43rd Year in Review

I’m welcome to consume one of these two items. Or the tape… I suppose I’m welcome to all the tape I want.

My 43rd year started amid the summer of self-imposed insanity.  The summer ended with a really boring, yet hot and sleepless, trip to Quakecon.  Then the fall, although cool, was depressingly money bare, so I got a job.  Then I learned that money doesn’t solve anything, just gives you less time to complain about not having any money.

The search for the final Mrs. Winett has been peppered with the inability to divorce (or even speak to) the current Mrs. Winett.  I lived for a time with Candidate #4(a) and then shot that to hell by falling in love and acting respectively crazy.  Then I shot that to hell again by interviewing Candidate #4(b) and telling (a) all about it.  That was a smooth move (exlax).

My few true friends have been here as always, but I think my decision that I’d only try to succeed at anything financial would probably be for the next Mrs. Winett, and then my decision to no longer seek that person, has conspired to cause the Universe to temporarily shit all over my friends, because shitting on me never motivates me to do anything.  Just ask my Grandmother.

I do love Guinness, but I just can’t live for beer because, well, it’s just beer.

Paying for sex is looking better all the time, but earning enough money to pay for sex from any lady (word intended) means making much more money than I do now, meaning that the Universe still tricked me into getting off my ass, for sex.  Nice try, Universe.  If I wanted to work for treats, I’d work for drugs.

So, I sincerely ask the Universe to stop shitting on the people I know because that’s just mean.  Lay off, or I will engage in the shutdown sequence.

Shutdown Sequence


I devised the shutdown sequence when I was affected by the insanity in 2007 after suddenly stopping my prescribed medication (Abilify).  I warned the Universe that I would indeed push the magic button in my head after turning off all the lights in the apartment, in sequence, while counting out loud.  I never made it to the end of the sequence, but if I had, I would have spilled whatever secrets are surely in my head, the secrets for which I had been made a political prisoner, imprisoned in this terrible, smelly life on Earth.

Nacho Kitty brought in some fleas.  My leg hair are really good alarm sensors, so this event has caused the Universe to lose eight more little lives.  Really good jumpers, those fleas, but not fast enough to evade my fingertips.

Antichrist


Since I don’t seem to be here for any especially good mission, I can only assume that perhaps I am actually the Antichrist, but deciding I am would mean believing in the Bible, which I don’t.

I would be an especially effective supervillain if I could (a) cause people harm on purpose without crying, and (b) could enjoy spending ill-gotten money.

Still, I think perhaps locking me into a cell would be the safest course of action for humanity, but every time I’ve gotten myself locked up, they keep letting me go.

So, sink or swim, although I know I’ll never swim.

Unfortunately, I float.