Today I had another bad hypo. I'm sick to death of this shit. Endless testing & monitoring & adjustments don't really mean shit when you've got no on-going financial stability, work in the bullshit hopeium industry of fine art & every job is temporary at best. This world clearly wants me dead. I can't be assertive without being aggressive & the very fact things like this need to be asserted in the first place to anyone, let alone the government, GP's etc...well, a boulder could understand that...surely a finely attuned professional could..? Clearly not. Can they fuck. It won't go very well. They keep starting & stopping working tax credits & housing benefit depending on which way the wind is blowing. No one likes the truth & don't shoot the messenger, but equally let the messenger speak to the correct decision makers & maybe hold them by the throat off a high building. Those cunts don't do bridges. Not anymore. The bitchy schema of compartmentalisation allows wildly distorted shit theory to be acceptable in a few bubbles of "didn't we do well", while allowing something like the georgia guidestones agenda to be played out a one by one basis. Compartmentalisation is the devil. Bubbles are the devil. They both need to walk the plank. Back slapping arse covering box ticking agents of evil. Thinking it's good because of their showmance shitshow. Fucking plankton.
Woke to the sight of my friends & one of my favourite bands feeding me jam & felt quite the tit. They didn't need that. Nothing about today's was in the least bit interesting. Previously they've been comic, flashback flavoured, &, on occassions, mad adventures, but today, I was just putting my boots on to go out & the next thing you know you've got sticky hypersalivation with tesco value strawberry jam mixed up into a mad hair gel. Fuck this. Really. The worst thing is what you see it do to the folk who help you, who're often quite badly shaken, you've recovered, feel fine, but obviously they're still on the shit bit of the human spin cycle of emotions after something shit like that happens, while you're in a face slapping self hate tumble. Only ruined about 10 drawings, so quite light really. No naked heavy sweating over strange distraught ocd women. No turpentine headwash. No praying on the by-pass. No leather jacket over nudity running after someone down the street, only to pass out in a hedge by the school run traffic jam. Didn't get maced or arrested. Didn't have sex with a vending machine, then get crushed by it in a sad & desperate last ditch attempt to get a can of coke after a 12 hour shift in the fray bentos factory doing the meat paste shovel job. No inept slack jawed violence. Could've been worse.
Ange & Owen the paramedics, as always, were brilliant. Hate having them bothered, though. Someone told me it costs the NHS £1000 every time an ambulance is called. There's tons of speculation & truth in what the tories are trying to do to the nhs, but clearly, if you keep fucking up a diabetics cash flow, this tit's gotta operate in an endless system where he "could get paid, one day. IF you're lucky (if the cunts ever fucking get back to you if they can read anything other than fucking sales speak dicks)", but EVERY cut back they make, gets passed on at least 10 fold to the nhs. I'm pretty bad, but there's millions more like me subjected to the same shit & you need to ask if we're the condems unintentional wrecking ball for the nhs. There's obviously a reason I don't know any diabetic artists who're still going. I want my careers advisers head. But then, art is the best therapy, but who really wants to sell their therapy? I do. The world says no, die. I've got a lot of work to do & it's kind of hard to reach out when you're no longer alive. I want to thank all the people who've helped, all the people that bought my work, all my dipshitted scatty employers, all the paramedics. Monitor & adjust & write it down.
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