#   25 Sep 2021 // NYP6  
which is referring on:
Antsy Open Minds (386Y 22 Sep 2021)

When I was explaining about antsy pants
and open minds and dared to mention
that I stared at my shoes like an
idiot in a fugue state . . .
🔊

Though it should be obvious to the nose on your face, I will again state that I'm not an armchair clinical psychiatrist, though I do dabble on that sometimes but probably not as much as I should. 😒 So when I start talking about dissociative states of mentis and stuff like that, I'm simply talking from my own experience because where else should I talk from? After all, I am — like all of us — as I was born and nothing else. So, when I said, "I bowed my head to stare at my shoes like some kind of damned idiot in a fugue state." I was talking about only one person (and not just on the planet now) but any person that ever lived or will ever live; IOW, me. And that should be the end of the story except that some people never want to leave the well alone. You will notice that I'm sticking to our SweeT sTeViE policy and not naming names. But not just because it's a policy I made up, but because the whole reason I made it up is because it's the right thing to do.

But even aside from my experiences being my own, I'd like you to think about this with me. I said, ". . . like some kind of damned idiot in a . . ." Yes, yes and the next part was "fugue state", but what if instead the next part had been:

• swimming pool
• heart hospital
• Cadillac
• nut farm

Ah, see there — I think that lightbulb on your head just turned on, did it not? Yay us! \💡/ Is it not clear as a stream that, while maybe not crystal, still has a very low silt content? Very few to none people would think that I was crapping on swimming pools or heart hospitals or Cadillacs or, heaven forbid, nut farms and the unfortunate people living in them with all kinds of smelly brain problems. Why on 🌎 would I want to crap on nut cases? Ask yourself that. That "damned idiot" I already addressed as me. If I want to compare myself to an idiotic idiot, any kind of idiot, I will; furthermore, I shall neither apologize for, nor feel bad about, it. And you shouldn't either, Spanky-doodle. What would your life be like if you were mad at yourself all the time? I'll dabble on mental experts here, if you will allow me . . . good, good, good. 🙏

You see, Spanky, if you get mad at yourself every time you call yourself an idiot, there'll just be no end to it! You need that like you need a hole in your head. [ SS has just pointed out to me that many of you who don't dabble on the mental arts may not be familiar with all this jargon I'm tossing around like a pizzador at the pizza store, so I'll go ahead and explain that last thought experiment so you don't get yourself tied up in knots just because you were ignorant of something. — What? Spanky, there is literally no kind of value judgement overloading ignorance. Everyone is ignorant of almost everything. Think about it. It just means stuff you don't know. At least for me. I'm sitting here trying to help you not beat yourself up like this, so why would I start coughing aspirations all over your G_d-given intelligence? Spanky, you are and ever "OK in my book" but at times you can be a teeny bit exhausting. No, no; it's ok; we're good. 🙄 ]

The thought experiment that the masters of the human mind sometimes use to same a thing by comparison: ". . . like [you/I] need a hole in [your/my] head." Now calm down, it isn't hard. Heck, you may find you enjoy thought experiments and learning new (to you) technical terminology. If you don't? Spanky, no body is forcing you to do anything so in that case go the other way from the shoe store and Just Don't Do It. — Yes? That's right, no body's gotta do anything. Anyway . . .

First of all, you need to sail up your own mentis, which is just a fancy word for "mind," and imagine that you are doing something, anything at all. And Spanky I want to take care of this right up front and let you know that that something could be literally anything. So please don't start in on me about: what if you were baking a light, flaky pie crust; or, what if you were in the shower and the hot water cut out again; or, what if you ate too many fire-hot corn-based cheeze snacks and got a tummy ache; or-or-or any other ors. OK? All right, sheesh . . . so you're imagining that your doing something — heck, let's make this easy and you can imagine that you're reading clammy webpage(s), which you most certainly are. No, no, I didn't astrally project myself to hover around your hangouts and spy on what you're doing . . . riiiight, there you go . . . so what if it was a bit of a trick? Spanky, everything is a trick. Moving on!

You are imagining that you are for some reason reading webpage(s) when suddenly (and it simply does not matter how it got there!) a gaping spot of nothing dematerializes part of your skull so that there is literally "a hole in your head" and your brain starts oozing out everywhere and you start feeling woo-zy and if you don't get a real hotshot of a noggin docta on that in like 5 seconds you'll end up hundo-p dead as a doorknob. (Occurs to me too late this may have not been the best thought experiment to start with, but what's done can not be undone. Still, tho — sorry 'bout that, Spanky-roo.)

Now comes the testing and (hopefully) confirmation stage of the experiment when you ask yourself, "This gaping hole in my skull, is this something I needed now here today?" And the answer is, obviously, no, No, NO. So to apply that to something like beating yourself up all the time for every piddly little thing you get wrong, you might say, "I need that kind of self-inflicted sorrow yoked around my neck like I need a hole in my head. Meaning, of course, that you don't need it. — That's right; I'm glad to hear you say that; it is easy once you get the rules down! 😁

*+* HEALTH & SAFETY ALERT *+*
If your answer to the testing & confirmation stage test was that yes, you think you do need a gaping hole in your skull and would, actually, welcome such a terrible thing (or even just not care) then you literally need to march your little Spanky-fanny over to the house phone and call the hotline (you can find the best one by searching the internet with your Microsoft because I can't make a recommendation like that anyway) and talk to a professional mental doctor (or qualified volunteer or some Ted Bundy or whosoever picks up the call . . . Spanky, it ain't like you get to specify who picks up) about finding a way to want to continue existing in your own personal body.   NOW, Spanky.   no, No, NO; If you don't think you can mustard internet hotline searches then you can darn sure punch in the I've-Got-An-Emergency-Right-Now code as used in the environs in which you find yourself. I can't make that call for you. I can only implore you to get the help you need, while noting that your pre-existing tendencies were neither caused nor encouraged nor exacerbated in any way at all by this webpage(s) which actually tried like the proverbial Dickens to put you on the rosy-cheeked & fun-loving foot, which is to say: HAPPY and SAFE.

I'm so glad (relieved) we got this all sorted out! I admit I was a little bit grumpish going in because I don't like people telling me I can't call myself an idiot if I want to because they've got to make it all about them somehow. But now, seeing how things turned out, the grumps have vanished like yesterday's porkchops and I'm going to go put like half-a-gallon of peach ice cream down my ice creamhole with a smallish wooden spoon. — Why? Because my personal belief for myself is that metal don't mix in any way good with ice cream. If you have any in the freezer, maybe you'll want to join me and do the same if you feel like it!
— LJ —

💋 * 🍨🍨🍨👁😱🍨🍨🍨 * 💘

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