“Oh, you have to forgive old uncle Billy, he’s got a tumor the size of a watermelon growing on his frontal lobe.”
“Sally is a very old dog, that’s why she pees all over the floor.”
Ok, therapists – riddle me this: what does it mean that I think that there is some physical ailment that will one day be discovered and explain all my bad moods and surly temperament?
I’ve had a headache for about five days now. It has coincided with an anger spree, a desperate thirst for vodka and a temper shorter than the fuse on a suicide bomber’s backpack. I’m not exactly Stabby McKillsalot, but then I’m closer to her than to Mother Theresa right now. This all lends weight to my brain is melting, one day they’ll realize I was dying theory of the current times. Or maybe it just explains that I really don’t want to be responsible for my actions. Another margarita please.
Either way, I am dying. Maybe I should focus on the living side of that coin.Scratch that. Throw the coin in the tequila fountain and I’ll bet it comes out shiny.