Rise In Suicide Rate In Children: The Off-the-Wall Street Survival Journal Rises From the Grave (Pentecost Edition)

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Why are young children at an increased risk for suicide? The WSJ article has no real answers. I would like to ask Dr. Neal Barnard, M.D. who is trained as a psychiatrist what his take is on the subject. Of course, the Journal and everyone else in Big Media ignores his work at his clinic in Washington D.C.

I would also like to ask Dr. Marsha Linehan, PhD for her assessment. It would be enlightening indeed.

Alas, Poor Yorrick, his skull would speak of the many graves of children who contemplated “to be or not to be, that is the question” they answered with self-slaughter instead of accessing their wise mind.

Pity, that. The Journal hath no insight, alas…

The Old Orchid Blooms Again…

Two Valentine’s Daze ago I celebrated with an orchid of violet flame color. It’s the hue of forgiveness–supposedly.

It eventually lost its flowers. Maybe most would toss it out into the trash.

I didn’t.

I kept watering it each week once a week around Sundaes to sublimate what was one my favorite binge food–one I could not live without.

I couldn’t imagine going one day without ice cream which was i-scream for 31 flavors of bliss. Alas, it rarely arrived.

Sometimes I could reach climactic heights but mostly the best part of my day was defecating. I kid you not. That was it.

I didn’t have genital psoriasis to scratch then–no. To scratch an intense itch is IT.

Now my violet orchid blooms again. The old plant is riotous in color and bloom. I did fertilize it with seaweed fertilizer once.

Other than that, it was honoring the old plant with barren sticks and not much else.

Welcome Home Israel, mi casa su casa!

To Be Or Not To Be Deflowered

It’s a treasured experience to be raped by women who simply cannot fathom what it means to be adults in the room. They just won’t quit and that’s that.

The end of an era of the depredation of porn. Rape will stop forever because I just look like hell. If anyone thinks it’s a treasure to see my carcass degraded by disgusting porn—think again.

Goodbye. I don’t want a husband. I want God.

And I am sick.

Sick to the death of sickness.

Good night.

Sick of everyone and everything. And that’s that. On a day when I should rejoice.

I don’t.

But I move on. And will run again.

May God’s will be done.

Busted Flat In Matted Rouge

It’s open season for no good reason except the cruelty of women.

I do not expect anyone to do anything to help me and why should they? It’s not their circus, not their monkeys.

This is my particular burden. It just is. And this blog bears witness to the stigma of being disabled mentally.

I have $100 to my name right now, no checking account, no savings account and now no credit cards. I do have coins which are an emergency fund worth about $2,000.

So now I get to see if canceling all cards gets me financial freedom Dave Ramsey style. Maybe it will.

Maybe it won’t.

At least I will have something to report. That’s the beauty of being a freedom writer.

We’ll see.

Being hungry is not a bad thing sometimes and I do have food at home. I have grain and beans and there’s plenty of dandelions growing. They taste great with balsamic vinegar.

I just remembered I have Plantstrong kitchari meals left. That’s a real blessing.