has some of his best riffs and I cannot get enough of it! While listening to this masterpiece, I was jotting down my thoughts on my diary, as I obsessively do now since I carry it everywhere I go. I don’t know how I was aware of this but I saw the broad (the one sitting next to me) looking at the acquaintance I lunch with and then back at me. This occurred three times maybe. It was because of Zappa’s beautiful open-mouthed (showing either pain or anger) face on the album cover. I at once noticed their chuckles and pretended not to by writing on my diary. That harlot acquaintance of mine had betrayed me. She was just like the friends in Peru I grew attached to….They ended up teasing me to tears. “I can take this,” I thought, “I have been through this loads of times. It won’t affect me.” To distract me, I saw a video of the silent movie Sappho with “Tortura Mental” sung by Nelson Gonçalves playing. I LOVE that song so much that I haven’t stopped listening to it ever since I heard it. It makes the film even creepier than before. TORTUUUUURA MENTAAAAL!

The bitch mermaids continued to jest some more and continually eye me. Class ended and I walked to my favorite one, English. Ah! This haven! Everything I regard as important for my profession! Half an hour later I felt my blood boiling when I stared at my acquaintance, who happened to be sitting in front of me. Why was I angered? I was going to let it pass! Why the hell am I so sensitive about these things? I felt tense and my insides felt foul. Looking at her made me regress to my adversity with bullying in the past. I was not paying attention at all. How could that harlot do that to me? I had already disliked her enough but still gave her a chance so I wouldn’t hurt her feelings. During lunch yesterday, all she ever did was spew her silly little notions of people from her mouth. She spoke of how she wanted to kill all the females of the white race. I just kept quiet to not provoke an argument. She assumed this broad was a lesbian because she had her hair short. Days later I saw her with a suitor. Then the acquaintance laughed at a little boy who resembled Harry Potter. If she talks that way about humans, I can imagine what she would say about me. Then the group started blathering about primary sexual experiences. Oh god, was I to really stand this talk? Was there anything else to speak of than sex and drugs? I tried bringing up my silent films or my Finland but all they did was nod and look away. There is another broad in the group who I like and is open-minded. She isn’t like the rest. I hope she does well. The acquaintance started to blather about her sex life and she even brought up the topic of her “Mexican pussy”. Dear God! Keep those things to yourself! Why has decency converted into impudence? In one of the other educational places I went to, the new fad for females was to dress like a man and become bi-sexual. All I heard was female talk of how they enjoyed the sex with ladies. They were very descriptive in such things and I almost vomited. They considered me an “outsider” because I wasn’t into girls. Forgive me for being attracted to males.

By the termination of my English lesson, I was so vexed that one of my favorite Poe quotes would have described my state:

The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could, but when he ventured upon insult I vowed revenge.

I dashed to the main office at once and phoned my mother. I was angry enough to start quivering. I had rudely interrupted the secretary and glanced at her with my scornful big eyes. I phoned my sister and begged her to take me home. My mother grew jealous and hung up. Oh lord! I despaired! I found myself in shameful tears right then! Oh lord, it was happening again! My drama instructor saw me and asked me if I wasn’t leaving because I had to perform later on that day. I had to play an obsessed character. That’s why I have been repeatedly seeing excerpts of Sappho, the creepiest stalker film that there could be. He disapproved of me with his eyes. “Go to class, go to class!” enticed the secretary. How was I to go to class in this state? I rushed to the lavatory in tears, threw my stuff once I arrived, and sobbed like a little child. Dear lord, what is wrong with my moods? Why do things affect me so? I had spent the night before sinking in my mood while listening to Velvet Underground tunes. I haven’t listened to them for about a year. When I bought their album, Lou Reed died a week later. This also happened with Gabriel Garcia Marquez. I bought a copy of One Hundred Years of Solitude and he died the following week. It even happens when I decide to check the Wikipedia pages of old actors. I checked the pages of Shirley Temple and Mickey Rooney and they died sometime later. I’m a curse to old people.

I left the lavatory and sat outside on the stairs. I was sobbing without knowing what to do. I was endangering my future. I felt like a coward. All I do is cry all the time and lie to myself every time I am happy. I thought I had enough bravery to walk in a room full of humans to study without being perturbed with my mentality. Turns out I still can’t. According to my bad mood today, I saw negativity in everything and the only thing I wanted to do was isolate myself, which I did last year by homeschooling, and that made everything worse. They forced me to talk with this counselor. I poured out my issues, still in tears, with madness and fear. The only thing that I could possibly talk about with a smile and not disgrace was my favorite band. I spoke of my experience of first seeing them live as a young maiden and of how that changed my whole life. I don’t really talk of my favorite band but it seemed necessary because everything else I mentioned was degraded with complaints. I brought up my memory when I felt actual human happiness in the concert of them I attended six months ago. I hadn’t felt such felicity since I was a child, when I still fooled myself with the illusion that I was to grow up to be extravagant and healthy. When I spoke of how their performance felt like fifteen minutes while it was actually two hours, I wept once again. Ah, this love! This worship! I find myself smiling when I talk of them. They performed the songs incredibly in every aspect. I am to love that band forever. They are the bestest imaginary friends I could ever have, aside of my dead idols. The lady spoke of how I was normal like the rest of all young humans and that I didn’t need to feel special. Lord! Why…..This feeling of specialty is what makes me most comfortable and proud. I am to never feel like a sheep following the herd. Why, I grew offended and felt worse. I wanted to go back to educating myself at home and I knew how claustrophobic I would feel. Seeing the white walls every single hour of my day and not even feeling the sunlight. All I did in my free time was watch movies. Movies and more movies. They’re my pretty little escape from woe. Was there more to residing alone in Finland and writing my novels in my solitude? Then the lady counselor asked me how I was to afford housing there. Hell, I don’t know. I told her that maybe my books might pay off….I remembered the reality of being a writer. Well, that’s that, I thought. I’m not looking forward to anything anymore. If I do end up spending the rest of my lifetime there, I am liable to act like Gene Kelly did with his umbrella in Singin’ in the Rain and then like a character in an Ingmar Bergman film. If my two strongest emotions do mix, which are euphoria and misery, I will probably act like Blanche Dubois. I can also get unexpected irritation in any moment and can scream at humans. All forms of anger come at once and it drives me berserk. I can’t handle this much intensity.

I guess I’m going back to medication. I thought I was to be stable and fine after seven months. I thought I was fine and healthy because my mother told me that everyday. I believed that since February until I started to experience symptoms of it again. This thing that I have been diagnosed with for probably three times already. It’s the same fucking thing. Bipolar, bipolar, bipolar. Mood disorder, mixed state; whatever. I don’t even have that much understanding of it. All I know is that this thing I have is affecting me greatly. Its great devilment is weakening me so that it wants me to be a failure in my education, as I have been in the past two years. Whee. I can’t wait to go back to being experimented on with a variety of pills. Can’t wait for the lethargy, anxiety, depression and for the exhaustion. Oh yes, also the loss of creativity. Hey, maybe I’ll find the right medication. I know one day I will. Yeah, why not? I am to be positive! Oh, how good this feels! I’ll walk in that educational place with my chin up, not caring in the slightest way if someone laughs at me for listening to Zappa or being emotionally attached to my eighth journal (in the past four years). I know I am seen as odd because I see fornication only as a humorous topic I can speak of and because I am opposed to drug usage. If I even mention the word “sperm”, all the silly twats get excited and start bothering me with questions. Sweet Christ, I just like to speak and write about it. It’s like the Sun. People talk and write about it.

I’m feeling better now. I see some reality. In my states I am either too hopeful or disillusioned. I’m attending the San Francisco Silent Film Festival tomorrow. A whole day full of silents. I postponed my trip to Finland until 2016. My favorite band has released remastered albums (after merely fifteen years!) in vinyl format and they are limited! The things are so expensive but include even their extremely rare EP! The only thing I don’t own in my collection. And they are doing a short tour. They haven’t announced the last date. I am praying to Touko Laaksonen for them to come to San Francisco. I don’t want to go to L.A. because there are way too many humans. Ah, how am I to overcome this suffering? I’m sure I will. Sure, I’ll get into deeply excited states because of just seeing Vincent Price talk about his art collection and bawl about the sake of my solitude. Well, I’ll be fine. Sure, the thing’s chronic but it won’t ail me as much if I learn to control it. I will live in this goddamn lifetime. As Nergal from Behemoth once said in a gig I attended, “It feels so good to be alive!”

I am to be beguiled by Vincent Price’s sexiness when he talks about his art collection now. I like how he references long-haired boys who wear berets. Oh, how I love him. I’m longing for stability….how will I find it? It is an embarrassment to walk into school again. Strangers have seen me cry. They have seen me at my moment of weakness. Oh well. Vincent Price is my love and my dead husband.

Of course, I am to also listen to one of the greatest Sabbath songs of all time. A tune about madness….


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