YOU ARE NOT ALONE - A companion online community discussion board for The Mental Illness Happy Hour podcast with Paul Gilmartin

1st Confession Session: 3 Humors Confusers

I'm so funny I'm afraid other people may find out.

Recently started thinking about doing humoring out in open
but my first funny bah-da-boom done in front of receptive persons bombed.
> and Justin Beebur in my saddle jokes were all the rage;
> yet all I got was stares and even sad, dejected frowns.
> Plus my 2 teenage daughters now hate me.

Finally, some of my back story; but not about my recent surgery.
> I have ADHD; fortunately I am getting decent treatment,
> so now I only have problems during waking hours.

Sin Dearly,
O'chwa

Lovin it thanks for the laughs! It took me a while to get the surgery one!!

Episode #21
1) Sad face, nappy & now slap sappy?

Episode #21
2) Yes, there is hope, and the podcast is something you should keep doing - because it helps me - but it could be much better - since I am not totally well, yet. 

So quit all the napping, and having those "just feeling good about yourself times". Like you have enough time in your life to work through all my isthews and problems by taking days or even hours off.

Since you have so many naps to throw around, I'm going to take one of yours now. Good night! Calgon. Take away me stuff in head...

Episode #21 & #54
3) Let thy narcissism reign! Bow to my super ego! Ergo, Thou must be God. 

Now that O'MG has spoken. Hand me some grapes and a Christian, his high on thus must eat. Salt please. Yes, Angie Jolie - the Jolie of Jolies...

Id be Lord of Boasts, Riddle Shepherd of the fleeced flockers. Give onto thine fruits of the vine - even be some fruity and can't multiply. Yet if all trite trute be in the good book, why need O'MG? 

#1 If you believe in O', thou shalt not be real. 

#2 Thou shalt not covet their neighbors' life: if Jones. But if Kardashians and/or new Corvette, who the hell can stop that covetous all you can reap Warren Buffet us lust? 

#3 Cheap snarky or tired jokes you shalt not worship or bring before me fart or loudly burped offerings; unless that is all O'MG has at the moment. 

Those plus 7 more tablets sized give rise to simple iPhone Verizon: Sin not live not. 

If thou do say so on and so on about those so and sowers: 

Pharisees of yore had no no-thing know-ledge & no knowing insight - all fright and blight - same with now preacher, teeth bleacher - coifed heresy feature: monkey sees, thouest flunky do do proof texting all over Dixie's belt buckle. 

The trinity of anti-christ affinity: Blind leading the mind blind. Leopards of lepers. Sadducees of surreal backdating. 

The Bible says ye arse but a brood of dodging vipers. As the great theaterologian Walt Disney said, Thumpers take flight! 

Mea culpa: Realize true faithers this ship of peace were wroted berely in an absolut truther stupor. Take that back: me a not awkwardly culpable. Sense non was morosely politically religious aggregated, me was in mind sybil rite to flip flop. Sine die, Thom Jefferson Foolery

Ochwa's been hear... me please

1) Why do people with a conscience think they can rain cats on my tirade?

2) Anxiety prone bones are cowards, losers and pussies!

Yet, we still matter for various reasons:

 a} When someone needs their trash taken out, we schlump and carry it out dutifully:

 - Then we notice how much trash they have stuffed up their shirts, how much trash they hawk, and the depth of trashy they have in their lives.

 b} When life passes them by, we know intrinsically and pathetically how to help because we have gone through that possibly more than every other day of our lives:

c} And I have nothing else to say on this...

 Because here comes a drive bye life right now. Like a tired all day hit and pun Ish! meant - staring me in the face, closing me down, bringing on the (wish it was just painted on) anxiety frown.

 You're the better for not experiencing it with me no wit see. No lye wry. Plus no soapbox on the pope. Tirade over played...

 That goes on and on. And then click, you're gone.

3) I hate cats.

a} Sentient beings have no reason to live... with cats.

 My father brought me this truth. While not quite a Truther, he played one on radio every day and dreamed the reams of ditto heads who always tread on thee, like many on the rite who have that two issue Catholic rote-vote-bloat.

Back to cat drat: hate is bred from their sick cat nose bleed lust.

 When my sister's 'recovery' cat would get in the house when my dad was taking a nap on the couch, the beast of curtain rippers would jump on his nose. Calmly my dad would turn into Bruce Banner's green eyed anti Herman Munster.

 In this stupor of violet colored inspiration, he grabbed the cat, threw open the back door and hurled this screechy bastard of feline fatalism into the yard!

Luckily, the yard also held rarely fed alligators, overgrown boa constrictors and the full depth of Tennessee Williams' classic quicksand formed imagery...

This is a ruminating and invigorating cat flay dream for me that turns into a full fledged 3D experience similar to Tom Delay fumigating.

b} Herding cats: never tried it, never will. Yes, I love Billy Crystal, Stern some too, and the other guy. Of course, one handed push ups Oscar's man, minus my hammers rhyme.

 However, cats suck; that's the difference. Plus they shape shift, turning at some point into serial killers causing me to laugh nervously to laugh like a gaggle of Phyllis Dillers.

 If you didnt know, the nine lives thing is also a myth. They don't live them, instead they are sworn to take nine of them. My father was lucky, his nemesis of nine and dine was a frontal assault terrier pissed, dumb ass, deranged, fiend of felinism.

 The target of their purr spurring obsession in my case was to bury my sorry sappy tush through internal death by their hairy pall external meth (related antidote) which would ultimately protect my fleshy machine of breath.

Basically, Benadryl is my fend.

 While Allergies are for pussies, cats are still not for me. They threaten my health at least and @ minimum take nine lives of good or trashy filled people, even some sad sacks who actually care for them, think it's worth it and @worst clean out their litter box.

 It is all over the intrawebs (spread by... Oops) that kitty litter is made from limping festering human remains. Something Zach Galifianakis spits it out like bad flavored cup a joe.

I live in fear of a cat calling my name. Singing a brutally written composition sung by a saged whine: Nine for a count is sweet numerology fine, scratching you to bacon bits of swine would be so supper fine. Soon your loser corpse will be mine, and before you're cold I'll start eating the cord from your spine.

 That said, I've never hit or hurt a cat in anger. Only a zero self control oaf would do that. Being calm, cool and sadistic is simply more fun. (See pic) (Say ick) (Think shtick) While cowardly, these are just cats, I'm not being asked to defend a hill of coffee beans.

Spit take, but not Jack Black. Just me the Hair balled punchline hack. Hip Hip Brush Hooray for my awry Zach call back.

c} is for cats, which I hate: for more info, read viable, for further editing, and drawn out, reasons already noted above.

---------
Signed,
Ochwa
-----------

ADHD DISCLAIMER: Missing words, grammar stammer, and on and on yacking (diagnosed as indigestible ad Nauseam) is a symptom of bad writing. My ADHD just helps me justify any small but maybe noticeable in larger amounts by other people with self awareness, stop in one place long enough to do a good job and not watching out for a bus to run them down..

Rosie,

Thanks for the cognition on your part of my repressed teddanzen-ease of high norm-all cheers!

Just for the record, I'm a person, just not real at this point.

You obviously appreciate my substance and see the higher value of my deprecative humor mongerings.

Thanks for your patients in my recovery ruminations and visiting honors you keep.

It's that rare person of your stature that I feast my glaze on.

I hope others try me on for size, which matters a lot to many others, sea-my side?

Now that I have thoroughly most of you outthere. I leave you with one last naught-tea or please know more where that came sum of all jeers.

Take care, my biggest fan of all Rosie merry and time!

Ochwa

The Inverse has us Fixated, which has the Universe Flummoxed:

1) The world of standup comedy is all awry, neutered of orangutanality and especially hates mea culpa banality.

2) My short careen in last comic meandering started back in the late 80s, my roaring 20-something MPLS club scene, but not really truly mentality herd.

I had the dyspepsia of being in the general presence and state of mind of some average mega talents, and found out it was all a sham. Wow, what a rip off filled with the pus of fake, like testimonials on an infomercial for some suave notion or acne medium. 

Yes, it was fun hanging out with funky people. While they weren't actually funnier than me, I was intimidated because of the dread that they would surely drop dead from my killer wit formed by a keen sense of a satisfying Megalomania. Always expecting high fives from the other comedians when I was done, sadly that was the time when many comics were bringing their narcolepsy out of the closet case.

Like hiding-a-bed wetting problem one-man-show piss off was something to ripple on... 

You bastards! Now I'm caught in my zipper, trying to perform a pissing on you move, meant only in jest as a soak. Super stuff don't you tinkle little star comic lucks?

Unfortunately you're-in for much more, mop the floor with my superior wiz and wise ass side of things too. 

Mostly shoot from the drip drip, but you've got to admit, nothing's flowed as this stream of consciousness has for me this holiday day leak and sit in.

Please, potty please, pull this sad sack of memories down on me like a Murphy's Bed-wetter Law, call throwback... 

As you can smell, this was not a happy ol'time for me, I have to relay. Pass the halcyon daze baton, not! 

On the other hand, many there actually would agree my head, or what you just now have read, should be in a bidet. 

The solution for absolution has arrivered: past of kidney stone has delivered me from trials of tributaries. May God be mercurial on thee pee. Pleas and petty pleas, my little water pickadee of over zealotry and spigot wee.

3) Listen up you; America's first sleeper cell!

Just so you know, their drooling danny Narco leprosy lights-out never got me down and out, not even my nickname reel to reel-pout and negative neurological humors of unintelligible non-sequitors no doubt... 

So sleep on that you dick shower heads! Did you know Reap Apnea has its way of coming around to spite you in the mask! Cpap this, jerk offs! 

In retro-circumspect, my graciousness blunted the positively negative effects of their overflowing reactions generated by my love feigning but thoroughly justified narcissism. 

Since hide aniexty prevented my talents from being taken neurosesly, I cirrhosisly single-mindedly derided to take things into my own hands and make things seem all right. This lasted for too long, into the next day, when I found out there were ramifications to ramming down copious amounts of rambling obfuscations and serial distillations.

This double negative indemnity clause of lacking self beware identity and low carb life form confidence propensity was a difficult high school vice principals' grip to untangle from. What was even more disturbing is knowing in my corner were the bookends of protect and serve up what I believe is vital to sustaining my perspective: narcissitic tender mercenaries and a megalomaniacal alter egghead.

Always thinking and writing (as Sam is now) with the fortuitous afterglow of grandiosity that will surely be showered on me by my own thoughts of what reality should be if it was constructed by someone who needed it as much as me, yet deserved it even more as if everything was performed by the diligent Ochwa construction crew, whose elephantly written run-on sentenced-for-life with accompanying conjunctions accrue, which my former English teachers still O'MG rue.

Stepping back from the:

- Morass of a passed by youth,
- Pissed away strife ridden existential existence misspent on less than the personal truth, 
- Under a warning blanket of auspicious not quite delicious anxiety vermouth.

Taking back the night lite:

- Making people laugh is not my life, now or could it be ever-that-clear?

- I failed to give up to that dream of comic star struck dumb, college campus and roach motel, everyplace between there and here

- For sure now that I've found the secret, that the world is unfair because I bought into the wet stream that I could sell my soul to the devil and still not get what I always haunted by, crowds of laughter not aroused by shouts of "that was the punchline, you head bobbing, teeth grinding and snoring MFAs!" and therefore lost confidence in pure wholesome, America the brutally honest, why when I'm such a nice guy that rambles on until the audience does this thing called jeer.

That said, years and tears of taking it lying back, and forth about it:

- So it was late 1988, December to be exact as possible: All my posts were removed by GeoCities, LOL or DOD, so it's not possible to give you the day and time, I first liked myself for doing a good job with my first set of my illusory career, but I know I would have clicked like (after reading a notepad right in front of my face) that inaugural special Mr. ADHD Ed night.

- However, before I could go on @ Scott Handel's Mescion of Comedy stage I was told I must choose my persona, and live with the incontinences an eternity, as if I really had a moist way of interpreting that pun-ish meant. Scott, you played me for a stool! You potty mouth SOB, funny man extortion heir not apperent to me at the time of the rhyme, and now wringing with blabbering bladder full of spite.

- As this water engorged event spirals out of control, flushed with mega engrossed sieves of consonants and vowels, syllables and squirts unschooled, and explaining rants and straining from ants never entranced, I saw the writing on the walls; my lottery pick was never in drought. We've all choiced a path which never can right itself unless the boat we float has a rubber plucky enough to withstand the high floods of lifetime network, DVDs and Netflix caused by squirrelly onset envelopment of ADHD side disconnects that must end to become the writer I can see in a fish bowl of reality, is what some have called, from a maze of lacking memory rules: maybe finite?

---
Epilogued:

I choiced a different path: the wrath of least persistence. It doesnt mean I wasn't funny enough, and I have my ears plugged even if someone is right, stressing the one; do you hear me Scott?! 

Yes, you are a big one, but you don't scare me anymore. I have grown too, just not in that way. This is not something i have made up, it is what many all to real for me people have said/are saying, my have you groan after groan after, like the day after tomorrow, after groans.

Basically, I chose the sheet of bad jokes for life no one else had the putz to over goose, and take the heap on myself it would induce, and experience a watershed of urine sane dams of competitor comments to robert baron the brain of its comic juice.

Scott, take the pitch spork out of your mouth of humors and give me back what is mine, but more importantly what is in my mind, I picked or gave up, to make sure others made it big or I didn't waste on myself time and time again.

DISSING CLAIMER: ADHD is a sickness; Scott did not cause it, although he made a serious effort to pressure me into writing this portion of my piece. What I am trying to say is we pooled our efforts, worked as a comedy stream, crossed special purposes in an arc de pee pimps.

That said but not again this time:
If you suffer in silence from attentive reticence or even more so after downing this cup bitter methylin, read Taking Charge of Adult ADHD by Russell Barkley.
> It will help you brave your strife!
>> Saving your life is a separate thing, that's just depends.

Signed,
Ominously Onerous
Ochwa

I love the flow of your writing, Ochwa, and the clever way you use words. Also piss metaphors.

The Sleeper,

My writing of with hands and wringing out pans helps me work through sums of unresolved obsession. Raging rivers of it oppression. I go on and on till every drop is gone.

The piss is more vinaigrette than whine, but it gets me out of a deep dark dunk, tank of you're in the ick of it maze. Of course, haze and daze are also words that rhyme, but remember that's not the half wit of it proposed, 2012 is the idiots' end time.

Looking into that stark future: when fun of the Rite Ahead of us WT-F troop will be like a Sheen/Martin roast, and they think we're be toast, which I call the 2nd coming for large laughs rupture.

The worst is when the puns get sucked from the story of my life and limerick, from a guy's run on sentence structure of a Sean Inhannity or April Fools Day with Peter Lorre squeaky voice insanity.

I have found that it is tough to be humble, but not as hard to continue to mumble, as I my mutter and putter away an average to piddling existence. Wear everyone down punchline can't remember my longest piss distance, and "Come on it hasn't been that grating" insistence!

Thanks for tuning in to the show.
I'm without cheer all week!

Just kidding; I think yesterday was good.

Then again...

Anyway:

The Sleep (can call you that or have I er-red?) you are the best, or unless I have said that to someone else online, recently...


Sin-Clearly
Ochwa