I’m basically the reincarnation of St. Francis


It started earlier this year. I was walking home from a friend’s house, and I heard a rustling in the bush. From the depths of the plant’s foliage emerged a raccoon. It noticed me, regarded my presence, and made a short bow with its head. It then proceeded on its way.


These fucking birds better not shit on my halo. Just dry cleaned this shit.

This didn’t strike me as unusual at first. Strangers of my own species treat me with high regard wherever I go, so why not others? Then I went to one of my favorite hookah bars.

I was on a date then, so that was good. A customer came in with a beast on a leash. It was a slobbery, exuberant, brown and white pit bull. (No, the dog is not my date.) When the man released his hound, it bounced from sofa to sofa, receiving affection from everyone. It allowed me to massage its head, and apparently seeing something good within me, sat itself by my side. My date commented that it was good that I seemed to be an animal person.

Last night, I wrangled together some acquaintances and we sat in an apartment, smoking hookah. I’m disinclined to private hookah pipes, but the owner was able to make it function well. Anyways, the owner of the apartment had a dog and a cat. The cat greeted me warmly (strange for a cat), and the dog would not get away.

The thing is, I strike the fear of God into animals everywhere else. Horses rear up when I pass. Dogs bark uncontrollably at me. Cats dare not look me in the eyes. With a snap of my fingers, a dog will do my bidding.

My working hypothesis at the moment is that by making out so fervently with a clinical sociopath, I caught the disease myself. While I had a heart of ice beforehand, my new-found disease allows me to hide it under a superficial smoke-screen, and not even animals can discover it.  As Nietzsche would say, “And when you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you.”  I hope Nietzsche wasn’t also snogging crevices in the rocks. That sick bastard.

While I may find the state of my mental health liberating, it can not remain this way. Using and abusing individuals is contrary to my consequentialist school of thought (those that don’t deserve it, anyway). Please, I beg you, send money for therapy as quick as you can. There’s no knowing what I can do now.

(And, like, I’m joking.)

Try not to think about Freud while you’re on a date


Let me preface this post by saying that I think Freud is a twat. I think that most of his findings are scientifically unfounded, but that’s just a layman’s opinion. Freudian psychology is enjoyable to think about, if you can somehow find a way to get past the idea that humanity is composed of a global cabal of sex-crazed maniacs. But, given my previous relationships, this might be true.

How do you not see two turtles kissing?

How do you not see two turtles kissing?

I talk to myself. I discuss everything from love and religion to the bounteous pleasures of weed. I whisper to myself in the shower, so that no one thinks I’d be crass enough to shower with someone else. In normal circumstances (i.e, when my roommate has left for days on end, leaving me to believe that he’s lying in a bathtub full of ice with a missing kidney) I talk so frequently that my neighbors must think that I’m the 16 personalities of Sybil Dorsett.

A recent development in this path to schizophrenia is that I’ve started saying Freudian slips. I’ll be in shower, whispering sweet nothings to myself, and I say something like, “It would never work out with Kaelee.” Then I’ll stop and tilt my head to the side, and agree with myself. At least I’m getting all of my slips out in private.

I’ve started dating again. I’ve been taking it glacially slow (except the one liaison with too many shots of whiskey), which has made me realize that I’m more untoward than I thought. This lead me to more introspection. I use significant others to validate myself, but I try not to emotionally abuse them. If that makes me a bad person, don’t fret. I’m working on it.

On dates, my mind tends to be a kaleidoscope of nonsense and non-sequitors. It doesn’t help that one of my current obsessions is Freudian psychology. They’ll say something to get me smitten, I’ll blush (I’m so chaste), and suddenly, “Is she your new target of libidinal cathexis?” Then it gets weird. I start thinking about how, according to the kook, I must be seeking sexual gratification with this girl because, when I was an infant, I was desperately horny for my mother, but I couldn’t bang her because my father would chop my dick off. Its when my face is struck by the last image that the date looks at me funny.

No, instead of Freud, think of Raymond Dart, and his “bloodthirsty australopithecines.” It makes for cheery conversation.

Go ahead, ask a question. I only whip out my scathing sarcasm if your an idiot.