There are no bad owners, only bad dogs


a short description of this entry

Two posts in one day? The first one was too serious, but this one will suck, so... I apologize in advance, because a lot of bitching is about to come spewing out of me. Remember Spewie from that show with Chris Elliot? Delicious and self-saucing? You know, American Dad totally stole the concept of the alien that shoots pudding out under stress.

I once spent an hour or two at a "wine tasting" event (drunken bacchanal) teaching a toddler to say "I've had it up to here!" with the accompanying gesture. Well, I've had it so up to there that if there was a way to have a hand tattooed a foot and a half above my head to show the limits of my having had it-tude, I'd be finishing this sentence in a coherent fashion.

See, I read dooce every day just because she's like me but talented, you know? She can explain what it's like to be depressed but she's still, like, thin and funny and her house is clean. When your medication stops working, it takes a while to figure it out. There's an odd affect (and no, I didn't mean "effect," look it up) that takes over your mind -- it's like you're not sad, but you're also not there and you want really badly to feel something, but you can't no matter what you do. So you start emotionally poking yourself and picking at old scabs and reliving all of your crappy mistakes. And then you realize that you're not feeling anything because you're just this vast void. And you look for something, anything, inside the void, but there's just more void where the void was and then you realize that "void" = "empty," and you just don't understand what people around you are smiling about or angry about because it's just too much. And every time you have a sharp object in your hand you just think about opening a vein and every time you have a bottle of pills in your hand you think about taking all of them, but then you realize that a) you'd just have to clean up the mess yourself because that's how it goes in your life, you do it yourself or it just doesn't happen, and b) you just would start getting hot flashes or growing hair on your knees as a side effect of the Rx. And you just can't do it anymore, you just are not capable and you've had it up to here, but it doesn't matter.

You know, when Hemingway or Kerouac or Proust are tortured and drink too much, they're misunderstood and deep and sheer genius. The rest of us are just kind of sloppy and worthless. The most dangerous thing I ever read was a research study that showed a strong and significant statistical in the positive direction between creativity/genius and insanity. I think I've been hoping ever since then that insanity = genius, when the = sign doesn't really go in two directions. Most crazy people are just smelly and unemployed. Not geniuses.

I noticed earlier that due to circumstance beyond my control, I smell like a bakery. Kaiser rolls, sourdough, croissants. Tonight is the last night of my course of having to inject an ACID-based ointment into my most intimate of orifices and writhe around in agony, hoping to fall asleep in spite of the pain and incredible burning that I can feel in cavities that I never knew I had. I hate your mother-fucking souls, makers of Monistat. Burn in hell, with only a fraction of the burning your product causes, and you'll have a small measure of karma.

I used to have a friend who wished for the Victorian mode of revenge of throwing acid in an enemy's face to return to modern usage. He was odd.

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