I don't get to say that often enough. Don't let anyone say that I haven't done my job, as... well, you know. Someone who doesn't exactly want to die, but can't find any other way out. A way to make the pain stop. So, what did I do? I found specialists in schizophrenia, and made my rounds throwing my Hail Mary passes with the best of the best. It's not my fault I don't live in the same state in which they practice. The clock is ticking, and I'm running out of time like the leftover meat in your fridge you meant to eat days ago. So far I've tried reaching out to the director of research at McLean Hospital, who specifically focuses on the interaction of stimulant use in cases of schizotypal disorders. I've reached out to Jordan Peterson, in search of counsel and sound advice about the reality of my outlook, here and with everything modern medicine has to offer. 

In case you haven't figured that out, yet - it's not much. Remember the cigarettes, and Drano? Well, now I've graduated to consenting to have my brain prodded with electricity on the off-chance that, by some miracle, we actually fuck something up that's already fucked up. And, if I'm really lucky, and fuck that random shot into blind space up well enough, we just might knock something loose and trigger some sort of reboot up in there somewhere. Do you remember the Super NES, and the Nintendo 64? Oh, the 90's... back when a little good old-fashioned violence was just the trick to make that magical little box work again. A little love tap, and a good blow into the cartridge when she crashes and that baby should be good as new. Well, that's what we're working with, here.

My mother wants me to reach out to Dr. Phil about my creation, which I'm sharing with you now. I want to get evaluated, and seen for treatment at John's Hopkins down in Maryland; but here's the problem. My incarceration records, from my wondrous experiences experiences in the realm of the psychotic are split between jails, community mental health centers that I was legally forced to entertain, multiple, multiple doctors and multiple hospitals and provider networks. No doctor has ever seen a full picture of my health, in one place before and none of my doctors (besides that one guy, who treated me in jail and drove me to my first suicide attempt) have access to my legal records, which are equally valuable from a diagnostic perspective. And I can guarantee you that no medical institution in this country, or on this continent has access to the level of granularity in summarizing my interactions with the police, complaining neighbors, landlord records, the disgustingly large amount of doctors that have "seen me", all of their (pathetically incorrect) diagnoses, failed treatments, medication history, and complete timeline, calendar and gantt views of my symptoms and their consequences. Why? I already told you: because, unlike the rest of the world, I do my job. There's nothing quite like this, in existence; so I made it, with my own two hands. And now I'm choosing to share it with the world, completely free.