Floor-gasm

This is me blacking out. This is a dizziness that defies definition. This makes the Disney Teacup ride seem tepid.

See also: Timid. See also: Terror. See also: Trippy.

This is extraordinary. This is bordering on euphoric.

This is me wondering about how my blood tests came out. This is me wondering about drugs I took in the 90’s. This is me wondering about positive and negative influencers in my life. This is me wondering about books read, words said, women’s beds, relatives dead, getting head, not getting wed. Zed’s dead, baby. Zed’s dead. The feeling right before the blackout is almost—notice I said almost—like the moment just before your body gives in to a prolonged orgasmic spasm. This is me calling the doc to find out how my bloodwork came out. This is the answer: normal. This is me in amazement. This is me while reading Chuck Palahniuk. Only applied to my own synopsis.

After all I’ve put myself through, after all I’ve endured, doc says I’m as healthy as a horse. Body-wise. Mind-wise, well, we all know—wink, wink—that’s a different story. Self-diagnosis? My toleration for fools is dropping dramatically, as if it had some kind of metaphoric adrenal gland deficiency. I am losing patience with the stupidity of the world. But—wink, wink—we all know that I’m here to save, pave, wave and rave. Not to cave. I distrust shrinks. I read the works of Thomas Szasz. Don’t trust my judgment? Go to your nearest library. Ask for his book The Untamed Tongue. Don’t tell them your name or you will be put on a list. Or, better yet, try your nearest B&N or Borders. Read it in the store, or buy it (pay cash, don’t use your database-generating “discount” card.) This is me telling you that there is a point to all of this.