Fleekin Floygn

I think I have mono. Either that or I’m just suffering from plain old exhaustion brought on by this cold, my apartment’s terrible feng shui and my inability to sleep through the night despite downing the Lorazepams like tic tacs. As a result, I have become grotesquely emotional, having openly weeped during last week's Desperate Housewives, but moreso just lazy.

My week-old beard is approaching Cast Away levels of intensity. I have been in a cyclical state of laundry since my return a week ago, refusing to commit to folding all at once and instead systematically tackling only select items based on how quickly they'll wrinkle. I’ve also refused to sweep or dust, choosing instead to think of lint balls, clothing tags and rogue pieces of diced red pepper beneath foot as “floor ornaments.” Rather than laboriously tapping out texts on my phone, I’ve opted to log onto various service providers’ websites to type out my messages there, simultaneously pissing off my friends and ensuring the survival of the Jews Are Cheap Douches stereotype (I only have 250 texts/month). Additionally, I proposed via my work’s suggestion box that we have several bidets installed in the employee bathrooms as the manual act of folding the 1.5-ply gauze they pass off as toilet paper is simply too much exertion never mind the over-exfoliation for my quickly-atrophying fingers, not to mention the over-exfoliation of my Sweet Nikki Brown. Finally, I have even gone so far as to make a movie date with the Young Portuguese at a theatre rather than having him come over, which would thereby necessitate me to manscape my party zone, as last week I delivered, at his request, a lengthy but educational power point presentation entitled “Ass & Ball Hair Maintenance: Lookit You All Shiny!”

Donations of adderall and select genus of herbal speed may be submitted via the comments section below.