Don’t Even Try . . . Fish

Seriously. Don’t even try. Fish. That’s right. I said dog! You heard me correctly.

People - and by people I mean the purple ghost in my head - keep telling me that I’m not doing this social-media thing right, or for that matter, I’m not doing the entire social thing right.

I keep telling myself it’s just gas and I should get that checked out. I mean it’s not normal to have a purple ghost in your head singing ‘Talk Dirty To Me’ . . . is it?

But then there’s that other creepy house inside my head that no matter how hard I try to stay away from I always end up in the flooded cellar.

Flooded? Yes, it’s flooded with the protoplasmic goo of all the fucked up shit that crawls into my mind and rots, ferments until it’s stuck there like that black mold on the shower walls - you know that gunk you can’t get off without a bucket of bleach and steel wool . . . and while you scrub you hear the Ghostbuster’s theme song.

Yeah, that’s what’s inside my brain . Black slimy gunk. And no matter how many times I use an eyedropper full of Clorox in my ear I just can’t get that rotten shit out of the crevices of my brain.

So I finally said, ‘fuck it’. No really! I was standing in the kitchen naked one morning holding an eyedropper and my wife asked if I’d taken my meds - she was concered ‘cause she cares 'bout me - I remember it clearly . . . I said, “Fuck it!”

The moral of this post: If you got black mold on your brain you might as well say ‘fuck it’.