And Then I Thought I was a Fish

IDENTIFYING INFORMATION: Peter Hunt Welch is a 20-year-old single Caucasian male who was residing in Bar Harbor, Maine this summer. He is a University of Maine at Orono student with no prior psychiatric history, who was admitted to the Acadia Hospital on an involuntary basis due to an acute level of confusion and disorganization, both behaviorally and cognitively. He was evaluated at MDI and was transferred from that facility due to psychosis, impulse thoughts, delusions, and disorientation.

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Observations of a Straight White Male with No Interesting Fetishes

Ever wondered how to justify your own righteousness even while you're constantly embarrassed by it? Or how to make a case for your own existence when you contribute nothing besides nominal labor to a faceless corporation that's probably exploiting children? Are you clinging desperately to an arbitrary social model imposed by your parents and childhood friends? Or screaming in terror, your mind unhinged at the prospect of an uncaring void racing to consume the very possibility of your life having meaning?

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Noware

This is the story of a boy, a girl, a phone, a cat, the end of the universe, and the terrible power of ennui.

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⬅ Books for monies

Not a Real Post

Composed on the 30th of July in the year 2016, at 3:41 PM. It was Saturday.

I’m not the most consistent writer when it comes to frequency, style, topic, quality, voice, complexity, structure, genre… I guess that’s kind of everything. I’m inconsistent is the overarching theme here.

One thing I am mostly consistent about is not trying to ruin your day. (Unless one of my friends or pets dies, in which case everyone has to feel as bad as I do until the world drowns in tears.) So there’s a particular style I rarely use. I call it Depressing Homework. It’s my go to when my sense of irony craps out, and I tend to post these only on Medium, because I want it out there, but it’s not the usual stuff, for whatever value of usual this blog manages to maintain. Also, I don’t necessarily want the sentiment to end with the pseudo-ironic advertising at the bottom of this page.

However, it occurred to me that I could be seen to be trying to distance myself from the sentiment. I’m no fan of radical honesty: there’s shit in my closet that staying there until the stars die. But I did promise myself I would own up to everything I do put out there, even if I cringe at it five years later. So in the spirit of keeping the medium consistent, if not the message, this is why nothing got posted here last week.

This TextEdit window is sitting on top of four others, one of which might contain a completed blog by next week, so back to normal soon.

Ladies and gentlemen, please!

Hi there! You should totally go buy my book for the low low price of 6.73! It's like buying me a beer at an out-of-the-way dive bar in Brooklyn! Not in Manhattan. Manhattan prices are ridiculous, though there are a couple of decent Irish dives where you can snag a drink for five bucks. Otherwise, you're looking at a two or three book beer.
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