Another question: who owns the domain hexbear.net, pays for the servers and such?

I can never get my phone out in time.

I’m temp banned from /c/mutual_aid. I could really use some help—please DM me for links to my CashApp and stuff.

Everything sucks.

City subreddits are pretty trash as is, unmasking just how unbelievably cruel and evil some people are whenever the topic of homeless people crops up. But of all the active subreddits for my city, the main one, /r/Portland, is tame. (/r/askportland is SURPRISINGLY kind, with the occasional evil piece of shit passing through.)

I thought /r/PortlandOR was evil—it’s all but an explicit hate sub—but I found an even worse one. Behold, a pale horse: /r/PortlandCriddlers.

(“Criddle” is a slang term in the meth community around here—it means stealing, or more specifically, at least how I understand it, rifling through someone’s shit with the intention of stealing, i.e. ”Someone criddled my tent”.)

I would not be surprised if someone has posted photos of me or my friends, and I’m honestly afraid to look. It would not surprise me either, if whoever tried to pepper spray me a couple months ago is subscribed to this sub. The language used to refer to homeless people is dehumanizing and disgusting and it borders on incitement. But what’s really funny is I distinctly remember getting someone permabanned by reporting a post that used very similar language. I know Reddit is a cesspool and you don’t care but it takes like a minute to report a couple posts for “hate” or “threatening violence.” And it will do something to curb the growing trend of violence committed against homeless people. A drop in the bucket, but still. It will also be kinda funny to own these motherfuckers.

…because of the thing with the money. And then losing my wallet, and then one of my plushie friends. It’s only going to get worse. I really hope I die before it does.

And in a bit over a week from now it’ll be the 1 year anniversary of the last time I saw my friend, the one who won’t talk to me anymore. One down, the rest of my lifetime to go. I know I’ll never see them again and while I think I’m over the cringey weird shit, I still think about them pretty much every day and it hurts so fucking much.

You know I’ll never get a car or a minivan or whatever. Definitely not before this winter—it gets harder to cope with every fucking year.

Fuck.

Some of their affiliates also have cool as fuck flags, take for example the flag of the Popular Mobilization Forces, arguably even more badass than Hezbollahs.

His name was Blueberry, he was a blue whale who looked like he was made by the same company as Creamsicle. I only had him a week at the most but I loved him. I’d show you a picture of him but seeing it would be painful.

Whereas Creamsicle is a silly lovable little dumbass, Blueberry’s schtick was that he was a mature adult whale who dispenses difficult to listen to life advice.

Creamsicle will be staying at my friend’s house longer than expected because I never want to lose him, and I know it would only be a matter of time before that would happen if he were hanging out with me. He’s happier there—he just doesn’t realize it, because he’s just a baby whale.

I hope I just left him in my friend’s car, and if not, I hope he’s found by someone who will love him…

Note: I do not actually believe that uhh…you know.

Lol.

It’s amazing just how bad the loneliness, the anxiety can manifest physically. It feels like I’m on fire. It’s not “real” pain but it’s almost unbearable. Holy shit.

At least now I know I still have a bit of an anger problem.

I’m fucking crying right now because nothing fucking works. I hate my fucking life.

Things certainly aren’t perfect, I mean look at the shit-hole I woke up in:

!

Hi Creamsicle.

”It smells like a cat in here.”

But for the first time, really in my entire fucking life, I feel like things are working out. I spent too much for a car to be realistic in the short term, but I still have quite a bit, and that fun DIY gig I was fundraising for is actually starting to happen.

(I may have to beg for money again, for an eye exam and glasses, so I don’t have to deplete my savings too much.)

I’m even starting—maybe, “starting” means as of today, and I’ve only been up for two hours—to do less drugs.

I actually want for my life to get better, not for want of them to come back but for my own wellbeing.

But still, I really really really really really can’t live with the idea that they’re gone forever. I have to tell myself that once I’m better (parta why I twacked out on them is because of how shit my life was then) they will want to be friends with me again. There was a time when they wanted to be friends with me, before I started acting like a weirdo. And they’re the type of person who, I think, would be understanding if someone were to genuinely change. Sometimes I think there’s a chance this is tough love anyways—they know that if they talk to me it would be like giving vodka to an alcoholic. It’s easy for me to think of them as a mean bitch who’s just fucking tired of my shit and doesn’t care anymore, but they’re such a sweet person. I’ve never known them to be that mean nasty bitch they are in my head.

It makes me so angry when people tell me to move on. They really don’t understand. I’m moving on as much as I can. But I’ll never not hope that I’ll see them again. A friend of mine told me he’s confident that I will—I kinda think he’s full of shit but who knows.

He looks kinda mad in this photo because I woke him up from his nap. He was happy and normal a couple seconds later though, of course.

I worry a lot about him. I really need to bring him to my friend’s house, and have him stay there for a while.

It might be a dumb question but I don’t want to risk fucking him up somehow—what I’m most worried about is his stuffing getting mildew-y or otherwise borked. I’m pretty sure, almost certain actually, he’s polyester inside. Do I just dunk him in some soapy water, scrub him, and leave him in the sun for a while? Can I throw him in the washer next time I do laundry? He’d fucking love that.

Whenever I’m really sad it feels like either heartburn, or this “tightness” or something just below my sternum.

Also Creamsicle says he’s sorry for making a dumb post. Here’s a picture of him with a noodle on his head.

Btw I take him to the vet when he eats cat food because that’s Gregory’s cat food. I tell the vet he got into some chocolate so they’ll give him an emetic and maybe he’ll decide the cat food isn’t worth it and there won’t be a next time, but he’s an idi—GOD DAMNIT CREAMSICLE COME BACK HERE.

”Yay!”

I can’t take this shit. And everyone who tries to tell me my life is worth living is only prolonging and worsening this pain I live in. I wish it would fucking stop.

I wish someone could talk to them and tell them I’m sorry. I wish I could so much as hear their voice one last time.

I hate this life.

He showed me this little copy of the Little Red Book and told me how the “whale communists” took his parents’ krill away and I don’t think I should smoke in the same room as him anymore.