Loots From The Met

They have lots of stuff. Wish they had golf carts.

I borrowed my sister’s camera for the visit. ~40 pictures in, it ran out of memory. So I tried to be more frugal with the takes, and deleted bad pictures right away. Which obviously doesn’t work in The Met. Sooooo, I walked 10 city blocks to get more memory. Happily back in the Met with infinite amount of memory for its endless supplies of pretty objects. 5 more pictures, out of battery.

Yay.

Amazon Woman Supposedly Dying

Somebody's Face

Somebody's Ass

Getting Better

I changed my blog title to get rid of the word “disorder”, because it’s no longer ironic– my mind is like, actually fucked up. I intend to fix it. Reduced to labels, I have avoidant personality disorder with atypical depression and social phobia. In everyday terms, I am a loser.

Of course, I am not a loser. By anyone’s standard, I am doing well. Furthermore, if I were a loser, I probably wouldn’t realize. I just feel like a loser. And because I feel like a loser, I seem like one. So depression is like a dog chasing its own tail, and actually manages to sink its teeth into its own tail. It hurts, so it chases after itself all the more. I am sure Nietzsche would approve.

I used to scoff off my problems as emo-mentality from reading too much existentialism. It’s all fun, literary, pseudo-intellectual. It’s not real, I thought. I “knew” it’s but a mask. I am postmodern, man. I am smart. But then, in March I had a panic attack.

So enough is enough. I want to get laid, and I want to get rich. No more blue rainy days on blue sunny days. I am turning my blog (from nowhere) into self-help in most literal sense. I am going to help myself. It’s going to be about me, me, ME. I am actually going to do things to make myself better. Yay.

I’ve booked a shrink. She costs a fortune.

I am thinking about booking a whore. She’d cost even more.