thoughts explosion

•02/03/2016 • Leave a Comment

2015 was hard.  So was the end of 2014.  So is now, but perhaps less so.  Depression and anxiety are like being held hostage by inept bank robbers in 1970s Brooklyn — wait, no, that’s the setting for the movie Dog Day Afternoon.  Okay, they’re still like being held hostage, but by, like… who were those people who kidnapped Patty Hearst again?  The PLO?  No, that’s not it.  The SLA?  Some kind of Symbiotic Lebanese Affirmations?  That’s like a weird foreign band of wacky dance music from the 1980s.  Maybe.  Who the fuck were those assholes?  It was something “Liberation Army.”  ANYWAY, it’s like being held hostage by those guys — Or, maybe I should have just gone with the Manson Family or perhaps just said “A cult.”

Okay, starting over.  It’s like being held hostage by a cult and you’re brainwashed and/or develop Stockholm syndrome and you totally believe everything they tell you about how you should totally go rob banks, or do weird sex stuff, or commit bizarre ritualistic murders because it’s just all part of the fucking plan, so GET WITH THE PLAN.  And they tell you if you try to escape they’re going to kill your whole family or that you’re worthless or should willingly get in this cage and, worse yet, agree to keep yourself in that cage at all times even though the door to it is unlocked, and sometimes maybe even wide open, so you just stay there staring stupidly out at the world around you through the bars and invisible barriers constructed for you and also by you.

But in reality, it’s not robbing banks to fund the revolution or anything so romantic and Che-esque, it’s just shit like your cult tells you constantly that you’re unworthy of life and breath because because and should just fucking die already, so get with the plan.  Or, on better days: curl up in a ball in your closet because life and humanity and the universe are meaningless.  “There is no future.”  “Everything is futile.”  “We’re all ephemeral, useless particles floating in a dust cloud of our own abject failures.”  “You are your mistakes.”  “You are your problems and relationships and chemical imbalances and physical and mental illnesses.”  “Death lurks for you around every corner.”  The Bell Jar had it exactly right — just trapped underneath a jar so that no matter where you go or what you do, you are still stewing in one’s own sour and putrid thoughts and emotions (to paraphrase).  As if any of you could doubt a woman who gassed herself to death on the subject of depression.

This description isn’t perfect or all-encompassing.  It’s just the tip of the chemical imbalance iceberg.  There’s much more to it than “just” thinking these thoughts and countering them with fucking crystals or positive thinking.  Something evil inside is trying to work me like a puppet and it dictates all the sickness inside and that which manifests on the outside.  It can’t be bargained with, it can’t be reasoned with, it doesn’t feel pity or remorse or fear — oh shit, that’s The Terminator.  But fuck it, I stand by that.  And it will not stop, until I am dead.

There is no “fixing” it or just “stopping being this way.”  There is only trying, vainly, to manage it.  I’ve been ill and it’s eating me alive.  So that’s where I’ve been and am and suspect I always will be.  Dropping off the face of the earth, hiding, refusing to use the internet or talk to people, not eating and wasting away, making tentative plans for a hermit bunker that isn’t so Unabombery.

And something happened when I dropped out of civil society (alas, I did not become a feral jungle cat.  That would have been much more fun): no one noticed.  No one contacted me asking where I’d been, why I didn’t use stupid internet accounts anymore, how I was doing, do I want to — oh I don’t know — DO ANYTHING.  This just reinforced my thinking and feelings that if I just disappeared or died, nobody would even know.  When they found my partially eaten corpse during the spring thaw, they’d be like, “oh too bad.”  But they wouldn’t have noticed the intervening weeks and months where I’d been missing and being gnawed on by various animals.  The coroner or funeral home probably wouldn’t even bother wrestling my face away from a testy raccoon that had cut it off my head to wear as the ultimate warlord mask in a Mad Max Raccoon Wasteland Society so that they could sew it back on and even attempt to give me an open casket funeral.

It’s a series of paradoxes that I have trouble dissecting, organizing, or putting into chronological order.  I crawl within myself both to save myself from external terrors and because the cult is telling me I have to; I both want and shun help; friends and doctors in theory “care” but in practice do not because they continue to leave me alone in myself (even when they find out my cruel secrets after some emergencies and an urgent care visit).  Which is what I wanted.  But it’s crushingly lonely.  And the cycle continues.  And the depression reinforces the anxiety.  And vice versa.  And the anxiety is so CRUSHING in of itself.  And then words don’t make sense anymore, like right now.

Frequently, I’m reminded of that Twilight Zone where the last man in the world just wants to read peacefully and then his goddamn glasses break and he heartbreakingly cries something like “there was time now!” for all his reading, the one thing in life he enjoyed, but now he fucking can’t because human eyes are basically ornamental at this point and ironically he actually needed other people the whole time but didn’t know it.  I’m reminded of this because the stagnation my illness puts me in, I can’t function.  Things don’t make sense.  I can’t focus on thoughts and words to read.  And that’s the one thing I could do to escape this madness.  But I can’t because my fucking glasses broke.  I’m surprised I could keep it together this long right now.  But this post has been, after all, like a year and a half in the making, so it took that long to form some coherent thoughts that then mostly felt like they devolved into quotes from TV shows and movies.

But where deciphering weird little symbols on paper or a computer screen has failed me, I have found weird solace in blood, violence, and mayhem.  Not of a real-life Clockwork Orange variety, but fictional gore that oddly settled the gore within.  So I’m either getting better or worse.  I don’t know.  Honestly, I didn’t even realize I was still writing this.  And now I’m wondering if I’ll have to courage to post this unedited or at all.

Aside from all this jabbering, where I’m attempting to connect with something, someone, or maybe just myself, I did have one thing that I found today that I just FUCKING LOVED TO DEATH and made me happy so maybe I’d just post it at the end for some reason.  To lighten the mood?

It’s where this girl loses her shit with Ted Raimi.



random update

•08/21/2014 • Leave a Comment

Hi, folks.

So it’s been a while, as you know if you can tell time and read the dates stamped on posts.  And if you can’t, you’re probably five years old, and this blog is totally inappropriate for you.  GET OUT OF HERE!  Save yourself!  Let your mind be warped by something else horrible and depressing in the world, like the news or True Detective.  How do you even know how to read anyway?  Are you one of those savant kids?

Thought I would briefly check in, particularly in light of the change with my url.  I’ve let HOLLAPHONIC.COM lapse and so you should probably not go there because for the time-being it goes nowhere.  Of course, if you are trying to go there and there’s no redirect, you’re not going to be able to find this or to see what the default url is now.  So…um, goodbye forever?  Maybe Google or the NSA have cached this or will take keywords from it and index it that way so if you type in hollaphonic or you’ll somehow find me.

Although, I have recently learned that there is this Daft Punk-wannabe techno duo in the United Arab Emirates called “Hollaphonic” who have emerged in the last year or so and who have pushed me back to page four or five in the Google search results, so perhaps you’ll never find me.  So it’s time for my new segment, “Fuck them.”  Starring Emirati dudes “Hollaphonic.”  This also means that in short order will probably be snapped up by them and if you go there, you’ll end up in a nightmarish orgy of dance music instead of the nightmarish orgy of whatever this is.

So that’s fun.  For official purposes I am feuding with them because I had the name Hollaphonic first (and it is based on my name, and as far as I can tell neither of their names are Holly, because as far as I can tell they identify as male and may have the corresponding biological organs but I don’t know because I am not a pervert) and they are kind of (sort of/not really) stealing it, but I actually don’t know anything about them and they could be lovely gents but I don’t really care either way.  I haven’t listened to their alleged music either, because I’m concerned, in my anger, my ears will bleed.  And I do actually like dance music, but now those guys have unwittingly made an enemy for life.  Take that, you guys who will never see this unless you search for yourselves and accidentally find this when you see a Hollaphonic link you don’t recognize!  I am a wee territorial about this (and everything else) and feel like the url is like a toy I wasn’t interested in anymore and gave away, but now because somebody else may be interested in it and I HAD IT FIRST, IT’S MINE GIVE IT BACK TO ME/YOU CAN’T HAVE IT, BITCHES!  Especially when what happened is that the url domain fee was no longer financially feasible for me.  So really, they should be paying my fee for me or something.  I DEMAND RESTITUTION.  OR OTHER FREE SHIT.  But I don’t want tickets for them. I’d rather have Matisyahu tickets.  Or pants.  If they buy me pants then we’re even.


Sincerely yours now and forever,

Ms. Holly Phonic


ugly art is back

•06/13/2013 • Leave a Comment

Here’s the scoop: when looking at local real estate listings, I happen upon horrifying, ridiculous, or simply ugly art that deranged people have hung in their homes for some reasonI have so many questions for the owners, the realtors who didn’t take these things down or suggest they be removed, and for any home staging experts that may have been involved.  Mostly, Why, god, why???

the painting is bad enough.  but...the whole fucking room!?!?!

the painting is bad enough. but…the whole fucking room!?!?!





not exactly art... but what comes to mind are the twins from the shining saying "come play with us."  or maybe the end of the blair witch project.

not exactly art… but what comes to mind are the twins from the shining saying “come play with us.” or maybe the end of the blair witch project.

you don't have to choose between being disgusted by a large winged vagina or a demon mask that will eat your soul while you sleep.

you don’t have to choose between being disgusted by a large winged vagina or a demon mask that will eat your soul while you sleep.

i don't know which one is worse.  i imagine the nudie one had a face at some point but he was ashamed decapitated himself.

i don’t know which one is more out of place. i imagine the nudie one had a whole face at some point but he was ashamed and had the white demon mask from the previous photo eat his eyeballs and brain.

i hope they don't have children.  this kind of shit haunts dreams.  it looks like its eyes would follow you EVERYWHERE.  even into other rooms.

i hope they don’t have children. this kind of shit haunts dreams. it looks like its eyes would follow you EVERYWHERE. even into other rooms.

this is clearly madonna having an orgasm.

this is clearly madonna having an orgasm.

today’s headlines, from

•04/18/2013 • Leave a Comment
what the what?


Phone Wars: Return of the Wrong Number

•12/01/2012 • Leave a Comment

Text message I got: “meatball what the fuck call me.”



When I saw I had a message I thought it would be one of my friends.  But no.  It was not.  Unless one of my friends bought a number of burner cells in order to confuse me.  But that seems like too much work for them.  Oh, and unlikely.  Then that same phone number called me at 1 AM.  NICE.  THANK YOU.  VERY MUCH.

Oh, so anyway, I started writing this post because I’m confused not so much by the content of the text message from earlier, but what exactly it means since there is zero punctuation.  Is it “Meatball, what the fuck, call me” as in “Meatball” is my alleged nickname…. am I being texted by one of those Jersey Shore walking-STD-petri-dishes?  Or is it “Meatball! what the fuck, call me” as in, OH MY GOD I HAVE SOME YUMMY MEATBALLS AND I NEED TO SHARE THEM WITH YOU, or THOSE MEATBALLS YOU BROUGHT TO JOAN’S RETIREMENT PARTY ARE AMAZING CAN I HAVE THE RECIPE? Or is it “Meatball. what the fuck call me” meaning, “I’m currently chewing on a meatball and can’t talk but I’ll have swallowed it in a moment so please telephone me and we shall converse?”

Knowing the kind of dudes blasting up my phone, they’d probably actually say “conversate.”

Oy vey.


seinfeld manure moment (+dander)

•10/21/2012 • Leave a Comment

story of my life: my scalp is dry and flaky so i use dandruff shampoo and then it’s all fine.  but then my hair is shit.  so then i try to use shampoo for my hair, and then my scalp goes back to being dry and flaky.  if i use both during the same shower, the hair shampoo wins and yet somehow my hair still looks like shit.  WHAT THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO DO??? jesus: in your infinite wisdom, and since you’re always portrayed as having long luxurious hair in an arid climate which probably dries out your scalp, tell me how to handle this problem.

in the mean time, until jesus gets back to me, do you people have suggestions?  the teenage girls who cut my hair at supercuts, snapping their gum and sneering at me, can never tell me the correct shampoo to use or act like they’ve never seen or heard of or know what dandruff is nor do they understand that i can’t quite use regular shampoo for my hair.  i think they think it’s like contagious eczema that will coat their bodies and freeze them in solid stone if they go near me.  alternately, they’re like “like, omg old lady, why don’t you get your hair trimmed more, like because it’s all split-endy and you look like a [whispers] poor person…you, like, should really do something about that.”  but then they also don’t want to touch me and probably don’t want me to come in ever again so of course i try not to get my hair cut and judged by fourteen year olds.  for the longest time my scalp was embarrassingly bad and i let my hair grow out really long and then chopped it off myself, then it was  better with a certain kind of shampoo and it was like i had no problem at all, and now this other conditioner i bought to try to prevent my hair from shedding a lot is like, preventing the good shampoo from working.

also, when you think about it, shampoo is a silly word.  and it’s two sorta bad things, “sham” and “poo” but then as one word it’s supposed to be all normal and clean.  this is my seinfeld manure moment (“So, anyway, if you think about it, manure is not really that bad a word. I mean, it’s ‘newer’, which is good, and a ‘ma’ in front of it, which is also good. Ma-newer, right?”)

mitt is $hit

•08/19/2012 • Leave a Comment

that clever little dollar sign is meant to indicate not just an “i do not respect mitt romney” post but also “mitt romney’s fiscal whosywhatsits are suspicious.”  it was so clever it didn’t even need to be explained….oh wait….  anyway,

borrowed from One Million Strong Against Mitt Romney in 2012 on facebook.

can someone explain to me — in a rational and nonhateful or attacking way — how it’s kosher to demand to see a sitting american president’s birth certificate because clearly he must be some muslim african guy not born in america (because somehow hawaii isn’t america? also, explain to me how that whole thing *isn’t* racist)… but wanting to see a candidate’s tax returns is ludicrous????

oh and by the way, mitty, obama said “hey, okay here’s my certificate. this has been fun, but let’s actually focus on real stuff.” so why not say, ‘okay, i don’t think this should be anyone’s focus, but clearly some people are interested…so here are my taxes. it’s important you can trust me and know all you can about me. can we discuss my views on blah blah* now?’

it’s just weird, at the very least, to in the first place not want to be upfront about things if you’re running for uh, the fucking president of the united states, but then in particular when you and your movement are demanding ridiculous transparency from another person while refusing to do the same.  wtf is that?  that can only mean one thing, right…that blares DO NOT TRUST THIS PERSON,  WHAT IS HE TRYING TO HIDE?

“…how much i hate women…”
“…how much i hate animals and the environment….”
“…how much i’m going to fuck up this economy even more…”