No offense to the player

I had the unfortunate experience of reading the paper this morning. It told me that half the nation is on antidepressants. I mean, what a bunch of fucking pussies. Walking around, not actually feeling the gnawing sense of disappointment in our failed and flawed systems. I want to hurt, to feel angry with myself, to weep openly when I feel the emptiness of it all, to kick myself for not saving more money, to get upset and actually experience and somewhat enjoy my depression- it is all necessary to my growth as a human being. I got a package from someone named Lt. Michael Torres. It was a two foot by one foot by three foot box. I did not open it because it was not for me, but the address was my address. Who is Lt. Michael Torres? Jonah called me and told me that I had better leave town tonight. I listened to his answering machine message about a dozen times in a row as if I had some voice stress analyzer in my brain. He is such a 'tard. Always so paranoid and always overreacting. I decided to find Fred by singing his favorite song out on my porch. It didn't attract Fred, it just attracted some riffraff called the porch cats. After I flashed my shotgun in order to run them off, I decided to call Jonah. When I put my hand on the phone it started to ring. I picked it up and someone rapidly gave me directions to drop off the package on Haight St. I asked if Lt. Michael would be there and the person hung up the phone. After that, I washed my dishes and thought about how much I would love to go bowling. Maybe old man Pritchett would want to bowl a game with me. I dialed his number and left a message. Fred stopped by soon after that and told me that Oliva was filing for divorce.