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From the very pit of my stomach - sometimes it just creeps up - this sick, nauseated feeling. A mix of remorse, fear, panic, and pain; but what better way to spend a Tuesday night? About 1/3rd of the time I feel like a fraud, 1/6th is spent feeling like the victim of my own stupidity, another 1/3rd feeling like said idiot, and the final 1/6th feeling pretty ok, all things considered. That makes a whole number, right? Yes. But not a whole person, never a whole person, apparently.

The other night, asleep, I thought that the only way to save myself, yeah - save myself...? - was to stand up on my bed and grab something from on top of the bookshelf next to it. I awoke to find myself doing just that. Now, whatever it was I was looking for wasn't there. Sure, there are a couple of books up there, a pile of zines, and a few bottles of Jameson and Bacardi, but not the key to my own salvation. As I came out of my dream I damn near fell of my goddamn bed.

Is any of this meaningful? Maybe, because even in my fucking dreams I'm in need of saving. Even in my fucking imagination, there is someone who will come around and help me live my life to it's full potential. Let's face it: my psyche is fucked. Let's drink to that!

Come, watch my world crumble. Watch my sense of self-worth destroyed before your very eyes. Tickets are only $6, plus you get to see the ape-man; a creature so foul and primal that no gaze meets his eyes. Today only, we're also throwing in a comedic act featuring "The Professor," who will regale you with knowledge from across the library that you just don't give two fucks to know! One night only folks, step right up!