Jeb Bush thinks American workers are lazy, even though American workers work 47 hours/week on average and get far fewer benefits than workers in other industrialized countries. But I think Jeb Bush is still going to win the nomination. And then we'll all be working 60-80 hour work weeks when he wins the presidency. #GrimMeathookFuture

Today is the 147th anniversary of the ratification of the 14th Amendment.

It's weird how random memories will sneak up on me. Usually while I'm driving, but I suppose that really shouldn't be that surprising since I live in Southern California, and odds are, I'm in my car.

Betrayal? What was there to betray? Abandonment? But what claim did I have, what duty did she have?

Now I’m not one of those sad-sacks who comfort themselves with the idea that “everything happens for a reason.” Lots of things happen for no good reason. Irrationality rules the day most of the time, and if everything in the universe were really premeditated, then God would have to be a psychopath, no question.

OK, folks, I think I’ve reached a new low here. I opened a tin can of beans with a hammer and a screwdriver. Supper of champions.

I am trying to trace down the etymology of the word “consolation,” wondering if it is necessarily related to “isolation.” Alas, there are no clear answers, but are there ever?

OK, OK, I promise I’ll stop feeling sorry for myself. Or at least I’ll try and cut down.

Tried to make a few calls to help me solve my conundrum. Wouldn't you know it, no answers. As I suspected, this is something I've got to do for myself.

Oh shit, can you tell I am having a wonderful fucking day?

So it's like the morning after the binge, and all that you can really do is puke it all up, hoping with each puke that it'll be the last, you'll feel better, the deadly poison gone. But you've been drunk often enough, you know it doesn't stop, not even when you're all empty. It only diminishes, like a knife blunting with every true strike, until you force yourself to hold something down, damn the pain. And still you're empty, unsettled, disturbed mentally and physically, wanting to die just as much, if not more than when you drunk yourself into a stupor in the first place, worse because the woozy carefree oblivion is now just a wracking throb, and why, oh why, is it so goddamn pointless?

I have a very bad disease, of which I am not entirely sure I wish to purge myself of, that being, I feel that I am mobile when I seek control. (No, no going back, just keep writing this dreaded spew, I feel like I've gotten diarrhea both mentally and physically, no stopping, goddman it, not even a moment to gather my thoughts. I've never felt this angry, sad, maniacal all at the same time before.) I am everything I wish I were not or I wish I were everything I am not, some sick shit like that, so alone. No one can possibly understand it, or is it (yet, most likely) some goddmaned egotistical conceit, as if no one had ever taken this path before, been squeezed tight by obligations and filial duties you never know when the handcuffs are coming down, latching to your wrist.

Definitely crazy. Time for some electroconvulsive shock therapy.