Saw away, Dr. Ghoul

I am returning from my exploratory vacation from hell on Saturday. Right now I'm blogging to stay alive, although I could desperately use a nap. The Mexican Dog of Tidy Proportions is asleep close to my feet. I've been working on her, you could say, 'cause I love animals, and the poor thing was abused. I'd like to think love and tenderness is something we SHOULD try, dammit. A la that fricking Commmittments song. At least, I think that was the band's name. Names aren't my strong suit. Neither, sometimes, is spelling, but they say even Ernest Hemingway couldn't spell, so I'm in good, if drunken, company.
Kerchoo.
I am so fucking tired. Fatigue is my life these days. I have a really strong desire to plow my way savagely through a large bag of Doritos (screw Dr. Phil and Oprah: Endorse emotional eating, people! It's the only way! Nah, I'm just kidding, you should really BUY HIS BOOKS. I trust everyone has used sarcasm before).
Speaking of Dr. Phil -- and for those who may be reading this I am heavily entertainment-oriented, as I have a sick fascination with the world of celebrities, God help me -- I think he resembles a bowling ball. At least, his head does. I once had a sex dream with Dr. Phil IN IT, I am ashamed to say, so wonder what in hell that means. Repulsion, attraction, let's call the whole thing off. Anyway, he didn't give me any goddamned advice in said dream, praise be, and if he had, I would have thrown some Doritos at him. Nobody gets between me and a bag of those puppies, hydrogenated oils or not! Thank you, Frito-Lay.
Anywho, I do like Oprah, even if she gave birth to Dr. Phil. You can watch the whole thing on an episode of the Dave Chappelle show, which my irreverent friends let me watch recently. I nearly cried. It was really lovely, because as the world morphs more into a frightening mix of Trump's Hairpiece, Bush's policies, and the curvature of Martha's spine, we need the Dave Chapelles of the world. Oh, do we ever.
But, that's just me.
Speaking of the irreverent, back in my tender green college years (I am now in my thirties, which is such a relief) I wrote a guy during my senior year. Friend of a friend type deal. I ultimately lived to regret this, as he turned out to be a mind-fucking type of person (forgive my crudity, it keeps me warm at night) with suicidal tendencies. In my naivete I just thought he liked to send me long obscure pages about his favorite composers. Back then any smart guy was a turn-on, especially one with a twisted sense of humor. Turns out he was just a jerk. Sigh. Don't we all have sad stories like that one?
Now, when I'm in my basement with my tools working on creating the perfect man (oops, did I let that slip? I wish I could remember Dr. Frankenstein's side-kick's name), I generally take time to sip some herbal tea. In-between bloody rounds of sawing, naturally. Because Doritos tend to flake and get on things, to crumble, as it were. Yes, I am demented! Happily!
Speaking of crumbling, my psyche is being gradually rewired now that the last two years of my existence are slowly washing into oblivion. At least, that's what the little pink pills tell me. Heh. I am actually not on any drug besides coffee, which I thank Cortez for discovering. I think it was Cortez, anyway. Coffee is GREAT. I love my coffee.
Doritos, coffee, and Dr. Frankenstein. What were my issues, again? Apparently they have to do with men, but hey, I knew that already.
Bathe in the light, my sweetlings.