November seems to be a month of personal pain, and when we say pain we mean the combined pain of real life, emotional pain and physical, retained stone colic pain, and they come in combination so there’s no point trading one off with the other if it were even possible. November 2009, when we pushed ourselves to the point of comatogenic (invented word) intoxication–or so we would like to think, because after one bottle we’re red, two we’re encephalopathic, three we’re seizing. Comatogenic intoxication, combined with other strange, deadly behavior and drama, for more. This November it’s not much different, as pain deluges in all forms and in all annoying degrees. If there is only an opiate for emotional pain, but if we check all these books and all these theories there are no opiates but there are stages–in dealing; so if there are stages then we would like to throw ourselves from the top stage and hope to land head first on the concrete floor. For endless drama. We tell our patients (ie, Smoketh) as an unlicensed, unregistered, fake psychiatrist all sorts of things, that we may have nothing to be deliriously happy about but we have nothing to be deliriously sad about either, but when we are contorting in our own personal anguish we just want to lur five sticks all at the same time and get a stroke.

Suka all over. I know, right.

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