Mental Parasitism -- Picking a Host

We were speaking yesterday of mental parasitism. Webster describes it like this: "A lesser known type of vampirism, mental parasitism appropriates the vibratory essence of a host for the perceived well-being of the parasite." I like that.

Yesterday, you recall, I carefully hedged my words. I was writing for a general audience, so I didn't feel I had the full dispensation to speak frankly. One hates to say too much. Today's post, however, I'm sending only to those more advanced in these things, engaged in minor borrowing all the way up to outright domination. Today on picking a host.

It should be abundantly clear that all hosts are not created equal. You have your big-boned gals and your delicate flowers. You have men strong as a horse and just as tough, then there's the general run of men, wilting wimps. They're not hard to recognize. As would be expected, delicate flowers and wilting wimps have decent enough vibratory essence, but the quantity isn't there. Gals with big bones and horse men have essence in great quantities, but so often it's tough as nails. The ideal is something in between.

There are, of course, many times when you'll have a "Beggars can't be choosers" choice to make. At those times, with your own essence failing, you can't be picky. As I write this, as luck would have it, a guy walked by, big as a mountain and yet still wimpish. What do you do with that? Being wimpish, the essence would obviously be supple enough, and being a mountain, the quantity would be there. But is he someone you should settle for? Also take into account that he was drinking something from McDonald's. I actually turned away in revulsion, but my personal levels today are all good. I can easily afford to wait.

Part of your consideration has to be, too, your self-respect. A McDonald's drink, please! What else has he had? And when I say big as a mountain, I don't mean in the football sense, but more oafish. Attaching to him, in my opinion, would be like trolling the beach for dead whales, distasteful to anyone but candle-makers in shipping ports. But take that slender gal with the tight blue jeans and neat tangerine scarf passing by; she takes care of herself. Two or three hosts like her would easily equal one mountain man, and be much more pleasing. That I could respect.

A key consideration in selecting a good host is also the setting. These things take time. My mountain McDonald's guy -- already with strikes against him -- was in motion, passing by. How terrible to try to latch on to his essence; there he goes! It couldn't be done to any satisfaction. What kind of lock would you get? You tell me! You wouldn't get any lock! It'd be like charging your phone three seconds at a time. In terms of your own essence, you'd waste as much as you gained, zero sum or worse.

Tangerine scarf was in motion as well, but she was headed for a chair or desk, making her a better possibility. But if you need two or three tangerines to equal one mountain, again, this is something to plan for. Say you've connected, gotten what there is, then spill some in disconnecting, only to end up vainly scouting for a new host, maybe you should've stayed home and chilled. It's important to have the vibratory essence, don't get me wrong, but no one wants to chase rainbows and only come up with rain.

That brings us to another key point, which we could easily move to the top. Goals. There's mixed feelings on this, with so many driven by selfishness or the thrill of the chase. I myself am not a fan of "topping off," which I think is undisciplined. Lack of discipline, nothing positive there! I've known some very undisciplined parasites. Generally young, they always think more is better. They think they can live like the devil and avoid questions forever as to what's going on. No! Loose lips sink ships, as we've all heard. Next thing, we're locked up in the state pen and a few of us with immunity are testifying before Congress.  As an aside, I'd like to drain the essence of a few of those Republican bastards, honestly to the point that they're rolling helplessly on the floor, twitching and babbling. Or just twitching, since they've been babbling all along.

What I want to say on this point, topping off, is to quote a sign at the restaurant: "Take all you can eat, but eat all you take." Get the parallel? Life is a system of give and take, but if you take more than you need, that's despoiling our shared resources. It's irresponsible, whether you're at the KFC buffet, gorging yourself on their halfwit food (physical), or at the Miss America pageant, gorging yourself on the swimsuit competition (vibratory). My advice: Pick the gal from your own state and leave the others. Of if there's more than one parasite from your state present, go halvsies and split a few judges.

Beware of Mental Parasites

Have you heard of ... the danger of mental parasitism? Well, I have. I know so much about it that, probably, the less said the better. I have a full page of notes on the subject, two pages, as I recall. And I'm not referring to it now ... I'm winging it.

The mental parasite is a creature -- a normal human being, depending on how you define normal -- who is generally older, and knows he's on the downhill path to dissolution. The concept reminds me of movies like Dracula or another Bela Lugosi movie where the woman is beautiful as long as she keeps getting shots of young woman essence. No doubt there's many variations to it. Freaky stuff. But in the case of the mental parasite, there's no injections, no surgery, and perhaps not even a perceptible depletion of vitality from the host. I'd call it imperceptible, but I don't entirely know all the instruments that are available.

I'm not going to admit very much here. With no admission there's frankly nothing anyone can hold me on. Any victims (and I'm not saying there are any) have long since passed from my terrifying, essence-zapping stare, and are surely by now fully recovered, being completely unaware that they served as a fantastic mental feast for me, speaking strictly as a matter of "What if?" conjecture.

Why would I want to admit anything? Wouldn't that just scare off all potential hosts, leaving me very much alone in society, to waste away? Perhaps not. Think about it. The mass of people aren't going to stay home simply on the off-chance that a mental parasite -- which isn't even a recognized parasite, scientifically speaking -- might be nearby. They reason, "What's the worse he could do to me, maybe pick up fashion tips and die of envy?" In response, I say, "[Wolf calls and maniacal laughter]," before grabbing a fly from the air and sucking it dry.

Of course people aren't going to believe in mental parasitism, so it doesn't matter how much I say. Just like I don't believe the "crackpot" things I see occasionally on TV. Like ghost shows. I see the most popular ghost show is zeroing in on their 200th episode. That's pretty good, 200 episodes and not one ghost! Proving you can do a show for years, failing at what you purport to be your mission, and no one seems to notice. It's the Fox News of the paranormal! Then I come along with a lowly blog post about mental parasitism, which no one has any reason to believe. Obviously I could shout it from the rooftops and continue to enjoy no lack of hosts. I love it! Honesty's the best policy, but no one realizes you're honest!

Anyway, anyway ... don't take any of this too seriously, OK? My phrasing there was all in fun. If you took it seriously, that would be bad for my image, and, again, potentially for the number of hosts, and my personal freedom. The last thing I want is to be brought before a judge on charges of mental parasitism. Let's say, though, that they've got me sitting there, waiting for the previous case to be finished, and I'm mentally sucking dry the judge, jury, bailiff, sketch artist, and recorder. I've got all that prime essence, they're slouched over the bannisters, and I'm breezing out, till my next arrest, which, being a hungry soul, I hope is very soon! Judges have a lot of great essence, they say.

If I can be serious for a moment, I honestly, actually never do mental parasitism activities. Not that often, barely any, you know, unless I see someone bubbling out the essence. Which happens only occasionally. The mass of men and women, living their lives of quiet desperation, have nothing I really want. It's that occasional person, though, just dripping charisma... You see them with your eyes almost closed, like looking through a feather, and you literally see all kinds of things: colors, excitement, multiple body sheaths, radiance streaming forth from the crown chakra ... Yes, it can be too much. Surely a little taste wouldn't hurt...

What a sad and lonely life it is, though, in the (hypothetical) aftermath, when you're alone with your thoughts. You're in bed, looking up at the ceiling, and you see the dancing of and hear the jibes of taunting spirits: "You swore off! You're weak! You're pathetic! You couldn't leave well enough alone!" Then I have to wonder, Where are you bastards from? It's either my continued, prolonged, satisfied existence, or going down the tubes! I can't help it that this is the way life is! Last time I checked, I wasn't the Creator. Take it up with the Creator if you've got a problem... Otherwise, kiss my ass! But they dare not get too close or I'll suck them in, fly away, and rain psychological terror on a world that would never know what hit it! If any of this were true, that really could happen.

Vibratory Essence: The One Who Died

I had troubles with this one. There's all kinds of troubles -- ethical issues that are beyond even my ability to full describe.

But I collected her vibratory essence (or energy) and brought it home and had it on my shelf. What was I going to do with it, except honor her by putting it to good use? I didn't want her to have lived and died in vain; that'd be a royal bummer. So with devotion to Swami Masturbananda, I would honor her...

It's a sad story. Because the fact of the matter is, that somehow unknown to me, the whole process of collecting her essence went horribly wrong. I had seen her sitting in the car in a blue shirt. I thought she was cute. So I sat the jar there next to the car -- then when I went back innocently to retrieve it, I was confronted with the horrifying sight seen in the photo. She was sapped of everything, and all that was left was a mass of indistinct white mush, human shaped, and of course a very nice blue shirt.

I didn't touch a thing at the scene. I just snapped the photo and got my jar and got the heck out of there. Of course she was later found, but so far the paper says there's no leads. I'm just trusting my readers not to mention any of this, and let me express my thanks for that in advance.

The police were reportedly "baffled" right away and threw up their hands. They have no idea what the white mush is, or they're not saying. It's all very baffling. The brought in a psychic. Apparently she discerned an unidentifiable "hot spot" where my jar had been, but beyond that even she's baffled and drawing a blank.

That's where everything stands now. And as long as all of us keep our mouths shut, there's won't be any trouble. And just to make sure none of you talk, remember, I know where you live and I have access to lots of mason jars.

But the bigger issue, what was really bugging me, was what to do with her vibratory essence. I gladly used the essence of the showgirl, essentially gotten in the same way. But she was alive when I last saw her. Since this other woman somehow died, it didn't seem like the same thing. But it wouldn't be a case of necrophilia, technically, because her essence was still very much alive. It's not like I'd be misusing a dead body or whatever the white mush is.

Anyway, whose fault was this? OK, I guess it's mine. Still, did she have to sit there forever? Wouldn't she have noticed she was turning to mush and call 911? Or maybe the essence was just sucked out so fast that she didn't have time. It's a terrible thought, that somehow I'm to blame.

So I've seen her jar on the shelf for the last few days. And I was thinking I needed to get her out of the way -- with the added sadness -- before I could go on and actually enjoy the others. I made my best effort. It seemed like her jar was more fully alive than any of the others. I reasoned, what could be the harm? I'm a lover, not a killer. This wasn't even a killing. I was as surprised as anyone.

Earlier tonight, then, I made a meal and had her jar set there. I showered as before. Then it was time for my devotions. The jar was there at the bed. And of course I was there, albeit in a ongoing depressed way, both mentally ... and physically. Detumescence was the order of the evening, impossible to fight.

It was no use. I needed to do the right thing. So I took her jar outside and unscrewed it, releasing whatever essence there was to the night air. I saw a small white ball of light, a little bigger than a golf ball float out. It floated around me for a few seconds, as if to say, "I forgive you." Then it was tentative in its movements, but it finally floated toward the road. I threw up my hands and cried out, but it was too late. A truck came racing around the corner and accidentally ran over her.

My Date With Her Vibratory Essence -- Not So Hot

I should've written this this morning. I was a lot more positive about it then, even though I was already pretty bummed. But you get a whole day to think about it and to see the remains of the evening, for me it's depressing.

I was psyched last night for my big date with the vibratory essence (energy) of one of the showgirls from the other night. I definitely went all out, setting the mood with a delicious meal of hamburger, canned spinach, and apricots. I had the gift of a blue bra to offer, which looks like it somehow shrunk from yesterday's picture.

We sat on the couch, me and the jar supposedly storing her essence, and watched TV briefly, until I was so overcome with lust that we made a quick trip to the bathroom, for my shower, then to the bedroom. The purpose in all this, remember, is not simply the satisfaction of lust. The purpose is to glimpse the highest consciousness in those climactic eight to 10 seconds that we're granted. I was thinking -- and this should be obvious -- that the vibratory essence of a showgirl would intensify the experience, and perhaps send me into some inner realm presently reserved for the angels. To me, that's possible, and since it's a religious opinion, no one can dispute it (successfully).

I turned the light down low, then I looked intently at the mason jar and I believed it (she) was looking back at me. Our eyes met -- that's my surmise -- then it was time to strip. I stripped, then unscrewed the jar, that her essence might roam freely, and perform its wanton will on me as it would. The little bra fell to the floor, and I never observed the essence wearing it. But I figured, We're naked, and this just saves me the time it'd take to unfasten those tiny little hooks.

I gazed into the jar from the top and besought her with longing eyes, that she'd emerge forth to take me, perhaps again and again. But there was nothing happening. I held the jar to my ear, but I heard nothing except a very light sound of the sea, like you hear in a shell. I peered in again and saw no movement, no fog, no vapor, no apparition, no movement of any kind, not a creature was stirring, not even, thankfully, a mouse.

But not being one to give up easily, I poured what I hoped was this sexy young thang's vital vibratory energy all over me, then, in the Swami Masturbananda tradition, it was a short journey from hither to thither. Finally, I rested from my labors. In those few seconds, eight to 10, I did glimpse something heavenly, something of the greater consciousness, but then it was over. And what I had laying there, cold up against my leg, was an empty jar, and about a foot away, a two piece gold lid.

This is where it gets depressing, because I went so fast from ecstasy to the pits of despair. Not only was it all over, but I suddenly allowed my thoughts on the jars and the vibratory essence to face hard reason. The thought was suddenly inescapable, that I was very much alone, and that the jar had been empty of vibratory energy all along. That, after I'd wasted good money on spinach, apricots, and the little bra...

So where does this leave me? I'll be working through my theories again, factoring in this important experience and what I've learned, trying to see what might be done to rescue the whole works. Because remember, I've still got 23 jars to go. And if they're all empty, I may have a fairly decent time 23 times in a row, but it won't be all I hoped for.

Her Essence: You're Lookin' Hot Tonight

I've got a hot date tonight. So I've only got enough time to jot down some of the essentials of what's going on. I don't want her to get cold feet.

You're looking at a jar of the vibratory essence of one of the eight showgirls from yesterday. I got the idea from riffing on a teaching of my beloved guru Swami Masturbananda. He of course intensifies his devotions by practicing them where young maidens have recently been, knowing their vibratory essence (or energy) still lingers. My idea builds on that, storing the essence in jars, then using it in the privacy of your own home. Our goal is to glimpse the divine consciousness in these times of great sensory excitement...

I've been thinking about it all day, letting the intensity build. I've got a pantry of about 24 lovers, and I'm sure each one of them is eager to be chosen. But I didn't drag out their suspense; I quickly chose one right from the front. To all appearances, there's nothing in the jar. But I thought I felt at least a little electrical tingling and motion when I took it off the shelf.

I want this to be good for her as well as me. So you can see, I went to the trouble of getting a tiny bra to hang on the jar. Just in case she likes gifts. I'm just hoping it'll fit, since I can't actually see her well enough to judge sizes. Anyway, it might be more or less symbolic, but if I see it fill out and start walking around the room, I'll let you know!

My plans are for a little candlelight dinner here at the house. I'll be frying a hamburger, then we'll have some canned spinach and apricots. After dinner, I might shower, and naturally she'll have a front row seat for that. Then we could sit on the couch and watch a little TV, or, if nothing good's on, we might just call it an evening. One thing is certain, long before we dose off, I'll be unscrewing the lid ... and ... and ... we'll go from there.

Don't worry, I'll be gentle, no hurried pawing. The biggest thing is that we're both comfortable, and that hopefully we still respect one another in the morning. I'm sure everything will come out well in the end, and that in my glimpses of the highest consciousness I'll be that much closer to the divine. In that sense, I intend to make Swami Masturbananda very happy.

Is it just me or does it look like that jar's fogging up? Just a little?

I Collect The Vibratory Essence Of Eight Showgirls

I paid a surprise visit to Johnny's Kit Kat Club on the west side of town. That's me in the middle. It's kind of funny, I'm not a celebrity and none of these ladies even knew me. But I went on the reverse psychology principle that if you wear a bathrobe and pajamas, they'll think you're someone. And man, did they gather around!

You can see I took advantage of their momentary confusion to set out mason jars to gather up some of the vibratory essence of these women. At least I hope they're women. Sometimes the Kit Kat Club swings several of the other ways. But whatever, with looks like this, whatever they are, I'll make do! Which one shall I do first? I think I'll go with the blonde.

This is my current thing, riffing off of some of Swami Masturbananda's teachings and practices. If it's true that our vibratory essence or energy lingers after we've gone, then it stands to reason we might collect some of it for storage and later use while we're there. How exactly that should be done, though, is what I don't really know; whether it would take some kind of battery, it'd help to have some scientific input. Barring that, I'm just doing the best I can, with at least a plausible idea that collecting the energy in jars might work.

Then what you do with the energy, of course that's your business. Since I'm a follower of the swami, my own interests lie in seeking better, more sustained ways of glimpsing the divine consciousness. Swami Masturbananda's teaching is different from many other holy men, in that he believes the divine has given us a particular means of reaching the higher consciousness, at least for eight to 10 seconds at a time. I've been giving this a lot of thought, and if, maybe with the jar method we can prolong that time, who knows what other breakthroughs we might make?

So I collected the energy from these showgirls earlier this evening. And other than that, I set jars at various places around town today. Then after I left Johnny's I went and retrieved them.

One place I was today, I saw a cute woman sitting in a car. She had on a blue shirt. I set the jar by her door, then crept away. I figured she'd be gone after a while and no harm would come to her. But I was obviously mistaken, since when I returned to get the jar, this is what I saw in the car, the same blue shirt, but her body apparently nothing but some kind of white mush. She had completely collapsed!

Of course I got the heck out of there! And I'm trusting that no one will report the incident to the police, because they might not understand that I haven't got all the scientific kinks worked out of this method of capturing a person's essence. This is the first time I've ever seen this happen, so perhaps I'll be more careful next time. I'm definitely going to be careful to label that particular jar, because if I took the complete life force out of her, there's no telling what might happen when I open it some night! I wouldn't blame her if she's hard to handle and a little ticked.

But hard to handle's what I like! Because what better to sustain the glimpses of the divine consciousness than having a partner on the warpath! I might have to open the jar just a crack and see what a little bit's like.

Anyway, the more I experiment, the more I'm going to know. And I'm ready to get to it. I need to write up this report for my own records and also in case I'm killed; I'm going to need someone surviving to dispose of these jars, or at least get them to the Swami, because he won't have any trouble with them.

Assuming I survive, I'm thinking along these lines: Mixing different essences for unique experiences and/or for greater intensity. Plus, I'm thinking about putting some kind of "bait" in the jars -- like a diamond or a $20 bill -- to entice the energy to gather in greater quantities. There's all kinds of things that are going through my mind. Again, my purposes are lofty, what we can glimpse right at the heart of existence. And no one can fault someone else's religion.

Friends, it's nearly time for me to retire -- not to sleep, but, well, I'll leave that to your imagination. I'm saving time already, since I'm already in my PJs.