Oh, how I yearn for the simpler times. When if you weren't dead by age 14 - you wished you were. And you just didn't have the time, energy or sufficient fucks to care about the world. Or the people in it.

Collect data, analyze patterns - doubt my conclusions. Usually my subconscious works it out overnight. My weakness? Prolonged ambiguity. It creates a loop - I reconsider EVERYTHING again and again hunting for mistakes.

Weird HBM journal entry #237. If only. (Note. This is humor. It may not be funny. But it is humor. I think.)

I am approaching the end of fourteen months of this and - as measured by my count of followers and level of engagement - it is very clear that my thoughts are worth considerably LESS than a soggy sandwich.

I may as well experiment with format for a few last unwanted final thoughts. It's almost as if I am nothing to lose. Hmm. I guess that's exactly what I was, am and will be. Never has someone more been ever so ... less.

My life would be bad enough just recalling my dreams when I wake up. But no. It has to be SO much worse. My most emotional dreams make it to long term memory. Where I get to replay them over and over as ... daymares.

My choice? I would jump in the ocean. With someone special. To change the world. Or drown trying. But alas - 'tis not. I don't keep acquaintances. Or have casual friends. A rose by any other name ... would die just the same.

Sillyish Sunday! The smart voices inside my head have convinced me that THIS should have been the correct response to the hidden lessons of 2021. So. Since they'll only ever go one-way. Goodbye, emotions.

For me? Creativity and emotions are painfully inseparable. EVERY thought I share – here, there, everywhere – entails Van Gogh level suffering. So. Why do it? Because I crave deep, meaningful, open, honest – conversation.

On a bad day I can usually flip a switch inside of me to operate as a shell of a human in “safe mode”. But then there are those “other” days. No amount of Wikipedia. No amount of music. No amount of kittens. Will ever work.

I've been overthinking about Data’s bathroom. Toilets in space? How about bidets? So. Two simultaneous questions. One “dual” answer. My bet? It was for the superficial compliments and an announcement about eating a mile of …

Just before Thanksgiving in 1990 – my entire life as I knew it and thought it would be – started to fall apart. And I no longer knew who I was. How I wished back then that this movie I saw a few months earlier – was reality.

How can an empath be "INTP"? Easy! I learned to suppress my emotions when making decisions. Example. I spent months researching a new truck. Building spreadsheets, downloading specs, watching videos, reading reviews. I used analysis to override impulse. But yes. It's black. I'm not a robot.

How memesy! I was WILDLY emotional in my youth. Dare I say, "out of control"? My journal, ages 15 to 27, documents my path of self-discovery in my FIRST "evolution". A key learning? My personality may not allow for "compartmentalization" – but I developed techniques for "selective detachment".