Some of my best friends tell me my weirdness is what they love about me. But when we make plans to get together something always comes up.

I take comfort in the knowledge that sometime soon (I have already lived far longer than I ever imagined) this dude will no longer abide. The entity formerly known as “I” will be ashes in an urn (or a repurposed coffee can?), and finally(!) “I” will be considered normal.

Or maybe not. Ever since the second time I injected some DMT into a bulging vein, I’ve been obsessed with the non-trivial possibility that I’ve been making this whole thing up. When I go, you go, suckas!