Everything is wrong with me
Wednesday, October 13, 2004
now really sick
I’m out sick today, and I think this is it. I have a fever, chills, dizziness, a monster erection, a sore throat – I think I’m checking out of this world, and moving onto the next (which, for me, will obviously be hell).

I know that my death is now imminent, because I have no desire to masturbate, drink or get high, or even eat the delicious double sausage, egg, and cheese bagel I had delivered this morning. This is surely the end.

So therefore I’d like to thank all of you for your support and encouragement throughout these months. Your emails have been a source of inspiration, and in the case of those who sent me pictures of your boobs, masturbation, and I treasure each and every one.

Sure, it would have been nice to get a least a fucking handjob out of this whole thing, but it’s too late for that now. Instead, I’ll just haunt the shit out of you guys. Know that whenever you are pooping, you will not be alone. I will be there in spirit, quietly humming “I Only Have Eyes For You” and combing my hair.

I have only a few regrets, which are listed below in order from least regretful to most regretful. I regret:

- not getting the chance to really fuck up that Clay Aiken bitch
- not telling my roommate Brian that I secretly am in love with him
- the whole July 1994 Phoenix incident
- jerking off a dog when I was 14 and just so damn curious about sex
- not masturbating at work as much as I should have
- not sleeping with two women at the same time
- setting fire to all those African-American churches in the South in the ‘90’s
- not sleeping with four women at the same time
- all those Green River murders
- not sleeping with three women at the same time

So that’s it – I’m a goner. In lieu of flowers or cards, please send cash or checks, as I leave behind a monstrous amount of credit card and gambling debt to my next of kin, and possibly (keep your fingers crossed!) a child (ALWAYS bring your own condom to a brothel, even if you’re all coked up and telling people you’re George Washington and showing everyone your balls).

God bless, and good night. For my last words, I’d like to take a lyric from my favorite poet of all time, Mr. Russell Jones (aka Ol' Dirty Bastard, Big Baby Jesus, Dirt Megirt, Unique Ason, Osirus):
You give me your number, I call you up
You act like your pussy don’t interrupt
I don't have no problem with you fucking me
But I have a little problem with you not fucking me.
Breathtaking. Simply breathtaking.

Adieu dear friends. Adieu.

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