I’m not Dysfunctional

Ok, I just wanted to clear something up with… myself.

I’m not dysfunctional.

It’s not me.

The fact that the first two deaths associated with my harem have been ugly and violent is not a reflection of me or my mental state. I’m talking about Christina Grimmie, of course, who was gunned down by some Psycho idiot who may-have-but-I-hope-not have been misinterpreting my anger towards celebrity culture, and Cady.

Ok, I need to do this. It’s been too long in coming, and now is the time.

Do you remember my over-the-top reaction to Grimmie’s death? You know how it seemed fitting, but… surprising? Well, it was surprising because there was a part I didn’t tell people. The part above.

In my darkest moments, I thought to myself that perhaps the killer had been… trying to make me happy. My anger towards elements of celebritydom is obvious and well-documented, and in some ways, quite intense. And I thought that maybe the nutcase shooter had misinterpreted my wants and decided to take things into his own hands to “fix” the system.

You know- kind of like a millennial version of the Reagan shooting.

Eech. Yuck.

Aaaaaaaaand I just passed out. Thanks, Fentanyl. At least you are predictable in some ways.

Literally half an hour later…

Yeah, and then another half hour, after that.

I can barely feel my legs. My face is on fire. My chest pounds. My eyes are scrambled.

I can’t move.

15 minutes later… I move my arms. I sit up. My chest has some horrible thing on it, my entire upper body is rubber. My body tingles, everywhere. I lay there, breathing for life. Slowly but forcefully. I need to stand up, get blood to my feet. Somehow.

My nervous system is jelly. Oh God, all I can do is lay here; someone help. Holy fuck, lol. My lungs refuse to inflate. My head is an anchor, crushing the pillow behind me.

Auuuuugh… yuck.

My face is frozen. My muscles locked in place. My hand crushes the mattress.

Can’t… fucking… move. help.

10 minutes later, I sit up. My lungs are working better. That’s nice.

My eyes open. They work again. I look around the room. I’m alive; no longer on fire. Good. I can hear my parents downstairs chatting. Good. Ok, that’s good. I move my feet.

What… was I doing. It’s been 2 hours since I started this post.

I exhale.

You know… I was going to reward myself with some hydromorphone after this post.

Maybe I’ll skip it.

Infact, I’ll finish this later. Bye for now.

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