You Don’t Need Medication, Kid; You Just Need to Get Laid

Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a good psychiatrist around this hellhole of a town? Pert’near impossible, let me tell ya. The ones I did find either A) are pretty damn expensive or B) have incredibly smug looking photos on their website that make the trust factor plummet down somewhere near a babysitter with a butterfly knife.

Body by Jake, PhD from Johns Hopkins.

Body by Jake, PhD from Johns Hopkins.

That being said, I’ve decided to take this time to more or less spill the beans to you folks about some stuff that’s been swimming through my head. That’s correct: YOU get to play therapist for a bit, only without all the pity or “How does that make you feel?” hullabaloo. Some of what I say will come as a shock I’m sure, but you’ll just have to get over that. Now, I’m usually a pretty to-myself extrovert when it comes to the heavy junk — a Modest Mimsy if you will — but, you know, there comes a time when you need to unload. And I’m about to do that. All over your computer screen. Maybe a little on your keyboard, too. Spilled milk, folks. Spilled milk.

When I get angry, I often throw things.

I’m an angry sumbitch. A lot of you get used to my delicious marshmallow exoskeleton and call BS when I tell you this, but it’s true. My fuse is about as long as the line of men waiting to smell Joan Rivers’ undergarments. I have known for a long while that I’m a ticking time bomb of hatred, but it only just hit me when I started noticing little things. Por ejemplo, not too long ago my housemates were dicking around one night while I was trying to get the house cleaned. As I was doing dishes, they were laughing and having a jolly good time and, you know, doing everything BUT fucking cleaning. So, naturally I got a little peeved, like people do, and hurled a broom at their heads. A fucking broom. Thrown. Like I was I was in an Olympic qualifying tournament for the javelin. Lucky for them, I’m a lousy shot and only left a small indentation in our wall. (Bye bye, security deposit.) Not my best moment, but now our house stays pretty goddamn tidy. Another example: I used to chew on my watch when I was angry just to blow off steam. If something ever happened that really got under my skin, I would take off my rubber Casio calculator watch and gnaw on the strap. Not just gently nibble — fucking CHEW. This continued until there was virtually no strap left. Gross? Probably. Therapeutic? You betchya. The worst part: I loved that watch… A lot.

This is what got me the nickname "Fuck Master" in high school.

This is what got me the nickname “Fuck Master” in high school.

I suppose realizing I have these problems is the first step to recovery, so I already feel like a weight has been lifted. No need for medication, right?

I took an Adderall before my first stand-up competition.

Stage fright is something I’ve dealt with for a long time. Well, you call it stage fright, I call it flat-out social awkwardness, but I digress. So, like any somewhat humorous fella with nerves of Jell-o, I went to a good friend to see what could be done to make myself more focused. Apparently in college, Adderall is everywhere — I’m about 89% certain that they have dispensers for the pill in certain bathrooms all around campus. I took it upon myself to ask around and got answers in, oh, four seconds. The end result: A SHAMELESS PLUG!

It’s not the greatest, but I went up there and did my thing without many problems. Notice the swaying? That’s me being CALM. I would post a video of my second time doing it (sans-medication), but I’m legitimately ashamed of it. I stuttered. I fumbled. I was too hyper. That’s right, you heard it here: The Adderall calmed me down! I actually talked to a few people about that and they said that’s the opposite of what it should have done. For the past year or so, I’ve been kind of curious as to why it happened like that. Again, maybe I should go see a licensed professional about that, but I knew I wanted to write this blog, so I had to hold it off until it was finished. It’s not like I was going anywhere, right?

I left college partly because I fell into a deep, deep depression.

OK, OK, if you’re one to get sad and apologize for shit you didn’t do, then you might as well stop here. My depression isn’t something I’m necessarily proud of, but I — being a strong, strapping, determined, and willful young lad — overcame it (for the most part) and don’t regret how any of this went down. And now, the juicy stuff. For both of my years at the University of Michigan, I was in a slump. Not just a, “Guys, I don’t feel like doing anything tonight…” kind of slump; more of a crying, suicidal, watching reruns of Friends and the occasional Tyler Perry sitcom on TBS kind of slump. At first it was some major homesickness, but then it evolved into me realizing that I didn’t fit into the lifestyle there. I was poor, they were rich. They had nice clothes, I had hand-me-downs. My room was empty, theirs were finely decorated. They liked politics, I like dick jokes. I was like Fuuuuuuuucccck me running, this ain’t right. Many a night did I think that maybe I should lunge out of my fourth story window or buy a bunch of those two count Bayer aspirin packs and go to town. Lucky for me (lucky for you?) I’m deathly afraid of heights AND strictly follow the directions on all over-the-counter medications. Shwew, that was close, huh? I eventually did what I thought was right and withdrew from the University so I could take some “me” time and reflect on my life. I’ve been doing that for, oh, several months now and have decided to get my ass in gear and head to IPFW next fall. Stardom, here I come!

I cannot WAIT to remake this.

I cannot WAIT to remake this.

I recently picked up — and have decided to quit — smoking.

Yeah, I’m one of those guys. In that past couple of months I started smoking Camels like it’s my fucking job. Bad day at work: Cigarette. Rough weekend: Cigarette. Internet speeds dipping below 2Mbps: Throw laptop; cigarette. I know there’s nothing healthy or good about smoking, but it (legally) puts my mind at ease and gives me something to suck on, ’cause Lord knows I needs tah be orally fixated on something, honey.


But, like all of life’s addictions — ahem, you know who you are, guy who looks up Scarlett Johansson’s nudie pics everyday — my smoking must already come to an end. I’m getting my shit straight as of, I dunno, next week or some shit. I’m talking no smoking, lots of hitting on a punching bag, some hardcore juicing, and as much rigorous living as my poor, cartilage-less knees will take. Trust me, it IS as easy as it sounds. I stopped smoking for a couple of months a while back, so what’s to stop me now?

OK, besides her.

OK, besides her.

Finally, I hate a lot of people.

I honestly don’t know how to explain this one. There are just so many people that are slowly killing me as a person. Kids growing up too fast, guys and gals who think they’re in love at age 19, people that laugh when I tell them my dream is to own the actual Jumanji board game from the movie. I suppose this may go back to my anger/depression/social awkwardness, but I feel like I’m being turned into a 21-year old, Ebeneezer-acting, curmudgeon motherfucker. There are plenty of people I look up to and love wholeheartedly, but a hefty handful of the people that surround me know how to crawl under my skin from time to time. It’s nothing personal, like I said. I think this one’s on me. Unless you’re Nicolas Cage. In that case, you’re a douchey penis gypsy.

"That's low praise."

“That’s low praise.”

In conclusion…

After writing this, I’m beginning to understand the reasoning behind publishing it in the first place: Endurance. A “This Too Shall Pass” tale of moving on. I still have a lot of problems to work through and probably really should go to someone who gets paid to draw comic strips on a legal pad, but in the end these issues have shaped me. As of today I’m just as determined as I’ve always been to light my fire and make something of myself. I work behind a desk in a fabrication shop right now, but in a few months you can expect to hear stories of positivity and hilarity, all of which include yours truly. There’s a healing power to laughter and there’s an even greater power to communication. Talk about your problems, lay ’em all out on the table for others to pick at and analyze, but most of all, learn from these problems. In the end you might be riding shotgun in my Badassmobile. And yes, you can touch the red button.


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