An Open Letter to Dr. Manny about zombie culture

Dear Dr. Manny Alvarez,

I stumbled upon your column this week, titled "America's obsession with 'TheWalking Dead' is hurting our society." After reading it several times to fully understand the point you attempt to make, I will say that every person is entitled to their opinion, and it is now clear that you believe Americans spend too much time immersed in zombie-related media, rather than expanding our minds with, as you put it, “music, education, science or the classics.” Your 435-word piece asks us to hold back on the undead mania, and I'm inclined to listen to you. After all, you're a fucking doctor.

As such, I would expect there to be any kind of study or scientific fact linked in this column—really, any citation at all. But you went a different route and I really have to applaud your lack of sources. It's bold (I'd almost say reckless) to imply that our civilization is crumbling due to our infatuation with these ghouls without a single shred of evidence, only to cap it off with “Give me a break. As a doctor and scientist, I know one thing for sure: when you're dead you're dead.” That's quite the spoonful to feed the American public; after a dozen years at universities, you can say with absolute certainty one single thing, a thing I have speculated for years: the deceased are deceased and they will stay deceased. Thank you for confirming.

I can finally put Nana to rest after holding onto her corpse for three years.

Thank you also for a quick jab at the current administration that has no basis on the rest of the editorial. I have been telling people for years that our government wants us focusing on zombies so they can continue their campaign towards a more “socialized system of government,” but I never had scientific proof until now. People thought I was NUTS! Obama & Co. clearly don't want us “harnessing the tools we need to enhance our lives,” like your previously mentioned music and education, which is why our president hid behind a proposed Turnaround Arts policy last year. I find it cowardly, really, that this administration would use our children's futures to disguise the deplorable fact that they actually want us watching The Walking Dead.

You'd think they'd get better writers for their master plan...

You do have to excuse me while I correct you on one thing, however. You are human (as are, I'm sure, the FoxNews.com fact-checkers), and are allowed make a mistake or two, especially when you are attempting to engage the American public to better themselves. In your column (I keep saying “column” because news articles typically contain sources, whereas opinion pieces don't necessarily need any), you claim that “scientists at the National Institutes of Health have spent time creating an apocalyptic how-to guide on how to deal with a zombie outbreak.” I would like to point out that it was, in fact, the Center for Disease Control that published this zombie guide. I would also like to point out—and this is minor—that the guide was actually a thinly-veiled real-life disaster preparedness manual, letting the public know how to get themselves ready in the event that something plausible happens, like a hurricane or terrorist attack, but in a fun and engaging way. I would like to think that these scientist peers of yours are familiar with your “dead is dead” knowledge, but who can say for sure?

All right, got that out of the way. Sorry about that. I know you're a busy guy and can't be certain that EVERYTHING you publish is accurate. You obviously have other things on your mind, such as doctoring and defining what “entertainment” is. You claim that it is meant to “soothe our brains so that we can ease our minds of some of the stress from our daily lives,” which is why you say that... wait, don't you also say in the same paragraph that we should not focus on “imaginary zombie hordes” and concentrate on important... Eh, another slip. We cool, though.

Finally, I want to say that I am 110% in agreement with your stance on zombie video games. I mean, obviously a person can't feel 110% about anything because that is mathematically impossible, but a scientist such as yourself must already know that. It was a joke, haha! We're joking together! What fun!

Okay, time to get serious, because this is a serious zombie discussion. You're a doctor, after all.

Enough of this Patch Adams buffoonery!

You say that “studies have shown that [violent] videogames [sic] can sometimes condition people, especially young children, to be apathetic towards violence. That’s why they’re labeled M for Mature.” This was a very clever way of insinuating that all M-rated video games have the potential to create an aggressive youth culture, again without any statistics or specifics to back up your claim. A ballsy move if I've ever seen one. I assume you're referring to zombie-violent games like Resident Evil, Left 4 Dead, and Plants Vs. Zombies, which are clearly teaching gamers how to kill each other (and their gardens), despite a dip in the rate of violent crimesamong juveniles. We still need to keep an eye on these gamers, though, as they can pose a major threat to the 10% of boys and 60% of girls who don't play video games.

So, there you have it, Dr. Alvarez. I don't hate you and I won't call you “paranoid or misinformed” because you obviously have your shit together on this topic. As a former zombie freak myself, it's taken a lot for me to “wake up and smell the coffee,”—which is a terrible cliché, but again, you're a doctor, not a writer—and I can't thank you enough for opening my eyes.

I'm not proud, but I did do my own make-up.

I've gone my entire life thinking that zombies were simply a fictitious archetype, like vampires or wizards (which are just as popular with today's youth but are noticeably absent from your editorial), an analogy used in popular culture to symbolize how civilizations can devour themselves and that we are all, in a way, feeding on each other. I have been under the impression that zombies were as much of entertainment as anything else, but cooler. They allowed us an enemy that was like a person, but not necessarily human. Zombies are not gay or straight, have no ethnicity, and do not prefer one political party over another; they are merely shambling corpses of the once-living with only one basic instinct left intact: feast. Even those of us less-educated than yourself know that the undead are not real, which is why people like to participate in events like zombie 5Ks. Am I to understand that you're against people people achieving (macabre) wish-fulfillment while exercising?

Regardless, people who like zombies, or dress up as zombies, are clearly stupid. In fact, I propose we go a step further and get rid of everything fictional! No more Batman! No more Monsters University! Halloween is cancelled, kids! Go home and study the classics instead.

It's probably time we tell you how Santa Claus died, too...

So, thank you, Manny. Thank you for letting me know with your 435-word editorial that I'm not alone out here. These people can't see the truth and because of it, they have been reduced to shuffling, brainless shells of themselves. And you and I are the only ones with a shotgun of truth to put them down.

Aim for the head, Dr. Alvarez. Aim for the head.

Much love,
Chris Slattery

(1269 words)

Local psychiatric hospitals now accepting people wishing for snowy weather

MICHIGAN—Psychiatric wards and other mental health facilities everywhere in the state of Michigan are about to get a lot busier. Governor Rick Snyder signed a bill yesterday prompting a statewide admittance of citizens who claim that they can't wait for it to be cold out.

While Snyder was not available for comment, a spokesperson claimed that signing the bill “was an easy choice for the Governor.” He continued, “It was a no-brainer.”

This bill's genesis began with the publication of the DSM-5 earlier this year, which classifies the new wintery mental situation as “climate mania.”

Dr. Gregory Juniper, a professor of psychology at the University of Michigan, spoke of the recent phenomenon, saying, “In the past month, we've heard of hundreds of cases of people who actually believe that they want the temperature outside to be 30-50 degrees colder than it is right now.”

“Obviously these are the thoughts of someone very disturbed and delusional,” added Juniper.
For anyone suffering from CM, there is hope. “We offer all different kinds of treatments and sessions for the more mild cases,” Juniper said.

One such facility, The Koppen House in Detroit, has already admitted over 260 cases as of this publication. Founder Caitlin Bergeron claims that they've taken in all kinds of patients for the past 20 years but are now looking to become a specialized treatment facility. “We've had drug dependency sufferer, Cotard patients, impulse control victims, and the like. We've even had a guy who thought he was a telephone,” Bergeron said. “But there is something so fundamentally wrong with how these new patients view the world that we simply cannot take on anything else.”

Bergeron added, “I don't use this phrase lightly, but these people are fucking nuts.”

According to the DSM-5, people attributing the following symptoms may have CM:

• Irregular speech patterns, such as “I wish it were snowing.”
  
• Muscle spasms, such as taking out a sweatshirt or hoodie, looking at it, and sighing with nostalgia.
  
• Hearing deficiency, such as playing Christmas music outside of the holiday season and Christmas in July.
  
• Recognition failure, such as seeing snowflakes in puffy dandelions, hailstorms, or the long white beard of a man sitting at a bus stop.
  

“People just need to know before it's too late,” said Bergeron. “This can be a very dangerous mental illness if left untreated.”

It has been reported that only five cases have been put into treatment against their will. Juniper offered a calming response, saying, “It's just so they can't hurt themselves or others. We're not exactly sure what these lunatics are capable of.”

“We are here to help these people because, frankly, no one else can help them,” Bergeron said. “They can't even help themselves. They sit at home and listen to Bon Iver and drink hot chocolate and post things on Tumblr like 'Sweater weather is better weather.' What kind of a life is that?”

There is no way to cure CM at this time, but Bergeron says that there are ways to cope with this mental illness. “We're—what—halfway through September right now? Not even halfway. If these people could just wait until late October, we'd be okay. Just give well-adjusted people at least one month of fucking autumn before we jump into the frigid abyss of Michigan winter.”

No one is exactly sure what cause CM, only that people who suffer from it are just so goddamn wrong. In a state where winter seems to last 75 percent of the year, having an extra couple weeks of summer is a beautiful thing: walking inside and outside without having to add or remove layers, not having to change shoes and socks three times a day because everything is just so fucking wet, and forgetting about the cold The Cold THE FUCKING COLD just for a little while.

“These people don't even seem to know what they are asking for,” Juniper said. “It's dirty road slush. It's consistently wet floors everywhere. It's putting on layers over layers over layers because the windchill factor in this state makes 30 degrees feel like -30 degrees. It's assholes driving 20 mph under the speed limit and then careening off into a ditch or halfway into an intersection.”

“I'm not saying that a light snowfall isn't beautiful,” Bergeron said. “And in the month of December it's fine, but then once we get into January and February, these same people who demanded this Winter Wonderland bullshit suddenly flip and conversely want it to be sunny and warm and need to go swimming in the lake. That's insane.”

“Can we save these sick, sick people?” Bergeron asked. “We don't know, but we're going to try.”

Tweeting from tragedy: activism on Twitter gets things done?

In light of recent tragic events, local Twitter activist Joseph Hills has issued the following tweet:

“Cant beleive this could happen. We have 2 act now!!!!!! #nomoreguns”

Hills is referring to the school shooting in Connecticut yesterday, which has prompted many Twitter users to respond with their own stances on the topic, despite the fact that the only appropriate response at this time should be profound sorrow. Many Twitter users wish to repeal the Second Amendment, which gives every eligible American the right to bear arms. Others want harsher and more stringent gun safety laws, especially in the case of automatic weapons.

Even though he has never publicly expressed any opinions on firearms or gun regulation before, Hills—whose Twitter handle is HillzKillz69 (10,456 tweets, 22 followers)—claims that he's always been passionate about the issue. “I may have never done anything about gun safety before, but it's time for a change!”

Hills's change? He tweeted, “Guns dont kill people? Than how do bullits get fired?!??!!?! we should get rid of all the guns so we stop killing people” Ignoring the obvious truths that outlawing guns will not end gun violence (or violence as a whole) and that no steps were outlined so as to achieve this end, Hills—a 17-year-old with no job and a paltry knowledge of any news or current events—is clearly a reformer on the rise.

Claiming that he cares about important issues “24/7, all the time,” Hills's recent tweets were preceded by Instagrammed pictures of food and a declaration that he was “soooooo drunk last nite!!!”

For anyone who finds themselves affected by this serious and unfortunate tragedy, Hills has some advice. “Get on your smart phones now and just share your feelings. If you put enough exclamation marks on it, someone in the government will probably see it and change the law.”

Hills, who apparently has never taken a single social studies or government class, then added, “If Rosa Parks were around now, she'd probably tweet about sitting in the back of the bus rather than actually doing something about it.”

Reactionary tweeting has become fashionable with many Twitter users in the past few years. Researchers attribute the rise in popularity to the passive means by which people can appear socially and politically active. Rather than continuously fighting and rallying for a cause like an adult with conviction, reactionaries tend to wait until they find it “safe” to express any beliefs.

A dictionary would define the word“reactionary” as “responsive, after the fact.”

While scientists find there is nothing wrong with sending thoughts and prayers to those affected by the unthinkable atrocities as any sane human being with a heart would, some argue that capitalizing on a national tragedy to soapbox your political opinions could be construed as insensitive.

“Why should I give people time to grieve?” asked Hills. “It's more important that I say what I want on Twitter, so that things like this never happen again.”

By press time, Hills had moved on to his next platform. “hw over xmas break?!?!?!! happy bday jesus not!lol”

The victims' families wish to thank Hills for turning their losses into a hashtag.

Not #1

Okay, okay. I get it. You win, world. I’m not the best. You’ve convinced me.

The notion has recently occurred to me that I am not better than anyone. At anything. I think it’s safe to say that there is a YouTube video or Guinness Record book somewhere out there to prove that so many people are better than me at so many things. At everything, actually.

I’d like to think of myself as a man of many talents, a jack-of-most-trades, if you will. I can write a good story, solve a Rubik’s cube in a small amount of time, play a number of musical instruments, balance on the hind wheels of a wheelchair, skateboard, play Mario Kart 64, and have sex with a girl—most of these with one hand tied behind my back (don’t read too much into that). And while those are only a fraction of the abilities I possess, I can prove somehow that other people do them better, quicker (or longer, depending on which is desired), and more assured than I could ever hope to myself.

It’s not that I want to be perfect in any particular field—that would be boring and, in all fairness as a 23-year-old, ultra-lame—but the unabashed maleness in me aches at my inadequacy. This realization corresponds with a diminishment of my manhood; if I can’t be “top dog,” I might as well be a “bitch” instead. The recognition that I am not the best at playing ping-pong has utterly deballed me. I am ballless.

That triple-l is very intriguing…

Focus. Goddamnit, keep your head in the game, Slattery.

See, this whole concept of “not being the best” should have been instilled upon me at an early age. In fact, my parents are not to blame at all for my narcissism. There was one night when I was about 8 years old and I was in the kitchen with my mother. She was doing dishes after dinner and I was keeping her company by singing whatever songs came to my head (Disney jingles and boy band ballads were commonplace at this age). Finally, stroking my own ego, I asked my maternal guardian, the protector of my pride, the only infallible woman I knew at the time, if I would ever be a famous singer. And without ceasing her scrubbing, without looking at my reflection in the darkened window in front of her, without so much as pausing to consider the possibility, she said, “I doubt it, sweetie.” In a world where parents incessantly informed their offspring that they can be anything in the world they want to be, I was denied the future that I wanted for myself in that particular two-week period.

My mother may sound cold for telling me that. She may sound rude and uninspiring, but I have to tell you it was good for me to hear. It was a wake-up call, a slap in the face of my self-esteem, essentially saying, “What makes you so special?” Above all, this was an entirely true statement—I was not a good singer.

I will not be the best vocalist in the world, nor will my love-making abilities drastically improve, unless something happens outright Kama Sutric before I settle down. My handwriting is how it will always be, sloppy. I can cook, but not noticeably well.

Thoughts like these add up in the container in my brain labeled SELF-LOATHING until the needle jumps from “Okay with it” to “You Don’t Impress Anyone” to “Go Cry About It, Worthless Ass.” It’s stupid, childish, petty. Obvious. I understand this about myself and about the world, the fact that it is damn near impossible to be the best at anything. Maniacs spend their entire lives training to be #1 at any random thing, destroying friendships, jeopardizing their health, and missing out on Breaking Bad. And for what? To be the person only known for their ability to swallow more glass than anyone else?

Yes, I want to be that guy.

The whole process of humbling myself is fruitless, though, because as soon as I calm myself down—you’re not the best and that’s okay you’re not the best and that’s okay you’re not the best and that’s okay—I inevitably consider the other people out there who could handle this immaturity so much better than I could.

Back to square one.

So, what do I do about this? A common suggestion is to consider the positive; at least I’m not the worst at anything.

Fuck that. I hate that I can’t be the best at failing, too.

Do I just live with this? Everyone else seems to have come to peace with this suggestion, going about his or her business in unexceptional bliss. How do they do it? I may never know, and I guess I have to suck it up, admit defeat, and join the ranks of the mediocre. It’ll be a difficult psychological transition but perhaps it will be good for me to finally let it all go. I could stop caring so much and wear mismatched socks or grow a beard. Lord knows that my facial fuzz is a sure sign of my insufficiency in the most basic of human skills—I can't even grow hair correctly.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have the word “ballless” to study.

In my defense, maybe you don't know what “retard” means | By Ann Coulter

I know what you're thinking. I've been looking at all of the press I've generated from my tweet last night, calling President Barack Obama a "retard." People have been saying that my tweet was irresponsible, that I am simply an instigator for unnecessary controversy, and that I am a cuntwhore hellbent on destroying American liberties (their words, mostly).

Nothing could be further from the truth.

Let me be clear: I was not simply looking for attention—I meant everything I said.

In other words, I firmly believe the President of the United States is retarded. He is a retard and is retarded. I mean this using the most lexical definition possible, specifically that I don't really like Barack Obama and think he's a little weird. (I mean, birth certificate, amiright?!)

That's what "retard" means, people! I didn't mean it derogatorily towards mentally-handicapped individuals; that would be insensitive. What I could have done, possibly, is call "No-bama" (hahahaha!) what conservatives have been saying for this entire election: "an inept political figure with bad ideas and a deplorable track record." Trust me, I'm Ann Coulter; I know all about that subject. However, Twitter has an unfortunate 140-character limit, and as we all know, "retard" just rolls off the tongue better.

I don't agree with my detractors who say that "retard" is offensive. In fact, I'm a little confused. Who would be offended by the word "retard." I mean, besides retarded people, obviously. It means "stupid," which is exactly what the President is. He's so stupid that he probably doesn't know big words, such as "compassion," "solace," or "empathy." I'm still working on learning what these words mean myself, so the President has got to be completely clueless!

Hold on, I'm getting a call from the Westboro Baptist Church. Aw, they wish to congratulate me on such an insightful tweet. What gentlemen...

Anyways, let's rewind the clocks for a second, back to 2007 when I called John Edwards a faggot. (Well, I didn't actually call him a "faggot," but I alluded to the fact that I was thinking it.) This is pretty much the same thing, and I'll say what I told the press then on Hannity & Colmes: "'Faggot' isn't offensive to gays; it has nothing to do with gays. It's a schoolyard taunt meaning 'wuss.'" Just because "the gays" have been called "faggots" for centuries doesn't mean that my usage of the word was in reference to the disease of homosexuality. I was using it like a child uses it, as I suspect my logistical cognizance has not matured since the third grade.

So to any of my followers who may have thought I went the teensiest bit too far, I want to assure you that I know exactly what I'm doing. In the coming years—nay, hours!—this nation will see that I was correct in my usage and my attackers will see the retarded error or their ways.

Until then, I could use a hug. God knows I've never been loved before.

Ann Coulter is a columnist and political commentator who should be ashamed of herself (for a lot of things she's said).

Muffins, She Wrote...

On Fridays, I get the opportunity to stock one of the convenience stores on the campus of the university that I attend.  A C-Store is what they call it.  Each week, I arrive with cartfuls of food and beverages, balancing and in bulk.  Trays of Wild Cherry Pepsi.  Crates of chocolate milk.  5 tons of Chex Mix.

But one of the most-purchased items in the store are the muffins.  Moist, and the size of a Big Mac, these muffins are the best that $2 can buy.  But wait, there’s more! With the added bonus of— (sorry, I’ve been studying non-stop for my advertising final tomorrow).

Because the muffins are so popular, they run out very quickly and I frequently have to restock the entire shelf.  But a few Fridays ago, I interacted with a man who shook my very foundations of what I thought sanity was.  He only spoke one sentence to me.  Well, I may have been two, but I sensed a semicolon in there, joining two related clauses together, so I’ll just say it was one.  Maybe this isn’t even the proper use of a semicolon, but the guy didn’t exactly appear "punctuation literate" so I let it go.  I mean, maybe he found the semicolon to be aesthetically pleasing and was like, "Hey, use that!"

Anyways, this was what he said:  He was standing by the empty muffin rack, and upon my approach carrying a box of muffins, he said:

"Thank God you have muffins; I thought I’d have to kill someone."

And at first, I chuckled.  What a ridiculous thing to say to a complete stranger.  "Kill someone…"  What a joke.  Oh, the humors of hyperbole…

But as I handed him the muffin out of my cardboard box, something in me began to raise doubts.  What if he wasn’t kidding?

And I stood there, pondering, while the guy purchased his item and walked out the door.  He didn’t seem like a bad guy, yet I still toyed with the notion.  What if he killed someone because he didn’t get a muffin?

The thought ate at me all day, and I asked myself some very serious questions:

1. Would it have mattered what kind of muffin?  He seemed pretty adamant about reaching for the blueberry one I had.  If I had just brought over banana nut, would that have sent him over the edge?
2. Did he have a specific target in mind?  This question would have been cleared up if he had just said, “Thank God you have muffins; I thought I was going to have to kill Derek.”
3. He seemed eager when I walked in the door.  Did he know that I was the muffin man?
4. What is the ‘murder’ to ‘muffin’ ratio?  Is it one person per muffin?  What if he wanted two muffins?  Or, God forbid, a dozen?
5. Seriously, WHY THE HELL WAS IT A MUFFIN?

I began to think of the guy talking to his pointer finger, croaking, "Niffum.  Niffum!"

I think it’s because his quote is not the same thing as saying, "I’d kill for a muffin right now."  It’s a common expression, which everyone understands as an exaggeration.  And even if it’s not, there’s no specificity—it could be a reference to killing anything: "I’d kill this butterfly," "I’d kill this zebra," or even "I’d kill this six-pack in 20 minutes."

Somehow, inferring a single person, one individual, makes the situation all too real.

"I thought I might have to kill someone."  Was this guy psychotic or was I just overreacting?  I mean, it seems silly to assume that Otis Spunkmeyer just prevented a small-scale genocide.

I think it was the extremism of the statement.  There was no lesser punishment for the lack of muffin.  He wouldn’t have beaten anyone up or threatened them verbally.  No muffin?  Homicide.  Assault is for pussies.

Or perhaps he assigns different levels of violence to different low-fat grain food products?  Popcorn is a hit-and-run.  Nurtigrain Bars constitute rape.  But fortunately, Sun Chips only count as indecent exposure.

I want to keep the store stocked full, just in case.  The last thing I want to do is inspire the latest "ripped-from-the-headlines" episode of Law & Order: Special Muffins Unit.  So now, I make sure I bring extra cases of muffins.  The store clerk always gives me confused looks, as if I’m demented for overcompensating our supply of muffins.  It would be too much work to explain to her that I am her knight in plastic wrapping, so I just tell her:

"You may never fully understand, but you’re welcome."

Then I disappear, someone’s secret muffin savior.  I don’t expect to receive any thanks.  It’s just better this way.

The Pinkest Eye

Last Thursday was a long day.  I was getting railed by my Spanish class, and I occasionally lost vision in my right eye.  Y’know, a typical Thursday.

On top of everything, “The Office” was a rerun!  (And it wasn’t even good enough of an episode for me to want to see it twice.)

You see, Thursdays are my typical social night, when my friends come over to watch TV, consume beverages, and see what other mayhem we can get ourselves into (which generally consists of breaking something in my apartment).  During this week’s process, I became worried about the loss of 50% of my eyesight and did what any well-educated college student would do—I flicked my eyelid repeatedly, using a method that I had learned from “fixing” poorly-wired headphones.

I flicked and rubbed at my eye and began to pick out large specks of crust until silently excusing myself from the festivities, where I checked my face in the bathroom mirror.  Not only was my eye inflamed and pink, but my lashes were coated with a gooey yellow syrup that I was certain no one would find attractive.

I had the virus.

The world seems to have a problem with pink eye.  A real problem.  And while my biggest beef has to do with the name—really, “pink eye”?  Are you coming down with a case of “pansy nose,” too?”—society has decided it pertinent to make people suffering from pink eye feel as ostracized as possible.

It sucks big time because I don’t own a pair of sunglasses, so my eye acts like a scarlet letter on my face (“I”), notifying everyone around me that I have been infected… and I am contagious as hell.

Conjunctivitis is one of the worst infections to have, because no one ever has any pity for you.  Obviously, the symptoms themselves are not pity-worthy (a slight itching sensation and a bloodshot eye spewing tablespoon after tablespoon of sludge), but people get downright frustrated when a pink eye sufferer comes near.  At least with cancer, people get sympathy (sometimes even empathy), but with pink eye, you get treated like a leper, or even a communist.  Every person you encounter interrogates you from a considerable distance: “Are you, or have you ever, touched any of my things with your bare hands?”

It’s an ocular infection, people; not exactly the red scare you should be worried about.

My biggest problem was my work schedule required me to go into the store the next day after self-diagnosing my ailment.  While I didn’t want to spread my bacteria to the entire GVSU campus, I also felt hesitant about calling my boss in the morning to tell him that I couldn’t stock today because my eye was a tad itchy.  All I wanted to do was fly away to somewhere where no one would judge me, but I was worried that taking the red eye anywhere at this point was too ironic.

I did my duties with my gaze cast at the floor the entire time, which likely gave off the impression that I had been crying all morning, rather than picking out eyeball grit with my fingernails.

It suddenly hit me today that it has almost been an entire week that I’ve been consistently denying that I’ve been smoking pot or that I haven’t been getting a decent amount of sleep.  These are ridiculous accusations, as I have been sleeping like a (stoned) baby.

So even though my conjunctiva are still shot with blood and I still have yet to look anyone in the eye through fear of infecting them via my sense of sight, I keep my spirits up.  Because now, all of my friends have pink eye, as well.  We have a lot to talk about.