Lifestyles of the group home (transitional) transients - freon-huffing, post-cloudz 🤯

 Man, oh, man, these housemates of mine really pop off, for the start of a day - a workweek Monday, for that matter.

Having spent some years in transitional living homes, after doing some time, immemorable, of some form, around the time I was evicted from my Section 8 apartment, for excessive crumbs and knickknacks crumbs and knickknacks awrr rawr rawr, I’d (fearfully so) had become acquainted with some transient group home types, much more down to home and in-my-face, err, (some other) mental health detriment, some other personality disorder. 

That being said, I do have some reasonably good and well-read psychology chops, so I commonly moonlight as a public health operative, out in the field, or, at home, much the same - that is, to say, that these demographics are much like common folk who are out and about, and I hear that many of them are equitably to be found in sober living home settings; it’s a certain branch off-shoot of that lifestyle and placement, by public and mental health, as well as social service and local government organizations. 

This is transitional living.

I’ll keep it short, and to the point - these folks share their knowledge base and resources, however well-resourced, somewhat fairly freely, amongst each other, and, in my case, they find me the “gay” one - the one to pick on, for being well-groomed, well-dressed, clean cut, etc., so they direct a significant amount of inappropriate attention towards me, once I leave home, to head out, and feed the pigeons, for my work day, or, perhaps, they do it somewhere off in the periphery. 

But anyways, this is the memo. The drama, of an ongoing nature, I’ve come to (re-)discover, through “hearing” stuff - something along these lines, I’ll say, tantamount to a strong air-pressure leakage, from a holding tank, perhaps of a commercial, rather than personal, -sized tank, such as for Freon tank refilling, or installation. 

Essentially, it seems to allow for the users to become exotically more so euphorically intoxicated, with blissful renditions upon life, at a strange hour, in life, (comparatively), such as perhaps just prior to 8 a.m., through 9:30 a.m., or so. I did “similarly,” yet not “huffing” stuff(-ly) so, types of things, back in college, when I had a girlfriend, but I was, comparatively, embarrassed, when I realized that my neighbor could hear me, from across the way. 

Some scraped intelligence, from Apple Search, to feed contexts and discovery in to Google Search.

 Is crypto literally simply founded upon illicit drug use and gang affiliations? - as the commonly, albeit slight, popular belief of the masses, had come to the fore? 

Who hadn’t slighted that belief, for staying up on news feeds during the pandemic, etc.? Who hadn’t experienced some sort of detriment, as a result of gang affiliated individuals collectivizing, gathering, creeping, and targeting victims? It’s been a quite blatant context of unknown extents, in my life; partially apparently due to the inclusion of heroin in to the personas - granted, I’m not completely immune from prosecution here, as a regular methamphetamine user, but I am trying to clamp down this notion of drug abstinence, and solace; of contentment in my standard self. I’ve been seeking ways in which I can instill practices, and disciplined formative traits in myself, in rebuilding a resilient and immune identity, where feigned disbelief intersects with the truth, for how much the remote-sensing quadrants operators and engineers could, or might, imbue me with some higher power that exists, out of a more or less faulty persona that could aught be supposed of a drug-abusing individual, for that these things are deemed to be unlawful. (I had a slight notion of starting beyond, at “albeit,” in this moment). 

A picture gleaned upon Apple’s Search processes suggests a dark intimation of what construes a highly popularized and centrifugal financial behemoth, given cryptocurrency’s moment in the spotlight, for having been novel, whereas now, the details are under federal government scrutiny and international regulations, constraints, and rebuke, of various issues at context, given cryptocurrency.

These sorts of Nijinsky are scarcely so autocorrected, contextually deeply-dug, such as “I doo-doo,” the claim. Who could remember, beyond the novelty? 

Ah, Nijinsky. Had I not even known - is what’s had had had happened - trying to regain traction, here. These autocorrect things, these days, with the introduction of “actual” improvements, bearing upon contextual intelligences, of machine learning, and of artificial intelligence - Apple and Google both, as big tech awrr rawr rawr rough and tough contenders to the popular titles of achievement and progress upon linguistic and visual perceptual GANs (Generative Adversarial Networks), and ooo… I had a dedicated and obsessive adversary, whereas I was more intent, on the keyboard, upon a “ab” (awkward, but that’s how I projected, in vivo, the sentence ought to be composed, d hoc, and improvisatorily, of an organic discovery and discernment upon the topic, thereof, and for that matter. 

Remembering? Well, that’s a bit tough, when I’m me, of the standards that I’d imposed upon others, whereas I’m a skilled typist, on mobile, and these autocorrect things… fwoppin’ bwopp? Priceless…?! et cie novelty-minded crumbs and knickknacks, of the minded-so aught of, thereupon, of outpacing this detriment - we have the written accord, of the textual nature, and composition’s … umm… there’s some legal term for this sort of dispatch. Not quite disposition, or exposition, butt shittle? … “even better,” it had once come to pass, upon the notion of cruising, at issue, of a legal matter… 

With that sort of GAN at formative construct, in nature, we could just opt to rebuild life, from the bitsies, and the pieces, of what had transpired, of on piss? Muah. 

Just maybe. 

But okay. That was an example of a Generative Adversarial Network, I’d suppose, and it just popped up, out of convenience. I’m the gritty-enough (un-)editorial drafts-type and typist to render that rawr awrr rough and tough little bitsies, crumbs, and knickknacks, fweef! 

And now, who could remember anything, once again? What matters? Who cares? All things had been taken care of, here, butt shittle? It’s all taken care of, here, already. 

Alright. The latest topic is that a man encountered me, the other day; a guy of a common; a more common sort, that I am, I’ll just be upfront about it - at least, of what he presented to me, but at least (once again - the GAN context impetuous underlying developing purpose at stake, of becoming less relevant, here) - at least he had artistic aspirations and offerings about himself. That was decent, I could say. What he said, though, of a different establishment, of the acquaintanceship, was that “it’s easy to hurt people.” Disregarding all else, that was an offensive superficial thing to flout, I felt. Bringing it to the current moment, I’m reminded of that I feed the pigeons, and the sparrows, and I try to sustain life, of these birds, out in the urban wild, as it were. These blogs are supposed to sustain the purpose and prescience of the guy who does that (me), and I happen to be the guy who does that, as me. I’m pinioned, as a guy who thinks of himself, to an unexpected extent, I suppose, and I guess that that makes me one who disregards people. I just feel like it’s appropriate. I did it to the guy, at one point, because he was flouting a certain type of inflection and intimation upon me, of which I find useless and condescending, whereas I had this slight pigeons and friends home art exhibition thing that I use as my sociable ladder, to climb in to casual civic “bed,” as it were, as for someone opening up to a notion of really getting to know me - the birds, the feeding, the art, the blogs, etc. 

Possibly, however, “the guy” has some of that sort of trait to him, in and of his own right, it’s just that I was a bit put off by his casual nature. It’s like, doo-doo comes first, then nobody can remember anything anymore. 

Ha.  

I couldn’t even… I just imagine that likewise, nobody else could, except that sometimes, I have this backing of a transcript dictaphoneur specialties-professionalism, in “somebody’s” higher authority stance, over me, whereas I experience problems, commonly, for enjoying myself, for example, on, like, a work day, and work day hours, for that matter, whereas I try to uphold a definition and reputation of a standard-classed man, for the people, and I let off flouted bitsies of the truth, in my admissions about stuff that I’d otherwise be known to do. 

The point, beyond all else, however, is a bit simple, of a premise. It’s about personal freedoms, somewhat, and it’s somewhat about boundaries. Now, given, I was wearing women’s balloon pants, and a poncho, and I looked a bit uncommon, as for myself. I don’t know what it was, I suppose. Maybe it was the smoking. The smoking in the household thing. I didn’t partake, because it was a pookie (a blown glass pipe used for smoking crystalline or resinous [oils] substances) - I’ve got no taste for that. Maybe that’s the non-pareil of establishment, here, supposing that people think, whatsoever. 

Alright, that was French, I’ll admit. Butt shittle? Not all that much for the better, as it turns out. But I did pull out a Nijinsky, and who could refrain from researching that thread of intelligentsia bitsies… 

*~<°^•>=/* just imagine, though, Nijinsky. Some people know Nijinsky like we were brought up on Lé Coqué-tard. Russian imperial, versus French modernism ex imaginative fwopp-lore. 

I suppose that, in the end, I’m just trying to find my suitable place, in the aesthetic of suitable geometries or placement in serendipity, amongst others, and I didn’t even watch the movie. I don’t, no. I doo-doo. I don’t quite understand… butt shittle? Some people just don’t read my shit, is what’s (I guess), the issue, whereas it’s so seemingly awfully compelling to the lower mindsets of individuals, and of responsibility. 

 

Another Downtown LA (Though Slight) Occupation and Riot - October 2021 DTLA Folklore.

 Who could deny it, for either living here or ending up here, any time over the past several weeks or so?

The evidence is present for the daytime locals and locality regulars, (such as myself) to come to understand. As pictured here, at the [… insert apartment complex name], property damage is being threatened and waged, lately, by roving waves of seemingly random, yet quite common casually psychotic individuals. It’s a burgeoning mental health crisis, out here. Much of the dissent and “acting out” is based upon some demographic crisis, of which the truth of the matter could ostensibly be difficult, even for professionals, social workers, and mental health outreach teams to effectively understand, in terms of some means of civil service being put in to effect, which could quell the ongoing drama and settle the unease of the citizens who reside here. 

Being on the ground level, out on the streets, here, myself, in particular - for being one of the dedicated bird flocks’ caretakers in the locality, as well as that I happen to patronize Skid Row drug dealers, I get, at a minimum, at least some conjectural intelligence and informed status, in regards to what seems to be going on, within the campus that precludes downtown Los Angeles. 

The mental health system is failing abuse victims, as the prevailing disposition that I’m presented with, for example. I do my best to accommodate my otherwise poor emotional support mechanism, in life, through aesthetic means, whether it be situational, environmental, artistic, and sometimes, I seek the pleasurable. Long days of persecution, of my schizotypal mind, by personas that fall by the wind, during the majority of my life - who truly is in my life, to any appreciable degree? 

My apologies, for making this a personal note, on my blog. It got neglected, of my earlier ambition to cover the greater mental health victims demographic, and I got swept in to a several-hours long remote sensing debacle, largely of forgettable and transient things, lacking in accountability, and yet seething with sadism about it. Apparently, one person cares to see me incarcerated, rather than that I take, for myself, an amount of crystal methamphetamine that drug dealers care to allocate and provide, of my purchasing from them.

Update: 10/17/2021: As it turns out, today would perhaps stand as one in which infamy reigned over personal freedoms and the autonomous mind. I made a report, last night, to the FBI (or tried to; there was an impassable form input error message). Would that have happened to have hijacked my attention span? All in all, I made some off-color jokes last night, and people are in an uproar about this and that, still; people from my past, who harbor a distaste for me, for my penchant for honesty. Today was a day of descent, so to speak, in to the recesses of the prelimbic mind, (which happens to be under review, or subject to < rescind >, “apparently,” as far as autocorrect goes). Yikes. Watch out, there. In any case, I founded this .institute aspiration and enterprise based upon much of what an intelligence and development enterprise ought hold as sacred knowledge; things that must be kept, throughout disaster and peril. 

The disavowal of pre-limbic mind. Mind control. I’m just, at this point in time, (acutely), being offered dissent, in regards to my freedom. It appears to be a home town row and hazing of me; I can tell: the type of demographic is telling, at times. People speaking so freely, and without care, or consideration towards me, and as I’d mentioned, I’m simply largely alone, in life, at this point in time. I suppose that I’ve upset some people. Not everyone, by any means, but quite apparently - some people.