Those who know me personally are well aware that I don’t like to talk about myself. Unless it’s about how pretty I am. Or my lightning-fast wit. Or my superior-to-all-humans-and-most-computers intellect. But aside from that brief stint in amateur porn, I’m pretty shy about revealing intimate details about my life. However since I’ve never strived for dignity on this blog, I might as well drop a dark deuce on the Turd Mountain faithful. (And on those who clicked here on accident because they searched the keywords “amateur porn + curly cucumber.” Sorry about that.)
Moving on, I’m sure none of you ever considered that the author of a blog dedicated to corny poop puns (some more kernely than others) would have a mental condition, but it’s true. A few years ago some nice people in white jackets at a resort with doors that only lock from the outside informed me that I had bipolar disorder. But honestly, who the fuck doesn’t these days? It’s pretty stylish. I consider myself a real dementia trendsetter. Anyway, a plethora of medications and some bouts of constipation and sexual dysfunction later and we get to present-day Turdopia.
Apparently a multi-month “manic” cycle causes all sorts of physical ailments as well as turning your brain into diarrhea, so my doctor put me on the HGH of depression drugs: Klonopin. (Although it seems to act more like GHB at times) This drug ate my sense of humor and crapped out a giant turd of despair, which is apparently much healthier (and less kernely). I thought all was lost for me, and then I discovered The Klonopin Chronicles.
Needless to say, I was inspired. And not the mentally-challeneged-kid-stands-up-from-wheelchair-and-crosses-finish-line inspired. That is, unless that kid fell on his retarded face. This is Turd Mountain, not the fucking Lifetime Movie Network. If you wanted that sort of inspirational story you’re in the wrong god damn place.
What I’m getting at is, my sense of humor refluxed and I started puking out crappy dick and fart jokes once again. I remembered that life is hilarious, even when it sucks the most. In fact that’s usually when it’s the most funny. When you turn into a blubbering ball of hopelessness because your cat looked at you strangely, you have to laugh about it. Or call the vet, he might have glaucoma. And if he does, then maybe they’ll prescribe him some wickedly green catnip. Then you can watch Mr. Snuggles take medicinal bong rips, and if you don’t laugh then throw some dirt on yourself because you’re already fucking dead.
So, I take Klonopin now. And as intended I’m hopelessly depressed. But I’m still the Queen of Turd Mountain and will be until the day they flush me down for good. If you don’t hear from me for a bit I might just be having a bad month. Or, more likely, I’m doing bong rips with my cat. But rest assured that no matter what sort of pharmaceutical hell they put me through I will always stand strong against hair feathers, bumper stickers, and John Mayer; all while rooting for the retarded kid to fall flat on his face just short of the finish line. What I'm saying is whether I'm manic or depressed, I'll always be a hateful bitch with a fondness for feces. And that's all.
Thanks for reading. Dicks.