Friday, August 13, 2021

Apparently, the LACDMH is founded upon a psychiatric approach, rather than psychology.

For most people, I would assume, psychiatric practice and the sorts of jobs involved are a cultural and societal obscurity, whereas the premise is largely well-understood. 

Whereas, for the more vast expanse of what children who learn, in public schools, come to acknowledge, and attain, in life, is psychology; we have these sorts of figures and roles laid out for us, in particular, of our generation, being that we had popular music, largely accessible to us; and that common romance notions played out on that medium, as well as on screens, and in theaters. There was some notable opposition to this movement of popularity, and a disavowal of achievement's merit, in that accord, yet many of us simply ignored it, and others had roles cast wittingly, in society's traffic lanes, and by-ways, and such - so that we were given a certain course of treatment, which inevitably drove away from our primary influences, given to us (conceivably) by our parents. 

Obviously, I was raised a boy, and a Christian upbringing, that I had, at that. My large assumption was that boys disliked girls, as a young child; my learning environment and peers largely supported those ends, whereas the outcome result of the darker side of what became of our innocence, was that boys disliked girls, and vice versa, and male upon male neglect was a characteristic feature, for the common and middle class; a third of girls had, or would, experience sexual abuses, of some nature, prior to their coming in to adulthood, and many things would remain veiled, for a small minority of us, from 1-4%, or so, the statistics say, and the more prolific ones, who would come to understand things, at an earlier age, we're not largely well-touted, and learned about, given the subjects' dark nature, and for the innocence that it would harm, of what values American culture had stood for, and which had been upheld, in our schools, from our early years onwards. 

Some thoughts exist, in between me squashing a parasitic arachnid thing; a white one, but I couldn't nab it on camera, because the outgoing scout ones, skittering their way around, unbeknownst to us, to a large degree... (some stuff... thoughts and such), yet I catch them, fairly much as much as I see them, and I'm not ridden with a current case of Lyme Disease, despite being a literal homeless person, going on the third day, on this day, and I happen to look rosy cheeked, and a man (even - ooo 🙄) had remarked as that I couldn't look any better. 

Some stuff? It could have been acknowledged, and it can, but I just doo doo'd: the story. Why it could what's huh? 

to continue. 

I dunno. I was just given a prompt, based on fwomped, which ostensibly organically means that somebody stepped on doo-doo, meaning that; well, people had done that, at some point in life, most conceivably, yet now the discussion had come to slight alterations of beyond bwopp - the fwopp'ted. 

Me, I'm like, nah, that's not what's going on? What? 

And people fail to remember, by that point. That's the large existential basis, of the ongoing by and large, of things. 

My dress code? It's just garbage, and I happen to look like I'm picking through it, and stuff, but it's going to get dirty, my clothes and stuff, but I'm a bum; in general. People would understand. No one would care that a bum's dirty, for the most part, and it's just dirt dirty, not like, umm... okay. Talk? 

It's kind of like that, though - dirty. In general, though, people don't speak to sustain themselves, why do it? I'd say, in mostly Nike gear, but I'd already detailed it, on Twitter, and it didn't look that good, from that angle. Here, "it," is me. Was, perhaps, depending on how the mind fit that one in, if you're happening to read this. But why? 

Nah, it wasn't like that. No one was doing anything, some bum, digging through the garbage, wearing Nike stuff, but the red sweater? The chintzy one? During the midsummer's heat? It goes pretty well, and stuff. 

Somehow, someone reads through this, beyond the title, and I ended up writing it, but an article's got to have a photo for it...

Bug squash.