My Colon Hates Me.
The past three days I have been conducting a little experiment. Due to a crushing workload and poor constitution, I have been consuming coffee as my only source of sustenance. A few notes at this point:
a) The jitters, heart palpitations and paranoia I can deal with, but the twitching eyes make it difficult to drive, especially since the only speeds I can deal with at this point are 'impending doom' and 'full screeching stop' . The fact that the vibrations in my orbits give everything a '2001' slit-scan-stroboscopic impression makes it difficult to discern friend or foe before me, or, more likely, in the rear view mirror.
b) It is true what they say, it most definitely IS a potent diarrhetic. I am a human fetid sluice-gate... toilets of the world, cringe in fear. However, time spent on the porcelain throne has been halved. So, not ALL bad news here.
c) My mouth tastes like paint stripper and urine. My sweltering, dog's-ass breath could be used to de-louse death-row inmates. (Wow, hyphens, like in the old-en days. Lost is the art of the hy-phen. L-ost.)
d) My sleep patterns are all discombobulated. I wake at odd hours and drift off during phone calls. It has activated my Night Terror reflex I had as a child. ...Instead of an imp on my chest with 'hypno-toad' eyes, it has evolved to Carl Rove brandishing a dry sausage rifle, wearing a hat made of felt flower cutouts and a papier-mache matrix mixed with yogourt.
e) I DO get my work done, but when I hand it over, it's like I'm handling snakes or something. It is gingerly accepted and those accepting; back away cautiously. Maybe my jitters make me look like a malfunctioning pinball machine. However, seeing as I do not have four legs and blinking lights, nor am I surrounded by thirty-something high-school dropouts wearing 'Slayer' jean jackets, I may be mistaken in that assumption.
f) I go to the gym and work out like a redneck on a mission. You know what the hell I'm talking about (see Ghost World). It's like being fit will matter. But, no mullet. I even shaved and oiled my chest.
g) I'm starting to 'get' Robin Williams. That scares me. It should scare you, too. And, I spend hours on 'Kittenwar', like some kind of idiot (not sure which 'type' of idiot as of yet, though).
h) Where I used to get headaches before my first cup o' the day... I get migraines between sips.
Now, what the hell do I do to de-tox? At this point, I think switching to eating lead paint chips is healthier. Or, drinking Lemon Pledge.
a) The jitters, heart palpitations and paranoia I can deal with, but the twitching eyes make it difficult to drive, especially since the only speeds I can deal with at this point are 'impending doom' and 'full screeching stop' . The fact that the vibrations in my orbits give everything a '2001' slit-scan-stroboscopic impression makes it difficult to discern friend or foe before me, or, more likely, in the rear view mirror.
b) It is true what they say, it most definitely IS a potent diarrhetic. I am a human fetid sluice-gate... toilets of the world, cringe in fear. However, time spent on the porcelain throne has been halved. So, not ALL bad news here.
c) My mouth tastes like paint stripper and urine. My sweltering, dog's-ass breath could be used to de-louse death-row inmates. (Wow, hyphens, like in the old-en days. Lost is the art of the hy-phen. L-ost.)
d) My sleep patterns are all discombobulated. I wake at odd hours and drift off during phone calls. It has activated my Night Terror reflex I had as a child. ...Instead of an imp on my chest with 'hypno-toad' eyes, it has evolved to Carl Rove brandishing a dry sausage rifle, wearing a hat made of felt flower cutouts and a papier-mache matrix mixed with yogourt.
e) I DO get my work done, but when I hand it over, it's like I'm handling snakes or something. It is gingerly accepted and those accepting; back away cautiously. Maybe my jitters make me look like a malfunctioning pinball machine. However, seeing as I do not have four legs and blinking lights, nor am I surrounded by thirty-something high-school dropouts wearing 'Slayer' jean jackets, I may be mistaken in that assumption.
f) I go to the gym and work out like a redneck on a mission. You know what the hell I'm talking about (see Ghost World). It's like being fit will matter. But, no mullet. I even shaved and oiled my chest.
g) I'm starting to 'get' Robin Williams. That scares me. It should scare you, too. And, I spend hours on 'Kittenwar', like some kind of idiot (not sure which 'type' of idiot as of yet, though).
h) Where I used to get headaches before my first cup o' the day... I get migraines between sips.
Now, what the hell do I do to de-tox? At this point, I think switching to eating lead paint chips is healthier. Or, drinking Lemon Pledge.
posted by Blog Monkey at 10:09 p.m.
3 Comments:
Switch to meth, but don't stop the coffee cold, they work together like porn and Mr.MagicFingers. Enjoy the metal, tobacco-less-KOOLS, aftertaste and become a robot. Living a lucid dream, you will soon sit upon a body of work worthy of a book deal. It will be illegible; proceed to corner store and buy lots of gum. Look furtive, be furtive. Earn the respect of the cowardly. Nevermind, keep drinking the coffee, you've made your bed.
perhaps I should take up knitting?
Laughed out loud! And no, I won't say "lol" because it's not loud enough.
Post a Comment
<< Home