And Then I Thought I was a Fish

IDENTIFYING INFORMATION: Peter Hunt Welch is a 20-year-old single Caucasian male who was residing in Bar Harbor, Maine this summer. He is a University of Maine at Orono student with no prior psychiatric history, who was admitted to the Acadia Hospital on an involuntary basis due to an acute level of confusion and disorganization, both behaviorally and cognitively. He was evaluated at MDI and was transferred from that facility due to psychosis, impulse thoughts, delusions, and disorientation.

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Observations of a Straight White Male with No Interesting Fetishes

Ever wondered how to justify your own righteousness even while you're constantly embarrassed by it? Or how to make a case for your own existence when you contribute nothing besides nominal labor to a faceless corporation that's probably exploiting children? Are you clinging desperately to an arbitrary social model imposed by your parents and childhood friends? Or screaming in terror, your mind unhinged at the prospect of an uncaring void racing to consume the very possibility of your life having meaning?

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Noware

This is the story of a boy, a girl, a phone, a cat, the end of the universe, and the terrible power of ennui.

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Know Their Obsessions Before You Try to Get Them Into Bed

Composed on the 3rd of September in the year 2005, at 11:19 PM. It was Saturday.

It was my first time meeting anyone online. I was going to UMass, and for some reason I was going on more dates and having less actual sex than ever before, but damned if I wasn’t going to climb every stairwell, or something. After finding and dating the only conservative ever to go to Hampshire college, I decided I needed to try something new.

Lavalife it was. After about a week I had a few responses, and pursued a few email leads, but usually ended up committing gross freudian typos, along the lines of “I miss the nights in Maine, driving with the windows sex down through the mountains…” etc. I was hard up in a bad way.

I eventually get an email that says “I want to meet you.” Since I was neither a nineteen-year-old girl nor a ten-year-old boy, I wasn’t worried about rape, so I figured I’d get right to it. I wrote a few sentences back, some questions, and she responded with “Coffee for the Mind;1[1] nine o’clock.”

“Awesome,” said my second brain, “She’s quick and to the point.”

So I dressed simply, like any philosophy or arts major should dress, wearing complicated button shirts and not buttoning half the buttons, and went out to meet her. I won’t say I should have asked for a picture, because I don’t want to admit to being shallow, but she was on the fence, so I decided conversation couldn’t hurt.

Have you ever seen that Family Guy episode where death goes on a date? With the animal lover? Who won’t shut up about animals? Who just keeps talking about how animals are little people? And he kills her?

I didn’t kill her.

And it wasn’t animals. It was “refined white sugar.” Everything in this girl’s life had come down to the central pillar of evil in The Man’s plot to destroy life, and that pillar was made of refined white sugar. Somehow she could take “Do you like jazz?” and come to, “…and they use so much refined white sugar in their products they’re killing 2% of the nation’s homeless.”

I’m not sure where she got these statistics. I realized quickly that I didn’t care. Fortunately, we were just doing coffee, which was good, because we didn’t have to wait for a check. So, knowing she would mind, I asked if she’d mind if I smoked. I also knew she would say she wouldn’t mind, and that she would like me less and less until I chain-smoked her into going away, allowing me to get another cup of coffee and a magazine.

I put three scoops of sugar in that second cup. Refined. White. Hopefully bleached, and extracted from screaming third world factory working baby seals.

1 Or something like that.

Tastes like strawberries.

Hi there! You should totally go buy my book for the low low price of 6.73! It's like buying me a beer at an out-of-the-way dive bar in Brooklyn! Not in Manhattan. Manhattan prices are ridiculous, though there are a couple of decent Irish dives where you can snag a drink for five bucks. Otherwise, you're looking at a two or three book beer.
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