Sleep is for the dead.

The problem with having a really terrible sleeping disorder is when I DO fall asleep - a deep sleep - it tends to be at some sporadic, completely unnecessary hour that gets in the way of living like a decent human being.

For the past month or so I've been sans caffeine. I've made a conscious effort to really rid myself of caffeine in another attempt to cure my sleeping disorders. As it turns out, I stay up even LATER without the caffeine, which in turn means I sleep less. Somehow I've been making it through my work days without caffeine in my system and I'm not fucking up things as badly as I thought I would have. However, because I don't have that immediate caffeine high in the morning that pretty much sets the pace for my day, I just get stuck in this repetitive cycle of not making my brain tired enough to sleep. See, although I work out regularly, it only makes my body tired. I can lay in my bed sore and tired but working out doesn't stimulate my brain enough. Caffeine, on the other hand, stimulates my brain to the point where I often times overexert myself, thus leading to some sort of mini-anxiety attack. At least by the time I wind down, my brain wants to nap. For now and without caffeine, I'll try to read something boring then my nerdiness kicks in I get entirely too involved in what I'm reading and I find myself up until who knows what ungodly hour and then I have to force myself to try to rest so I can wake up just a few hours later.

For example, last night I was unable to fall asleep until almost 5 am. No particular reason why. I was just up being a creep like usual. When I finally fell asleep, I woke up around 7:30 thinking I was late for work. I had an additional hour to sleep in, so I closed my eyes and took myself to sleepy land. An hour and 10 minutes later, I almost had to take a spatula and peel myself off my frying pan of a bed. I walked into work 5 minutes later than I should have this morning. I proceeded to walk about like a vagabond all day, lost in the mundane world of law and lack of reasoning. The good thing about having a cloud for a brain when I'm in this state is that I can transport myself to this quixotic state of mind. I now have the ability to listen to music all day at my desk, and with the aid of Saralee, I banished my brain to Finland while I worked on some powerpoint project that made me want to stab my eyes out. After I came home, I made myself a very delicious dinner of sushi-grade tuna with
cucumber, avocado, red onions and pickled ginger. I made one for my mom as well and not my dad because he hates fish. He then proceeded to complain about how I didn't make him dinner so I made him a roll of sushi - he ate a few pieces and grossed out of the thought of eating raw fish. He makes absolutely zero sense to me. We often call my dad a bear but a bear would happily eat raw fish. My dad's like Yogi Bear and only eats crap from picnic baskets. My mom and I made fun of him purely based on that he thought tuna was too strong of a flavor and that he'd prefer to go to McDonalds. My poor dad, he has absolutely no palate. Getting back to my point, after dinner I went to my room to change and later take care of a few things I needed to take care of. I later woke up around 11 pm, with two dogs in my bed and I still had my shoes on. I don't remember falling asleep and I vaguely remember laying down. I guess when brain shuts down, it shuts down for the night and I have zero control over it.

Once again, I'm up at some ungodly hour when a majority of the people on Pacific time are asleep and are only a couple hours short of waking up. Bad sleeping habits are going to be the death of me, but hopefully not until I'm a million years old and completely out of my mind. For now, I'm just partially out of my mind. I will leave you with my ugly mug at 4:00 am. Adios.

Get out of my head.

I can't wait for anything anymore.

I'm literally becoming impatient when it comes to everything in my life. That also includes the good, the bad and everything I am indifferent with. I'm not sure whether I'm reverting back to my childhood where I'm throwing temper tantrums but I'm literally on the brink of going completely insane. I know I keep saying this, but I'm getting closer and closer to that insanity being a real locked-down, padded room type of mental breakdown.

Right now, I blame part of my insanity on the fact that I'm getting on a plane in 2 days. I hate planes. We know this from previous posts, right? I'm not looking forward to 12 hours worth of plane rides, however, it will be worth it once it's done and over with. It will be nice to get away to a country that feels like home - one that I probably should be living in because it's so fantastic. I know the economy sucks and the job market does not exist for non-Spaniards (I will be applying for citizenship in the near future), but the food is great, the people are fun and plus I have great family there. Besides a Spanish-speaking vibrator, there's not much more I could want out of Spain.

The other reason I'm going insane is because I keep dreaming of things completely out of my reach that I have absolutely no control of. It's annoying when they're reoccurring and I don't even want to sleep at night because waking up in the morning is frustrating. I loathe frustration. I can deal with every emotion under the sun in one way or another, however, the only emotion I cannot deal with whatsoever is frustration because it's neither sad or happy, just indifference. And that, right there, pisses me off but I never get heated enough over it to just let it out in a crazy, hormonal rage. Again, frustration is exactly what it is: frustration. The best way to describe it is what I call the HARD RED DEATH (the female equivalent to blue balls). I have absolutely no way of curing said frustrations without dealing with the problems (or wanted 'problems') head-on. I should probably get on that. Soon, I hope.

Legal Crack and Nervous Postings

3:51 a.m.

Dom and I are both wide awake, both of us are victims to legal crack. For him, he's on his ADD medication and I'm who knows how many milligrams in on caffeine... Just know that it's a lot.

I'm thinking about making the switch to adderall. See, there's a hell of a lot less fat (I don't drink black coffee) and calories in a tiny pill of brain food. Side effects are anorexia and psychosis. I'm currently psychotic and that's nothing new. I can't imagine a tiny pill of brain food could possibly exacerbate my perpetually unruly behavior. See, if I combine that with my newly-adopted anorexia, I could just be the skinny crack whore which I guess could be a fun new phase in my life. That will give me more drive and reason to go be a fat chef in Spain. See, I really do have methods to my madness. No one ever said I was logical or ethical and by all means, I don't want to be. I suppose when I DO start "thinking like a normal person" is when the Apocalypse is coming. At that point, who gives a shit. The world will be imploding.

How to write a SEX WANTED advertisement for your friend... Just don't let her know about it.

Okay, let’s just be honest here.

I’m looking for a friend with benefits for my good friend. She’s in serious need of some dick and I’m not going to let her call up old flings. There’s a whole world out there of new dick she needs to experience. She works full time and goes to school full time, which makes it hard to find time to go out and meet guys other than the skinny science nerds that dont know how to take off a bra or the bad pick up line creeps she works with. My friend literally has ZERO time to meet guys, or in this case, guys with any fucking (literally) potential. When she’s got some free time, she’s certainly not out at bars looking for some cock. If anything, she's probably munching my rug but that's not something that involves you or something you will ever experience for yourself, so don't ask if two twats are available for the fucking.

Back to the point... Being the good friend that I am, I promised my friend I’d find someone for her to fuck a lot so here I am posting an ad on Craigslist, as strange and unethical as this is. Thankfully, Craigslist is like Eharmony for whores and I want my friend to be a whore. This should be a good match, right?

So, here’s the deal. I’m going to interview you in person. We’ll meet at a coffee shop or somewhere local (to Woodland Hills) and I will get to know you for her. If I dig you, she will probably dig you (and not a grave). You and I need to know each other so it’s not all awkward and creepy when I take you to meet her. Remember, I NEVER picked you up off of Craigslist. We know each other from work or something. Got it?

About her:

She’s half Mad Scientist and half Sexy Dominatrix Kitten, although I think those percentages are screwed up because she's definitely mixed with Man-Eater, Innocent School Girl and Prostitute. I capitalized all of those because they are all breeds of bitches. She’s like the good girl gone bad, but in the best way possible. As for her looks, she’s 5’6-ish, beautifully hour-glass shaped with gigantic tits that don't sag down to her stomach, long brown hair she could use as bondage rope, naturally tan (so don't worry about color rubbing off on you) and has a big mouth for good conversation and I’m assuming blow jobs (I don’t have a dick, so I wouldn’t know). She’s also kinda got the hippie vibe to her without being dirty and crazy and she’s also a vegan but is NOT by ANY means a bible-thumping vegan. She doesn’t judge people based on eating meat. But either way, she’s hot and probably 124897219487219847 hotter than any real person that ever existed on Craigslist.

What she likes:

SMART guys, preferably guys into science since she’s a science nerd. Guys that are either vegan/vegetarian or vegan/vegetarian friendly. In other words, don’t try to convince her to eat meat (unless it's tube steak). Tattoos/Piercing = a-okay. The more you have probably means the more fucked up your are in the head, and I think she dig a little (a lot) of crazy (in bed, that is). Less pretty and more scruff, which means that if you could be mistaken for a girl when the lights are off, that's just not sexy.You MUST have transportation, otherwise you're useless and will probably be late to everything that is horny. MAJOR turn off, really. It doesn’t matter what you drive, so long as you're available shortly after the phone rings. A funny, fucked up sense of humor is a must. If you don't like dirty jokes, bad jokes, inappropriate jokes or are monotone, just fuck off.

What she DOES NOT like:

Lard asses. If you are pushing XXXXL and are more width than height, no thank you and stop eating McDonalds. If you have hair covering a majority of your body and you can’t control that you are part man-wolf, DO NOT reply as shedding like a rabid beast is not sexy. If you are not funny and cannot take a joke for the life of you, do not reply under any circumstances and make your way to a whore house where you will have better luck. If you love Jesus, Mary, Joseph and everyone else that never existed, do not reply and make your way to church for your dirty sins by being on Craigslist. If you have weird fetishes that involve piss, poop, animals or objects not found in a sex store, please do not apply and please seek help.

REQUIREMENTS FOR THE INTERVIEW:

MUST be within a short drive of Woodland Hills. MUST include a photo (many preferred) in your e-mail. PLEASE write back with SOME sort of response to this. Anything generic like, “single, male, tiny penis and boring” will not get a reply.

This is 100% for real. I need to get my friend laid before she rapes me in my sleep.

1 week and 4 days.

At 5 something in the morning, it's hard to get creative.

This evening my friend Amanda and I decided to do a late night dirty soy chai run. Somewhere in my twisted fuck-up of a brain I decided at 11:00 p.m. that a quad venti soy chai would be a good idea. Well, after a case of the rambles followed by shakes with some intermittent studying, I finally fell asleep at 3:00 a.m. Shortly thereafter I was rudely woken up by my boyfriend with a case of the sleep-rapes and now I am back to being wide awake with an unexplained and rather annoying itch to ramble to the world on a conversation topic we had. That topic being SALAD TOSSING.

Triggered by a funny event, Amanda looks at me and says something along the lines of, "WHO IN THE HELL THOUGHT OF THE SIMILARITIES OF SALAD AND ASSHOLE."

I look at her, being my normal fucked up self and say, "It all started with a single dingleberry."

See, after doing some research on the definition of salad tossing, I learned that the term came from the prison community and it used when a member of the prison yard, normally one of lower ranking, eats out the asshole of a higher-ranking prisoner and covers said asshole with salad dressing to "cover up the taste." Clearly I'm not a prisoner and I have thankfully never been to prison, but how does this whole ranking business work? Do you have a certain quota of asshole eating before you can step up a rank? Is it like Farmville where you earn XP points and graduate to the never level? Each time you graduate, you get more cool stuff and more boys eating your asshole and the less you end up eating? Who developed this hierarchy of prison systems anyway? Whatever it was and whomever it was, I don't get it and I suppose I never really want to, although that would be an interesting topic to do a paper on from the etic perspective. Albeit interesting, I don't think that'll ever come up for me in the nutritional anthropology field, although I'm sure that could be argued and I'm clearly not the person to do so.

For some reason, I feel as though that people in prison would have super clean assholes. Because if prison rumors are true, there's a lot of gay shit going on all the time and you wouldn't want to be passed around as a lower member of the prison and everyone talking about your stinky asshole. I mean, it's prison, what else is there to do except for gossip about dirty assholes and eat dirty assholes? It's not like they're knitting and crocheting.

Now, after doing this research and finding out where this definition came from, I don't believe it for a second. In my mind, that's not tossing a salad. I would imagine that the definition came about from someone eating a guy's hairy, dirty ass. See, I would relate dingleberries as pieces of tomatoes, shreds of paper as lettuce, the hair as bean sprouts, sweat as salad dressing - and who knows what else one would find in a really dirty hairy asshole. Probably shrimp heads and bottle caps - or at least that wouldn't surprise me. The point is that salad dressing doesn't make enough substance for an entire salad. What is a salad without the dressing and what is the dressing what a salad? Both must be present at all times for the puzzle pieces to fit.

Oh, and for the record - this conversation started because a really cute cop walked into Starbucks. Then he turned around to order coffee and his pants were so loose on his ass it looked like he was wearing diapers. I'm unclear on how ass-eating and diapers are related. When I figure that out I will post about it.

Inspiration.

Sometimes I don't understand why I don't have a nice bed. I literally spend all my time in bed. If I'm not cooking, I'm in bed. I literally have turned into a pile of wet shit because I cannot seem to NOT HURT SOMEWHERE which prevents me from doing anything other than living in my bed. Obviously I sleep and fuck in bed. But it's more than that. It's my writing. It's my tv watching. It's my (un)comfortable table when I don't want to eat downstairs. I literally can do everything other than take a piss/shit on my bed but i guess i can do that too if i lined my bed with plastic wrap. I'm considering custom ordering a 6 foot wide roll of plastic wrap and put it on the head of my bed and pull down when needed. I suppose this could be rather disgusting, but when you're as nuts as I am, I guess sitting in your own feces on your bed could possibly be an option in life.

Anyway, I'm back to being an invalid. Not INVALID as in YOUR CREDIT CARD IS INVALID but IN-VAH-LID. As in, cripple. I donlt know what I did but I can barely walk and I'm a miserable fucking bitch. I bitch, whine, cry, whimper, screech, scream, growl, bite and anything short of having rabies. Rabies will come along sometime later this week when I'm still miserable and I'm found laying in the middle of a park at night being bitten by raccoons and squirrels. I bet that would be more pleasurable than laying in my God damn uncomfortable bed that makes me want to jab myself with blunt and rusty objects.

My point is that my bed is a piece of shit. It's been a piece of shit since I got it and I've done nothing but complain about having a shitty bed and have done nothing about it for nearly 10 years and now I'm suffering. I think beds should come with a counter and count how many times the best has been rocked back and forth during tantric sexy times and after X amount of uses it either releases biological weapons of mass destruction or it blows up. I guess that would be a tactical move for a fascist president, a career I'm strongly considering.

Blood Thirsty.

The past week has been challenging. I feel like this is a week-long rite of passage test and if i do not argue with everyone in my path than i am not a fully-fledged Cuban woman.

In the past week I have argued with nearly everyone and now I'm on the path for pure blood. I might as well take up murder as a hobby because clearly arguing with idiots is not solving any problems. Lately I've been arguing about everything from politics (extremism/radicalism and lack of compromise and alternative answers), eating habits/choices (animal rights and tasty dishes), children (no thanks), marriage (no thanks), life (mine's great, thanks) and bullshit (literally).

See, I do not do well with people telling me what to do with my life. I've had more people in the past week telling me to do things in my life, all of which make ABSOLUTELY NO SENSE that I'm just at the point where the next person that tells me what to do I am probably going to put a bullet between their eyes and eat their brains with hot sauce. if currently no such thing as "mad human disease" exists, there will be by the time I am done. Cows will not be the only subjects of foaming madness.

The most ludicrous shit I've heard this week is that i need to get married and have babies because i'm not getting any younger. if someone could tolerate me for life that would be a devil's dream come true. i am like horny Satan; i need my dildo carrying, dirty-talking Saddam as my abusive partner. sometimes i need to get slapped in the face with rubbery red dildos and chained up in a ring of fire. I need to be told to "relax... guy" and be verbally and physically raped. The only difference is that since I'm a dirty Satan I'll tolerate it and eat it up rather than to banish him from Hell. And of all things, if i was pregnant, the baby would probably come out feverishly angry and try to eat me for subjecting it to my madness for 9 months. i wouldn't be surprised if i somehow had a glock 17 in my womb and when the fetus had fully formed hands it decided that suicide would be its best way out than to have to deal with me until i die and then incurr the costs of getting rid of me. i feel sorry for the bastard child i will have one day. that poor kid will need a lot of therapy.

Insatiability.

Chardonnay... The end-all of boundaries, internal filters and the barely measurable iota of sanity.

I'm considering a career in drunk blogging. Fuck sobriety and any ounce of hope I had in owning a Cuban restaurant. What i really need is a world-famous drunk blog. See, what I need to share with the world is that being a sloppy drunk can be a GREAT thing. What I've learned through Big-Bird and a couple of idiots that I know is that drunken honesty is the key to life. It will help you tell a person you love them. It will also help you tell a person that you want to fuck his/her brains out and when you're done you'd like to eat his/her body like a praying mantis would but only to be half-eaten and left alive with rabies. Honesty is infectious. It's necrosis of the mind. It's incurable, untouchable and painstakingly difficult to battle. Don't bother even trying to fight it because you will be left with scars so deep that all the laser treatment in the would could not erase away the memories.

And what is this?

To continue where I left off, I would have to go back to Friday, February 27th. Since it’s now Sunday, March 1st and I’m on the plane to Italy, I might as well just write one long blog since I need to keep myself occupato before I land in Milan. I’m currently on an Airbus 321 via Alitalia and although I’m more of a Boeing girl, the ride has been very smooth and Alitalia did a great job installing very comfortable seats in economy. I probably wouldn’t have complained that much about the seats in AA’s 777 if the seats leaned as far back as these do. Actually, the seats lean so far back that I moved my seat forward a bit to type more comfortably. Alitalia’s blood orange juice is the best I’ve ever had that wasn’t fresh squeezed and their pound cake is so moist and delicious that I almost cried thinking plane food could be that good. I’m reminded that I’ve been eating like a fatso this entire trip which under normal circumstances that would mean I’ve been gaining weight like crazy but because my legs feel like j-e-l-l-o (it’s alive) I guess that means I’ve burned some calories. I even said to Dom this morning in our hotel room how thin I look considering I’ve been eating nothing but shit.

Let me just say that traveling with my family and Dom has been nothing but comedy and chaos. My mom and dad are seriously something else. My mom complains at everything in the world and she asks the stupidest questions known to man… Or when she’s arguing with my dad and calling him a stupid man. My dad’s a total block head and I swear his brain is made of rocks. I know I’ve called him brilliant before in past blogs but I may just take it all back now.

I am considering writing a script – the next blockbuster hit will be “Traveling with the Motta’s + 1 Cognata.” I think if produced into a movie, this London trip would have had everyone on the floor pissing on themselves. I know I covered the room in my previous blog, but I have failed to mention everything else. We had a bunk bed in the shit room – which my dad INSISTED on being on the top bunk and my mom on the bottom. Dom and I got the large bed – not because we are fatsos, but because my dad is a hairy, dirty, shitting, scruffy, giggling beast that my mom wants to kill on a daily basis and she cannot sleep with him for the life of it because of said hair, dirt, shit, scruff and giggles. So my mom’s on the bottom bunk bed bitching about the room and her life and blah blah blah and my dad purposely leans over towards the wall where he knows the bunk bed will turn a bit and freak my mom out. So, he did. She turned white as a ghost, her hair stood straight up and I think her eyes temporarily turned to the back of her head. She was screaming something about her dying and breaking her neck and how unsafe everything is and blah blah. So she fly like a flying squirrel to our bed screaming at how horrible my father is and how she was going to kill him if he got down. Dom decided to join in on the fun and jump on top of the bunk with my dad and jump up and down like a monkey to make my mom nervous. Of course anything that involves Dom getting hurt freaks me out because half of the reason I’m with Dom is because he’s incredibly good looking and if he breaks his face or loses a limb I’m not sure how much I will love him anymore. I mean sure I’ll love him but I’ll have to have a good looking boyfriend on the side or something. Then Dom and I get stuck with the bottom bunk because my mom wanted the big bed so I kicked my dad off of the top bunk although Dom didn’t care so I slept on this uncomfortable cot-like bunk for the rest of the night. It was horrible, uncomfortable, the room smelled like caca and yeah, that’s about it.

Thankfully we didn’t spend a lot of time in our room. We did, however, spend a lot of time in Colin’s cab. No, not a cab company – but actually a guy named Colin who was our cabbie. He picked us up from the Paddington Station and we took his number and called the guy for EVERYTHING. He was actually the coolest cabby ever and since I’m hoping to be in London again in August, I’ll be calling him to pick my ass up from Heathrow. We did the touristy things – we saw Big Ben, toured the Tower of London and played with weapons, saw the Crown Jewels, walked around St. Katherine’s Docks, walked around Westminster Abbey, but we didn’t go in since they wanted to charge 800 million quid to get in, walked up and down the Thames River, went to the Imperial War Museum where I think both my dad and Dom died a little bit and they had just WAY too much fun, went to Harrod’s and bought some stuff, spent a couple of hours walking Windsor castle and the town, ate both good food and shitty food and over-all had a shit ton of fun.

One thing that kept us all laughing were our accents. Apparently it’s impossible to speak to people with accents without picking up on theirs. I spent a majority of my time pinching my mom to stop picking up on their accents because not only did she sound like an idiot, but she elongated everything so she sounded like a retarded English boy because somehow her voice got deeper. She also does this weird thing with her mouth when she makes these accents that it looks like she just sucked on a lemon or thirty. I mean, really – that can’t be comfortable and it’s so unnatural I don’t know how she doesn’t notice she’s doing it. Then when I pinch her she gets pissed off and tells me that she’s not copying the accent and yells at me in Spanish… With an English accent. I’m not sure how she accomplishes that but she does.

Let me just say that fish & chips suck in London. The one thing I wanted to eat more than anything was fish & chips. Somehow – someway, we went to the gay pub and had fish & chips. Those sucked. When we moved to the new hotel, we then went to the Paddington Fish & Chip Shoppe that Colin recommended as being “one of the better ones” and it sucked a fat donkey dick. They didn’t even fry the fish fresh and it was sitting there in a warmer tray. I also do not like that the skin was on and I felt like a dog chewing a rubber toy. There was no point to having the skin on because the meat would just fall off of the skin anyway, so you missed half the batter since it was stuck to the skin anyway. For fuck’s sake, that’s all I wanted… Just some damn good fish & chips. I wasn’t going to tell Colin that he has dog shit for a palate but that’s what it was. Lucky for me, I love all forms of potato + deep fried so I had a shitton of chips, even with breakfast. The chips were served differently everywhere I had them so I guess I’m not sure what’s traditional for chips but hey, they’re fucking fries. Can’t fuck those up too much, right? One thing I did notice was that the chips were significantly sweeter than anything I’ve ever had back home. They were slightly sweet potato like and I wish I could get them like that in the states. Combined with extra fine ground salt, they were heavenly.

For our last night in London, we moved to the Cardiff Hotel at Suffolk Square which was adorable. The buildings were probably 200 years old and everything was made for skinny midgets but lucky for me, I am not a total fatso and I am a midget. My parents got a triple room and Dom and I got a single since that’s all that was available but we were happy as Hell to no longer be at that horrible Kensington ‘hotel’ aka the torture chamber and no longer sharing a room with my parents. It’s not that sharing a room with them is difficult, it’s just that my dad snores louder than 20 bears sleeping in a cave. It makes trying to sleep impossible and there is no such thing as deep sleep. The only thing that was horrible about our hotel was that it didn’t have a lift. Not only did it not have a lift, but we were 981274912874912874198274987 floors at the top since those were the only singles with private bathrooms. It seemed as though the higher we got, the more narrow the stairs were. At one point I thought I was going to fall down an entire flight of stairs. You know, I have small feet… But apparently people in London have smaller feet because my foot barely fit on the steps and there was no guard rail, followed by a 20 foot drop to the previous floor. I am very thankful I didn’t die. This is why we left our luggage with my parents in their room. Dom and I were so exhausted that we both fell asleep around 8:00 pm and slept so soundly that we woke up at 3:30 am thinking it was almost 7 am and that we had missed our flight to Milano. It’s amazing what a combination of lack of good sleep and jetlag can do to a person.

I guess the most hilarious thing of all was in Heathrow airport, outbound to Milano. My Mom and I got separated from Dom and my Dad because we had to pull over to the side and go through our bags and fill a baggie they gave us with anything that was gel or liquid. We were going through security and my bag beeped like crazy so they pulled my bag to the side and strip searched it. I guess I had a bottle of water in there that I was unaware of. Suddenly Dom came running over to us laughing his ass off but looking semi worried and he’s like “OH MAN, YOU KNOW THAT KNIFE YOUR DAD THOUGHT HE LOST? WELL, SECURITY FOUND IT!” My poor dad put his pocketknife that he thought he lost in the hotel room in his fucking computer case, which was his carry on. Oh yes, oh yes, you can imagine they pulled him to the side, called the cops on him, detained him and gave him a good grilling. Since we weren’t allowed in the security area, we saw a woman with a box full of rubber gloves walking into a room and we all died from laughter thinking they gave him a full cavity search. After about half an hour they let him go and it’s too bad because they didn’t cavity search him. That would have probably completed the end of the London trip if they did but all that happened is they took away his pocket knife and put him on “the list.” He will forever be on a list with terrorists.

l'alcol.

I am not a normal person by any means. When someone tells me to go to sleep so I can get better it almost makes me want to go play in the non-existent snow. So knowing that my source of sickness comes from Dom's house, I go to Dom's house to get better. Tonight I was was pinned down to the ground while kicking and screaming and funnel forced a Hot Toddy like a goose for foie gras. I think Dom's mom is going to harvest my liver after tonight. I am surprisingly able to walk and talk, all while being very drunk and non-as-coughy-as-before at the same time, if that makes any sense. Whatever it is, I can breathe better than I could a few hours ago and it all started with something hot and horrible tasting. It was followed by some black pills that smelled like shit and black currant and who knows what else after that point. All I know is that I'm playing with holistic fire and I'm hoping that I don't burn down my insides. I came home and z-packed myself (which - I'm not exactly sure if i should be drinking and antibioticing - but i don't care) so if I don't get better well then shit, I should be studied because I might have created my own hybrid strain of HIV/SARS.