The Ultimate Vampire Resource and Directory

For the record, this isn't a post of any kind of sexual nature. We'll save those adventurous (and nauseating) tales for later. The cherry that I refer to is that of a chemical nature. For the sake of privacy of others, I won't mention specific dates or names, other than first person self-identifying information, but you can figure that one out. Also, for future reference, when I use slang terminology, and the meaning is lost on you, I'm not going out of my way to explain anything.



There were a total of three overdoses, from what I can recall of that seven year period, this one being the first. A few friends of mine and I went to a kegger, and naturally, with it being a party-centric atmosphere, we did a lot of drugs. Rather, I did a lot of drugs, while my friends just stuck to the usual plastic cups and hoglegs.



It was around 3:30-4am-ish when the party came to a close. I was nowhere near sober, given the level of candied snacks I jammed up my nose over the course of 5 hours. To hear it from others who were there, it was a staggering amount. At the time, maybe it was. What I do know is that nobody in our group was able to pass a field sobriety test, with one predictable exception. This would have been probably my 5th or 6th time. About halfway back, I blacked out, which is a rarity unto itself, given that I like to be able to ascertain, prove, and utterly destroy any doubt that others may have in regards to being in control.



I'm not sure when the overdose actually occurred, but the dream that I experienced within it was interesting. Unfortunately, that particular sequence takes up a few more paragraphs than I'm sure you have the patience, or just simply the ability to pay attention to, and comprehend multiple contextual backdrops. Also, another time.



Towards the end of this unique experience, I felt myself being pulled between the waking world, and where I happened to find myself on the interim. The interesting part about the three overdoses is that I never had to go to a hospital. It wasn't by choice or design. It just happened that somebody always happened to be there, and knew how to handle such an event.



After succumbing to chest compression (CPR), I took a breath of air, and found myself overcome by an unstoppable wave of nausea. Naturally, I spewed all over the floor, half-slumped in a panicked embrace, mixed with sweat, vomit, and tears of another individual.



I didn't care. I still don't, but I won't go back. In retrospect, I eventually learned my lesson shortly after the third incident.



Still, I was fully coherent, despite having *allegedly* been under for at least 15-20 minutes. It's not out of the realm of possibility, I just think what was relayed to me may have not been entirely accurate. Upon hearing this, I puked one more time, perhaps for good measure.



Despite tasting the bitter rewards of my first overdose, and not having watched Fight Club, I chuckled a bit, spat a few more chunks onto the floor, and remarked, "We should do this again sometime."



The look on his face was that of sadness and abject fear. Like I said, though, I don't really give a fuck about a lot of things.



It wasn't the first time, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. I suppose the upside to that period of time is that eventually, I wised up and overcame what eventually was a serious amphetamine addiction.



For the record, addiction is not a disease, it's a choice. If anything, it technically qualifies as an illness, but certainly not a disease.

Psychosis.



That's what they call it these days. It's when one loosens their grip on reality, feeding into delusions, hallucinations, fantasies, and white lies. It's been 33 years so far that I've found myself in the middle of this goddamn shitfest. Don't even try to sugarcoat it with me, I'm not buying into it, and you're only deluding yourself.



"I'm rubber, you're glue..."



Yeah, you see that? I know what you're going to say before you say it, somehow. Slight of hand, they call it. Body of Christ, mouthful of ejaculate, as they say in the Arch Diocese. Too soon?



That's what I thought. You can put your keyboard down there, buckaroo. Now you're reading my words on my terms. Don't like it? Get the fuck out. I don't have a Cantonese language pack installed for your hipster bitchasses, if that's what you're getting at.



Trailerpark pieces of shit, every last one of them, myself included. In that regard, I really, truly, and rightfully, do not give a fuck in any way, shape, or form. These are not cries for help, complaints, or diatribes, anymore than you're willing to get yourself hard over unspoken, lustful passions at the knitting circle. I don't need an assertiveness training course, I can handle that just fine. I'll even think about you the next time I jack off, which admittedly, isn't that often. I'll only two black dildos deep, though. No homo.



Now, back to where I was before we were so rudely interrupted.



If it comes down to it, it's going to happen. I've accepted this fact. At this point, it's only a matter of time and circumstances. Choosing when is up to me, however, let us not get confused about this. Go ahead and tell your friends. While you're at it, tell my friends too, I'm not uncomfortable with admitting this fact to myself. I'm no stranger to pain. Quite the opposite in fact, despite outward appearances.



About that? I can make it in my kitchen sink, with a double acid base extraction method, leaving behind a crystalline, powdery residue, and with the remainder, even treat myself to something off of the dollar menu at Taco Bell, all at $5 or under. I'll even save some, so your boys back in Mayberry can "anal-uh-lahz" it, and scratch their heads in bewilderment while mouthing the phrase, "What in tarnation?"



I certainly wouldn't inject it, but smoking or drinking it is par for the course. Us full-recovery "addicts" know how not to get addicted in the first place. It's called hypervigilance. I may need to bow out before that appointment in August. I'm not really sure, but whatever. IDGAFGD.



Pop that little cheat code into your CLI mid-game, and watch ayefukturmom22@aol.com shit his pants in disbelief. It's really hilarious, especially when you both have the same base language packs installed.



Thankfully, I know I'm not delusional, as my current medical history is roughly as thick as a metropolitan phonebook. I know what the fuck I have, and what I know I sure as fuck DON'T have. You PA's (Professional Armchairs) can jerk each other off during that steamy group shower, and then tell me about it in the comment section.



It's called a Self-Loathing God Complex, btw.

I don't know, or speak french, but I used google translate in case anyone does. The title should be obvious enough, even to those who speak-uh Duh Englishes as their second language. In case you can't figure this gem out, it's translated from the phrase "Carousel Of The Ejaculating Penis". You're more than capable of doing the math here, and if you're not, heaven help you, because you're obviously going to need it more than I do.



I won't give out names or personally identifiable information, other than what directly, and concisely deals with my own state of being, whatever kind of new-age bullshit you want to add in is your business, but if you put words in my mouth, don't be surprised when I correct you.



Today, I woke up, took a dose of pain meds, and grabbed a shower. I hadn't even been awake an hour and a half when suddenly, I found myself at the receiving end of what I perceived to be some unwarranted negativity over something that ultimately does not concern me, nor affect me in any way, shape, or form. The best part of this what that I actually found myself having to defend my integrity over a matter concerning who my friends are, and how I categorize them.



Let's make a few things really clear, okay? If someone comes to me and says something, and I believe it's contextually relevant to a discussion, I will mention what I remembered being said. That does not mean that I believe what was relayed to me is unvarnished truth, but only insofar as that it was said. Especially when more than one person says it, friend or not. Don't confuse what someone else said with what I believe to be true. To ME, that constitutes putting words into my mouth. If I catch you doing while you're doing it, and I call you out on it, don't get angry at me for correcting the fact that what someone else says generally has no relevance to myself as an individual, nor entirely relevant to the content of my character. This is coming from someone who will go out of their way to anonymously stir shit up in niche communities over the internet. Just let that sink in for a minute or two before you continue reading any further.



Everyone lies, it's just a question to what extent, and what they're lying about. Yeah, I stole that phrase from House M.D. The reason I stole it, is because it's a universal truth that nobody can deny, and even better, nobody can ignore. It's relevant to any given situation. I'm not some kind of charlatan with a god complex, but make no mistake, I AM an asshole when I NEED to be. If I lie, it's usually a lie by omission, and the reason for that is that of complete relevancy, and of time constraints. Yes, I admit my faults where they are, and I accept full responsibility of my actions. What I do not accept is a generalized expectation that since I'm fully capable, and more than willing to right any wrongs that I've done, that somehow I should bear (even a shred of) responsibility for the actions of another individual.



When I signed up for this (referencing reality itself), I can say with some degree of certainty that nowhere in this metaphorical contract-signed-in-blood did it state anywhere (fine print included) that I'm destined to become humankind's babysitter. If that's what is expected of me, then go ahead and put that faggot-baby to bed, and then, you're more than welcome to fuck right the hell off.



I do apologize for things being the way they are. As deep as you think you are in this, by no choice or fault of my own, I'm in just as deep, if not deeper. I'm sorry you woke up on the wrong side of the bed, so to speak, but don't take it out on me. I'm not the enemy here. I'm not even the perpetrator. It's just how shit happens sometimes. I know you're angry, I know you're upset, I know that you don't want things to be this way, and I agree with you on that. I don't want this either, and I certainly haven't gone out of my way to ask, and ensure something like this happened. This is a culmination of 20+ years of bad hands being dealt to me. I can only play with what's in my hand, and what's on the table.



Had she not treated me the way she did, regardless of her being the age she is, things might be different, and we wouldn't be stuck in a situational rut with no easy way out. If it was up to me, we would be relaxing on a tropical beach somewhere, drinking margaritas, building sandcastles, getting high, and fucking each other until we can't see straight. If I could feasibly choose an end, that would be it.



But it's not. In all likelihood, it won't be, as much as I'd like that. I don't realistically expect some kind of life-changing event to occur to where we don't have to worry about negative people and situations anymore. The only times we see things like this happen are the direct result of class action lawsuits and winning the lottery.



No magical, golden chariot is going to come from the sky and take us away to some cosmic Neverland, where upon we endlessly feast on Neverfood, enjoying the luxuries afforded to us through a circumstance that is statistically infeasible. As much as I'd like to be able to snap my fingers and have it all go away, I can't. I'm not some kind of magician capable of pulling a golden calf out of my rectum. If I could, I would, but I can't. Thinking otherwise is little more than self-aggrandized, delusional thinking.



These words and my state of being are not the result of a psychosis, they are the direct result of events that I've been dealt, and me utilizing any options that I have, using any means necessary. Nothing more, nothing less. That's just the way things are, and I understand this, regardless of how objectively bleak or prosperous the outcome may be. That's not being self-centered or contrary, that's being a realist, and being able to comprehend (for the most part) the system of risk .vs. reward. This is an essential component for Maslow's Hierarchy Of Needs. If attempting to ensure that I at least have those basic needs met means that I'm inconsiderate, unkind, and sociopathic, then I stand guilty as charged.



I get that you're in pain. I see that everyday. But understand that I am in pain as well. Most of it's physical, some of it's psychological. None of it's bullshit, though, that much can be assured. I could sit here and go through my list of accomplishments and achievements, and some would perceive it as nothing more than bragging. I'm not going to do that, because there wouldn't be much point, other than providing some kind of bathroom material for use with either defecation, masturbation, or both.



Instead, I will merely allude to the fact that as it stands, my general resume is approximately 7 pages in length, using 10 point arial font. Part of that resume also includes software engineering, testing, and data analysis source codes totalling roughly 1.5GB in size, spanning across at least 2 dozen unique categories. The reason I bring this up is to show that while I don't consider myself an intelligent person by any stretch of the means, I'm not as dumb as I let others think that I am. I do this because I can, and often times, it can actually be in one's own best interest to keep your mouth shut about certain pieces of critical information. If you have to ask what those things are, then you'll probably never know, and it's probably for the best.



So yeah, I'm in a lot of pain. I'm probably not in as much pain as some, but empirically, I'm in more pain that most. The average person would have checked out long ago. Dealing with unwarranted drama, selective literacy and hearing, along with imagined financial grievances on the part of others who really have no room to bitch? I think it's pretty obvious why I'm not happy.



I'm sorry that I'm not the happy, go-lucky ray of sunshine. Right now, I don't have it in me to put on that mask that I've used for the better part of my life. I've dealt with enough bullshit that I'm sick of it in any way, shape, or form. If you can't, understand why I am the way I am at this point in life, then maybe you need to listen to what I say the first time I say it, instead of trying to counterpoint everything from the start. Instead of assuming that I'm wrong, ignorant, malevolent, or violent, just take the time to hear me out.



When bad things happen, I react accordingly. I'm sorry that I'm introspectively negative. I'm sorry that I've done some pretty fucked up things to others (and vice versa, hence PTSD), and that I may have a tendency to overreact when a certain situation arises. When these things happen, I do turn into an asshole, but I do believe that when I am, it's justified. It's not right, it's not wrong. It's justified.



I see and live in the grey sea of chaos. I see colors. I can taste and smell it. The only thing is, I never asked for this. That's just how it is, and that's a consequence of life. I still know what happens when the lights go out. I see it every day. I can see the darkness in broad daylight. If this perception of reality that I have qualifies me as some kind of emoqueen, go ahead and apply your labels. I'll turn around and wear it like a badge of fucking honor. I'll take all your labels, reshape them into an impalement rod, and spear myself to death with it. Not because you want me to, but because I can. Let's get one thing straight here: Not even the idea of Death Incarnate scares me. The only thing I should fear is myself.



Ah, that game. Getting naked. Cool beans. I'll come over and cuddle the shit out of you. Simply put, I'm not in the mood right now. Give me a few hours, and yeah. I'll probably be in the mood.

When I was diagnosed with porphyria, it was under some unusual circumstances. This particular flareup had lasted for almost three months. Most of that time, I simply don't remember. Believe me, I like being in complete control of my faculties, despite the fact I have a blood disorder that could just as easily rob me of my sanity, no questions asked.



When, but more hopefully, IF that day comes, I have a contingency plan, and three individuals who know what that means. If I have to go down like that, nobody's going to see the aftermath. The best part is that I get to leave with my dignity and pride somewhat intact, before handing the control over to someone else. Some of my friends may or may not know these individuals, but those three don't directly know each other. Even by stating that, nothing has been exposed that isn't already common knowledge.



I also have two shovelbuddies, that have met briefly in passing. They both know this, but I've never told each one about the other. They'll figure it out when the time comes. I don't believe they'll find anything particularly incriminating, or anything of a direct personal nature. The only one that does works as a nuclear technician, last I recall. We haven't spoken in almost 6 years, but that's not the point. That's also a story for another time.



The so-called "silver lining", the title of this entry, stems from a conversation I had with someone at Anthrocon (2007) regarding porphyria, along with a near god-like tolerance of any drug known to man, in almost any quantity.



Later on, he corrected me on the resulting description of the incident as being the silver lining, and not, as I suggested, an ability to consume obscene quantities of alcohol and drugs, with seemingly no ill effect. The height of this ability to hold my own was something I acquired genetically, from my dad. From my understanding of things, my paternal grandfather was of a similar nature. As my grandmother put it, "He could be a really nice man when he wasn't drinking. But he loved to drink, and he drank a lot."



When I had a flareup of porphyria, I drank quite a lot, despite the fact that alcohol is porphyrogenic. In large quantities, it acts as a moderate painkiller/sedative. Other than large quantities of liquor (at least a gallon or larger), it's difficult for me to get drunk. I can kill up to 2 30-packs without any assistance. I try not to, though, because that much alcohol simply isn't healthy. This isn't bragging, this is the truth. If I was a lightweight, things might be different, but they're not. That's just how it is for me.



During this two or three month period, I apparently drank a lot. I also stayed inside, windows covered with thick blankets, the lights turned off, and a strangely intoxicating, Christmasy kind of scent gently wafted from behind a locked door for most of that time. I'm glad I don't remember most of that, to be honest. To have heard about it from those who were there, I wasn't. During those months, for the most part, I was gone.



The lights were on, but someone else was home. Whoever it was didn't answer to any kind of name. I never referred to my first name, even when asked. I just handed over identification. When someone asked me a question, identifying by name, the name would never register. I also had a short, and rather violent temper.



I still apologize to one of my close friends every time I see him as a result of that. I don't remember doing it, but it happened. I vertically choked-slammed him against a wall with one hand, and apparently babblehissed at him incoherently for much of that time. Had I been lucid and present at the time, I certainly would not have done that to him. He simply didn't know. It wasn't his fault, it was mine, and mine alone.



This particular incident eventually led to a (mostly involuntary) hospital visit. Another close friend of mine (at the time) insisted on taking me there and back, on the fact that we were practically brothers, and he knew the only submission hold that I'm unable to counter, or escape from. The only reason he knew it, was because I showed it to him, and he knows that when properly applied, you're not going to be going anywhere for as long as it's locked.



Keeping it locked requires no additional effort to maintain beyond the initial hold. If they get too fresh, it's possible to tear both of their arms out of socket in less than 5 seconds, effectively paralyzing both arms due to severe soft tissue and nerve damage. It's the kind of injury that makes most other kinds look like the result of poorly thought out amateur backyard wrestling stunts. Hypothetically, with that particular maneuver, you could rip someone's arms off, since the maximum tensile resistance rests solely on the shoulders, elbows, and wrists of the recipient. All you have to do is get them down with one palm strike to the solar plexus. They'll go down, no matter the size.



That's why he went with me. He could keep me on a leash, and he also made sure that we went when I wasn't delirious. At least that way, I'd know what was going on. Reluctantly, we went in. I was there for quite some time, and the entire thing played out like a fucking Dr. Seuss story.



They asked questions.

I answered.

They laughed.

I laughed.

It went downhill from there.



After we left, he asked me what exactly happened. Considering the day I was having already, and it wasn't even 4pm. Goddamnit.



"I just had fingers jammed into my asshole. Do you really want to hear about it?"



He did. He wanted to understand why I was angry. Why I was mad. He intuitively knew that I didn't ask for any of this. The whole thing was fucked. The doctors didn't even know what the fuck was going on. They were concerned that I had leukemia, due to my white blood cell count. They tested for that too. I think I may have been drugged up at that point, because I know I was there for around 5 or 6 hours.



So he asked me what I remembered:



They had me come in, and pee in a cup,

When the D.O. came in, he said, "So, what's up?"

With my T-Cell count rising, and my eyes set aglaze,

He had me roll to my side in a porphyric haze.



The next thing I knew, I heard the snap of a glove,

"Hang tight, little buddy," he said, with a tone only a doctor could love.

He lubed up his hand, forearm, elbow, and pecs,

as I wondered, "How in the hell did I get myself into this mess?"



He reached his hands, as I let out a yowl,

And said to the aide, "Could you grab me a towel?"

He rooted around deeper, my bowels gave a groan,

And I could solemnly swear that my ass started to foam.



I leapt from the table, as he birthed a postulate,

"I'm sorry," he asked, "was that your prostate?"

With a semi-enthused tone, I responded with a cuss,

"No, you blathering idiot, that was my fucking uterus."



I can't make this shit up.

Negativity.



This is something that I am in no short supply, nor abundance thereof. By outward appearances, it seems that the more time goes on, the less people listen. The same questions are always asked, and no matter how many times this Kafka-esque Time Warp keeps recurring, my answer has never changed. You don't know this, and I know you don't know this, because I'm reading this carefully as I type it with the fingers that are attached to my hands, and ultimately controlled by my own free will. I'm taking time to think between sentences, thus allowing my own perspective to sharpen to crystal clarity, like an episode of The Outer Limits. Simply put, you're not here. You're not me. You'll probably never know, and you'll probably never listen.



I use the term "you", as a nondescript, gender-neutral pronoun to refer to everyone who isn't me. It's amazing what we can do with words, isn't it? I don't really think so. Words are inefficient. Words are limiting. To this date, I am yet to meet one person, myself included, who can accurately describe individual, first-hand personal experiences in words that everybody understands. To a degree, everyone is both selectively literate, and selectively deaf when it comes to comprehending the experiences of another person. I'm no exception, and if anyone thinks they are, they're more delusional than I would hope I could ever act like, and get paid to do so.



Don't mistake your own willful ignorance for a word salad on my behalf. Believe me, I can speak for myself when I absolutely need to, and when the right individuals listen when relevant questions are asked. That's called having complete and total consciousness, devoid of whatever false pretenses and half-baked conjecture you might feel compelled to use, for or against me. I don't care. If I wanted your opinion, I'd rattle your fucking cage. These are my words. This is my reality. Get used to it.



Pain.



Pain is a word that's tossed around like booze-fuelled college party sexual escapades. Pain sells. Pain is real. Pain is life. Except the only pain we feel is our own. I am no exception. I've explained the kind of pain I'm in countless times, dozens of ways, dozens of metaphors, and thousands of adjectives to adequately describe what I'm going through. You know why personal vernacular is called a lexicon? Because that's what it is, an adjective. That's what all languages are, stacked spreadsheets, filled with adjectives. Occasionally, you might even find a particular construct that you deem offensive, based on an arbitrary number of syllables, letters, and sometimes even a number or two. I see what I did there. I don't need reassurance in any way, shape or form.



Pain is constant.

Pain is assured.

Pain is negative.

Pain is what controls us.



Better yet, pain is the only language that some of us have the capacity to understand. As we age, pain is a constant, growing reminder, that despite our achievements, our accomplishments, and our own punishments, we're getting slower.



We're getting weaker.

We grow more inarticulate.

We forget.



Most importantly, we all die.



Death.



To some, death is a predator that stalks us, even while we sleep. How death manifests itself really depends on the situation. If we're lucky, we die while we're asleep, never having to wake up to some imaginary, biblical demon crushing the air from our chest, unable to move and paralyzed in fear. To others, death itself is life. That's why the flow of money trickles through graveyards, our own fear of the great unknown serving us no other purpose than to remember. Most of us have trouble remembering, unless it's an event that involves ourselves in a self-serving manner.



Don't even try to tell me that you haven't. We're all self-serving, selectively ignorant, unwashed, inconsiderate fucks on such a large scale, that any attempt by anyone to claim exception is to truly admit defeat. At that point, you're not even lying to me, you're lying to yourself. I'd rather be in pain and unhappy, than artifically happy by lying to myself that everything will be okay. The fact that we all die is an inarguable, 100% statistical certainty, and if you disagree with me, that's your own damn business. I'm not going to convince you otherwise, because it's not worth my time, effort, or frustration in pointing out what should be obvious without me having to elaborate any further than beyond a paragraph or two. Maybe even a page.



It doesn't really matter though, because in a perceived game such as this, there are no rules. There is no score. And just like life, nobody wins. Yet you find yourself unable to look away, quietly repeating sentence fragments to yourself over and over, like a broken record. The same way I continually find myself repeating the exact same answers to the exact same questions, in the exact same context. Just for your own peace of mind, and illusion of safetey, you can cut the foreplay and go ahead by laying claim to a remote, but completely unrealistic probability that I'm not in complete control of my intellectual faculties. Despite my belief and knowledge that the aforementioned psychobabble hypothesis is nothing more than a polished, steaming heap, you can go ahead and tell your friends that as well. Spread as much inaccurate, third person speculation as your heart desires.



Tell yourself that I'm crazy. Tell your friends while you're at it. Brag about it during sex, if that's what it takes. If that's what keeps you alive. If that's what helps you sleep at night. Go ahead. I know the difference.



Oh, really? How clever, original, insightful, and relevant. I've never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever heard that up until now. Ever. Like for reals, brah. That's so refreshing, I thought I was drinking a carbonated beverage the entire time.



You go ahead and do that, and I'll disagree, since I take a keen, and surprisingly direct interest in my own participation. On my own behalf. Yes indeedy *blank nod*, that fits the definition of someone who is out of their mind, and is completely an asshole all of the time for no reason at all. Oh, I agree to. They should be locked away, shouldn't they?



And right about here is where you think in the back of your mind that I'm talking to myself.



Rambling.

Ranting.

Raving.

Lunatic.

What a wrist slitting emoqueen.

I bet he sucks a fantastic dick.



That's it. Keep stroking. You're almost there. Just a few more pumps, and you'll prove yourself to everyone, once and for all. And the dude that wrote something like this is clearly a fucking dick. He's not in any kind of pain, and he's one hell of an actor if he can fake it that well. Arthritic, neuropathic, and musculoskeletal pain at once? ROFLMAO. That never happens, not even in movies.



Plus, if he wants to make it anywhere in life, he needs to give up that defeatist attitude. That's his biggest problem. He's not even in pain. He's just mad because he used to be a fatass. And I'm not sure about all of this bullshit "reverse psychology". He's stupid, too. Stupid and fat. I would hate to be him, even if he isn't faking being in pain, which he totally, clearly is.



He's also a liar, too. All he does is spew bullshit for attention. He never even listens. I can prove that, let's get a group of people together, and all ask him the same question at the same time, as a group. It'll be really funny if we yell at him in the process too. He totally deserves that. Every last bit. He brings this on himself. What a worthless, unintelligent, self-indulgent piece of shit.



What a faker. He's so happy all the time. He's not depressed, it's just an act. That's all it is. It's an act. You know, if he had his own reality series, that would be incredible. I would watch it, just so I could laugh at him for being a fat, worthless, stupid reject. Oh, and get this: He fakes every single documented, non-psychosomatic, medical issue too. He just does that because he wants to get high all the time. He's such a quitter.



Yep. Those are some pretty edgy insults. So in the future, if you ask a question, and I don't answer, it's because I'm a fat, stupid, arrogant liar. A Big, Fat, Lazy, Lying Liarpants Liesallthetime McLiesalotterson.



With all that out of the way, I heard a really great joke the other day. So there's this fat, lazy, basement-sponging slob who fakes being in pain. He's so fat, that he's mad at himself for being fat, lazy, and incredibly stupid. He's so stupid, that he actually thinks self-euthanization should be legal. He's also lazy enough that he just won't walk it off. It's not that he can't, he's just that lazy.



That's kneeslapping comedic gold at its finest.