Saturday, January 28, 2012

Why I'd Be a Bad Candidate for An Acid Trip Right About Now

If some one were to hand me a box wrapped with left over X-mas wrapping paper with a few tabs of acid on the inside, it would be a terrible idea for me to partake in the contents.

Last night I had a dream my bath tub was infested with bugs. Long, wiggly, snarling, hybrids of ear whigs, tube worms, and leeches. I would see these everywhere if I took a tab. 

Yesterday I helped solve a technical issue with a client. The client was of course stressed, passing on the whole man who kicks dog syndrome of hand me down agitation. So of course not wanting to lose a client I took the whole situation seriously, to the point of paranoia. Now that the issue was resolved yesterday, the paranoia lingers that the error will re-present itself, laughing in my face. I can't seem to stop thinking about it, thus compelling me to keep checking in and probably bugging the shit out them. 

Today I went to a Mexican grocery to get stuff to make my sick girlfriend soup. Hordes of kids ran up and down the aisles. I couldn't make a step with out feeling myself spun around with their sprint made wind. At the check out the clerks were munching on apples and I couldn't understand what they were saying to me. I felt dizzy when I left. In fact, I'm feeling some congestion fill up my cheek bones with a visit from the winter depression witch doctor. Oh boy, it's true, I have felt pretty damn jolly this winter season up until this point. I need to lay out on a beach drinking canned beer with limes crammed in, soaking up the 10,000 IU of natural radiating vitamin D. My Wood Sugars counterparts are in Hawaii with their family right now. My girlfriend and I are planning an exotic trip to Milwaukee in the spring, so they can feel the pay back of jealousy. 

Clearing my head would be a good thing, and granted an acid trip would do an intense job of it. But I think instead I will compete with myself on the Wii, blaring classical music on vinyl, while sitting on the lazy boy recliner, pressing my lower back up against my heated massage pad. 

For the record no one is pounding on my door bearing gifts of LSD. And if they were, then this post would actually wind up being a misguided farewell letter blaming the end of my coherence on hybrid bugs ruining the place where I take long, hot showers.

Whenever I feel stressed, I find it reassuring to stop for a moment and remember that I am not a presidential candidate. Since everyone these days is apparently an expert on politics and character, a presidential bid is just asking to have your guts kneaded by bony hands. 

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