Why is it that emotional writing always opens with a ridiculous, rhetorical question?
“Every week a doctor commits suicide in North America, and each one knew that depression is potentially treatable or self-limiting; insight goes faster in depression than in any other illness. Depression is psychological pain, and a severe depressive illness is arguably the most unpleasant disease in the Western world bar rabies. Samuel Johnson once said he’d suffer a limb to be amputated to recover his spirits. An old clergyman who had recovered from a severe depression later badly scalded his genitals, thighs, and abdomen. When asked which type of pain was worse, he said, ‘I would suffer the scalding a hundred times rather than have a depression again. Every night I pray to God to let me die before the depression returns. When I was scaled I prayed for relief and I was heard, but during the depression I lost my faith. There is no comparison between those two kinds of pain.'” 
A recent World Health Organization report predicts that depression will be the leading cause of disability and premature death in the industrial world by the year 2020. Without treatment, ten to fifteen percent of people suffering from severe Major Depressive Disorder commit suicide. With treatment, the majority of patients with this illness recover.
If you’ve foraged through the site, you have certainly come across my posts on HURT and on J. Loren himself. In short, both are super-duper. I will be interviewing J. soon and am asking all of you to share with me questions you would like me to ask the man himself. For now, take a look at the neat video for “Rapture”.
Every day they remind me. They say, hey Naked E, it wasn’t your fault. She was always here. Dancing is just your thing, she gamed you like an XBox. Like Halo. Ironic because she is Satan. No Halo for Satan. No Halo for Satan. But don’t get me wrong, B if you’re reading this. I enjoy the flirting and the sex. But I never really got into the cat. The cat was the speed bump that bottomed out my ‘vette from day one. I have not a ‘vette, and you get the metaphor. I hope you do. If you don’t then even my best verbal wrangling couldn’t gracefully nimble bck and restructure what I have already written. I am sorry for the booze. I am sorry for the drugs. I am sorry for always saying I’m sorry. But I feel that I should tell you how I feel all the time. At the time I punched in those words, the feeling I needed to convey was sorrow, regret. I could have said that I regretted the booze. That may have been better. Can we pretend that I said that instead? Do synonyms have the same effect? I will use this experience to find out so let me know how you feel. I feel okay.
Feeling her way through the dark by the lught of her cell phone with one block blinking ominously indicating that the battery had become junk metal barely pumping out static electricity at this point. She would never make it home. She was on the darkest road in the darkest part of town. Her phone beeped. A blast of light and it was over. Darkness. Swimming in darness like a fat kid on a boat where the skinny people have mutinied and the fatties have been jettisoned so that there would be crab legs left at the buffet. Thought was: they had a good chance of floating via their blubber and being insulated from a shark attack. In a way it was free cosmetic surgery. If a shark came and snacked on a chunk of fatty fat, clearly you would be at your own funeral, a svelte, proud corpse.
Sometimes when you think beyond the normal meaning of words, you can discover a dream while you are awake. Dreams make no sense (usually) and yet we are mesmerized by them. Some, led by them. Writing in Babbles brings the dreamworld to the world we experience while awake. I will be promoting my favorite new art form with words as this blog grows into a toddler. Slam poetry was a silly attempt at what I am talking about right now. The Babbles are pure, but polished. Spitting drivel and anything that comes to your mind is not “pure” it is poo. You are a poo if you print this. Clean yourself up and learn with me the Babbles. Fun will be our co-conspirator. A person. A word. A world. A culture. All speaking in babbles to escape boring old communication. It’s a bench press for the brain – and OH how sweet the Babbles sound. The ears dance and various brain parts secrete chemicals similar to many things. These chemicals make you blissendo. I am excited and humble. Let me make you happy.
Let me make you happy.
Welcome to The Babbles.
Here’s some more nakedEric music fun. Go get this album. The more I listen to the sons ‘o Bob (of which there are many) I find myself evermore thankful that Bob humped anything that moved then smoked two joints before he smoked two joints… as the song goes. tee hee.
You will hear the first track, “Mind Control” and recall the simplicity of the roots reggae so adored during Bob Marley’s enchanted life. Stephen is eerily similar and forgoes the temptation to dip into “toasting” (a freestyle hybrid of rap-reggae) or dancehall styles that now proliferate the genre. No Shaggy here. This is Roots. Rock. Reggae. at it’s most glorious.
Although he has been involved in music his entire life, Stephen spent a lot of time as a producer. This experience is evident in the flawless recording of “Mind Control” and the ingenious arrangements of each track. No overproduction, effect belching, or other abuses of studio technology. Stephen keeps everything simple and hones the little things. The details like the subtle wah on a guitar track and gliss on an intro make this a feast for the ears. My freking dog like listening to this album. It’s so smooth, a man has to assume that Stephen is, like his father, getting more ass than a public toilet. On that classy note, I reiterate: Do not pass this album up. It is not rehashed Bob or striving to sound like him in any way. This is a unique voice in Reggae, with enough of the roots to keep it grounded and enough imagination to justify the label “prodigy” for this incredibly talented musician.
Sometimes I forget things. I forget to lock the door or to turn off the stove. You know the feeling…
Check this out…
BERLIN (Reuters) – A German man forgot his car after filling it up at a petrol station, police said Friday.
“He just forgot about it and walked off home,” said a spokesman for police in the western city of Wuppertal.
After the car had sat blocking the pump for about an hour, a woman working at the petrol station became suspicious and alerted authorities.
Officers contacted the 63-year-old from Remscheid, who came straight back to fetch the vehicle. He had paid to fill up the car before walking off.
According to TMZ, two ladies won a contest to have dinner with Fabio in a swanky-swank restaurant. The ladies began snapping pics of each other with the man when, to their surprise, a man at a table behind them began flashing the finger in each picture in a clear attempt to ruin the shot. Who was the man? George Clooney! Clearly he was a bit jealous that the attention wasn’t all on him (or on him at all). Fabio asked him to stop the shenanigans and Clooney snapped back something to the effect of “shutup”. Fabio stepped, then Clooney stepped and they began pushing and shoving like the manly men they are(?)
Clooney fled and Fabio fumed. The ladies got a lot more than they bargained for and now have made statements publicly about how Clooney tried to ruin their night. One said that Clooney isn’t even fit to clean the dirt from Fabio’s boots. The other said that, “Its not ALWAYS about you, George.”
Ain’t that the truth…