Did someone say "it would be nice to have some female-written gonzo?"

And then this fucker, this pig face coming out from the wallpaper is trying to stare me down, and all I can think is how much I powerfully desire the essential, basic human right to some goddamned time travel. To run back to my mother, when she was younger than I am now, and to convince her to take more acid while pregnant.

She never so much as drank coffee while I was in the womb, gave up all the keen vices of her generation--apart from Led Zeppelin, thank the fucking gods plural--and I was born with no ability to TOLERATE THESE KINDS OF SITUATIONS!!!!!!

Sure, I was raised by the generation wedged between the beat generation and the blank generation. Sure, I can respect the Dylans. I have seen answers and candles alike blowing in the wind like a fart full of confetti.

But no idealism or brilliance, no good ideas or bad ideas gone sexy could truly prepare me for the grave disappointment and terror to which I am now grievously subjected.

Paranoia? Fuck paranoia. This makes paranoia look like a candy brain tumor, easily removed and twice as cuddly. No. I fear that my amygdala is going to fucking explode, and take the rest of my brain with it, like so much wet and soupy shrapnel. That the next time I blow my nose, my childhood memories are going to fly out, gray and deprogrammed.

And I end like everything ends, like everything ends for us, with a Hollywood quote from a comforting movie: "Fuck the doomed."