You Know, I Just Ain't Feeling ItThe initial high and burst of creativity I experienced after the ghost hunt was lovely, but, frankly, it’s just not there anymore. Could be due to the unholy pain of my latest muscle/joint attack coupled with the return of -- and more severe than ever -- shitstorm of my faulty mitral valve, which manifests as a large, beefy-handed nun in a neon blue habit who whacks me nonstop with a metal ruler in my left chest whenever I lay my head down to sleep, or could be the delicious anxiety of dealing with my extended family and their problems, which they are always so kind to involve me in, or it’s possible, nay likely, that I just don’t give a fuck. I’ll go out on a limb here and say that because I’m feeling overwhelmed about many things going on in my life, things that make me want to drink entire bottles of Absolut, my usually humorous (ahem) take on life has dissolved into a giant puddle of ennui. So there.
I apologize to those who actually do give a fuck about my most excellent time at Rolling Hills, but I’m going to put “The Night Paris Peed Her Pants” aside for the time being. Besides, despite his promise, the three foot tall, one-eyed Hasidic Jew whose name I do not know, never sent me that picture, the only good one, really, of me and my freaky electroshock therapy room spirit buddy, so, yeah…Not very godly of you, little sir. Not godly at all.
Also, I believe an apology is in order to those who read yesterday’s (now deleted) post on my MySpace blog... It’s not like me to use the “C” word, nor do I normally refer to people as “corpse-eating sphincter-sniffers,” no matter how repulsive I find them to be, but, jeepers, I did yesterday, among other atrocities of the epithetical kind, and so, I’m sorry to anyone who witnessed my breakdown of good sense and decorum.
And on that note, here, for your amusement and disdain, is a picture of me at Rolling Hills “speaking” to Emme the Psychotic Nurse, who assured me that she is not, in fact, psychotic, but merely a misunderstood soul who enjoys haunting her bedroom closet and remembering the days of abusing orphans. Emme decided to leave her closet for a bit, and is standing directly in front of me and my trusty rods. Rock on, Emme, you sick, twisted bitch, you.