ghost-bustin, like I’m not already busy

enough around here

You people are obviously reading this wrong, my webaster knows, he’s shown me the statistics, did you think I wouldn’t find out?

People are obviously dipping in at will, starting in the middle, bouncin around, don’t do that, if you can’t start at the beginning and read to the end then go somewhere else, don’t fuck around with my book. Last month some newsgroup respondent said trouble was one very disturbed man, calling wimmin cunts and so forth.

Nice, huh?

There’s nowhere to go from here.

Pointless. Waste of time.

Hellhound says get used to it.

I say-

Do you guys have any idea how hard it’s been keeping this narrative linear when so many posts come out of me in the wrong order?

Tuesday’s questions answered the preceding Sunday, I

can’t control that, but I know what’s going on here, do you?

If you dip in at random you will disorient yourself without

cause, let me handle that- I know how to fuck up the sequence in proper chronology, it’s called compensation, i.e. the story of my life, this site is meant to be an experiential device, you are supposed to experience gradual disorientation, an altered state of consciousness, it’s my job as developing artist to draw you into my world (paranoia, anomie, reactive psychosis, etc) how I do that is with a technique known as suspense,

and more to the point-

why you should trust me:

I am big on a client-centered therapeutic approach

known as

accurate empathic understanding,

defined as the

ability

see the world through the

other’s phenomenology

as well as from perspectives of which the [reader] may be only

dimly aware.

You wanna deny this is going on?

No, I am not Carl Rogers and you are not my client, but you’re searching, right, and every therapist is basically a failed writer, so it works if you stretch it, how can I go on if you won’t give yourself up to my seamless command of this material, take me like a coffee break, fuckin lozenge to get rid of a sore throat, putting band-aids on cancer, you think it’s easy

being me,

being you?

Thanx, to

no one!

I don’t see how real writers handle wrongheaded readers breaking their balls, webaster says chill, maybe the numbers are lopsided b/c people are just returning to their favorites—Jesus, you’re not supposed to do that! I’m the manipulator, I’m the guide, the dictator, the one with the keyboard, dictate, dictation, get it?

Do you get it?

Explain please.

ha ha.

I am not brighter than you, the learning disabilities even out the gifted scores, my IQ is average: 104. I’m learning to live with it, women and their journals-that’s bullshit, a cop-out, no, making people read what they did to your id, that’s healing, what you give is what you get, I have a migraine headache, thanks for sharing.

You are only as sick as the secrets you keep.

You get well by tellin the whole sickening planet all about yourself.

Many people have quite exacting values which are meaningless and arbitrary that they can’t account for, but won’t let go of.

How am I to know you are not one of these people? Feel, think, talk, yes, in that order, but do talk, write, say something, shout, sing, express yourself, ok? Do this, please, you need to be known.

Start with me, send the emails, tell me about you, I’ll keep it between us ‘til troublewaits is ready to go interactive, that’s when we blow Dr. Bob off the fuckin internet, for now, let’s get to know each other. I’ll find your gifts, the things you hide from the world, that’s the only thing I like about you, I don’t like anything else about you, bring it on and you will too, promise.

I’m not that different from you, but I do experience the world differently from what a given situation is said to warrant, that’s it, my reactions are unusual, call it what you will, delusions of reference, whatever, fine, I could give a shit, I take nothing as it is presented, everything sucks, I want to change whatever bugs me, including myself.

Don’t you? We are not even taught how to write a check, how can we go through 12 years of schooling and come out so fuckin unprepared for life? Fucnkin doesn’t even teach us how to write a check, where are we supposed to learn how to handle a banker? A sick pet, Alzheimers, a car crash, a trauma? (It’s all trauma.) Pretend it’s not, stall, sorry, I am not an ostrich, I am a person.

Individualist. What the fuck does that mean? Why is there an “ist” after the word “individual”?

“IST” is a political-type suffix, as in communist, feminist, anarchist, capitalist… individualist, I live in a world where being an individual is a controversial stance?

Fuck you.

My boyfriend who, as you know, exists beyond cool, aka all my mixed up rock-n-roll fantasies fixed up in one fine genius, he knows I am intrigued by the notion of getting along somehow with a world full of wreckers, so we talk it over, he says things like, well robin, everyone has their limit, right, that’s the end of that conversation.

(Is it just me or when the teacher asks a question do you get the feeling s/he already knows the answer, and is just waiting to see if you do too? Anyone? It’s not a trick, just something they’re trained to do, huh? Or, could be sinister character flaw that draws people together to one thing or another, in this case happens to be teaching profession, huh, anyone? Is this categorical thinking? I’m against categorical thinking, my whole cult is. There’s somethin wrong here, if so, don’t help me tho, am tryin to smarten up. Time for another spectacular auto-didactic beating? Smelling salts? Thumb screws? Anyone seen my thumb screws?

I know how to handle you pricks, but then I get sick, go into decline, can’t get out of bed, decline, a long bad trance, lose my trajectory, lose my resiliency, standup/fall down. In public. Me? Little Miss Mystique? Halting speech, can’t form words, diction comes off like mouthful of marbles, jerky limbs, coffee cup falls out of hands, talk in 4 year old tone of voice at post office, in restaurants, this is all your fault, docs say I do it to get attention, no, I needed your attention 35 years ago, this is the aftermath of your abdication, you don’t see it, that makes everything worse; my not bein in charge of you, this may be the greatest disadvantage of your life on earth, but hey, where there’s breath there’s hope,

let me breath-a-lize your routine non-highs,

fresh oxygen, we stay together, you taught me, now I teach you.

Your lessons were harder to grasp than mine could ever be, and mine won’t leave you despairing, pathetic, gasping for air, this is the best thing you taught me how not to do, God works in hysterious ways, now you wanna go against God, logic, picking favorites, bypassing posts, many of which are two-parters, don’t fuck up my book, heedless bastards, sorry, ok, please be civil and let it wash over you, skip along means to let it wash over you, that’s how it happens, unless you want to view madness from the outside, then do us both a favor, beautiful—go see another lame depiction on the silver screen.

Love,

trouble

P.S.

I could always re-title the homepage, how’s this grab ya?

troublewaits:

Post 1.

Post 2.

Post 3.

Post 4.

Post 5.

Post 6.

Post 7.

Post 8.

Post 9.

Post 10.

Post 11.

Post 12.

etc etc ad naseum

Don’t make me get cute, huh.

Home.