i found this lurid police officer crime sketch lingering at the bottom of the "photographs" folder on my desktop. as we close in on the final two weeks, of the last quarter of the year, this sick, dead, "jeffery dahmer-esque (excepting all of the half eaten men in the freezer and hydrochloric acid barrel)" son of a bitch epitomizes how i feel right now...like i'm sixteen feet underwater trying to get my kicks in a homemade asphyxiatory contraption, which handily employs a clear plastic jump suit, a pair of ski boots bolted to a 1x1 meter square of plywood, a hockey mask, chains, a twenty-three dollar yellow plastic boat from walmart, silicone tubing, and finally the jury-rigged floating red plastic gas container. when i wake up in the morning i feel like i can’t breathe, much like this man couldn’t in his final moments (not due to the whole act of sexual asphyxia, but rather the inherent flaw in the design of his "sexy-times lake boat penile codpiece device"…the one-way breathing tube). yeah, that’s how it feels. i can only hope that when the police find my bloated, homogenized body that the small lake fish won’t yet have pecked my lips/ears off, and also that significant shrinkage hasn’t occurred, thus sparing me post-mortem embarrassment in case the morgue employee on duty is the foxy vice-direhcteur sphortif of the women’s colavita cycling team.
unlikely, yes, but i did once fall into a sand pit on a beach right across the street from the pua’kei deli where i was immediately transported to midtown manhattan, but not the manhattan as we know it today but to some alternate dimension manhattan, where in 1997 it had been walled off and turned into a high security prison ruled by imprisoned warlords and methamphetamine addicts. after something like that happens to you it sort of shakes up the notion of implausibility. it also makes you realize that your calf tattoo with the lizards wrapped around a 52-toothed chain ring probably will make you someone's bitch if you end up in real prison. that's why i decided to put a big skull around the whole thing, and a cobra that is coming out of the eyes of the skull and eating one of the lizards...who is now wielding a small butterfly knife, and putting up a decent fight until he realizes it's a spitting cobra and he isn't wearing his oakley m-frames. cool sketch, eh.
i tend to be one of those people who will use tai chi and other asian herbal remedies to exorcise stress from my body periodically, however, stress evasion can only last so long before there’s no amount of five pagodas powder in the world to keep it at bay.
at this moment i’ve reached the tipping point, i’ve strayed but a little and fallen off the edge of the eleven-forged knife. although i’ve admittedly never tried asphyxiating myself in a crude, sexual manner it’s possible that it could be a great way to get rid of unwanted stress, brain cells, and dignity. kind of a convoluted way to ‘unwind’ in my opinion, i prefer the “old fashioned” way. a sugar cube, two dashes of bitters, a teaspoon of maraschino cherry syrup, three ounces of classy, expensive bourbon, club soda, ice, and a twist of tangelo rind. …and speaking of underground 1920’s drinking establishments i recently celebrated my twenty first birthday, belatedly, in a fashion befitting a true sorority girl. all of the necessary elements were present in their necessary ratios, much like how you need one carbon molecule, four hydrogens, and an oxygen in the right arrangement to create methanol, a simple chemical compound that will turn you into a miserable, dying version of ray charles, which is to say ray charles during the ‘heroine phase’. 
there were blue and red jello shots, lots of other drunk guys, red bull, mystery booze carbonated punch, cake, and the crux of it all…projectile vomit, which obviously presented itself later in the evening. as a former child star (see “ke huy kwan”, “the goonies”, or “indiana jones” on imdb) i know what it’s like to wake up in a pool of one’s own vomit, but i won’t lie even after waking up the morning after splitting three bottles of strawberry boone’s farm with feldman, i’ve never felt like this. it was almost as if for one night i became fully asian, and fully incapable of metabolizing alcohol, and fully lacking any acetylaldehyde dehydrogenase molecules. right around twelve i became aware of my…impairment, shortly thereafter i sprayed devyn’s toilet bowl, the floor, and the lower parts of my black pants with what looked like a bowl of acidic-smelling beef ramen soup, sans the noodles, but with the reconstituted multi-colored vegetables. i was promptly put into bed, to awake promptly six hours later (vomit again) and ride home on a boosted white bicycle. the apartment that ted and i will be living in next year was unlocked, covered in butter (?) and saltines, and reeking of jello. nobody was home, and i choked down a piece of bread, took a shower, brushed my teeth with a steel wool toothbrush (that i had lying around from my days on the 4H circuit) several times, and then took off (sober) in my car to pick up kiddos for our archaeology field trip. i ended up having to pick up some generic pepto-bismol in boulder, on our way up to sunshine canyon, which in retrospect was a mistake because it only made my vomit look all the more bizarre, and perhaps effeminate, to the rest of the class when i lost it in front of them. later that night, when all of our survey and excavation was complete it became less bizarre to everyone (professor included) as i recounted the misfortuitous events of the evening prior…
thank you ted, eric, rabah, and anonymous.
