So I had a good time at the Hallowe'en party last night. Since there were a lot of people I didn't know, I didn't have the werewithal to smoke weed on a regular basis. Moreso since I drove myself to the festivties rather than acquiring a designated driver. When I arrived there was loud '80s and '90s metal being played, not my cup of tea, along with two people from Staten Island who were okay except for the fact this woman was really drunk. Later someone said she's been drunker, oh boy. Anyway she was talking at me about her surgeries, how her elbow surgery squirted a stream of blood and pus earlier in the day and how two small pieces of her meat fell out of her bandages from her back surgery. She didn't go to the hospital upon her gruesome discovery, rather she took a fucking picture of those nuggets. Eugh. Still I stayed quiet because they're from Staten Island and the Island tends to be very conservative. It's Hallowe'en, not Guy Fawkes Day, and I didn't want to wind up on the business end of anything because of my politics.

The host's dog Max is 16 years old, and probably a german shepherd mix. He wore a diaper most of the night because Max has a pee-pee problem. Several times the Swiffer had to come out to clean up leakage. The next group to show up were the host's friends and their dog, Peanut. Peanut is a 12 year old pit bull service dog and thank fucking god for her. The metal was still playing loud, making me think of Leah who's a fan of that kind of stuff, and did I mention it was loud? I don't like loud music. Before Peanut showed up, I was tweeting about how I would much rather attend a gufujo rather than a traditional American party.
Sidebar: What's a gufujo? It's the introvert's alternative to one of the loud dance parties held at kongresoj and esperantujoj, offering tables for small groups to drink tea, per tradition, and talk. During the early part of the party I tweeted something along the lines of, "Laŭtaj sonoj signifas malgrandajn mensojn" or "Loud sounds mean small minds" which was unfair of me since I was only focused on the music and already feeling myself curl inwards around new people. I'd love to spend time in a gufujo.
Peanut's human has night terrors, among other issues, and Peanut made a beeline to sit between my legs, bless her heart. For ninety minutes, I petted Peanut while asking if she was put-off by the loud music as well. When I learned of her job I wondered, "Did she sense my anxiety despite my quiet demeanor? Was Peanut perfectly fine, but she was just doing her job?" Heck, you're at a party and you wind up doing your job anyway must suck. Then again, Peanut is a dog and I don't mean that dismissively nor disparagingly. They have a differet outlook on life despite millennia of immersion in the society and culture of hairless, upright primates. Still have a bit of a hard time wrestling with the idea I wasn't comforting the dog, but rather vice-versa. For the rest of the party Peanut slept on the couch.

a selfie photograph featuring an old pit bull terrier in the foreground and a large bearded guy in the background petting the dog

My stoner acquaintance from Whiting finally showed up, followed by their ex-lover, then a woman dressed up as a rainbow unicorn. Over the course of the night, the ex-lover and Whiting wound up going outside for an extended period which signified intense extracurricular activities between them. The ex-lover is a sex addict and when I texted about it to my dealer, who is also acquainted with this person, my dealer agreed on this point. By now the metal was off the playlist, "traditional" Hallowe'en music was playing but not as loud, there was a rhythm of people gathering in the living room, wandering the kitchen, then going outside to pass joints around. The ex-lover brought a karaoke machine, but it wasn't my cup of tea nor anyone else's except for Peanut's human.
Wound up chatting with a firefighter dressed as a gorilla, he mentioned ivermectin in passing which put me on-guard. What I discovered is just sitting and listening is enough. The importance of agreeing on broad points, then refining those points to find some intersectionality to de-escalate any arguments before they happen. The guy talked about his back pain too and I found an 'in' to talk about how memories are not just in the head, but also stored in one's body as muscle memory. I trotted out the anecdote I read ages ago of a woman who struggled with jaw pain through most of her life, a chiropractor adjusted it and she broke down in tears. When she was five her dog died and her father told her "big girls don't cry". She stopped crying, bit back on those tears for decades, and only when her jaw was adjusted everything came pouring out in a cataract of catharsis. On top of that, my former friend Brian had to have a few credits in the vein of psychiatry under his belt to become a masseur because people often have breakthroughs during those ministrations.
The firefighter started to get political, mentioning how when he last voted nobody asked him for his ID and nobody compared his signature with previous signatures leading him to believe there's a basis for the argument of voter fraud. "So volunteer with the election board. Find out how they function" was my advice and I think it got through to him. Will he volunteer? Who knows, but I planted the seed and probably made him a little less reactionary in that department inshallah.

Whiting and I talked for a bit and I mentioned how DMT seems to have a physiological effect upon disease. While I didn't lead Whiting down the rabbit hole of most pain being psychosomatic, I did mention how folks with multiple sclerosis and cancer find the symptoms of those diseases to diminish or dissipate altogether. 1, 2, 3

an image featuring eight human beings, three females and five males. in the center of the back row is a man with a large beard and long hair. that is me.

At one point I was futzing with my phone when much to my surprise Binnall called me. We shot the shit for a bit, mentioned how I'd like to meet him in person around my birthday, and made vague plans. He's a good friend. Need to check my "In Case Of Emergency" note taped to the top of my door to see if I mentioned him there. Pretty sure I did, but I don't explicitly remember.

Last person I spoke with was the woman dressed as a rainbow unicorn. She couldn't partake because as a nurse she's tested on a monthly basis, despite marijuana being legal in New Jersey and nurses being held to a higher standard, and it boiled down to small talk. Kicked myself and my social anxiety for not chatting her up sooner but so it goes as Vonnegut wrote.

Now the important part of the night: the food. The host served ribs that he smoked for six and a half hours and they were very tender and delicious. The firefighter brought along a big pot of wontons covered in spicy garlic sauce which were fantastic. Whiting brough virgin brownies which were alright. Around 12:30 another guest arrived with a tray of magic brownies, but I didn't partake since I was fixin' to head home.


While writing the previous section I was enduring discomfort in my arms, probably from the pressure on my elbows as I typed and leaned forward just a wee bit. I found myself switchng windows to check the web for no real reason, leading me to wonder if I truly am addicted to the internet and the advent of smartphones merely exascerbated the situation by dicing up my attention span even finer. My logic here being the discomfort in my arms, switching windows to check Twitter, reddit, my email, et al. for that dopamine rush after years of conditioning by a hand-held device which facilitates my socialization. I wasn't checking other windows because I was mentally distacted, but physically distracted by my pain.

I noticed I was editing on-the-fly while writing, implying I have no designs for tackling a second draft. This isn't good, but it's not as bad as the idea I'm merely writing to finish the task of writing. To me, this implies I enjoy writing but merely have bad habits associated with it which have nothing to do with laziness or a desire to just get something done.

Now? I realize getting out of my anchorite cell is therapeutic. The shadow of future anxieties doesn't loom so large, keeping me present as Alan Watts taught, psychiatrists advise, and new agers like to parrot with good intentions. Hoping this glow sticks with me for a bit, but that's up to me rather than being subject to 'fates' or 'destiny'.

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