Gay Interrupted

my remote hides a dark and terrible secret I have vowed to unearth

I have become immune to dyphenhydramine, or, as the street pharmacists call it when they're slinging, Benadryl. 

I am now flying high on a dose of doxylamine succinate.

Benadryl's red headed slutty cousin when she's fucked up on hot tottie's and benzo's.

As a matter of fact that doesn't sound like too bad a combination right now.

In any event I haven't had internet for three days now because I moved into my own apartment where I don't have to share anything with anyone.

At first it was lonely and I cried a little bit because I thought it would be a good idea to drink hot tottie's while downing benzo's while also listening to everything ever made by John Lennon or Pink Floyd.

I had some amazing revelations I cannot remember as I shattered my ego and delved deep into the stinking recesses of my own inner psyche. 

If I recall correctly one of them had something to do with removing all the skin on my remote to unearth the lizard man living within and it wasn't until I removed the batteries and essentially ruined the remote by tearing some sort of plastic chip looking thing out from inside of it that I realized I would now have to get up and walk to the television any time I wanted to do anything to it.

As I sat and folded all of my wife beaters and rolled all of my socks into matching balls, occasionally using one to dry my eyes from the streaming tears, I would laugh out loud at how absurd I was being.

I was performing this quiet melodrama for no one but myself and I was both amused and bored with it about ten minutes in.

I decided instead to masturbate and then go to sleep.

Maybe I was crazy, maybe it was the looming ominous portents about 2012, or maybe, maybe I was just a gay, interrupted.