about all we can do is take refuge in the comforting bosom of satire:
I am a very bad person. And, to tell you the truth, I don’t really want to be alive anymore. …
The irony is that, even if I did die, the hell I would surely be sent to could not possibly be any worse than the bottomless pool of excrement I already paddle around in like some demented, shit-covered walrus. In fact, every time I hear my voice coming through the headphones I nearly gag, and I think, “What the fuck am I doing?” Why would I say that Michael J. Fox is faking his Parkinson’s symptoms? Why would I find it funny to play a song called “Barack the Magic Negro”? Why would I tell people not to give aid to Haiti?
What the fuck is wrong with me?
via the onion.