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THE FOLLOWING IS THE UPLIFTING MESSAGE OF SENSE AND SURVIVAL, IN AN INCREASINGLY OVERPOPULATED AND OVERANXIOUS WORLD, AS PUBLISHED IN THE WEEKLY NEUROSICRUCIAN NEWSLETTER. PLEASE BE ADVISED, IT CONTAINS ANTI CONCEPTS OF HUMANIMAL ACTIONS AS AN ANTI DOTE TO EVERYMAN’S SYNDROME IN CONJUNCTION WITH CODED MESSAGES FOR A SPECIALIZED AND LIMITED AUDIENCE. WHILE RIDDING YOU OF ONE SYNDROME, RECEIPT OF THESE MESSAGES MAY CAUSE THE FOLLOWING: HEADACHES, NAUSEA, UNEXPECTED RHINAL OR RECTAL BLEEDING, DIZZINESS, INSTANTANEOUS MISCARRIAGE, MUNCHAUSEN’S SYNDROME, JUMPING FRENCHMAN DISORDER; CHLAMYDAG, WARTS OR DELUSIONS. OTHER REACTIONS MAY INCLUDE BUT CERTAINLY AREN’T LIMITED TO: RASH; HIVES; ITCHING; DIFFICULTY BREEDING; TIGHTNESS IN THE CHEST; SWELLING OF THE MOUTH, FACE, LIPS, OR TONGUE; HUMAN WEREWOLF SYNDROME; UNUSUAL HOARSENESS; BLOOD IN THE URINE OR STOOLS; BURNING, NUMBNESS, OR TINGLING; BLASCHKO’S LINES; BUTTERFLY RASH (RASH ON YOUR NOSE AND CHEEKS); PICA; CHANGE IN THE APPEARANCE OF A MOLE; TRICHOTILLOMANIA; CHEST PAIN OR DISCOMFORT; STOCKHOLM’S SYNDROME; DECREASED MENTAL ALERTNESS; BRAIN FARTS; FAST HEARTBEAT; MICROPSIA; FEVER; SARS; CHILLS; SORE THROAT; GENERAL FEELING OF BEING UNWELL; PTSD; WALKING CORPSE SYNDROME; STERILITY; INCREASED OR PAINFUL URINATION; MENTAL OR MOOD CHANGES (BITCHINESS); BLAND GLAND; NEW OR WORSENING COUGH; ELEPHANTIASIS OF THE GENITALS; OPEN SORE THAT DOES NOT HEAL; OPEN HEEL THAT’S VERY SORE; RAPID BREATHING; NO BREATHING; EDEMA; RASH ON YOUR FACE AND ARMS THAT GETS WORSE IN THE SUN OR IN FRONT OF A MICROWAVE; RED, SWOLLEN, BLISTERED, OR PEELING SKIN; SEIZURES; SHORTNESS OF BREATH; SUDDEN, UNEXPLAINED WEIGHT GAIN; MUSHROOM TATTOOS; SWELLING OF THE ARMS OR LEGS; SWELLING OF THE LYMPH NODES; SYMPTOMS OF LIVER PROBLEMS (EG, YELLOWING OF THE SKIN OR EYES, DARK URINE, PALE STOOLS); STINKIN ASS FEET; UNUSUAL BRUISING OR BLEEDING; SIDS; UNUSUAL LUMPS; UNUSUAL NALGAS, MUFFIN TOP, VOMITING, STOMACH PAIN, OR DAGRRHEA; UNUSUAL SKIN GROWTH OR OTHER SKIN CHANGES; UNUSUAL TIREDNESS OR WEAKNESS; UNUSUAL VAPORS, UNUSUALLY PALE SKIN; VISION PROBLEMS; UNUSUAL FRIENDS; WEAKNESS IN THE ARMS OR LEGS; NEUROLEPTIC MALIGNANT SYNDROME; COLITIS; THROMBOPHLEBITIS; WITHDRAWAL SYNDROME; SEIZURES; HYPONATREMIA; SIADH; ALTERED PLATELET FUNCTION LEADING TO BLEEDING; ACUTE CLOSED ANGLE GLAUCOMA; PRIAPISM; HYPOGLYCEMIA; ALIEN HAND SYNDROME. SOME OF THESE SYMPTOMS CAN BE AVOIDED BY DRINKING ALCOHOL WHILE READING.

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The blessing of life also brings with it the inevitability of dealing with assholes– challenges with big assholes, little assholes, familial assholes, spouse-holes, corporate assholes or, most of all, your own unpredictable and unruly asshole- and may cause you to struggle with depression, homicidal thoughts or a career in corporate endeavors, online influencing, or government. Continued negative news on many fronts and our daily stupid interactions can tend to magnify the assholes in our lives until they seem so large that they threaten to suck us in through their tightly puckered lips or burst forth with an oppressive avalanche of aggro-stool to bury us alive.

Some years ago, a good friend of mine and a medical doctor: a proctologist… a shameless asshole interested in real assholes… finding himself fed up, decided to disappear for a few weeks, possibly longer, without saying a word to his overbearing wife, entitled adolescent kids or the mealy mouthed man splayed, anesthetized and spread-cheeked on the makeshift exam table in a corner of his basement by the sump pump. According to FBI records, and unbeknownst to anyone else, i.e., when his wife was at work and his kids were out doing godknowswhat, my friend was plying his trade in a far more dubious fashion, providing black market services on the side to supplement his already bloated income. Can you believe some people? At any rate, he left this man, this patient, sidelined on a laundry folding table, turtle-down, with a belly full of homemade quaaludes and stale beer: no farewells, no prayers, no blessings. Once this hapless ‘patient’ gained awareness that he’d been abandoned mid-procedure, the fellow struggled to free himself from his zip-ties. His plight was futher complicated by the sheared length of garden hose planted deep within his anus and leading to an overflowing plastic bucket near the sump pump. You see, my friend, the asshole proctologist… let’s call him Aproc… had just started his strange siphoning process. I’ll spare you the details of it because I’m close to retching thinking about it. Well, Aproc, left his residence in a piece of shit Aveo: a cheap car in a long line of cheap cars, because he was a cheap asshole and a con-artist. This enabled him to hop from jalopy to jalopy for far cheaper- wheeling, dealing, and chiseling along the way- than owning a luxury vehicle, something more befitting a person of his status. Driving south from where he lived in Roanoke, and with just the corporate casual clothes on his back, he headed to Knoxville and Chattanooga, down through Bessemer Alabama, Alexandria Louisiana, Houston and a number of other notable Asshole Nests on his way to a fabled Lake of Fire that he read all about on the internet. It was located north of Mexico City in an unsophisticated little town named Rancho San Manuel. His plan, once he reached his final destination at the VERY bottom of his spiral of discovery, was as follows: smoke whatever he could get his hands on, drink a lot of whatever he could get his hands on, and get the kind of dynamic action he could never ever, EVER get at home. What the hell? No one in that filthy and exciting foreign land knew him or his reputation as the best proctologist in Pennsylvania and surrounding states, awarded several national honors. Even if they did, they’d never be able to tell his friends or rat him out to the media or colleagues because they didn’t speak English. Win, win, WIN situation, right? In Texas, he exchanged an obnoxious wad of cash for pesos… with the exchange rate and the unbearable poverty of the region, he looked forward to living like a real king, buying whatever or whomever, he wanted. Once across the border in Nuevo Laredo, he parked his piece-of-shit Chevrolet Aveo outside a grungy cantina and went inside to quench his Big American Thirst, sate his Big AmericanAppetite. He jammed some non-descript meat into his gob like a Neanderthal, guzzled his beer like a Viking and acted way more important than he should’ve. The addition of four tequilas to the beers gave way to a breakdown including some choice hand gestures which drew the attention of a group young Mexican toughs. The apparent leader bumped into him. He turned around drunkenly swinging and missed. A man with blackhole eyes cut his face on the rebound. The group subdued him and threw him, sliced-face first, from the front door. Seemingly unfazed from where he lie, prone in the street, he propositioned several big bottomed women and dirty street boys in an ad hoc language consisting of butchered Spanish, Pig Latin and Retard. After pulling himself to his feet using the skirt of a morbidly obese woman as leverage he lurched forward a hundred yards or so, ducked into an alley, dropped trou and- squatting between two vintage cars- took an explosive Freedom Shit while invoking the name of Olde Liberty in his made up language. In his mind, this patriotic act was dual stooled: it not only sealed his place as self-proclaimed U.S. Emissary of Keeping it Real but also cleared his colon of the type of thoughts that tend to nag busy, overstimulated physicians. A recipient of his drunken public attentions complained to the local authorities. In a matter of minutes, the local policia were upon him and he led them on a chase through the grimy alleys and unsanitary open markets, finally giving them the slip by diving into a dumpster and burrowing under a safety blanket of the most deplorable rubbish. He huddled there for a while, beneath wads of used toilet paper, human limbs, tampons, rotting meat, and vegetables waiting. And after vomiting out the entire contents of his stomach, he held his breath eventually passing out. He awoke in a cold sweat, gut cramping and in need of another hellish release. Assured that enough time had passed and the fuzz was long gone, he hoisted himself to his feet, trying not to crap his pants, and tumbled face first back onto the crumbling street. He’d be damned if he was going to let these savages keep him from roasting hotdogs over the burning lake or catching a glowing fish to make a taco out of. After discreetly shitting under someone’s porch, he came across another tavern that he hadn’t visited in his original round and stepped inside to refill his stomach with the nourishing booze necessary to continue his epic journey. Going back to his car he came across a group of filthy street urchins who scattered revealing the Aveo, slightly worse for the wear. The vehicle had been pushed several feet from where it was originally parked with all windows and lights smashed out. Phrases like “usted ano estúpido” had been spray painted over the exterior. Fortunately, he interrupted the vandals before they could remove the wheels. And even though his registration and all other loose contents had been looted, he plunged ahead. Through it all, he miraculously held onto his wallet and passport. Go figure.

When Aproc arrived in Rancho San Manuel- full of cuts and abrasions, his face smeared in offal and blood running from that swelling slash- he’d lost his shoes and was already thirty sheets to the wind. A light rain had set in. The road to the lake wasn’t really a road but an uneven mountain-range of loose garbage and dead machinery. As he tried to plow his piece-of-shit Chevrolet Aveo through the wreckage, the frame got snagged on the tip of a broken, cement retaining-wall jutting from the mound, and the car wouldn’t budge. It wasn’t a four-wheeler… it was a piece-of-shit Chevrolet Aveo. Like a big asshole, Aproc gunned the engine and spun the wheels, shouting and cussing and pounding the steering wheel, calling the Mexican toughs who brutalized him all manner of epithets. Aproc’s tantrum ultimately made his bad situation worse as his pounding and writhing caused the deteriorated cement beneath his auto to shift and the vehicle slid forward at a 40 degree angle, bending the axle and sending the car into a sinkhole of soggy debris. For close to two hours, he struggled to free himself from the submerged automobile. After going totally ballistic on that door, he escaped and abandoned his cheesy car… good riddance… and waded through a chest deep nauseous slurry of torn trash bags to an island of deconstructed refrigerators and wooden pallets. There, he took a few moments to regain his composure. Remembering that he saw an old Mexican standing in front of a derelict farm house along the way, he retraced his steps- stinking, soaked, and ready for trouble. His tequila buzz was dead and he was, again, thirsty, but his thirst was of a medicinal nature. Not only would it soothe his frayed nerves, but that cut in his face might benefit from pouring some whiskey in it.

When Aproc got to the farmhouse, the old Mexican was nowhere in sight. So, naturally, he started nosing around the property, checking for unlocked doors and windows in the outbuildings.

Aproc knocked on the door of the farmhouse itself. He pounded with great vigor. When no one answered, he gained entry through an open basement window. As he helped himself to the old man’s pantry, guzzling a mason jar of something that smelled like whiskey and stuffing his yap with something that looked like leftover frijoles negros, he spied a barn (that was in better shape than the house) through the kitchen window, which really wasn’t a window but, rather, a plastic covered, unfinished hole cut in the wall. When he finished, Aproc shambled back onto the sprawling property making a beeline for the barn. Inside, he came across an ATV and a snowmobile. Although the ATV would’ve better suited his purposes, the key was still in the ignition of the snowmobile. He didn’t have time to wait around to ask the old Mexican’s permission (or have to pay him anything). Emboldened by the Mexican’s refreshments coupled with a certainty that he’d finally arrived in the land of lawless abandon where justice could be achieved by sliding the cops a few pesos- of which he had plenty- he fired up the snowmobile. Since there was no need for a snowmobile in Mexico, he rationalized that it was ok to steal. He sped down the hill, over the mud (which seemed to work well) and headed toward the lake. As the first mound of trash bags appeared before him, he opened up the throttle clearing its crest, airborne, torrents of trash and muck spewing in his wake. He was no stranger to big boy toys, after all. He navigated the snowmobile a little further before getting cocky. “I’ve got this handled.” He told himself, assured and arrogant as he maneuvered a toxic swamp that had developed in one of the valleys between mounds. About a mile in, he encountered an even bigger hill of rubbish. Instead of avoiding it, he did what any asshole would do: he opened up the throttle even wider than he had before. The engine whined in protest as he leaned back to make the jump. In a microsecond, the snowmobile flipped over… and all 544 pounds of that 1985 Yamaha Phazer landed on top of him. Aproc was pinned under that sled, his back broken in two places by rebar jutting from the debris.

Two classical blunders had left him hopelessly S.O.L., with the circulation cut off in his shoulder and arm, an intestine full (but now quite possibly empty… he couldn’t tell) of frijoles negros, a bladder full of whiskey (?) and no feeling below his waist. He had the sense that something very sharp was digging into his neck.

How did he get here?

Aproc’s first blunder was in being a dick, leaving his family— not to mention that guy on the basement floor who, in good faith, put his colonic health in Aproc’s hands. The second was taking for granted that Americans are loved and emulated by all peoples of the world. Aproc’s baseline smugness and entitlement evaporated as he lie there: pinned, alone, soiled, ignorant, near shock and in terrible pain. To make matters worse, for some reason he could no longer see out of his left eye and the vision in his right was quickly fading. There was almost nothing he could do. And it serves him right. Right? What a scum, you say. What an… ASSHOLE!

Am I right? Am I right?

He cycled through episodes of crying, praying, cursing, yelling, admitting out loud that he truly hated his wife and that he’d wasted his life on a family he’d never even miss if they disappeared in the night, wishing he had at least gotten a little strange for one last time when he was back in Rancho, perhaps even offering God a little deal out of one side of his mouth while offering the Devil his soul out of the other, he settled down to the reality that he was:

helpless,
alone,
and in very grave danger,
all because…
HE WAS AN ASSHOLE.

Now Aproc had two enormous advantages: mental infirmity and a high pain threshold. He’d been down before, LOTS. And he believed, insane as he was in that moment, that he could astrally project himself to safety.

After passing out and coming to again, the thought occurred that there were three things he could do in real time, which wouldn’t help him a bit, but, if he put all of his energy and focus into doing them, he might transcend the shitshow of this moment until help arrived. Aproc found that he could blow blood bubbles with his mouth. But that wasn’t all, friends. No sir-ree. He also found that he could beat his hand against the ground. And so, beat it he did… slamming the heel of his palm repeatedly on the the ripped trash bags until the nerves fired shocks up into his shoulder, face and neck ultimately rendering the entirety of his right side, above the waist, numb- in simpatico with the rest of his body. All that he could do is to try and hold on ’til daylight.

Throughout the night, cold, wet, in pain and totally alone, Aproc kept at it: blowing those blood bubbles with his mouth and gurgling obscenities at the sky, impotently flapping one limp, but still working, limb against the ground and hanging on until daylight.

Unfortunately, my doctor friend, Aproc, doesn’t live alone in the world. Theoretically, he has a family, friends and colleagues, however, the grim reality of this is that all these people have endured years of his selfishness, bullshit and narcissism, and now they couldn’t care less what happened as long as his money was accessible. Honestly, everyone was glad to have a break from Aproc’s despotic asshole-ishness. Luckily for him, there are people that don’t know him at all… a whole bunch of helpers – police, sheriffs, forest rangers, medics – who are paid to help people, to be there for a person in distress NO MATTER HOW BIG OF AN A-HOLE THEY ARE! Isn’t that glorious friends? You’re never truly alone. Unbeknownst to him, shortly after dark, on a subdued scale, the fake real people in his life began to either fan out and search or turned their phones off and went to bed.
Still knowing deep in his heart that he was alone and that it was probably hopeless, Aproc, because he had been down before, blew his bubbles, talked to the little cartoon birds, dragonflies and ladybugs that collected on his nose. Before long, he was floating above himself, rising to take a place next to an apparition of his long suffering, long dead mother. Her lips moved but didn’t match the words coming out like a badly synched movie. In alarming detail, she recounted each of his sins spanning back to childhood … taking extra time to focus on the salacious high points of the last three years… that prostitute in Chicago… the Vodka colonic he gave that homeless teenager in McKeesport, etc.

And … he hung on until daylight.

Finally, at dawn’s first twinklings, it all happened at once. Tractors, wreckers, ambulances, medics, pry poles, cables and wrenches… never came. What did come was a group of five catadores, or trash pickers, mostly dressed in beach-wear, bandannas, and carrying semi-automatic rifles. What they did next is truly unbelievable: they set to work dismantling the snowmobile placing the separate parts into bundles and throwing them on their truck. My friend drifted in and out of consciousness talking to the discorporate entities whispering in his ear while listening to the natives around him, speaking in their heathen tongue as images of rotted sugar plums danced in his head.

The sound of one of the catadores rifles going off next to his face snapped him back to reality. His functioning eye opened to see a husky shirtless male wearing a safety vest, a crucifix, and a hard-hat standing astride him. The barrel of the catadore’s rifle was trained on the ground, a few scant centimeters from my friends left cheek. The side of his face was freshly abraded by shrapnel in the bargain. Aproc cried out in pain and shouted, “Fuck you, wetbacks!” He looked at the others who were lifting the empty shell of the eviscerated snowmobile off him. Now, he lie exposed before this ragtag band of trash pickers, clucking his made-up language at them, liberally sprinkling in the only Spanish words he actually knew: whore, please, fag, fuck, mother, hello, ass and thank you (as well as the various menu items). Well, they grabbed him by the collar of his tattered Polo shirt, and dragged him like a torn bag of garbage to their rear-loading trash truck, tossing him in. He landed on his stomach in a pile of copper pipes, but fortunately the majority of his body was already numb, his back was already broken in at least two spots so he couldn’t feel it as two neck vertebrae cracked when his head hit the hydraulic paddle before he landed, cut face first, in the bin. Little did he realize that eternal life, a new future was his, now. This situation was a summation and capstone of his poor life choices, aided by those wily Mexicans.

What is my point, you may ax? It’s that while some people just cut to the chase and off themselves in a stunning display of efficiency, others choose to linger around… bitter and angry at life, being assholes … slowly killing themselves and everyone around them, bit by bit, word by word, rotten deed by rotten deed… eroding the general morale wherever they go while posing like funny guys and dolls who “just tell it like it is.” Yes, friends, an ASSHOLE* by any other name is just that. Oh yes, Aproc understood the crests and troughs of life… unfortunately, those crests were more often than not cocaine peaks and the troughs were situated before the hungry, blind pigs at the country club. He’d been down before and he remembered those times: he remembered what happened when the sun came up… he had a migraine and swelling in his groin. He’d committed the exact same blunder as Bourgie Black, another dipshit asshole that was in my high school. Bruised and depressed, she went on a little trip, in her case, not to a Lake of Fire, but into her head with a bullet. And like Aproc, she went without telling a single soul, cutting herself off from the network of friends and family, real or imagined. And then, also like him, Bourgie embarked on a voyage that was quite possibly beyond anyone’s comprehension. Not even a goddamned note. What a selfish super assholebitch that Bourgie was! Remember, book smarts are no promise of anything but simply a rote regurgitation of someone else’s thoughts. Doctors are supposedly bright people, but Aproc was “ate up with dumbass” interpersonally, spiritually and ecologically. Let’s face it, the legacy he would’ve left would overshadow most people’s social accomplishments. He was an established proctologist, after all. He left many lower GI’s smiling, metaphorically speaking, of course. Also remember, Aproc would’ve left the same ugly mountain of garbage we all leave behind when we die, so his swan song is fitting. However, if he had never been so self-consumed to go in search of that non-existent, I might add, Lake of Fire, he would’ve never had the chance to give back in the real way he did in the end.

So… where was I? Oh, yes… those wily Mexicans. Well, you know, Aproc was dying; he’d effectively fatally injured himself. Those clever catadores, ever industrious, took his quickly expiring body in the back of their dumptruck over to a little clinic. There, they opened him up and found that all the organs were such a mess except for the heart, which was not so great either. As the “physician” in attendance was about to give up, he noticed one of Aproc’s kidneys was still viable! Well connected to the underground, this medical crew sold the kidney for $5,000 before icing, packaging, and shipping it to a reputable hospital in Houston. That kidney saved the life of a dear little redheaded girl. Cute as a button, she’ll probably grow up to be a geologist or a news anchor.

Now… I can see you all have a lot of questions. Probably a lot of really dumb questions. This will tell you all you need to know: life isn’t a sitcom or soap opera where all the loose ends are tied up and you are on the world stage doing your own personal stand-up routine or other cutsie pie pigcrap. Most selfish bastards spend their lives knocking people out of the way to get their piece of the pie. Listen, I choose not to get bogged down in the “why” of life – why death, why loneliness, why insecurity, why fracking, why pork, why alienation, why Pilates, why so much garbage, why 24 hour news cycles and two party politics? Such whys are perhaps beyond the great philosophers, theologians and thinkers of the ages, so how should I know this shit? You know what another sure sign of being an asshole is? Always having to have answers for everything. Bourgie Black saw early enough that she didn’t have diddly squat to give the world alive… or maybe even someone saw that in her and told her so; not everyone has potential. This is TRUE COMPASSION. For it is better for those particular souls to know who and what they represent, rather than be kept in the dark and fed bullshit. Better to know than to lead a life of perpetual delusion and disappointment. Yes? Yes? She, like the doctor, was beyond her incompetence, and, like him ultimately, alone and disassembled. Then it happened. It all turned over on her just like such heavy mental trips sometimes do, and it seems at the time that they are far weightier than a 544-pound snowmobile– crushing ideas, ideas that produce such hopeless feelings that arise while you’re driving to work, in the dead of night or as you topple from your bar stool.
All of us long to cut out sometimes, to get away, to think, to turn inward by being turned inside out. That is a part of working through and failing spectacularly to overcome the dilemmas of life. If you are tempted to take this final step, I salute you and also abhor you. For you’re just foolish enough to think you’ll escape. I know you are judging Aproc by his actions… and fair enough. But judgers beware… you may not be so different. Sure, you may not have a big fancy career and a lot of money to find and then grease your way out of whatever trouble you go looking for, but you still could be an arsetrap… a little too full of yourself. A little too unaware of your position in the pluriverse. (Which by the way, is bent over)

You may even be a little too wimpy to drive a snowmobile into a trash heap, give someone an unauthorized “examination”, or do a number two in the street.

Bourgie, while doing the wisest thing she could at the time, was still asshole enough to leave a family and a friend or two behind, whom, to this day, are quite lost and full of guilt. And that’s their fault. See the double-edged sword here? The world needs less of the confused and self-centered. Remember this simple truism: in 1,000 years’ time, more than likely no one will remember you no matter what piddly you’ve done.

In the meantime, if- Mythrax forbid- somehow you find yourself having made the three classic blunders of arrogance, self-pity and taking on the Counterproductive Poopies, and it turns over on you, just remember to do two things: remember to finish what you started (no one likes a half-asser!) and remember to have the decency to leave something of value for someone else: even if it’s simply replacing the empty roll of toilet paper in your bathroom for the first time in your stinkin’ life. At the very least, leave an explanation for the living dorks that are going to have to pick up the pieces after you make your splashy exit.

Maybe this revelation will help on your way: you belong to a network of warm bodies connected to other bodies that come from now slightly cooler bodies that have all sought to make their marks on the world. It’s a cut throat competition between warring assholes and you’re stuck in the middle. This I ask in the name of Humanimality: Keep your arsetrap clean and under control.

At her funeral, I remember looking into the phony faces of my classmates who hardly knew Bourgie or maybe even made fun of her behind her back, as they eulogized and martinized their souls with asinine cliches trying to make sense out of nonsense and mirages. Can you spot the arsetraps among you? Moreover, can you spot the arsetrap in the mirror? Remember… they’re coming. It may take a while, but family, friends, counselors, psychologists, morons, government workers, psychiatrists, philanthropists, cops, trash pickers, civil servants, ministers, CEOs, pussies, lunatics and physicians, all are out there… looking for you… and many of them are… you guessed it… arsetraps. All you have to do is not give them a chance. You of modest nature must not be timid in your approach to such people. Like those wily Mexicans, you must stall them, smash out their windows, swipe their possessions, sell their soft and tenders to the highest bidders, pick their eyes away, peel back their skin and- for the sake of all of us- hang on until daylight.

Fear not… time will render this, too, meaningless.

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May the gods and goddesses smile upon you today regardless of how you spent last night. – Anonymous Neurosicrucian Proverb.