"You need to see a fucking psychiatrist" Upon hearing these poignant words from my father it became abundantly clear that I needed to seek professional help. There is a little sadness associated with being diagnosed as crazy by my father, though I am fairly sure his analysis is right on. Seeing a mind-fucker, i.e. voodoo head doctor, is a scary proposition. I find no fault with those who are treated by the pseduo-erikson's of the world but personally it never seemed a good fit in my life. I had always hoped to be considered clown crazy, perhaps evil genius sort of mad or a sexual deviant nut....well one out of three ain't so bad. Anyway, looks like my family isn't so keen on having a manic depressive lunatic.

what is a crazy guy to do?

eat a package of Oreos?

chew on my toenails?

or should I catalog a list of hated persons, and then formulate the most effective way to torment the people on the aforementioned list using only nail clippers and Oreo's.


no matter what

go to hell