Friends

Yes, I did just quote the O'Jays. Yes, I've listened to the O'Jays. Go fuck yourself.

Okay, seriously, does anybody like Joe Lieberman? I'm not one of those (mostly) liberals who doesn't have any right-wing friends - I have plenty. I have plenty of left wing friends, and more than my share of libertarians and independents.

I don't know anyone who likes Joe Lieberman. This attention-whoring, vitamin-D deficient little prick appears to be universally despised but tolerated like the douchebag in college who's popular for reasons nobody seems to remember, buys everyone's drinks often enough not to be disregarded, and spends the rest of his time making up problems just so he can be the one to solve them, and playing it off as a hallmark of independent thought. Subtle differences, Dick-Lips! Close, but no cigar.

The solution for an ineffective douchebag, in my physician's desk reference, is a stronger prescription: a shotgun enema. What's the copay on that, motherfucker?

For the last week, I've been dealing with a nasty bout of tonsillitis, exacerbated by my lack of health insurance and stubborn desire to "take a couple of days and see if it's something I can wait out".

Yeah, I'm a fucking genius.

So, nasty bout is nasty. The really nasty part is the cycle of meds: the ibuprofen wears off every four hours (and then my head swells like a baboon's ass); the pseudoephedrine wears off every six or so hours (and then I start to drip like a sailor's nethers, waking up hacking up a lung and unable to breathe -- and not in the sexy way); the topical oral anesthetic wears off every hour and a half.

Put them together and what have you got? Bibbidi-bobbidi-insomnia.

What am I learning? Well, I'm not as young as I used to be. When I was seventeen, it wasn't unusual for me to go four perfectly-okay days without sleeping. Nowadays, things are a little different. One day? I'm cool. Two days? Fraying but functional.

At this point, I've fixated on the notion of keeping a pet land-crab. Crabs are great, because when they're not being delicious, they're being whimsical. I'd keep this crab on a generous length of cotton twine, and I'd name it Hank. Because Hank's a crab, he'd walk everywhere sideways, glinting back and forth with his awesome beady, black crab-eyes on their stalks. You'll never really know what's on Hank's mind, but you'll know from his eyes that it's pretty fucking intense. Also because Hank's a crab, he'd feel compelled to brandish his claws in front of and hopefully above him, which would be fantastic. I might take Hank for a walk in the park, and whomever I'd engage in conversation would spend half the conversation trying to keep me between them and Hank and his brandishing.

I love you, Hank.