People aren't trash; they are medical waste. I sometimes regard the general public as nothing more than a revolting throng of carbon copied fools intoxicated by the ignorant conviction of their worthiness. I'll forgo referring to them as animals, as this would be an insult to my kitten. Since age 17, I have had the escruciating displeasure of working with the public at the expense of precious brain cells.
For the 0.8 of you still reading, it is crucial to make the distinction between individuals and the general public. A single pirhana may be a charming pet, or at least a whimsical conversation piece. Toss the toothy bundle of love in with a swarm of his own and he'll help disembowel your children. The general public, especially in customer form, is an overbearing army of intellectual cannibals. On occasion, they punch through my thin wall of sanity. Some days at work bludgeon my feeling, or facade, of being normal. Yesterday's marathon shift is a prime example. At some point, I became overwrought and desperate for sweet solitude. Their eyes, voices and mere presence overwhelmed me. Tense, wide-eyed and soft spoken with a short fuse, I was afraid that I looked as crazy as I felt. I've always tried to keep my insanity a secret at work.
One memorable day this October, I came to work at 6 a.m. One hour later, I was verging on either a mental breakdown or running out of the store. Their presence disgusted me on every level. In typical form, each repulsive one of them made the same remarks as the previous customer. Paramountly, they had interrupted my smoking while a superior grocery store was right across the street. Attention Albertson's shoppers: by interrupting my train of thought, you have just traded in every good thing you've done. Their eyes seemed to tax my sanity and pierce me. Their skin looked hideous.
When you see untolled thousands of people all doing and saying the same things, you fully realize that nobody is special. With the possible exception of well-assed women, we are all visually offensive. The masses are clueless, dirty and unworthy. When I was a waiter, at least people served some function in my world. These perhaps irrational thoughts bumrushed me that morning. I was disgusted to the point of freaking out. A swirling aura of sorts familiar from previous workdays environed me. I became beside myself and felt a bit consumed. I sensed a soupcon of disorientation that I first experienced at work seven years ago.
At work three days later, the modest volume of customers drove me to the edge. The reverberations from their voices sounded like a farm animal being brutalized. I considered walking off the job. Either I was better than that or I didn't have the balls. I thought of subsequently staying in my bedroom for the forseeable future, perhaps venturing out only late at night. My roommate would be forbidden to speak to me or enter the bedroom.
I'm not always like this at work. Hints of these feelings are generally present, but the more pronounced lunacy comes in phases. I have always craved solitude. More precisely, I need time alone with my thoughts, preferably for hours each day. Some times more than others, I need to live in a world somehow created or enhanced by my thoughts. Some of these thoughts are fatalistic, self-destructive and possibly paranoid. Nevertheless, they are an integral part of my lifestyle. As a creative person, I believe this seemingly aimless cerebral barrage is to be embraced and glorified.
Through seven tornadic years of desperate cashiering, the general public has tested the limits of my psychological endurance. Although a vice to some, human interaction can be among the most grueling activities. Maybe keeping a shit job shouldn't be this difficult. Maybe I should get over myself. Surely every cashier is borderline miserable at work. Caged in my deteriorating checkstand, I'm just like every other worker; annoyed and dying to clock out. Unfortunately, I'll never be rich enough to work and live in the isolation I have always sought. Of course, it's not just me. How much do you really disagree with the first paragraph?

Our minds can defy reality and educate us on the darker side of life. This is a personal story of one such episode.
That club was fucking bizarre. The chick insisted I remove my tie, but what did they mean by "dress code enforced?" The insane car ride was nice. Back home at my sleazy apartment after a long day of job hunting, thank God I'm alone. It's 4 a.m., time to crash. But I can't fall asleep.
I know that I'm going to Hell tonight. My vision of the Lake of Fire is overcast with deep black and rising plumes of dark smoke. Billows of bright fire are foreshadowed by piercing screams of the eternally melting. What remains of their consumed faces shows unfathomable desperation as they shriek for unattainable mercy. Not eyes, but haze crowned orbital sockets surrounded by charred flesh beg me. I feel solemnly warned. I'm about to join them, but I'm not sure why.
I'm freaked out like a bitch. Blood rushes through my veins as I breath heavily and with desperation. I rise to begin an episode of habitual pacing. The bathroom door is open. I pass by the doorway and catch a glimpse of myself in the large bathroom mirror. The reflection shows my face shredded with lacerations of varying depths. Rich crimson flows down my narrow face. My deep-set eyes are strikingly prominent as blood pours around them. I dash away from the mirror. In slight disbelief, I look into the mirror for a second opinion. The same macabre self-portrait confronts me.
I turn on the bathroom light, flatten my palms on the counter and stare hard into my eyes. This is real, and now I know why my face is mutilated. Now, I know why I'm burning in Hell tonight.
I see myself running face first into the mirror. A cascade of glass glitters the linoleum I have tumbled onto. The area is painted by a torrent of dark blood. Lying on the floor, my red hand seizes a suitable shard of mirror. I elevate my jaw and plunge the curved fragment into my trachea and carotid artery.
I am horrified by this vivid sight in my mind. I scurry away from the mirror's stare because I now have the intense desire to follow my mind's suggestion. I desperately want to live but I goddamn well need to rape that mirror. I grab my cellphone and dial "911." I hesitate to press the green button. I pace briskly and breathe frantically. I don't want to leave the apartment for help and risk leaping in front of oncoming traffic. Finally, I decide to ask a neighbor for help, we worked together at the school paper.
First, I dose up on Trileptal and Zyprexa. I walk upstairs to her efficiency with much reservation about heights and the outdoors. I explain the situation while trembling and gasping for air. She welcomes me inside and offers breakfast. I attempt to reciprocate conversation while she keeps an eye on me. It's about noon and I'm still shaken, but ready to go.
Returning to my apartment and pissing in that bathroom is haunting. I settle down and take a two hour nap. Upon waking up, I am overwhelmed with an unusual peacefulness and optimism. Abandoning my usual taste in dark clothing, I put on my lightest shirt and brightest tie. Typically, I love nighttime and abhor daylight. It feels so great to be alive and free that I am delighted to see a blue sky and breathe the midday air. Still a bit shell-shocked, I catch the next bus bound for my college. I hit the computer lab to research for some writing.
This was my first real mixed episode, which struck in September 2003. I had been off my meds for seven days. In my mind, this episode was a precursor of deeper psychosis to come. It seemed like I was living on borrowed time at the outset of my next pill eschewal.

Bipolar disorder is God's snazziest practical joke. Lunatics like me are not psychopaths, our every thought is not dripping with bloody psychosis. I'm a regular guy with a kitten and family ties who hopes against the bleak future he predicts. I'm a novice writer and a shit job virtuoso.
If you hear some brokedick shoes clomp while a Zippo clicks and a crazy man laughs, you'll know I'm coming--for cheap wine, or a CiCi's job application. The pen name used for this blog is not a fantasy honorific. It is directly derived from the four name paragraph on my birth certificate. Enough about me, this is about the all-American psycho. I could be an engineer, an artist or a derelict. Maybe I'm the wholesome, pig-tail wearing girl next door: who plans to screw your virgin son and daughter while you're pretending at church and then burn your vanilla house down.
I grew up in a lowlife urban area and a prissy suburb. New money can rot in Hell but petty destruction is the same in any neighborhood. I began seeing mental health professionals in elementary school. I was such a special kid that I rode the short bus to class. I'll spare you the typical childhood bullshit and curb my rising gag reflex in the process. You wanna hear about the tribulations of a misunderstood child, go watch Oprah. A keen interest in vandalism and fire setting never fully grew out of me.
I do not own a laptop computer, nor would I be caught dead in a Starbucks. The candy ass trend sucking unshaven wannabe philosopher wearing horizontal stripes and Steve Madden shoes is not my cultural demographic. Put down the turbinado sugar, comb your hair in an adult fashion and step away from the paper chalice of pretentiousness. For $4, they should substitute Irish whiskey for frappy decaf organic Chai mango kava Burmese cactus essence. Fruit and its juices should burn in Virginia pipe tobaccos and splatter on private property. Waffle House is my hot spot of public brooding, where the coffee is real and cigarette smoke lingers like seasonal depression.
My favorite food is northern Italian, my favorite song is "Paint it, Black," my favorite painting is "Scream," emerald green is my favorite color. If I had a dream date, it would be with a hypomanic brunette sporting a tasteful suit and a big ass. Unless she vacuously inquires about my favorite color, in which case I'd be irritated to the point of spraying her blood on my chicken Albanese with a salad fork. I also have a penchant for dark humor; as well as dark nights, dark chocolate and dark clothing.
My wardrobe includes sport coats, suspenders, ivy dress hats and in excess of 65 paisley ties. I highly reccomend clothes shopping at thrift stores and only when surging with sweet mania. Smoking briar pipes in my street clothes does incite a twinge of self-consciousness. Such is the price of good taste and being the sharp dressed shit-shoveler with the sexy stoneface. I don't want to look different or hear pointless commentary. Think I look like Sherlock Holmes? Follow the pin stripes southbound and snack on my white ass.
Just because I have hanging glands doesn't mean that I watch sports--or anything on television for that matter. I do love movies, dark and comedic; Hannibal Lecter is my favorite psychiatrist.
I have been called many things. I resent "unique" and resemble "mother fuckin' psycho." Sometimes I say things that may induce a jaw drop, but it's been years since I put any value in shock. People ask if I'm an ex-Marine, although military recruiters shot my ass down over the sea of unemployment.
I often hate people for no valid reason. I've been known to hallucinate, but it's been alleged that I'm brilliant. I think about violence, but I'm a peaceful man: I haven't killed anybody in weeks. The thought voices in my head bitch so much that I talk to myself at bus stops. There's a sick look on my face sometimes, but I've got perfect eyebrows. Maybe I could use psychotherapy, but you need liposuction and a clue. If I put you off then stay the Hell away from me. Masturbatory self-glorification is an irresistable treat, but I laugh at my trivial existence as if it were footage of police brutality. I try to improve myself but I'm glad to be crazy.
People have told me I should be an actor, a comedian and a writer. Ultimately, I've got to follow my heart and stick to being a desperate cash register slave. Van Gogh sold only one work whereas I have violated dozens of food orders with extreme prejudice. Who's the alpha artist, now?

My mind has been washed out with blood. An aspect of bipolar psychosis is often jarring mental pictures. I have shuddered with bulged eyes over gruesome visuals. Less macabre thoughts made me laugh.
Such images are usually instigated by mania and are involuntary. They began as largely carefree personal jokes and have escalated to scenes of profound gore in recent years. The former are pearls of comedic genius I wish I could put to good use. While unmedicated, I could often be found laughing my ass off to mental scenes that rival "Saturday Night Live" in its prime.
During a phone conversation, I was told that I was "pissing away" my college career. Instantly, I saw in my mind actor Sam Waterston in a business suit, wearing a maniacal grin while urinating off of a painter's ladder. In the background was a grassy valley and a bright blue sky as an unshown female sang "pissing away" in an operatic voice. "I'm hanging up now," the caller said in response to my roaring laughter.
I once visualized setting fire to my own head. Presumably, this would be accomplished by applying gasoline to the area. Hysterical laughter consumed me over this jolt of inspiration. Unfortunately, all visuals can't be a fleeting joy ride.
In a virtually solitary flash of precociousness, I visualized lacerating my schoolteacher's face with a pocketknife after vaguely assaulting her. Fantasy may have been a factor. I was nine years old. I didn't really get visuals at that age, but weapons, blood, mutilation and even suicide were staples of my short-lived drawing hobby. In retrospect, it seems that I may have predicted the psychosis that would harangue me a decade later.
Last year or whenever, I was in my mother's kitchen, helping out for a family gathering. I waited for my grandmother to clear away from the sink so I could discard a large knife. The situation inspired a visual of me stabbing my grandmother in the back three times. The first thrust drew a terrified scream as a deluge of blood spurted upwards and in my direction. She showed ultimate shock as her face made a quarter turn towards me and I swiftly completed the act. Mortified, I cringed with abhorrence and wanted to toss the blade. Customarily, I acted as though nothing had happened. I'll never forget the depth of the look on her face.
Family, my roommate, strangers and myself have all been butchered in my mind. In the past, I always told doctors that I had no thoughts of violence. Being that violence was not actually contemplated, I did not consider these visuals to be thoughts. Some humorous visuals have entailed violence.
Babies are another problem. The infant would be so easy to kill, I sometimes thought unwillingly. For a while, I felt uncomfortable around babies for this reason. While petting my cats, visuals of strangling them appeared. Given the simplicity of murdering anything from a grown man to a kitten, I wondered how such an incident could be consistently avoided. It would be too easy for comfort.
My love of grisly movies is illustrative of the fact that I have come to accept harrowing visuals. The torturous bloodbath that is "Saw II" drew from me the same response as a Denis Leary rant. I seemed to be the only patron in the theater cheering when a man had his throat severed with a hacksaw. The carnage, the gut wrenching agony--what sick bastard could resist? The actors' terrified screams were simply piquant. Hannibal Lecter beating that Tennessee cop to death with a nightstick was among the most beautiful moments in the annals of cinematography.
These and other images come as less of a shock these days, and following my doctor's orders has helped greatly. I regard this facet of my mind as a blessing. Visuals elevate my mind a notch higher than the brains of those unfortunates who drone through life imagining very little. This talent may benefit me as a petty artist. Differentiating bloodlust from psychosis, I cease to fear these visuals. Confidence has supplanted guilt.

Employment has pimped me out to lithium. Like many wack jobs, I have renounced full-blown insanity in favor of keeping a job. This month, I will pass the one year mark at Albertson's. If you call $6.40 a jackpot, the decision to stay medicated has paid off.
Since 2000, I have had 12 jobs aside from dealing blackjack and temporary construction jobs. Seven of these jobs lasted six weeks or less. All tolled, I have spent more than half of my last six years unemployed. I have resorted to living with family in a nauseating suburb, stealing food, selling plasma and peddling personal belongings on the street; including antipsychotic pills. The only checks I've ever written were hot.
The pursuit of a natural high greater than that given by cocaine and whiskey is worth pissing away years of one's life and brain cells. Bipolar mania is an immensely exquisite experience that transcends anything in a sane lifestyle. Mental and physical rushes of pure euphoria surge from the brain to the fingertips, creating a "brain orgasm," as I call it. Grandiose thinking is another treat. I once thought I could fly. Briefly, I thought I was God. In any such instance, I was convinced of my prowess as a writer, superhuman genius and mesmerizing physical appearance. I was also prone to uncontrollable, hysterical laughter. This sounds similar to the cliche laugh of evil television and movie characters and was accompanied by euphoria. I was also endowed with limitless energy.
These symptoms along with bizarre visuals enveloped me in a maelstrom. I was detached from a pathetic reality that would never compare to my alternate version. I was high as a goddamn kite and proud of it. Under pressure from my mother, I agreed to see a psychiatrist in June 2003. I renounced the unbridled joy of mania in favor of junior college. The medicated life didn't last long, I went off the pills shortly thereafter and became increasingly psychotic. For the next two years, I was consistently off and on medication.
My unmedicated exploits at a 2004 job include; beating a fry station timer with my shoe, screaming at customers, running laps around the store, frightening grill cooks with humorous rampages and throwing food items. It was all in good fun, nobody got dismembered. Cashiering in 2003, the only two shifts in which my work satisfied my general manager were attributable to mood swings. The boss took issue with my failure to smile adequately. On Saturday, I was laughing and smiling with customers in an unusual manner. I scribbled down my only poem in 30 seconds while working. On Sunday, I was laughing to mask some mild depression. I nearly cried in front of one customer.
I lost the sweetest job I've had to an unmedicated spree of bourbon guzzling. I enjoyed my job as a third shift waiter. I was pulling down $400 a week and for once my near future looked bright. The GM was so impressed with the quality of my work that she didn't fire me when I showed up late and fairly drunk. She fired me five days later when I came in three hours late. I spent my last penny on a pack of smokes, walked in and gave her my apron. The previous night, my alarm clock had done some unknown thing to offend me. I bashed it into unrecognizable slivers with the heel of a wing tip.
My year long unemployment streak that ended last October did something to convince me of the need for crazy pills. I lost my apartment after sponging off of my roommate. Despair set in months after living with family in a secluded suburb that offers few job opportunities. I went off my pills, drank when I scrounged the money and huffed spray paint. Gorging on caffeine pills offered mediocre recreation. I stayed in a bedroom and set to writing a book about my employment experiences. I saw little or no hope of finding work and dwelled on the dismal prospect of government assistance.
I have been medicated without voluntary interruption for 13 months. The motivation to discard life's finest reward has come from the belief that the job I have kept for too long is my last chance. Getting fired would prove that I am unfit to sustain minimum wage employment and therefore the biggest failure that I can think of. Being a shiftless loser does wear thin.
As agonizing as unemployment is, mental stability is a rip off. Medicated life is painfully one dimensional. It offers little satisfaction and is quite tedious. I have unsuccessfully tried to simulate mania. An entire fifth of 80 proof never does the trick. Jimi Hendrix's "Purple Haze" does vividly remind me of the feeling. At the end of the day, I settle for some writing and a goblet of wine. I don't know when I'll go off my meds again, but I know there will always be a next time.