Monday, January 31, 2011

Profile: Froman

Guest post from "Froman".  Enjoy.

General Anxiety Disorder, bordering on panic disorder with just a touch of OCD.  Unable to control racing thoughts (mostly concerns and fears). Spends a lot of time at home hiding in the confines of his apartment. Has trouble keeping in touch with friends because of being uncomfortable with phone conversations and inability to travel in winter without a driver because of fear of car accidents.
Has been in 8 car accidents in his life as a passenger or driver, resulting in 2 concussions, three totaled cars and one white trash lawsuit.  Racing thoughts and lack of concentration have led to numerous unfinished projects and severely undermined confidence in the chances of any of them ever seeing the light of day. Cannot even complete a blog on a regular basis and finds his ability to focus akin to that of a Justin Bieber fan on Oxycontin.  Regularly finds flashes of insight buried in a sea of fucktardian theatrics and immediately forgets it if he doesn’t write it down. Promptly loses it in a pile of papers that he generally loses or throws away amidst a pocket full of receipts, headphones, ink pens and paraphernalia.  Keeps coat pockets so full of said items he has broken two hooks off his coat rack.
Finds himself regularly insensitive to things others are going through until it’s too late. Often insults strangers without meaning to due to lack of insight into others.   Over-analyzes everything he encounters until he is so tied in knots about it that he just leaps brashly into it and generally fucks it up.  Spends money like a hooker with a government check.  Has quit taking both medications he has been prescribed in the past due to complications like unquenchable sexual urges or coma but is again looking for a new one.  No end in sight.

Friday, January 28, 2011

Dear Ex-Boyfriend on the West Coast,

You and I date for nine months and you're still pissed off... even after you've said that you love me... that I refer to you as my ex-boyfriend.  You don't call for weeks, then when I'm out on a date with someone else because I assumed that we weren't together anymore you come to my house at 2 a.m. drunk and pound on all of the doors and windows because you're CERTAIN that I'm there and that I'm just ignoring you... the voicemails were precious.  All eight of them.  I'm sorry that I slapped you with my crutch when you were belittling me in front of all of your friends at your birthday party.  The quiche the next morning was excellent.  I'm also sorry that you were too blacked out drunk to remember me crutchslapping you, but I'm glad you made the quiche before you logged into Facebook and found your friends posting on your wall and making fun of you for being crutchslapped.  You always made quiche in the morning at your mother's (and your) house... and we had Spam sandwiches in the morning when you were at mine.  You made lovely quiche with that blender.  You left me to move to L.A. and then you gave me a lecture on how I was supposed to have moved to PORTLAND not CHICAGO because you and I were going to get married in two years.  I hadn't heard from you for two months, that was news to me.  I wish that your hypomanic personality liked me even if that meant that I had to put up with ManicMan's Outrageous French or Standard British accent, which were dead giveaways as to which pole you were swinging from.  Apparently, you only love me when you're speaking like a normal American boy-man and are depressed.  I miss your Apology Quiche and your Spam sandwiches.  I hope you get treatment.

Diagnosis: Bipolar I, unmedicated (you told me this yourself).

Profile: Your Ex-Girlfriends*

Judged you. Made a mess in your kitchen. Owned more stuff than you. Expected things. Preferred you not be that way. Believed differently. Took issue. Creative in finding ways to make normal situations unreasonable. Ate very little. Spatially challenged. Cryptic. Felt ways about things. Unbearable. Sometimes careless. Solicitous. Employed. Confusingly banal. Sentimental about shit. Drove weird. Winsome in public. Quasi-political. Predictable then totally not predictable. Hormonally typical. Asymmetrically opinionated. Simultaneously quiet and mouthy. Spiritually materialistic. Contradictory. Sweet, then callous, then distant. Cried.

Diagnosis: Best and Worst Thing You Ever Had in Your Life

*Sofia has generously agreed to compose a riposte, lest ye get all prematurely hatey...

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

Monday, January 24, 2011


He worked in the kitchen, I was the impressionable young hostess.  He asked me out and I went with him to a bar.  He purchased drinks for everyone in the bar (it was nearly empty) and we played pool as he told me about all of the famous chefs he had worked with when he had lived in New York.  He told me about his French cooking education.  One of the girls at the bar pulled me over and told me "that he was a really bad scene" and red flags started to pop up all over.  He was the prep cook in a pizza place... he HAD to be lying about... everything.  Talking a mile a minute.  He proceeded to get roaring drunk and then told me that  he wanted a blowjob in the alley out back.  I left, convinced that he was completely insane and I wasn't ever going to go out with him again.

He showed up the next day that we both worked together... with a yellow backpack.  He comes over to me and tells me "You're the only person here that would understand how fucking cool these are" and he opens the backpack to reveal... three wet hairy things wrapped up in plastic newspaper baggies.  I ask him what they were and he said "they're cat heads, I found them on my way to work.  I'm going to put them in the backyard with the rest of the skulls.  You see, if you dig a shallow hole and put a rock over the top of them then the bigger critters can't steal them, but the smaller critters will clean them for you".  They were parked in the yellow backpack under the pasta station for the rest of the night.

He called me ...yes, I had given him my phone number before the first date... he called me crying, telling me that he was in love with me.  The he told me that he even goes out at night and watches my house to make sure I am safe.  He stands up bottles of whatever he has been drinking around my trash can so that I know how long he's out there.  I told him to get a puppy or something.  A week later, he shows up at my front door with two Mickey's Wide Mouths at 2 a.m. to show me his puppy.  I have reason to believe that he broke into my house and stole my roommate's computer.  He told me that he had broken into my car and sat in it because he wanted to be able to smell me.  He raped another hostess and then told her not to tell me that they had slept together because I would get jealous and have her fired.

He lived with his uncle, who was confined to a wheelchair.  This needs to be a movie some day.

Diagnosis: Bipolar or Antisocial Personality Disorder (Sociopath)

Saturday, January 22, 2011

Profile: Some guy named Mike or Joey


Comes into the bar with a bottle of “$80 wine” under his coat (later revealed to be worth exactly $7.99). Claims to be the singer of the Dropkick Murphys. “Hey Neil I like you, really I don’t like you, you’re an asshole, I like you a lot.” Harasses trivia players. Says his tour bus is waiting around the corner. Says he just played Congress Theater that afternoon (further investigation will reveal that no such show took place). Licks me. Says his dead wife called him Joey. “Do you understand what I’m saying to you? I’m asking you for a cigarette.” “I beat every game I’ve ever played. I beat Dungeons and Dragons.” Claims to have paid a bartender’s rent for saving him from a heroin overdose 10 years ago. Everyone with long hair is a member of Local H, apparently. Tells racist jokes. Orders several rounds of redheaded sluts. Skips out on his tab. Refused re-entry.
Diagnosis: Bipolar I, Cheapskate, Batfuck, The Most Interesting Guy I Never Want to See Again

Some Light Reading

From the Don't Talk to Anyone or Leave Your House, Ever Department:

Thursday, January 6, 2011

Aaron Burr, 3rd Vice President of the United States

Aaron Burr, Third Vice President of the United States

During the Revolutionary War, left a political appointment by George Washington to return to the battlefield. Claimed to be an abolitionist while owning his own slaves. Shot Alexander Hamilton through the liver and spine (result: death) during a duel over honor. Indicted for murder. Hid out in the Southeast for a while. Conspired with a US Army officer in the employ of the Spanish government. Made plans to raise a private army and start his own kingdom in Mexico. Solicited help from Napoleon to invade Florida. Terrified Thomas Jefferson. Tried for treason. Fled to Europe. Hung out with Jeremy Bentham (designer of the "panopticon", an institution in which inmates do not know when they are being watched). Returned to America and changed his name to Edwards to avoid having to pay his debts. Lost a good deal of his last wife’s money on land speculation. Died broke, controversial, disgraced.

Diagnosis: Bipolar I, possible PTSD, Batshit