hurling invective dot com

Just wanted to share another of my favorite PostSecret gems. Visit the site, buy their books, and tell your friends about one of the single most stunning and moving art projects of the 21st century.

I’ve got so very much to tell you about. Being a father, running my own business, getting punched in the nuts by a kangaroo at the zoo… but, as I’m currently on enough mood stabilizing medications to make Anne Sexton blush, I’m feeling a little less than creative.

Between the sleep deprivation and the meds, I’ve been sucking down a lot of energy drinks lately, which from a purely economic standpoint, is enormously stupid of me. They cost way too much and do the exact same thing that a handful of delightfully affordable NoDoz does.

And so, with that in mind, I picked up a few new drinks at my local grocers. We’ll start with Full Throttle Blue Demon Energy Drink.

Figure 1.1: Remember when you were a kid and you always thought Windex looked tasty? Here’s your chance to drink something blue.

Claims of the can: As sparse as its predecessor, simply pointing out that this massive slug of sugar and caffeine is a product of Coca-Cola, and is Blue Agave Flavor. The text on the can is, however, presented in both English and Spanish, demonstrating Coke’s commitment to keeping up with the Joneses. That list bit of language translates into a phrase that somehow sounds demonic and savage: Sabor Agave Azul. Isn’t it hauntingly beautiful? Listen to how perfectly does it fits in this bit of dialogue from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom:

Lao Che: So it’s true? You’ve found Sabor Agave Azul?

Indiana Jones: You know I did. Last night one of your boys tried to get Sabor Agave Azul without paying for him.

Indiana Jones: No, you have insulted me. I spared his life. Now raise da fuck up befo’ Craig father come out here!

Scariest sounding ingredient: Carnatine Fumarate

Energy Drink Funk Factor: 2. It tastes nothing like agave, however. You know that uber-generic punch? Punch Brand punch? The kind they serve at PTA meetings, company picnics, and summer camp? It doesn’t taste even remotely like the fruit it’s supposed to imitate. The red stuff doesn’t taste like cherries – it tastes red. The orange stuff doesn’t taste like oranges – it tastes orange. This stuff doesn’t taste like agave – it tastes blue. (Or azul.)

What it does for you: It’s really hard to accurately gauge the energy-inducing effects of energy drinks these days, as I am now a fucking bottomless pit when it comes to caffeine. I know that Full Throttle is chock full of sugar – you can actually feel the enamel sizzle off your teeth when you drink it – and loaded with caffeine, but a few weeks ago I drank a whole 16 oz. can and fell asleep. I wish crystal meth wasn’t so bad for you, because it seems like my only alternative.

I AM THE WAY TO AN OFFICE THAT BLOWS.
I AM THE WAY TO A FORSAKEN SHITHOLE.
I AM THE WAY INTO BOREDOM’S THROES.

NINNY SHITHEADS MOVED MY ARCHITECT.
I WAS RAISED HERE BY EMPTY PROMISES,
MUCH INCOMPETENCE AND VACUOUS INTELLECT.

ONLY THOSE BOSSES THAT I CANNOT BEAR
WILL WORK HERE BEYOND ME, AFTER I GET CANNED.
ABANDON ALL HOPE YE WHO WORK HERE.

Inspired by the inscription over the gates of Hell in Dante’s Inferno. In case you couldn’t tell.

PostSecret is the single greatest repository of folk art of our time. Every piece is a demonstration of the crushing sadness and dashed hopes that we carry with us every moment of every day. Everyone carries with them an aching, withering regret. How any of us make it through the day, I’ll never know.

I wanted to share with you my favorite PostSecret postcard ever. I don’t know why, but it’s one of the most heartbreaking things I have ever seen. I hope someone saved you.

The missus and I took a trip to Ïkea yesterday. Or is it Ikeä? Or Ikëa? I don’t think I’ll ever get it right. Stupid umlauts.

Anyway, this Ikea trip is something of a bi- or tri-yearly tradition for us. The trip is always spontaneous. It begins with morning coffee, staring thoughtfully and frowning at a piece of worn-out furniture. Then, gradually, we come to the conclusion that Ikëâ is our only hope. Nowhere else could we ever find a piece of furniture that is both cool looking and cheap. And so, we resolve to spend a couple of hundred dollars on said piece of furniture, shower and jump in the truck, drive two hours to the Pittsburgh store, and spend approximately $4.5 million.

The Îkèá trip, however well-intentioned, is usually in vain. That is because, like women forgetting the pain of childbirth, we always forget the Four Ikea Rules.

1. Ikea only carries two types of items: really nice stuff you can’t afford, and crap.

See that Flürgen workstation, with the brushed steel, bold angles, and ample storage? It even emits a pleasing hum. It costs more than you make in three months. Silly person. You can’t buy that. No, you have to buy the Düm desk, which is made of sawdust, glue, and large stickers that look like wood called veneer. The only way to keep the desk from sagging beneath the weight of your PC is to put your PC on the floor beneath it.

2. Nothing in the Ikea store or catalog ever looks as good in your house as it does at the store or in the catalog.

You’re walking through the store, and you see a black leather couch descend from the heavens, tearing the roof asunder, borne on the light of God. In your mind’s eye, you see it in your living room, in all its soft, ebony glory, and it takes your breath away. It is the glorious centerpiece of your entire house, like that rug that really tied the room together.

You buy it. You even give the cashier an extra hundred dollars as a sort of reverent tribute. You hire movers to bring the couch to your house and a small security detail to escort them. You throw a “welcome home” party for it. You serve some really good Brie and trendy, brightly colored martinis. The people cheer as the couch, now powered by its own beauty, glides from the truck unaided and enters your front door, descending soundlessly to the floor of your living room. So perfect is your union, it knows right where you want it. You don’t have to speak.

And in the same way that the jizz-stained futon from your college dorm room would look pretty stupid at, say, the Palace of Versailles, your svelte, shiny new couch – sitting neatly upon your cat barf-encrusted magenta knotted rug, beneath your Fight Club poster, bookended by the non-matching end tables you found on the curb, which appear to have been beaten every weekend for several decades by a mob of angry grandchildren wielding wiffleball bats and Barbie dolls – looks pretty stupid in your living room. It’s like replacing a couch from the set of Roseanne with one from the set of Frasier.

Figure 1.1: The way a cool, modern Ikea chair looks at Ikea

Figure 1.2: The way a cool, modern Ikea chair looks in your hovel

Corollary: Unless every item in your entire house, right down to the handtowels in your bathroom, are from Ikea, none of it looks right. And those fruity martinis suck.

3. You cannot assemble, touch, clean, move, eat off of, look at, allow others to look at, wipe with a damp cloth, subject to loud noises, subject to soft noises, talk about, sit on, sit next to, or allow sunlight to reach the furniture you have purchased.

Upon breaking the packaging’s vacuum seal and exposing it to the methane and chlorine of Earth’s harsh, caustic atmosphere, whatever firmness Ikea furniture possesses promptly gives up the ghost, and your new Blümgürm TV hutch adopts a rigidity suggesting it has been soaking in a pond for several years. Soon, you will no longer be able to enjoy even a minute of Are You Smarter Than A Plankton? as your eyes are drawn down to the growing bend in the shelf, withering beneath the weight of your lighter-than-air flat screen. It is the Ikeagod, manifesting Himself like the Virgin Mary making a guest appearance in a dirty church window, and His shelf-smile is mocking you for buying yet another of His diabolical, modular creations.

4. No Ikea furniture is packaged with all of the required pieces.

Ikea shelf? No screws. Ikea fan? No blades. Ikea car? No steering wheel. Ikea Death Star? No superlaser.

These are exaggerations, perhaps, but not far off the mark. And even in the off chance that all of the necessary parts are included – usually when a member of the quality control staff accidentally shows up for work – the instructions are missing.

But in the end, no matter your opinion on the quality of their furniture, we must all agree on one thing: they’ve got the best stale hot dog and loganberry juice combo meal in the Midwest.

I promised myself when I began writing that I wouldn’t write crap that was self indulgent. Recently, though, I’ve been tempted. I found a stray dog. Birds built a nest on the wreath on my front door. I started my own business. I planted an azalea. See? Could you give less of a fuck? Not me enough to write it, and certainly not you enough to read it.

I write in spurts. I find something or someone to heap abuse upon, chew the fat for a little while, then let it rip. I try to pace myself. By pace myself, I mean go on month long drinking and video game binges (lately it’s been the Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion Shivering Isles expansion and leftover beer from myriad backyard bonfires), suddenly remember I have a blog, then write on the topic.

A while back, I found a historical anecdote that was simply amazing. I wanted to unleash it on my world of non-readers the moment I unearthed it. “Patience, Moriarty,” I thought to myself. “Not yet. You never know when another Oblivion expansion may be released. You may need this for your down time.”

And then my lovely lady wife forwarded me a press release – don’t even ask me where she got it from – that was just too hilarious to not share.

Sadly, it’s hilarious in that “humanity is about to become enslaved by a cruel dynasty of ruthless malefactors” kinda way. And so now, with that exceptionally pointless setup, I have some good news and some bad news for you. First, the good news. According to Business Wire…

National Watermelon Association Partners with CHEP to Promote Shipping Efficiencies

“PLANT CITY, Fla.–(BUSINESS WIRE)–The National Watermelon Association (NWA)…”

Stop right there. NWA? Seriously?

For those of you who are unenlightened as to the use of this acronym in popular culture, NWA was a fairly revolutionary hip-hop group in the late 80′s/early 90′s. This by itself is not particularly remarkable, except for what the acronym actually stands for: “N-words With Attitude.” It launched the ubiquitous, wildly successful careers of Ice Cube and Dr. Dre, and was universally loved by its fans and loathed by their parents for its obscene, violent and hate-filled lyrics. NWA was the Twisted Sister of the hip hop/rap scene in those days, even though in a head-to-head comparison, NWA made Twisted Sister seem like the Starland Vocal Band.

Admittedly, if you weren’t a youth during the NWA days would likely not make the same association, no pun intended. But there are a handful of us who do, and snicker whilst doing so, mainly because we’re completely fucking infantile. It’s not too late, though. You could always be the Watermelon Association of America.

“…and CHEP, the global leader in pallet and container pooling, have joined forces to improve the way watermelon is transported from the grower to the retailer. CHEP is taking a vested interest in the trade group’s many activities as CHEP customers in the NWA continue to see the value and benefits of the CHEP pallet pooling solution.”

If you’re falling asleep reading this, this next bit will grab you by the bollards.

“‘This is revolutionary – it is changing a major supplier to our industry into a major partner. We’re very excited about the relationship and the potential benefit for both organizations,’ said Bob Morrissey, Executive Director of NWA. ‘This partnership between our organizations will provide benefits to everyone involved as our participating members experience the value of CHEP’s programs and service. We look forward to a long term program and partnership.’”

Okay, first: his name is Morrissey. Second, he’s the executive director of NWA. Third, he described advances in watermelon shipping as revolutionary. How, precisely, does this guy get laid?

“With CHEP’s assistance, the NWA will fund research, lobbying and consumer promotion activities, as well as ongoing operations at the group.”

All kidding aside, the watermelon lobby is a juggernaut – albeit a dark horse – in American politics. Are you really so naive as to think that oil put the Bush boys in power? Get your head out of your ass. Big Watermelon, as it’s called, has got the GOP by the balls. And there’s not a goddamn thing you can do about it. And let’s not forget all the money they’re pumping into watermelon research. The rich and juicy get richer and juicier. And here’s Morrissey, just flaunting it. You son of a bitch.

To spare you valuable reading time, I’ll paraphrase a bit.

“‘Blah hyperbole yakkity-blah blah,’ said Bradley O’Neil, President of NWA and Owner of Coosaw Farms, Fairfax, South Carolina.

The CHEP pallet pooling program provides growers with durable shipping platforms that improve productivity and lower product damage. CHEP’s global reach also ensures a reliable supply of pallets.

‘Blibbity-hyperbole-blobbity yakkity-yak blah,’ said Brian Malloy, Senior Vice President, Sales, CHEP.”

There you have it, folks. Morrissey and O’Neil are so on the Republican ticket in 2012 it’s not even funny. And they’ll probably have Malloy killed during their first 100 days. He knows too much.

“About National Watermelon Association: The National Watermelon Association is a voluntary trade association made up of watermelon farmers, shippers, packers, brokers, suppliers (pallets, produce bins, seed, plants, chemicals, fertilizer, farm equipment, labels, machinery, agricultural labor, etc.), retailers, wholesalers, researchers and many others that have an interest in the watermelon industry throughout all 50 states and Mexico.”

And it goes on from there, with a bunch more boring stuff that I’m not clever enough to rip on. So, to sum up: Watermelonburton is making a balls-out power play to get watermelons to you, the consumer, more quickly, efficiently and in better condition, presumably. But why? And now the bad news.

Two words: vampire watermelons.

Roma folk legend contends that watermelons (and pumpkins, although the PWA is keeping tight-lipped on the matter) kept for longer than ten days, or after Christmas – presumably if you just got it another fucking Borders gift card and didn’t bother putting any thought into it – will become a vampire.

So how do you tell a garden-variety, non-anthropomorphic, juicy, delicious watermelon from its unholy, accursed brethren? According to Tatomir Vukanovi?, a Serbian-born historian that focused on the peoples of the Balkans: “…[they] make a sound like ‘brrrl, brrrl, brrrl!’ and begin to shake themselves. It is also believed that sometimes a trace of blood can be seen on the [watermelon], and the Gs. [Gypsies] then say it has become a vampire.”

Vukanovi? also states: “These pumpkins and melons go round the houses, stables, and rooms at night, all by themselves, and do harm to people. But it is thought that they cannot do great damage to folk, so people are not very afraid of this kind of vampire.”

Well, yeah. You have to feel kinda bad for the little guys. They’re probably trying to be really intimidating and seductive, offering the Dark Embrace to the people, but just not getting taken seriously.

Gypsy: “Hey fellas! Check it out! There’s a vampire watermelon in my stable.”

Vampire Watermelon: “How dare you mock Me? If I had fangs, and maybe a ramp, I would plunge them into your neck until you succumbed to oblivion!”

Gypsy: “Would you please stop rolling onto my feet? I have no problem turning you into one of those fruit salad bowls with the serrated edges.”

Vampire Watermelon: “I’ll show myself out.”

So the Roma didn’t sweat them. I mean, who would be afraid of the occasional random, undead fruit? I’m sure these delicious transmogrifications were mostly isolated incidents.

But think about it. You’ve got the NWA, the puppeteers of the GOP, which we all know is just another hideous tentacle of the New World Order, and they’re working on safer, faster, and more efficient delivery of watermelons to you, the consumer? How about you, the consumed.

It is clear to me that a handful of these diabolical pepos (known in their inner circles as Nosfruitratu) have survived the aeons, watching the whole of human history unfold, feeding on the blood of, well, cantaloupes presumably, building a fruity army of the undead, and waiting for their time to strike and enslave the human race.

Figure 1.1: The Blood Congress of the New Watermelon Order (NWO)

And now, with the implementation of their new delivery system imminent, it’s only a matter of time. They’ll be shipped on pallets to grocers worldwide and we’ll buy them and bring them unsuspectingly into our homes. The rest you can divine.

Morrissey and O’Neil may not even make it to the 2012 election. Soon, we’ll all be answering to Praetor Tsamma the Maleficent and his viceroy, Greenflesh the Seedless.

On the bright side, we’ll be the middle caste, between our cruel, mouthwatering rulers and the pumpkins. Filthy fucking pumpkins.

It is 11:18pm. I have taken NoDoz, as I understand that it makes you not doze. Very clever indeed. It seems these days that I’m always tweaking on something. If the Ambien doesn’t get ya, the NoDoz sure will.

And yet, no matter what pill I take, or what scotch I drink, or what bubble-gum pop song I blare at mind-shearing volume into my ears via my iPod, or what stupid little thing I tinker with in my garage, or what I try to force myself to think, there is a terrible black hole in my mind.

Black holes, if you’re not familiar with the concept, are the coolest fucking things ever. A black hole is a star in its death throes. It burns, some shit with neutrons and gravity and fusion happens, and you’re left with a point in space whose pull is so great that not light can escape it. So if you’re ever piloting a shuttlecraft with the away team and you see one of these, think of it as the worst pothole ever. Just drive around it.

So there’s this black hole in my mind that keeps pulling me back into this funk. I can get away for brief moments, but on nights like this, I am back in its center. Too tired to think, too awake to sleep, too paralyzed by fear and uncertainty to act, and too worried about being paralyzed to not do something. So I write this shit. Happy fucking day.

It isn’t a black hole in my soul. My soul, as the kids say, is “tight.” I have a woman who I love so fiercely that I can barely describe it, and a baby boy that that same woman is creating in her womb at this very moment that I know will only expand my capacity to love by a factor of a million. I have passion. I have creativity. I give a shit about things. I cherish life, even on days like this.

I don’t need a pill for that. I need a pill for this. Ask your doctor if Alrightra is right for you.

Sorry to have put you through my trite, self-indulgent load of shit. It’s David Gray’s fault. My iPod is on shuffle and Disappearing World started playing. That song never fails to fucking break me in two. Fucking David Gray and his beautiful, malaise-inducing anthem. Knock that shit off.

When I saw SoBe’s Superman Super Power Drink on the shelf at the gas station the other day, I got a little tingle in my pants. It’s like when you’re standing in line at the BMV, and there’s a really hot girl in front of you, and someone has to squeeze past you to get to the other counter, and you have to sorta step forward and push your little pony into her stable, and you realize for one brief moment that if it weren’t for the fact that you’re both wearing clothes and you smell like a summer camp latrine in July and she has no idea who you are nor would she piss in your mouth if your guts were on fire, you would totally have your 21st regiment in her demilitarized zone right now? It was like that. I picked up the can and suddenly I realized why I felt this way. This is no ordinary energy drink. This is an “Adult Energy Supplement.” Holy fucking shit. I had just stumbled across my first pornographic energy drink.

Figure 1.1: Umm… Superman? Is that you?

The claims of the can: For a pornographic energy drink (pornodrink for short), they didn’t do much to spice up the can. No busty naked girls. No cruel bleach-blond, whip-wielding mistress wearing leather lingerie. There wasn’t even a steamy Penthouse letter on the back. It did, of course, kindly inform me that Superman Returns is in theatres starting on June 30th, which made me wonder: exactly how old is this shit? I hope that none of its prime energy-inducing ingredients (ginseng, guarana, and yerba mate) go bad. It also warned that the drink is “not recommended for children, pregnant women or people sensitive to caffeine.”

Scariest sounding ingredient: Without even looking at the rest of the ingredients, I don’t think anything will top yerba mate.

Energy Drink Funk Factor: 2. I don’t know what I expected it to taste like… naked chicks? It turned out to be a sweet drink of indeterminate origins. Unremarkable but enjoyable. Also not carbonated, which was unexpected but pleasant.

What it does for you: It sure as hell didn’t do any of the things that one would expect an “adult energy supplement” to do, that’s for sure.

Additional note: I could not, for the life of me, find a photo of this beverage on the web. In fact, I couldn’t even find proof that this shit ever even existed. Maybe it was some Chinese bootleg energy drink. So instead, I looked for the just-plain-strangest Superman image I could find. Enjoy.

It appears that scientists have discovered a planet which they have affectionately titled ‘c’, in orbit around Gliese 581, named after Bob Gliese, NASA tournament tetherball champion, 1975-1976.

Merely discovering a planet isn’t that big a deal these days, what with big Hubble fucking telescopes and all. I just the other day discovered two planets lodged in my goddamn head where my eyeballs used to be, which are gaining mass at an extraordinary rate. The big deal here is that Gliese 581 c is in the ‘habitable zone’ of the star it orbits, meaning it is theoretically capable of supporting liquid water.

We can tell if a planet a hundred grillion light years from us has a swimming pool, but we can’t develop a pill to make me sleep. Viva la science. Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

…and I will dwell in the house of fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck forever.

Been having trouble sleeping lately. Being a fan of better living through chemistry, I consulted my doctor. She’s fun to consult, also, because she’s pretty.

I wasn’t particularly hopeful, though. She’s not as big a fan of better living through chemistry as I. In medical school, they must have loaded her head with all this ‘preventative medicine’ rubbish. “Get more exercise,” she’ll suggest. “Eat more fiber,” she’ll waste her breath saying to me. Show me the world’s first high-fiber steak and we’ll talk about it more. Maybe wrap it in some cloth? “Cut back on alcohol” is where I start to laugh. Why don’t you cut back on giving me shit, lady? Less talky, more pilly.

So since she prescribes advice instead of the yummy pills to cure what ails me, I have to drop hints. I have to do like they say in the drug commercials.

Talk to your doctor about trying Vramicil.

Ask your doctor if Curmaradet is right for you.

Please, please give me the fucking pills. I have cash. And a gun.

This makes me want to stab myself in the head with a tongue depressor, because it means I’m doing what the advertisement told me to do. I’m just as bad as all those fucking kids, swathed in their Old Navy sacks of sweatshop crap, smoking Camel #9′s and voting for their favorite Amerikaner Idol. Whatever. Me likey drugs. I can live with another reason to hate myself if you give me what I want.

So, it’s off to see the shaman. Could you sign in please, Mr. Moriarty? Can I have your insurance card, Mr. Moriarty? Sally will be your server tonight, Mr. Moriarty. Our special is humiliation. And your co-pay is $20.

They weigh me. That’s always fun. I always – always, mind you – find it necessary to point out that I am hunkered down by a suit, dress shoes, a cell phone, a 60-gig iPod, a wallet full of hundies from my be pimpin’, or possibly fundraisin’, and a keyring the likes of which a jailer would carry. They are unmoved. For as chunky as I think I am sometimes, I know that these people see nauseating behemoth bovine mastodon pig-people all the fucking time. I must look like a ballerina.

Then they sit me in the clean, bright little room on the crackly paper-covered bed and ask me what’s wrong. By “they,” I mean a medical assistant. She asks me lots of questions, then goes and tells my pretty doctor all the things I said. Then my pretty doctor comes in. So, Janice tells me your cock has tied itself in a knot and you’re vomiting metal filings? Yes, that’s what I told her. Why couldn’t I just tell you that myself?

But between asking me what’s wrong and leaving to tell the pretty doctor, they take my blood pressure. Whenever I go to the doctor, I know I can blow them all away with the sheer, blinding healthliciousness of my blood pressure. My diastolic pressure dances with my systolic pressure in such harmony that the cuff emits a gentle hum whilst recording them. So perfect is my blood pressure that they form Fibonacci numbers.

And off we go. Squeeze squeeze squeeze squeeze squeeze squeeze squeez. Sssssssssss. Thumpthump. Thumpthump. Thumpthump. Thumpthump. Ssssssssssssssss. Riiiiiiiiip. 138 over 93.

What in the living fuck is that? I have consumed enough salt that my buoyancy noticeably increases and gotten in screaming, near-death collisions follow by frenzied exchanges of oaths on the roadway before arriving at the doctor’s office, and each time my blood pressure was a cool 115 over 73. So today, this 138 over 93 shit is alarming.

Pretty doctor comes in. She stares aghast at the two numbers. You should keep an eye on this, she tells me. Go down the hall once a week and have one of the nurses take your blood pressure. I should mention I work in a hospital, where there are lots of halls with nurses down them.

I’ll get right on that. Yeah, so anyway doc, I’m having trouble sleeping. A lot. Yes, I’ve been getting exercise. No, it hasn’t been right before bed. No, I’m not watching TV in bed. Yes, I only use the bed for sleeping and fucking. No, I don’t have caffeine after noon. No, I don’t drink alcohol before bed. No, these are not all lies. Yes, these are all lies. You know what I’m here for. The commercial-man on the tele-vision said to ask my pretty doctor if Ambien is right for me. Really, it is right for me? Really, you’re doing to give me some? Fuckin’ sweeeeet. Wait, and you’re throwing in fistful of Lorazepam to help me with anxiety? It’s like a Merck Christmas Special starring Corey Feldman.

I think my doctor and I have a psychic connection. I didn’t even tell her I was a tightly-compressed, ready-to-burst wad of clenched fury, apprehension, depression and self-loathing, just one more failure in my life away from bursting into flames. But still she knew that Lorazepam is right for me. That’s one good fucking doctor. One good, pretty doctor.

And now? The Lorazepam is gone. I just took an Ambien and am so wide fucking awake I might as well be tweaking. And I am so tightly wound that I could pummel the living shit out of the ground so hard that it would break the planet into tiny chunks, and we’d all float away into space. As long as I’ve got a pharmacy and a drive-thru on my chunk, I’m good.

Oh, and today it’s 148 over 103. I can’t help it, I’m a child of the 80′s. I have that Atari mentality. I just have to beat my high score.

There are tears I cannot cry. They’re all backed up. Maybe that’s what’s raising my systolic.

For as fucked up as I am, I am surprisingly checked out. Not checked out enough, though. I’m holding out for some good old-fashioned catatonia. I think I’ll ask my doctor. Pretty please.