12:46 pm | 18 February 2004 | i'll give you two guesses what this is about

So, let's hear a little more about this Fear Not Guide to Life, shall we? But first, the news.

Kids, I, your distant and flagging lover, have something savagely, Victorianly wrong with my respiratory/sinus system. Like I have consumption AND ague, or something. The fever broke last night but I was delirious and writing notes on the backs of envelopes saying things like GIRLS ARE BETTER AT KEEPING SECRETS BECAUSE WE ALWAYS HAVE AT LEAST ONE POCKET.* Now i can't taste anything, which is good since i grabbed the wrong bedside mug this morning and quenched my thirst with cold miso soup (i seriously DID. Not. notice the difference between miso and juice, which is crazy talk). The guy next to me at the library is talking to himself. Did I mention i am on a lot of meds? Yes, great.

Okay, on to the FNGtL. This, many of you are aware, is a modest** pamphlet produced by New York's own Jeremy Broomfield, a sometimes pen-pal of yours truly and a conceited know-it-all (which is why we get along). The Guide, with entries on topics ranging from doing dishes to the requisite zombie-killing primer, has a buttload of hilarious, useful info. But I must, as a resident expert, take issue with ALCOHOL.

The entry reads something along the lines of "ALCOHOL: If you're depressed, why are you drinking a depressant, idiot?" Well, lemme tell you. Alcohol is not an end, dude. It's a means. First of all, alcohol (largely due to sugar content) has a brief uplifting effect, which is why it's essential to keep drinking for the duration of the night, and why the person who has like two beers and then stops drinking while attempting to continue hanging out never has any fun. For that poor fool, the depressant part has begun to kick in, while the rest of us are sailing past on a continued flood of boozy good cheer.

Secondly: dude, if you're already depressed anyway, and you know you're going to continue to be (horribly, suicidally, Smiths-records-listeningly) depressed for at least the rest of your week, then a night of boozing is a viable oasis of respite. Who wouldn't take six or seven hours of joytarded funmaking, in the name of contrast if nothing else?

Thirdmost: I realized this week, too, that hangovers serve a function in my life: Namely, they give me a focus for misery. Instead of this generalized swampy illness, I can say "Man, i am sure feeling crappy. Must be because I pounded a pint of Jack Daniel's and tried to get in a fight with a short Ed Harris lookalike at the artfag hip-hop party last night." See? A reason why! I love explanations!

I don't know when i'll see you next. My library computer session is on the brink of expiration (as am i). But check out the Guide, seriously. And next time you hear Depeche Mode, tip a 40 to your homie, out here, drowning in snot. Kisses! clm.

*Think about it.

**Small in size but not in megalomania, not unlike the man himself. Heh, I kid. Or do i?

THE PREVIOUS ENTRY WAS BROUGHT TO YOU IN A SPIRIT OF COMPANIONABLE GOODWILL, THE SORT OF WHICH IS OFFERED UNDER THE VEIL OF CURMUDEGONISM ONLY TO CONCEAL THE FACT THAT I MIGHT ACTUALLY HAVE A HEART, WHICH IS A TOTAL LIE AND IF YOU TELL ANYONE I'MA KILL YOU. -the Foundation for Perpetuating Claude's Image as the Baddest of Ass