my first post-first-therapy-session post

Every time I go longer than a couple days without writing, I worry I’ve been stricken with an incredibly specific type of amnesia, one which only erases that part of my brain that knows how to write eight hundred word humorous essays.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Mister Comedy, but you may never be able to blog again. It’s possible that, in time, you may be able to post comments, but…I’m very sorry. All your other functions seem to be fine.”

If I’m a bit scattered here, it’s probably because I had my first therapy session this morning. Those who read my ramblings regularly (“The password is…alliteration.”) know I’ve had this whole depression-anxiety-batshit crazy thing for a while, which I thought just made me an artist but apparently can actually get in the way of the creative process. Who knew?

head

me, after my first session

The therapist seemed nice. Of course, you probably don’t get a lot of work if you’re known as the ‘mean-ass therapist.’ Anyway, in today’s session, I gave her a sort of greatest-hits of the depressed, anxious, batshit-crazy things I’ve felt lately, and she seemed to be writing a lot, which I thought was good. Although now that I think back, she might have been holding a book of Sudoku puzzles.

lobotomy

“We’ll just remove the part of your brain that’s causing the problem.”

But honestly, it wasn’t as scary as I had imagined. And, I’m pretty sure that when the session ended I was all fixed. I suppose I’ll go back, though, just so I don’t hurt her feelings.

Watching some late-night TV before my initial headshrinking, I noticed that every third ad was for an anti-depressant. You’d think Craig Ferguson’s main demographic consisted of 18-29 year-old Sylvia Plath fans. Now, I get that drugs have side effects. I just think that certain side effects should be dealbreakers.

lunesta

“Lunesta–Oh, you’ll sleep alright, and who knows what else you’ll do?”

The ad for Lunesta casually mentions that some people who take Lunesta are at risk of DRIVING WHILE SLEEPING. Ok, so you’re working in R & D at Sepracor, and a lab guy hands you a note saying “We’ve got good news and bad news. The good news is people have been able to get a solid eight hours of sleep on the drug. The bad news is, at some point during those eight hours, they might decide to go for a drive.” At this point, doesn’t somebody at Sepracor say, “Hey, before we sell any more, let’s see if we can stop it from causing THAT.”


Talked with my therapist about getting a cat, and she seemed to think I should get my shit figured out before trying to take care of another life form. Fair enough. I’d hate to have my relationship with the cat to be like something out of a tawdry pulp movie from the fifties with Joan Crawford: “I’m too depressed for this—open your own damn tuna!”

joan

me again, looking through the bars of my daybed

But I did a little browsing at PetSmart, and I had no idea cats were such gourmands. Now, I had a cat–used to eat roaches. Apparently though, cats have such savvy palates that they occasionally crave a little lamb and rice. And what kitty’s mouth doesn’t water at the thought of liver paté, or prime filet of ocean whitefish?

The beef thing is what really throws me. Beef flavored cat food? Yeah, because in its native environment, a cat’s natural prey is the…cow. I really think if we are to be good caretakers of our pet companions, we should feed them the kinds of things they really want. Friskies Mouse and Lizard Cat Food, or Savory Sparrow. Purina Dog Chow—new hearty Gopher Flavor!

cat

Here we see the mighty Tabby, as it eyes the helpless Guernsey…

My therapist and I also talked about pot. I guess her usual contact was out, and there was this whole deal…no, in fact, we talked about my pot use, and though she did that therapist thing of not saying anything, my sense was that she felt I should keep smoking pot.

It wouldn’t make sense to quit now anyway, because I just got cable. Pot and cable TV go together so well there oughta be a stash compartment in the back of your cable box.

pot

tip: Two and a Half Men isn’t even funny when you’re baked

Three McGyver episodes back-to-back? If that isn’t weed-worthy programming I don’t know what is! Hell, I once watched an hour of Univision before I realized I DIDN’T UNDERSTAND SPANISH! I’ve watched the same blender infomercial twice because the first time, I missed some of the twenty-six attachments. Cable is clearly aimed at stoners; there’s no other explanation for what the Cartoon Network airs after 2AM.

So this is the point in the piece where normally I would tie all the comic threads together—the therapy, the cat, the drugs, the pot, the cable. I’d come up with some killer line to end the piece with a bang, because ideally, when describing a comedy piece, you don’t want to have to use the phrase ‘peters out.’ But to be honest, I’m just not feelin’ it. A total stranger opened up my skull today and started to poke around. I’ve got a lot to process. For now, I’m just glad I’m writing again.

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where do you put a panic room in a studio apartment?

I’m always writing, but there was a three-week period a while back when I didn’t write any comedy, because I was enjoying a much-needed nervous breakdown, and I didn’t feel particularly funny.

This wasn’t my first time dealing with anxiety. Several years ago, I called a friend because I was having all the usual forty-year-old-guy-who-laughs-at-things-like-exercise-and-diet symptoms—shortness of breath, palpitations, etc. Took me to the emergency room. Check that—we actually had to spend an hour in the emergency room waiting room. Now, I’m not a health care professional, but I know a thing or two about words, and I’m pretty sure the word ‘emergency’ implies NO WAITING!

So there I am, in the middle of a panic attack, and I’m sitting next to some guy with a lawn dart stuck in his head, people wailing like extras from “The Snake Pit,” and the only thing to distract me from this Miltonian Hell is a TV which is showing (and I assure you I am not making this up) a rerun of “Highway to Heaven”! Yeah, that’s what you want to watch when you’re worried about dying—a cancelled show about the afterlife starring a dead guy!

I was diagnosed with generalized anxiety disorder. Generalized. Yeah, thanks for narrowing it down, doc. “Well, my considered opinion, Mister Comedy, is that you’re anxious about some things…just—in general.” Now I’ve always been a drama queen, but this was tangible proof of what I’d been saying for years—that a lot of things freak me out. (if I currently work for you or you were planning to hire me in the future…um…I’m fine).

Here’s a joke you can tell around the water cooler:

Two guys with generalized anxiety disorder walk into a bar. They look around the bar until one of them notices something. Their palms start to sweat, and then they leave.

While I wasn’t exactly thrilled to have an actual signed piece of paper attesting to my mental illness, I did want some help. So, they send me to the pharmacy and I pick up a two week supply of Xanax, or as it’s known by its common name, Holy Crap I’m Way Too Mellow This Kinda Scares Me Should I Be This Sluggish Why Can’t I Move My Arms.

Now understand, I’m skittish about drugs to begin with (yes, I realize that booze and weed are drugs but you know damn well what I’m talking about stop judging me alright fine I drink too much and I’m a pothead are you happy now?). For some reason, pills scare me, and one night, when I was battling insomnia, and the vodka didn’t knock me out, I decided to take a Benedryl.

Over the counter, just twenty-five milligrams, but since the bottle says  ‘avoid alcohol,’ which I hadn’t, I didn’t know if it would be safe. So I actually called a 24 hour Walgreens to ask the pharmacist on duty if I could ignore the contraindication without, say, dying. He said I should be fine, and pointed out that the bottle also says that taking Benedryl after consuming alcohol may increase drowsiness, which was, after all, sorta the point.

But Xanax—that’s a whole different kind of relaxed. I can see why people start eating them like candy. Thankfully, the clinic wouldn’t renew my prescription, so I had to look for other ways to deal with anxiety. With the help of some good friends, and a little tune-up at the Walk-In Counseling Center, I went back to simply being irresponsible, impulsive and OCD.

Flash forward to a couple Thanksgivings ago, and I wake up crying. And I cry all day. Now holidays were never that big a deal for me, what with the only child thing, and the no parents thing. (note: there will be more funny in just a bit). But every year it feels a bit worse, and the last thing I want in late December is to be reminded of ‘family’ Unfortunately, during the holiday season, there’s no way to escape it. Every show on network tv has their ‘Christmas episode’ with images right of Rockwell (Norman, the painter–not George, the American Nazi Party guy)

From the end of November until New Year’s, it’s like a fat lady from Berlin is sitting on my chest—“Submit to the holidays! You vill submit! You must haf a family dinner!” TV should show holiday specials for single lonely people: Hallmark Hall of Fame Presents: Chinese Takeout and Netflix—What Christmas Means To Me.

The anxiety attacks came back, and it wasn’t just the holiday thing that had me agitated. I was freaking out about my health. Every muscle twitch, every tingle now feels like a reminder that a) I’m old and b) I’ve never treated my body like a temple…maybe a rec room, but not a temple.

I thought it was odd that, after years of living in crisis mode, and not feeling depressed, now that I had good creative energy and a place to call home, suddenly I was having anxiety attacks again. Then I figured it out. When you’re in survival mode, you don’t spend a lot of time feeling depressed and scared.  When you’re checking the pants in your closet for change so you can have bus fare, you don’t do a lot of brooding about big-picture stuff. Apparently, I now have the luxury of depression.Woo fucking hoo.

So I’m finally taking some steps toward fixing whatever mental widget is broken, figuring out why I go into ‘fight-or-flight’ mode when I’m not, in fact, being chased by a tiger. I started therapy then, and I’ve been really making an attempt to be open to the process, be present, have a plan, set realistic goals, and…learn other clichés. I’m not sure if I’m willing to try any of those fancy big-city brain drugs they have, but on the other hand, if they’ve got one that’ll help me get out of bed before noon, I’ll give it some thought.

Hey, what the hell, now that I’ve dealt with the whole anxiety thing, maybe I’ll actually see a doctor about my bum leg, and my arm that doesn’t really work…like arms are supposed to. But I’m a little scared, and if I see one leech, I’m outta there.

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more lizard people, please

I’ve been a science-fiction fan since I was a teenager, and I believe there is only one cardinal rule of the genre, a ‘prime directive,’ if you will: Create No Boredom. Here’s the deal. In theory, it should be impossible to create boring science fiction. Laughably bad sci-fi, I’ll watch. Campy sci-fi? Why not. Even really-disappointing-so-thank-god-i-didn’t-pay-to-see-it-in-the-theater sci-fi. But boring science fiction is as oxymoronic as…a groundbreaking Bon Jovi album…or…a substantive Sarah Palin interview.

If you are combining science with fiction, how in hell do you end up with something dull? You have all of science to draw upon (which is most of mankind’s collected knowledge) and fiction to work with (an essentially infinite amount of possibilities here, because…you can make up anything you want!) So how  do you end up with the TV equivalent of a Swanson Chicken Pot Pie, where everything in it just sort of tastes…gray? How, in the name of James Doohan, do you do that?

The answer is, you waste time on romantic and family relationships. There was a short-lived show called Flash Forward which had, as its premise, the idea that every human on Earth blacked out for two minutes and seventeen seconds and during said blackout saw glimpses of the future. Okay writers—run with it! Or, don’t, and spend minute after leaden minute showing us the collapsing marriage of the lead investigator. Wuh…huh?

Incidentally, it seems like every third drama on television—X-Files, Flash Forward, V, Fringe, which I enjoy–involves some secret branch of the FB freakin’ I…how many of these little boutique divisions does the FBI have, fer chrissake? is anyone still investigating bank robberies, or mail fraud?

Back to my point (in case you blacked out)–not counting commercials, the show has about forty-five minutes to deal with explaining a rip in the time-space continuum. This means we don’t have time to waste on some character’s personal demons. I don’t care if our hero has a drinking problem—he’s got shit to figure out! Get back to the weird stuff that’s never happened in the history of the planet!

Now V had some potential. It has extra-terrestrial life forms—AND they’re lizards! How cool is that? And for the first nine minutes of the pilot, man, does it ever deliver. Check that—the ninth minute delivers, because that’s when we get the money shot of the spaceship. After that, set phasers to ‘snooze.’ The skeptical commanding officer. The ambitious reporter. And. The. Relationships. The rebellious son. The naïve fiancée. C’mon–show us the lizard people!!!

Again, you’d think that, in an hour-long show, there would be scene after scene of lizard-people–eating humans, shorting out our brain waves, or at least—doing something other than talking! Stop talking!

It can’t be possible for a show to jump the shark in the third episode. But there it was, a scene in which the brooding teenager glances longingly at the lizard-person-who-looks–like-a-hottie—the almost palpable melancholy as he realizes he won’t be able to date the Lizard Hottie (see, they’re from two different worlds). Stop it! Then there’s a scene where Mom comes into moody kid’s bedroom to thank him for not getting involved with the Lizard People (because see, she knows they’re up to no good), after which he stares at the picture of Lizard Hottie on his cell phone. Cut to blah.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying science fiction should be just spaceships and aliens—sure, spend a little time making us care about the people fighting the mysterious visitors. Then get to the good stuff! I’m just sayin’ that there are very few classic science fiction stories that I can think of where I’ve thought afterwards, “Yeah, that was a compelling look at an alternate reality, but why didn’t they show us more about that guy’s relationships?”

Even something as iconic as Star Wars—if George Lucas had dropped the whole Han Solo/Princess Leia, Sam-and-Diane love/hate thing, I don’t think we would have missed it. Because every scene of people doing…people things means one less scene where aliens do…alien things, and that’s what I want from science fiction. If I want to spend an hour watching people deal with their relationships, I’ll watch Brothers and Sisters.

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rushing the season

Apparently, I was confused. I thought Christmas celebrated the birth of Jesus (which, from what I’ve read, was a one-day event), but last year my local Walgreens was under the impression that we’re celebrating Mary’s last trimester. That’s right; they had Christmas items on the shelf in October.


Norelco
I’m a big ol’ Jew now, but I was raised in a Christian home, and I still have some fond memories of Christmas traditions. For me, the start of the holiday season was always marked by the ad with Santa riding a Norelco electric razor. Call me sentimental.
Of course, when I think of childhood, I mostly remember all the toys, beckoning from under the twinkling lights of a tree trimmed with strands of tinsel. And looking back, I can see that most of my toys sucked.

bigwheel

I got the short end of the gift stick through no fault of my parents. Even with just my mom’s social security and my stepdad’s veteran’s benefits, there was always something for me to open on Christmas morning.

The problem was, having been born in 1960, I was too old for toys by the time the cool toys came out. I still remember being envious of kids who had a Big Wheel, because the Big Wheel debuted in 1969, and what with me being nine, I was too old to ride one.


globe

Another problem was that I was really smart, so Mom would always buy me smart kid toys, as opposed to toys that involved, say, going outside. Don’t get me wrong—I always asked for brainy toys, but it probably would have been a good idea, social-development-wise, for Mom to get me a ball, or a bat, or a glove, and suggest I leave my room. Instead, one year, she got me a globe.

Great. I’ll invite some friends over. We can…point to different countries.

visible man and woman anatomical

One year for Christmas, I got what was called ‘The Visible Man,’ I guess the reasoning being, “He’s sure smart for a sixth-grader, which must mean he’ll become a doctor, so he’d better learn where the spleen is.” Of course, I could always invite friends over and point to it. Maybe the reason my generation is so fat and sedentary is that so many of our toys didn’t actually DO ANYTHING. Or, I got a lot of toys that did one thing, and that’s it. So, I’d gleefully open a package, do the one the toy was capable of, and think, “That’s all it does?”


Here are some examples of toys which…don’t do a whole lot.

(To my younger readers, none of these toys ‘plug in,’ so they would make perfect gifts for your Amish nephew.)

wheelo-toy

 

Behold, the Wheel-O. Through the magic of gyro-dynamic something-or-other, the wheel goes around the loop thingie, and back. Down. And up. Minutes of fun.

ClackersBLUE

These were called Clackers. They bang together. Loud enough to annoy the entire family, yet dangerous enough to leave a bruise.

whizzer

Our last entry in the Parade of Pointless Toys is the Wizzer. Despite what it says, it does not do ‘a zillion fantastic tricks.’ It spins if you roll the rubber tip on the ground. And then it stops spinning.

slinky2

I never had a Slinky, but only because our house didn’t have stairs.


hot wheels

Though I’m not a car guy (somehow I missed that genetic marker), I had some toy cars. Hot Wheels cars were how I rolled, and the best thing about Hot Wheels was the track that came in pieces you could assemble in infinite combinations. Or, you could just do a straightaway, with a loop in the middle.

Anyway, I would push my car toward the loop, and the car would race to the top, and…plummet to the floor. The imaginary carnage was horrifying.

ssp

Then came the ne plus ultra of car toys for 1972, the SSP Racer. First of all, this commercial mentions that it comes with ‘sonic sound,’ and there’s no sound more thrilling to a young boy than sonic sound. So, I would insert the special T-stick, pull it out, put the car on the floor, and…then the car would be lost, or broken. But it really went fast that one time.


etch-a-sketch-blank

The two most frustrating toys from my youth were the Etch-A-Sketch and the Spirograph. Etch-A-Sketch was great for drawing steps (and what kid doesn’t enjoy that?), but then there was that special moment when you figured out you could draw a curved line by turning both wheels at the same time. And….then you were done with it.

Side note—if you fight with your cousin over an Etch-A-Sketch and it breaks, aluminum powder is a bitch to get out of the carpet.

spirograph[1]spirograph

The problem with Spirograph was that the box would tell you that you can make designs like the one on the right, when in fact, you can’t.

That, and the fact that if you lost either the pens or push pins that came in the box, no other pen or pin made by humans would fit in the little holes. And, the fact that it was impossible to use the long skinny pieces at all.

viewmaster

My childhood was a time when it was considered entertaining to look into plastic binoculars and see 3-D still pictures of the Grand Canyon. Presenting–the Viewmaster! Entire afternoons spent clicking and staring. You could even get discs for it with still pictures from movies and TV shows! Did I mention they were in 3-D?  Now that I think of it, if they still made these, I could catch up on ‘Mad Men’ without having to pay for cable.


Every year, I gave my mom a Christmas list, and from the time I was seven or eight, I wanted an ant farm. It went on the list, and every year, no ant farm. Oh, I always got the new edition of the World Almanac and Book of Facts, but never the ant farm. Until, one Christmas, I couldn’t believe my eyes. I tore off the wrapping paper and there it was—UNCLE MILTON’S GIANT ANT FARM!

The thing is, I was seventeen when I finally got it. Really, Mom? I know the box says ‘ages seven and up,’ but, really? Only thing I can figure is that Mom kept all the old Christmas lists and, since I never told her I had stopped wanting an ant farm, she finally decided, “He’s ready for this now.” Oh well, it’s the thought that counts.

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animal instincts

Now that I live with The Girlfriend, I also live with two cats. Now, I’ve never been a ‘dog person,’ and before you all start typing your angry comments promoting your ‘pro-dog’ agenda, let me be clear. I have seen a dog be cute. A few times. But there are a few reasons I never wanted a dog as a pet:

  • They’re needy.
  • They slobber.
  • Occasionally, they shit on the floor.
  • Seriously, if a woman (or a man) had any of those traits, I wouldn’t want to DATE them, let alone feed them and have to paper-train then.

The only thing better about dogs than cats is that a dog will mind you. A cat will simply remind you how powerless you are…you can tell a cat not to do something, and if they don’t heed you, you can…tell them not to…again.That’s pretty much all ya have in your arsenal.

I have a friend who thinks I should get a fish. Give a man a fish, he eats for a day. Teach a man to fish, he eats for a lifetime. Own a pet fish and…what? See, it’s not even in the saying. The problem I have with fish as pets is, it seems like they can’t hold up their end of the owner (sorry, companion) – pet contract, which states:

1.      I will feed you regularly.

2.      You will love me unconditionally. (I realize this skews a little in my favor, but you signed the fucker.)

How the hell are you supposed to know if a fish loves you? A creepy side-wink when you change the water in his tank? Also, I’ve had a cat before, and I remember it being really cool if I were stressed out, to put the cat on my chest and just be lulled to sleep. You cannot do that with a fish. Well, you can, once. Then you have to get another fish.

I thought, “You know, I’m already pretty eccentric, why not get the weird pet, too.” (Now, if your reading this aloud, you should deliver the next line in the voice of Gabby Hayes.) So I went to the Google to look it up. (Drop Gabby Hayes voice here.) My search string was ‘unusual apartment pets,’ and lemme tell ya, some people are thinking WAY outside the litterbox.

Hermit crab? Nah…hard to pet. Ferret? I’ll pass on anything belonging to the mammalian group Rodentia, thank you very much. A pot-bellied pig! Oh sure, and while I’m at it why don’t I look for one with a limp, so it can look like my freakin’ porcine doppelganger!

I had to laugh when I read about the Madagascar hissing roach. Apparently, this particular roach is a popular pet. I suppose part of the appeal is that if you get bored with your pet roach, you can kill it with impugnity, ‘cuz…it’s a cockroach. I’m just imagining the roaches from my apartment in Chicago running into one of these pampered novelty acts in some dark cupboard—

“We hear you got mad skillz, yo! What do you do? You…hiss? For reals? Ah HELL no! Chicago roaches kick your thorax, beeyatch!”

One interesting pet possibility was the Australian Sugar Glider. Adorable fella, the glider; he’s a marsupial, but not as Hallmark-cutesie as a koala. Then I found out they cost a hundred and seventy-five dollars, and fifty bucks to neuter them, because if I don’t neuter the bastard, you know he’ll be makin’ time with all the other Australian Snow Gliders in the neighborhood! Oh, and there’s this from the same site—“ Sugar Gilders require so much attention that if left alone too much or if they feel neglected, they will stop eating and eventually die.” Great—it’s my college girlfriend with sharper teeth.

I knew a woman who once owned a hedgehog (true statement, but sadly it also sounds like a lost Zeppelin lyric). I found the definitive hedgehogs-as-pets website, and one paragraph struck me—allow me to parse it for you.

To handle a hedgehog (and this is me avoiding the sophomoric double-entendre), place your hand on each side of him and gently cup him in your hand (right, now it reads like gay porn).Use great caution not to place your fingers in the middle (this thing is suddenly not sounding so cuddly, but…okay).They can ball up quickly and your finger can get caught in the middle of a bunch of quills being squeezed together by very strong muscles (WTF!!!). If this happens, you will need to gently uncurl him to ease his anxiety (HIS anxiety? This Satanic mini-Ewok has decided to turn me into a pincushion, and I have to be gentle?).First, turn him over on his back to identify where the nose is located (What kind of carnival freak show am I in?). Gently rock forwards and backwards, and when the nose starts to show the front legs will also emerge. As the legs reach for the ground, gently put the hedgehog down (never to pick it up again).

So, I’m glad we have cats. Although if I were alone, I’d probably just have one, because I’m pretty sure that “multiple cats, lives alone, kind of a drifter, drinks a bit” is the character breakdown for ‘Crazy Cat Guy Serial Killer’ on an episode of Criminal Minds.

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screwing with your head

NASA will be releasing more of what they’re calling ‘cleaned up’ footage of the moon landing, and that’s like Christmas for wackadoo conspiracy buffs (I don’t call them ‘theorists,’ since they’re usually a bit short on that whole evidence thing that makes a theory…a theory). While I do believe we walked on the moon (and by ‘we’ I mean ‘they’) I wouldn’t be surprised to find out NASA did a bit of editing. For instance, they probably chose to remove the following:

  • The moments just after the ‘one small step’ speech, when Neil Armstrong was uncontrollably screaming “ARE YOU SHITTING ME? I’M ON THE FUCKIN’ MOON!!! JUST ME, YOU SONS OF BITCHES—NOT YOU, ME! (I always thought that, if he wanted to, Armstrong could have been an enormous prick when he got back—picture him in some bar, guy next to him is yammering on about some promotion, and Neil stops him, just points at the moon out the window and says “That’s nice—ever been THERE, loser?
  • The audio of Michael Collins saying “Oh, that’s great—big first trip to the moon in human history, and I basically get to drive you guys there. No, that’s cool, you go down there—I just wanted to get close…nah, seriously, get a little golf in—I’ll just circle around till you’re done—I got some Tang, I’m good.”
  • The approximately seven minutes of silence when Armstrong, just to mess with Mission Control, told them he saw something “over there—behind the module—and it’s coming after me!” after which he pretended that communications device was ‘on the fritz.’

I spend a lot of my time thinking of ways to mess with people. I don’t act on them, because I’m enormously lazy, but I do like thinking of them. I’ve always wanted, when a Jehovah’s Witness comes to my apartment (seriously, you think I’ll convert to a religion based on a pamphlet and a conversation held in my doorway? “Yeah, that sounds good—you guys meet on Saturdays, right?”) to actually invite them in…tell them I’ve been waiting for someone I don’t know to randomly visit and talk about their faith with me.

Here’s another pointless way to freak people out—go someplace busy, where people wait on line for a really long time (a bank on Friday afternoon, perhaps), and every time the line starts moving, keep letting people go ahead of you. For like, an hour. Just keep saying, “No, you can go ahead of me.” Heads will explode.

Or, try this—when you’re at home, play some really meditative music—new age, quiet, solo piano, George Winston contemplating the seasons while gazing at his navel barefoot stuff—but play it REALLY LOUD—just because it’ll make the neighbors feel so weird complaining –“Hey man—would you PLEASE turn down that…really pretty and evocative tone poem? Never mind.”

Just some ideas for killing some time. For you guys. It’s not like I’d ever mess with people like that.

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