There is nothing more to say other than my blood sugar levels appear to be crazed these days. Ah, these narcissistic, navel-gazing days from hell here in the 21st century! Everyone runs around amped up on anti-depressants, and everyone looks like hell in these days from hell. Or does everyone feel like hell? Anyway, just days from hell and all that. I can't really stretch this commentary any further without risking some sort of psychic injury to my already feeble brain.
My landlady (The Woman of Paranoid Proportions) is much nicer since we Had It Out. It made me feel a helluva lot better, anyway. I still feel like I need to move, since my hypersensitive nature is generally hypersensitive no matter what I do to tame it. Meaning I put more meaning into events than I should. Ah, to feel like an ass, as well as hell. This is the way the world goes, unless you are Pamela Sue Anderson. She always looks well, but that is the exceptional by-product of looking like a Damned Barbie Doll.
I may go to a comedy improv show tonight. Then again, I may not. I am kicking myself for not asking this woman (with a car) earlier, all because I am TOO GODDAMNED NICE. It's a long story involving not wanting her to have to drive too far. Then, in the privacy of my room with the Horrific Orange Shag Rug, I kick myself. But beating yourself up for being human grows tiresome, and this year I am trying to retire from that, no matter How Bad I Fuck It Up. If we were anything but human, we wouldn't fuck it up, but alas, we are mere homo sapiens. And you know what, kiddies? Maybe that's finally enough for me.
Ah, traumatic insights at the local library. In the "Teen Room", no less. These computers are far easier to access than the ones in the "Adult Area", although I worry about pedophiles lurking around in here preying on thirteen year olds. If you think it doesn't happen, think again, my rare, sanguine lovelies. Now I sound like Craig Ferguson, and I recently decided he's a buffoon. My latest obsession is Brad Sherwood, who looks like he might be easier to hang out with and enjoy a simple cup of coffee. Although God knows lately I am a motor mouth and do not need caffeine. A harness and some Xanax, maybe, but not more caffeine. Kerchoo and Kerblah!
Yes, lately I have been reading the aptly titled Potatoes, not Prozac and getting nifty eating ideas. Nifty eating ideas are so very nice. Protein, avoiding hidden sugars, why antidepressants don't necessarily solve the problem of your lurking depressive state, and how to remember to save a book EVERYTIME you work on it so your twelve year old computer doesn't tank creating multiple problems for you. Another long story.
But I remove the weapons, the ones normally used to beat myself into smithereens and say, along with the Beatles, "It's Alright da da da da da da..." You get the picture. If you think my brain is tiresome, try delving into the mysteries of the entire Republican administration!
Speaking of which they are now subpoenaing records from GOOGLE users. How glad I am I normally YAHOO, not to be confused with OLE, YODEL, or SWISS MISS HOT COCOA. God, can we say, Scary Government, Hard Times And Then Some? Geez, maneeze. What does George Bush do at night, anyway? Stroke his white cat with a long, taloned finger and whisper lovingly into his ear about new ways to screw over innocent Americans, all in the name of G.I. Joe Justice? Puleeze. I mean, seriously. Very scary.
The man needs some serious loving. Or a long night spent disco dancing with what remains of the Bee Gees. I'm sure we can come up with many ideas for how to save him, and all of us, with what Remains of America. America, Can You Hear Me? Papa, Why Don't You Love Me? This must all be an unconscious ploy on his part to Win George Bush Senior's Love. Yes, that sounds about right.
I must go, and thank all 0.3 of you for reading, and that one lonely guy for always winking at me on the bus. You get the picture, people.
God bless you.
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