Dear Amcal Chemists,

Thanks.

Thanks for making me feel like a piece of drug-dealing shit.

What was it – the baseball cap and sunglasses, or the fact that I staggered like a drunkard into your shop and the stood there, swaying, as I asked for some eye drops, some herbal relief cream and some painkillers?

Thanks for treating me with your full allotment of drug-dealing disdain and keeping me rudely waiting for 20-minutes of vertigo hell.

I’ve only been into your store about five fucking times in the past fortnight, twice with prescriptions. Remember?

You
fucking
monkeys.

I hope turkeys shit on your car.

Signed,

The D-Man Doesn’t Need More Reasons To Not Go Out In Public.

P.S. Your pills made shit home-bake crack, anyway.

I have a couple of additions to my
New Years Resolutions:

RESOLUTION#15

Stop reading up about ailments on The Internet.

I have been unable to bring myself to sit in front of a computer much lately, but the bits where I do have involved doing a little more research about
The Syndrome.
This only depresses The Fuck out of me. Answers at fingertips? More like nightmares.

RESOLUTION#16

No photos please.
A couple of days ago my parents took a photo of me with my wife and my two girls. I was shocked when I saw myself, all Palsyfied. I do not want to appear in photographs, at least until I have learned to hold my face in a way that doesn’t look retarded. Just take a picture without me. I have Photoshop skills. I’ll just paste myself in to the portrait later. No probs.