If I were to take my chair to a busy intersection and set it upside down, lay under it as if were a teeny, custom sized tent for my head and weep as file my nails with a pickle, the second I was arrested for whatever crime that is, the cops that rummaged through my purse looking for old gum or whatnot would find my prescription for whatever pharmaceutical I was on at that particular instance in my life and instantly their pissed off scowl would be replaced by a knowing, sympathetic look. ‘Of course she’s doing that’; he would think; ‘she’s crazy! No normal person would even think of doing such a thing!’
That’s because the “experts” classify me as “mentally ill”. Good thing the ”experts” don’t know what they’re talking about! I’ll admit that I’m biased. But so is everyone, about everything, and if they deny it they’re either stupid or lying.
How does one become an “expert”? What is a “mental illness”? Out of the kindness of my heart, I will now write you a dictionary. Any phrases you run across in either ‘ ‘ marks or “ “ marks will be defined. Using two types of punctuation ensures that I won’t have to waste valuable minutes rereading and trying to remember which one I’m supposed to be using! Ok kiddies, here we go!
“The Experts”:
A buncha dudes who spent some really long amount of time after high school in a ‘massively expensive post high school ‘institution of learning’’, buying beer on a fake ID, scoring weed, sleeping through their first few classes because they’re too hung over to drag themselves out of bed after partying all night with drunk college girls, going to football games, maintaining their GPA through a combination of doing whatever school work they could do on their own well, and getting a part time job, working hard at it, so they could make lotsa money in order to hire some Asian kid to do their math and someone like me to write all their papers.
‘Massively expensive post high school ‘institution of learning’’: (Syn. college; university)
1. Colossal waste of money, unless you want to actually hold a real job, and have people think you are “smart”. (slang)
2. ‘Place where smart people go to learn stuff’ (mythological)
3. A group of buildings where people buy beer on a fake ID till they’re old enough to have a real one, score weed, party all night with drunk college girls, go to football games, and maintain their GPA and scholarship through a combination of doing whatever school work they can do on their own well, and getting a part time job so they can make lotsa money in order to hire some Asian kid to do their math and someone like me to write all their papers.
‘Application process’:
Entrance to a ‘massively expensive post high school ‘institution of learning’’ is a lengthy, two part process.
First, the student must take some tests, all by himself. For some students, this will represent the first time in their high school career they actually had to write their own essay. Many will fail. Some will redeem themselves through a combination of essay scores being weighted less heavily in the overall grade, and correctly answering multiple choice questions with a #2 pencil.
After the testing process comes the ‘application’ procedure. This is an area where a student can cheat, as he has been able to his entire junior high and high school career, by paying someone like me to write him a poignant, or intellectual or humorous essay, depending on the student, the school and the author’s mood.
This two step process is how the student demonstrates mastery of the skills that are critical to his success in a ‘massively expensive post high school ‘institution of learning’’. The skills are diverse, but almost universally include the following: being able to read and follow instructions printed on forms, printing or writing cursive neatly, filling in boxes with a #2 pencil, and writing essays to open ended questions that usually pertain to the student’s future plans or his desire for entry into the ‘massively expensive post high school ‘institution of learning’’ in question.
The most important skill a student must possess in order to gain admission into a ‘massively expensive post high school ‘institution of learning’’ is demonstrated by simply going through the testing and application process. This reveals students who swallowed everything that was spoon fed to them, such as the myth that college or universities are places where ‘smart people go to learn stuff’.
Students that have accepted this myth as a core belief, have an almost cult- like devotion to it, enabling them to perpetuate it logically in their post ‘massively expensive post high school ‘institution of learning’’ careers, where they will require a bachelor degree before they hire anyone for positions such as food service workers, diaper changers, hospitality industry, and other such formerly entry level positions.
“Mentally ill”:
Anything outside the conventions of accepted societal behavior. There is a scale of mental illness ranging from dangerous to benign. Some dangerous ‘mentally ill’ people are drugged or locked up to prevent them from harming others or themselves. This is acceptable, even to other people labeled “mentally ill”. Some benign ‘mentally ill’ people are drugged because they function in society differently than a ‘normal’ person, and find society’s expectations and restraints difficult to navigate.
Some mental illnesses can show up in diagnostic testing, some are symptomatic. The symptomatic ‘mental illnesses’ of today will show up in the diagnostic tests of tomorrow, that will be more than likely invented by someone ‘mentally ill’, the same way Edison invented the light bulb, the electrical generator, the utility company that can generate enough electricity to power an entire fucking state, power lines to carry the electricity into street lights and homes in such a way that street lights and homes don’t burn to the ground from the tremendous heat and energy electricity possesses, the motion picture, the record player. (pause for a break so I can weep with joy at one of the outstanding heroes of hyperdom).
In spite of Edison, and others, normal people put oceans of faith in the fraudulent system of “higher education” in lieu of common sense, even though such things often come back to haunt them. This discriminatory system has resulted in a country that’s WAY screwed up, to hilarious levels!
I have an actual non hyper friend, in spite of my obvious disdain for such life forms. She received years of specialized training in a ‘Massively expensive post high school ‘institution of learning’. She is a nurse.
Due to a combination of her reading to her kid from the time he came out of the chute, and a hyper husband, she’s got a hyper kid that is mind blowingly brilliant.
One day when her kid was little; I dunno, maybe 3 (my kids weren’t old enough to be this interesting yet. I mean they existed; but in the sitting in an umbrella stroller trying to chew on the strap kinda way.) We were talking about gravity for some reason, and Einstein’s theory (don’t worry; normal people; I wasn’t too advanced. I knew I was talking to a kid! I may not be academically qualified to teach your kids, but I know how to teach hyper kids stuff!)
Ok so there we are, doing all this talking and looking at rocks and I can see his little wheels spinning. This little annoying brat that eventually all the teachers would hate for being hyper suddenly locked up for a second, then he said something so jaw droppingly brilliant that it sucks he’ll never make it through college. He made an abstract connection, and started asking me about centrifugal force!
Her lil 3 year old baby cute obviously didn’t use the correct terms, like normal kids will one day memorize when they’re in 6th grade. This was way more exciting than a normal kid defining it correctly on his vocabulary test! He remembered the feeling of “gravity” pulling the padded board he was laying on up to the ceiling when he rode around and around in that standing up carnival ride thing with his daddy once they were spinning fast enough, and he wanted to know all kindsa stuff. Like how does that tie in with gravity? How does stuff that’s spinning super fast make gravity not work, Aunt Dolly?
Anyway, I’d say my friend was qualified to read books to kids in the public library, wouldn’t you? Well of course you wouldn’t! Normal people reading this think this isn’t a certifiable display of brilliance, but rather a buncha of annoying questions from a rotten, hyper kid!
Dang it, how the heck am I gonna get a normal person to understand this? Hmmm….
Lets say I was talking to a normal person and his kid about where paper comes from, even though normal kids can memorize and regurgitate better than they can make abstract connections. To our shock, all the sudden his little guy scurried off (slowly) and came back carrying a paper wasps nest! Wouldn’t that be cool?!?
A normal person wouldn’t think so! They’d scream at him, afraid of him getting stung, then they’d scare the piss out of him, banging his little hand, HARD! To knock it onto the ground, cuz they still wouldn’t want him to get stung, then they’d stamp his foot on it, crushing and grinding, cuz normal people have a perverse sadistic streak when it comes to kids and education! (As you’ll see in upcoming entries!!)
So what happened to my friend, about the ‘reading to the kids in the library’ job? Well maybe your library allows such obviously uneducated women to read to their kids, but after all, the kids of that library system are best read to by someone with a degree in something besides nursing.
She called me and told me that, and I laughed; I thought she was kidding. But a second later, she started crying…. Man, you normal people suck! What kind of a stupid rule is that? ARE YOU THAT STUPID, NORMAL PEOPLE!?!?!?!
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Adventures in Hypertown: A Hyper Person in a Non Hyper World: An Expose Of How Life Works in Normal People Land
I Politely Introduce Me to You
My fake name is Dolly Doppelganger, and most of the time I am delighted to be hyper.
I was blissfully happy writing for antiMusic.com, going through aliases faster than drug dealers dispose of cell phones until I decided that remembering where I parked my car was more important than being able to laugh. As is typically the case, this impulsive overreaction sent me scrambling to remodel my life and I raced to the doctor’s office to get diagnosed with previously undiagnosed “ADHD” as the pros in the biz like to call it. 'Off the charts hyperactivity' is how I affectionately think of it.
And thus started my wonderful journey through the jungle of anti hyper prescription drugs for the condition I assumed was destroying my life. The doctor’s initial ‘is she a drug seeker or THIS annoying for real?’ iceberg of disbelief quickly melted under my excellence at being myself. Vindicated, I entered a blissful but cautious trial period, where I was officially declared insane and medicated. All at once, I transformed into an undercover normal person, gaining access to the mysterious world that many inhabit without prescribed stimulants!
I had to figure out to survive in the tricky world of normal people, with no guidebook! I found that for me, popping in on the normal people and their tidy, organized lives for a day's visit isn’t all bad, but no way I wanna live there full time!!
When I was an undercover normal person, I floated through their universe undetected, fitting in as perfectly as if I’d been born there and belonged. Although I began as an awed, grateful to the point of weeping tourist, I concluded my vacation as a double agent.
All I wanted was a way to make my traitorous brain function in a way that allowed me entry into the world of normal people, but I found that life on anti hyper drugs was a grim, deadly serious business and laughter was superfluous.
I did everything punctually, completing every task I started; I forgot nothing, I was no longer paralyzed by overwhelmingly disorganized chaos. I achieved a 100% success rate at getting into my car every time I parked it, not because I “found” it, but because I actually remembered putting it there. My kids never wore dirty, ripped, or stained clothing in public; the fridge burst with lovingly hand crafted carrot and celery sticks. My kitchen sinks were beautiful, gleaming holes in the counter that a surgeon could have stored a spare heart or brain in, if ever such a medical emergency arose.
Doesn’t that sound nice, with frisking deer playing tag with adorable fairies under the rainbow while unicorns gleam brightly in the meadow as the sun shines and the birds twitter in the low tech way? Silly! Didn’t you read that sentence with the word “superfluous” in it? (All the normal people reading this just nodded their head “yes”. Of course you did! You read things one word at a time! Hyper people read huge, whopping hunks of words at a time, that’s why we can’t spell. That doesn’t make us stupid any more than your way makes you smart! That question was for them!)
Everything in normal people land is sharply defined, flashing brightly in perfectly contrasting colors, the only music playing is sad, somber violin music; but not all the time; only on special occasions cuz music and creativity TOTALLY don’t fit in here. The days are all overcast when you live in normal people land; it’s never bright and sunny, but always too dreary to ever go to the beach. The mystery of how the heck can normal people live like this coats everything with an imperceptible layer of fine, dusty silt that can never be permanently wiped away, even by us crazy people. Normal people spend all their time weeping and trying to commit suicide.
No! I’m just kidding! They should be! But they are completely unaware of how dire their circumstances are! They have NO idea how wonderful and desirable Hypertown is. That’s probably a good thing, or who would we get to organize our stuff and call us and remind us to come to the doctor’s office tomorrow?
I decided (eventually) that I don’t want to live in normal land all the time; it sucks there with a measurable velocity, sucking counterclockwise in Australia. So now I just pop in and visit the place on days I don’t want to spend 25 minutes wandering around a parking lot trying to find my car when I’m ready to go back home. I no longer enjoy dual citizenship, I’m content to remain a tourist.
Now that I’m safely back in Hypertown on a regular basis, details are back to being invisible, the way I like ‘em. Now when I take my kids shopping with me, they hunt for my car for me cuz I’m too busy glaring back at the normal people scowling their disapproval at me, disdainful at the grubby t-shirt my kid has on.
Dinner is always late, if I bother, and it’s always bizarre enough to not be very edible anyway; I reliably forget major critical doctor’s appointments, and spill something at least twice a month. We are all becoming accustomed to stepping over the hole in the middle of the floor from the missing tile I’ll never bother replacing; the drains in my kitchen sinks are a festering baby fly nurseries, and I’m once again able to seek fortune, not fame from writing cuz I don’t want to have to wear sunglasses when I shop at Goodwill. And through it all, I laugh at the stuff normal people don’t have a twisted enough brain to appreciate.
My fake name is Dolly Doppelganger, and most of the time I am delighted to be hyper.
I was blissfully happy writing for antiMusic.com, going through aliases faster than drug dealers dispose of cell phones until I decided that remembering where I parked my car was more important than being able to laugh. As is typically the case, this impulsive overreaction sent me scrambling to remodel my life and I raced to the doctor’s office to get diagnosed with previously undiagnosed “ADHD” as the pros in the biz like to call it. 'Off the charts hyperactivity' is how I affectionately think of it.
And thus started my wonderful journey through the jungle of anti hyper prescription drugs for the condition I assumed was destroying my life. The doctor’s initial ‘is she a drug seeker or THIS annoying for real?’ iceberg of disbelief quickly melted under my excellence at being myself. Vindicated, I entered a blissful but cautious trial period, where I was officially declared insane and medicated. All at once, I transformed into an undercover normal person, gaining access to the mysterious world that many inhabit without prescribed stimulants!
I had to figure out to survive in the tricky world of normal people, with no guidebook! I found that for me, popping in on the normal people and their tidy, organized lives for a day's visit isn’t all bad, but no way I wanna live there full time!!
When I was an undercover normal person, I floated through their universe undetected, fitting in as perfectly as if I’d been born there and belonged. Although I began as an awed, grateful to the point of weeping tourist, I concluded my vacation as a double agent.
All I wanted was a way to make my traitorous brain function in a way that allowed me entry into the world of normal people, but I found that life on anti hyper drugs was a grim, deadly serious business and laughter was superfluous.
I did everything punctually, completing every task I started; I forgot nothing, I was no longer paralyzed by overwhelmingly disorganized chaos. I achieved a 100% success rate at getting into my car every time I parked it, not because I “found” it, but because I actually remembered putting it there. My kids never wore dirty, ripped, or stained clothing in public; the fridge burst with lovingly hand crafted carrot and celery sticks. My kitchen sinks were beautiful, gleaming holes in the counter that a surgeon could have stored a spare heart or brain in, if ever such a medical emergency arose.
Doesn’t that sound nice, with frisking deer playing tag with adorable fairies under the rainbow while unicorns gleam brightly in the meadow as the sun shines and the birds twitter in the low tech way? Silly! Didn’t you read that sentence with the word “superfluous” in it? (All the normal people reading this just nodded their head “yes”. Of course you did! You read things one word at a time! Hyper people read huge, whopping hunks of words at a time, that’s why we can’t spell. That doesn’t make us stupid any more than your way makes you smart! That question was for them!)
Everything in normal people land is sharply defined, flashing brightly in perfectly contrasting colors, the only music playing is sad, somber violin music; but not all the time; only on special occasions cuz music and creativity TOTALLY don’t fit in here. The days are all overcast when you live in normal people land; it’s never bright and sunny, but always too dreary to ever go to the beach. The mystery of how the heck can normal people live like this coats everything with an imperceptible layer of fine, dusty silt that can never be permanently wiped away, even by us crazy people. Normal people spend all their time weeping and trying to commit suicide.
No! I’m just kidding! They should be! But they are completely unaware of how dire their circumstances are! They have NO idea how wonderful and desirable Hypertown is. That’s probably a good thing, or who would we get to organize our stuff and call us and remind us to come to the doctor’s office tomorrow?
I decided (eventually) that I don’t want to live in normal land all the time; it sucks there with a measurable velocity, sucking counterclockwise in Australia. So now I just pop in and visit the place on days I don’t want to spend 25 minutes wandering around a parking lot trying to find my car when I’m ready to go back home. I no longer enjoy dual citizenship, I’m content to remain a tourist.
Now that I’m safely back in Hypertown on a regular basis, details are back to being invisible, the way I like ‘em. Now when I take my kids shopping with me, they hunt for my car for me cuz I’m too busy glaring back at the normal people scowling their disapproval at me, disdainful at the grubby t-shirt my kid has on.
Dinner is always late, if I bother, and it’s always bizarre enough to not be very edible anyway; I reliably forget major critical doctor’s appointments, and spill something at least twice a month. We are all becoming accustomed to stepping over the hole in the middle of the floor from the missing tile I’ll never bother replacing; the drains in my kitchen sinks are a festering baby fly nurseries, and I’m once again able to seek fortune, not fame from writing cuz I don’t want to have to wear sunglasses when I shop at Goodwill. And through it all, I laugh at the stuff normal people don’t have a twisted enough brain to appreciate.
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