KEESHAWN! Shut that loud mess off!

I’m back like a vertebrae, you swine.

That’s right, all of you loathsome bastards praying for my untimely death have been let down by Jesus once again, and I laugh in your miserable faces.

A brutal day and night of chaos on the home front… We can only hope that the forces of the world realign themselves more appropriately by morning. Drama at The Office, and for reasons I will not discuss in so public a venue that place is going down in flames in mere weeks. Despair, all ye who doth mistake the true value of thine tech support personnel, for ye shall be deserted in thine hour of direst need! Also, my life of isolation is coming to an abrupt end, and so I have 24 hours to clean up 5 weeks of filth and neglect. How can one so small as myself generate such sprawling, monumental messes with little to no visible effort? I amaze even myself, sometimes.

I may have broken the fever, but my appetite has not yet returned. I’m running on a slice of cheese pizza and a gallon of oj for 2 days, must force feed myself tomorrow no matter the cost.

Can we talk about stupid people for a minute?

Exhibit A –

Put aside your wearisome compassion for a moment while we discuss how one could possibly go about becoming attached to a couch.

Now, I would consider myself to have an above average attention span. I can read a book in one sitting, I can listen to Alice’s Restaurant the whole way through, and I have indeed beaten the original Legend of Zelda from start to finish (both quests) without pausing or saving, but even on my most gloriously patient day, I could never sit down in the same spot for 24 hours straight. Multiply that impossibility by five godforsaken holy shit years, and you begin to understand the ridiculousness of the couch/ass hybrid. To have a piece of furniture graft itself to your skin because you literally do not move absolutely blows me away. To achieve the sort of immobility and atrophy the human body needs to become one with a god damn couch is a feat/shame beyond my pitiful conception, and the more I think about it the more my intellect ties itself in Escher-like knots. Let’s put that to rest, then, before I have an aneurysm.

On the other side of the coin, I can’t wait until my new pink shirt arrives:

Forget that she looks like the girl from the Exorcist for a moment and just imagine how pimped out it would be to have that shirt. Feel free to purchase it for me.

Exhaustion, both physical and spiritual, are kicking down my door with a ferocity that makes me wonder if they don’t double as D.E.A. agents during the day. I must retire.

Pour one for the homies that’s gone, and remember:
Together we can do this, one T-shirt at a time.



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