Breathing and Other New Difficulties

I’m gonna dive right in here: You’ve more than likely been filled in on my whole situation. I mean, how could you avoid it, right? I won’t shut up about it. “My poor lungs,” I bellyache. “My heart is weak,” I bitch and moan. “I can’t even shower without running out of breath,” I complain. I’m mildly sorry if you constantly hear these things, but as of now I think it’s quite alright for me to worry out loud. Bear with me for a while until either A) I’m a bit more “stable” or “normal” in the coming months or B) one of these pesky clots rushes to my brain while I wait in the checkout line at Walmart. Whichever comes first.

If I die young, bury me in SAVINGS!

“If I die young, bury me in SAVINGS!”

Now, for those of you left in the dark, here’s the deal: On Monday December 21st, I decided to help a friend out during a cleaning spree by taking her trash to the dumpster. I had woken up at around 10:30AM and immediately threw some shoes on, grabbed the full bag by the door, and meandered outside, not a care in the world. Once I was about halfway to the dumpster — which is only about a hundred feet from her building’s exit — I began to feel a bit winded. “You’re just fat,” my brain said. “You need to wake up and get your energy back. No biggie.” So I kept going like nothing was wrong. The problem? There indeed WAS something very wrong. I made it to the dumpster and you’d swear at that point I was taking a break from a marathon. I was out of breath, struggling from one gasp to the next. I dropped the trash bag and tried walking back to the apartment, but my equilibrium was thrown off. My ears were ringing, my vision was blurry, my chest was tight and burning, my whole body went weak. Luckily (if I can say that), I made it to the outside apartment door, where I collapsed just as I put my hand on the knob. I waited on my knees for a few seconds as I gathered myself, then picked my body up and stumbled back into the apartment. I made it to the couch and collapsed, trying my hardest not to freak out. Each breath I took hurt like no other. I wanted to burst out in tears and call the ambulance, but my dumb ass decided it was something that would pass on its own. As I rested, my friend came out and told me to migrate to another spot so she could clean around the couch. “No worries,” I said. “I’m about to leave. Gotta go to the doctor. I’m… I’m not feeling too well.”

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I really don’t know.”

“What the fuck do you mean you don’t know? Do you need medicine? What’s wrong?”

“I… Don’t… Know… I’m going to drive myself to the ER.”

Yes, I drove myself in that condition. I don’t know why I thought that was a good idea, but you know me, man. I’m not one to hinder on other people’s lives with my silly problems. You’d be happy to know, however, that I did make it to my destination.

Which, at first, was not the ER.

I'm an idiot.

I’m an idiot.

Being a stubborn bastard really bites me in the ass. See, before I went to the ER I decided to stop off at my friend Chris’s house, where I had been crashing for the weeks prior to this whole ordeal. Making it there wasn’t so bad, but making it to his door was a chore and even after feeling the pain all over again, I still didn’t go to the ER. No, I went inside, lied down on the bed, and thought about what was happening. Heart attack? Maybe. Pneumonia? ‘Tis the season. A debilitating STD? Yeah…OK. Unsure of what to make of all of it, I called my mom. I wanted to let her know what was going on in the event that I passed out and no one was around to find me. Yeah, another golden idea: CALL MOM AND WORRY HER! Once I said all of what I had to say, she told me to quote “get [my] fucking ass to the fucking ER before [she comes] down there and drags [my] ass.” OK, that was just the shove I needed, so I hopped in my car and drove down to the ER at St. Joseph’s on Broadway, less than a mile from Chris’s place.

Fast forward to my ER visit. I told them what was going on, they ran some tests and scans and whatnot, and immediately informed me that I was to be admitted. After hours of waiting, bouncing around, getting a finger shoved in my ass, and wondering what the hell was wrong with me, I finally got to see a doctor. He came in, sat down, and ripped it off like a band-aid when he said, “Charles, you have pulmonary embolism, which means that there is clotting in your lungs’ arteries and their “branches.” Not only do you have a few clots, you have SEVERAL clots. The damage is quite extensive, actually. Because of this, you also have right ventricular failure, meaning the right side of your heart is dangerously weak and is having an awful lot of trouble pumping blood into your lungs. We’re going to keep you here for the foreseeable future until all of this is sorted out.”

Wha– I jus– I’m only 24? HOW in the ever-loving hell am I dealing with a pulmonary embolism and fucking HEART FAILURE? They checked my legs for any evidence of deep vein thrombosis. Nothing. Nada. They hooked me up to machines, did some Doppler ultrasounds, checked on my heart some more and were baffled when they couldn’t give me a proper answer. These professionals have no idea how or why I have a sh’load of clots in my lungs. The answer they did give me was that I drew the short straw in the genetic lottery and am just an unlucky son of a bitch.

“Thanks for letting me know.”

After eight days of constant blood work, tests, scans, x-rays, etc, that’s as far as we’ve gotten. Seriously. The good-ish news is that I have to follow up with all of this every week for the rest of eternity, so odds are they’ll find out exactly what’s wrong with me eventually. I have to set up an appointment with a hematologist soon because apparently I might have a shitty blood disorder that’s causing my blood to clot up for no real reason other than being diseased. For the time being, I’m on a blood thinner that needs to be closely monitored for the rest of my life and a blood pressure medication that’s helping me not stroke out.



The point of this blog, other than to share my story for those who are unaware, is to let you all know that it’s gonna be a while before I’m back to being the old me. My whole life has been put on hold and everything I’ve worked at for the past few months of my life is now on the back burner. I can’t drive long distances. I can’t work until I know my body’s limitations. I can’t drink alcohol. I can’t smoke. I can’t eat leafy greens or other Vitamin K rich foods (this one’s not so bad). I can’t stand up for too long without getting winded. I can’t sit for too long without running the risk of getting another clot or pushing an existing one through my body. I can’t… Well, there’s a lot I can’t do. It’s really doing a number on my mental health right now. I don’t get to hang out with my friends as much anymore. I don’t have a way to spend time with the girl I was hanging out with at the time of the incident. For all intents and purposes, I’m a bruised, sad sack of sickness, loneliness, and helplessness right now as I try to acclimate to this new development. For once in my life, I’m feeling sorry for myself because, for once in my life, I have no idea what I’m doing. Zero percent. There’s not even a shred of life confidence right now.

Life is different.

And I’m scared.

This all being said, I’m trying to at least keep my humor about me. Every time I bring up this predicament or my overall health in a joking manner, please don’t see it as me being pessimistic. While my optimism is not what it used to be, my humor — no matter how dark — is what’s keeping me sane and happy. When a doctor gives you a list of different ways an illness could potentially kill you, you have to find a way to make each day a little easier, to take your mind off of all the negative. Do I think I’ll croak any time soon? I hope not. With a huge change in my lifestyle, I suppose I could someday find some semblance of normalcy in this fucked up situation. The fact of the matter is, however, that these clots aren’t all going to go away. Some will be broken down by my body naturally, but with the sheer amount that are in my lungs, there’s no guarantee they’ll all go away. Does that spell out certain death? ABSOLUTELY NOT.

I’m just saying we should name them all and start betting on which one will bust out of the gate first and race to the finish line in my head.

I’m just kidding! You really think I’m gonna let you get rid of me that easily? Forget about it!

That’s it. That’s all I’ve got. Before I go, I wanna ship out a big THANK YOU to everyone who has helped me through all of this, whether it be monetarily, morally, spiritually, whatever. I have quite an awesome support system that continues to make me feel better each and every day. Much love to you all!

And thanks for reading, you rascals. I’m gonna go count my bruises.





Parents Furious Over “Breaking Bad” Action Figures at Toys R Us, Fight to Replace Them With Child-friendly Alternative


October 20, 2014

Fort Myers, FL — Popular children’s store Toys R Us is currently under fire for selling toys inspired by the classic television drama, Breaking Bad.  The program, off-air since its series finale on September 29, 2013, is about a suburban chemistry teacher who is diagnosed with terminal cancer and turns to selling meth to raise money for his family. Parents all over the United States are fuming over the products, stating that selling them teaches children that selling drugs could someday result in getting an action figure modeled after them. “I am OK with my son playing with just about anything,” says Martha Stanhope of Buckingham, “but I will not allow him to have these toys in his room EVER. This show promotes nothing but drugs, violence, and greed. I am disgusted with Toys R Us and will not be shopping there for Christmas this year.”

After hearing testimonies from disgruntled moms like Stanhope, store spokesperson Randall P. Newcastle made the following statement:

“The line of toys for Breaking Bad is clearly in bad taste and we at Toys R Us are in talks with Mezco Toyz to get them pulled off of our shelves. Our decision to order the Heisenberg figures took much deliberation and though we ultimately decided it would be a wise business move, the backlash we have received has made us realize that we were sorely mistaken. Once these toys are removed, we are proud to announce that we have ordered thousands of this year’s hottest toys as replacements: The Leah Messer Mommy and Me! Play-set, sponsored and distributed by MTV’s Teen Mom 2! We hope these will be our best-sellers this holiday season. Our sincerest apologies to the unhappy customers and please keep an eye out for our new line of toys in the coming weeks.”

So far, response to this news has been received well among shoppers. “I can’t wait to get my daughter this Teen Mom toy! She loves watching Leah on TV. This is a giant leap away from that filth they were selling before,” Jo Ann Caldwell said with a cart full of pink boxes. One man we talked to seemed to have no idea about the Breaking Bad controversy or the new Teen Mom toys. “This decision doesn’t affect me much,” Johnny Porter admitted. “I’m just here to get my son this cool American History X Lego set.”

Shoppers can find the Mommy and Me! Play Set at any Toys R Us location, between Playmobil’s Bank Robber and Getaway Car and Tesco’s Peek-a-Boo Stripper Pole.

Ten-Year-Old Boy Confused as to Why There is No Evidence of His Childhood Anywhere

October 17, 2024 – Eau Claire, WI

Peeta Cullen Rosenbaum, a ten-year-old boy from just outside Altoona, has recently made it public that he’s on a mission to find any pictures or videos of himself as an infant after claiming that he’s never seen a single one. “I always found it weird that, not even on my mom’s computer, there are no signs of me,” Peeta said, holding back tears. “All of the other kids at school have flash drives of pictures and videos of themselves when they were babies and I don’t. I just don’t understand why.”


Pictured: Peeta Rosenbaum desperately scours the cloud in search of any records of his infancy.

Peeta’s mother, Stacy Carter, who separated from the boy’s father in 2016 after they graduated from Memorial High School, has avoided the discussion for some time. When asked why there seems to be no record that her son was ever younger than ten, she sorrowfully confessed, “There was an iPhone app that was popular when he was born called Snapchat. Remember that? Every picture and video I took was on that. All of my friends have seen videos of his first steps and birthday parties, but those went away after five seconds!” Stacy then broke down sobbing, calling herself a “terrible person.”

Snapchat's logo was a ghost, an appropriate image since sent messages seemed to disappear into thin air.

Snapchat’s logo was a ghost, an appropriate image since sent messages seemed to disappear into thin air.

Snapchat — a private photo and video messaging app — was released in 2011 as a way for people, predominantly teenagers, to share quick snapshots and brief videos with one another. Reggie Brown and Josh Meyers, the original developers of the application, have released several statements about the usage of Snapchat, including, “Aside from the nude picture here and the duck face there, our app was often used as a way for people to share countless images and videos of their ‘cute’ kids. We have never promoted Snapchat as an alternative to traditional cameras.” Snapchat was removed from app stores in 2017 after several civil lawsuits involving concerned parents of “sexting” teens.

Most individuals who grew up with the application knew it wasn’t meant to be a camera replacement. With the many other apps available at the time — apps like Google Drive, iCloud, Dropbox, etc — having no photographic evidence of a child’s first steps seems absurd. For Stacy Carter and countless others, however, this is not the case, and poor children like Peeta Rosenbaum have to live with the fact that their childhood disappeared five seconds at a time.

John Grisham Says Child Porn “Not So Bad;” Claims Offenders “May Have the Cure for Ebola”


John Grisham, critically-acclaimed author of several legal suspense novels such as A Time to Kill, The Rainmaker, and, most recently, Gray Mountain, recently said in an interview with the UK-based Daily Telegraph that people who look at child pornography are not fairly tried in court. “You see, I have friends that have looked at child porn,” Grisham states, “and they got sent away for ten, fifteen years. Is that fair? Is our justice system fair? Absolutely not. These friends were drunk and unaware of what they were looking up. It’s really not so bad.” The author then went on saying that the sites they visited contained photos of “sixteen-year-old girls,” then stated “it’s not like they were little boys.”

When asked what he thought would be fair punishment for these offenders, Grisham defended them by saying, “I don’t know a hundred percent, but it shouldn’t be years! I wholeheartedly believe that these people are just misunderstood, mistaken, and perpetually inebriated. What if some Joe Schmo is locked up that may have the cure for Ebola? You’re going to feel awfully silly throwing that man in maximum security prison for simply looking at some naked kids when everyone’s bleeding from the eyes. It’s just ridiculous.”

Grisham has also gone on the record saying that he knows a serial arsonist in prison who has “for sure” unlocked the secrets of time travel.

51 Things I’ve Done to Pass the Time While Waiting to Return to School

As some of you may know, I’ve had to postpone my trip back to good old Ann Arbor due to some unforeseen obstacles. Fret not, friends and hipsters, I will be back this January! Save me a beer.

Many people have asked what I’ve been doing these past few months to prepare myself for my junior year at college. To help explain I have compiled a list of several things I’ve done to pass the time in case you’re one of the nosy bastards who feels the need to keep tabs on me at all times, Jessica.

1. Hanging out with my niece and nephew.

2. Writing prompts.

3. Independently studying the Dutch language.

4. Getting heartburn.

5. Trying to make a Dark Souls character look exactly like Darth Maul.

6. Perfecting my Estuary English dialect.

7. Air drumming.

8. Looking up cute pictures of Slow Lorises.









9. Visiting petting zoos.

10. Writing bits and pieces of my three screenplays.

11. Studying serial killers.

12. Dodging bill collectors.

14. Being superstitious.

15. Being clever.

16. Writing this:


17. Reading all the books on my shelf.

18. Wishing I never sold my custom computer.

19. Wishing I never sold my DSLR.

20. Trying to overcome my fear of birds.

21. Failing to overcome my fear of birds.

22. Going on a Criminal Minds binge.

23. Missing Breaking Bad.

24. Trying to memorize all the words to “Rap God.”

25. Annoying people on Snapchat.


26. Sweating.

27. Tweeting.

28. Changing my phone number.

29. Listening to this song:

30. Winning caption contests.

31. Talking to women on Tinder.

32. Feeling inadequate.


33. Wondering who would win in a fight between Warwick Davis and Peter Dinklage.

34. Putting money on Dinklage.

35. Being a curmudgeonly young adult.

36. Researching how to be an intern for Conan O’Brien.

37. Laughing at Nathan For You.

38. Having a sweet idea for a restaurant:

Blood drives every weekend for 35% off your meal!

Blood drives every weekend for 35% off your meal!

39. Hitting the online dating scene:

Worked like a charm.

Worked like a charm.

40. Wondering what I’d look like if I were skinny.

41. Trying to stay sane.

42. Finding this absolutely hilarious:

43. Re-learning Spanish.

44. Being nostalgic.

45. Teaching myself how to cook.

46. Burning food.

47. Teaching kids how to properly swear.

48. Definitely not stalking my high school crush.

49. Poking fun at Apple products.

50. Being attacked by people offended by Apple jokes.

51. Trying way too hard to come up with a list of 51 random things.

OK, that’s all for now. Take care. Or don’t. S’up to you.


I’m a part-time insomniac. I don’t mean to make light of those who suffer from grown-up insomnia, but I only find it impossible to sleep maybe four days out of the week, five tops. If you’re keeping track of the time at home (it’s pert’near 4:00 AM here) then you are well aware that tonight is one of those restless nights. I’ve tried watching boring movies, reading a book, taking medication, mastur– WHOA! No. This isn’t a tell-all, naughty time blog post. My apologies to the five of you who really wanted that mental image.

Psst... Call me ;).

Psst… Call me ;).

With the annoyance of this shitty sleeplessness comes random bursts of creativity, something I don’t get nearly as often since my good-for-nothing doctor put me on Zoloft. Yeah, sure, sometimes I feel like that bouncy little fuckhead from those old commercials, but it also drains my brain and makes me, dare I say it, somewhat normal. Perhaps the insomnia is a side effect of this, a sort of fuck the system rebellion my body is pulling so that I can someday share my clusterfucked bullshit with the world.

Though I don't think anyone's super ready for that yet.

Though I don’t think anyone’s super ready for that yet.

Looking at the bright side, I have had a lot of time to do things that I hope to someday release — screenplays, comedy bits, short movies, etc. For instance, I have a couple of stories outlined that I’m converting into screenplays within the next few months. One is a sort of fantasy/sci-fi number about a man who is actually addicted to dreaming. Just like how heroin, sex, and Nutella are habit-forming for a lot of people, this dude gets high on his dreams, no matter what they may be; the more intense, the better, he believes. He begins dishing out tons of money for sleep aids and experiments that thrust him into lucid dreams so that he can get his fix, since that is the only way he seems to be able to function in day-to-day reality. S’a good one.

The next project I have been preparing is more of a drama that pulls from my own life experiences. I won’t go into details on this (it can get a little sappy), but let’s just say there’s going to be lots of laughter, crying, drugs, and maybe even some softcore lesbian sex. Trust me, it’s not there because I’m some kind of perv, it’s there for a reason that I’ll explain later. For the time being, just think about how the fuck lesbian sex is pulled from my own life experiences.



As for the comedy, I’ve got a lot of new material that is, well, more me. If the Zoloft is doing anything right for me, it’s definitely made me realize that I have less fucks to give. Crowds don’t faze me anymore, nor do spotlights, controversy, or self-deprecation. I’m ready to showcase a newer version of me, while still remaining faithful to my storytelling and slightly fabricated tales of truth. I don’t promise much, but I can sure as fuck guarantee a fun time and maybe even a change of underwear.

On top of all of this, I still have plenty of time to indulge in games on my computer, educate myself with some nonfiction reading, and maintain a very sad yet hopeful online dating profile. It’s a lot of multitasking, but goddammit I have to show everyone that fat kids like me are totally capable of running the marathon. Am I right or am I right?

OH! ONE MORE THING! I also do these shitty things in my spare time. Got quite the collection going and they’re only getting better (?).


That gentleman at the bottom riding the velociraptor is Turner Watson, a damn cool dude with a blog of his own. Check out and prepare to be amused.

I’m out, folks. Peace up, A-town down… One love… Bye-bye biatch… Whatever the kids are saying these days.

Rip ‘is bloody froat out!

Doctor? I DON’T NEED NO STINKIN’ DOCTOR! Well, actually, having a doctor check out my throat would be a grand idea, but I’ve been against the idea lately because I’m uninsured until I go back to school in the fall. Uninsured. Ain’t that some shit? My idea was to have a heart-to-heart with my immune system and enforce a strict “don’t get fucking sick or I’ll jam pack my body full of Flinstones vitamins and Children’s Robitussin” rule. Turns out vital bodily functions can’t understand you when you talk to them. Figures.

So here I am, jamming to new age instrumental music alone on my sister’s couch, reviewing English grammar (there’s an app for that!) ’cause I don’t think we learned enough about it in school, and bitching about feeling like Jake Busey in Identity.

Hey, some people haven't seen it. This visual is important!

Hey, some people haven’t seen the movie. This visual is important!

The truth is, I like to think I have a pretty high pain threshold, guys. I’m a fucking MAN! The dude I play in everyday life, the sensitive daffodil of a boy with nothing but love to give, he’s just a candy shell over the Snake Plissken-esque rugged motherfucker that I truly am.

Pictured: My face stubble (50x magnification)

Pictured: My face stubble (50x magnification)

Being such a bad mama jama, I rank this sore throat at a solid 4. That’s nothin’! That’s… That’s like a wasp sting, except, you know, in the throat. A stubbed toe? I’d give that a 5. Passing kidney stones: 7. The surgery I had on my testicles (the thought alone): 8. The Holy Grail of pain — the rare 10 — has to be the double thigh cramp. Have you ever felt such a godawful pain in your fucking life? There you are, chillin’ in bed, finishing up a Kitchen Nightmares marathon on Netflix, when suddenly your holiday hams decide to seize at the same goddamn time. You’re wrapped up in blankets, the cat’s on your chest pinning you down, and the dog is acting as a pair of furry shackles around your ankles. “FUCK EVERYTHING!” you shout as you flail about like you’re an epileptic fish out of water getting tased by the fish police. Your dog whimpers as you kick him off the bed. Your cat hisses as she claws the moles of your man melons. Your blanket cocoon flies to the other side of the room. All this commotion for fucking thigh cramps. I don’t know about you, but I’d rather have my inflamed tonsils ripped out by Captain Hook right now than endure that shit anytime soon.

The point I am trying to make is that everything is going to be OK. I’ll just keep sucking on these cough drops until my shit’s better, then I’ll be back to 100%. Until then, I’m off to re-learn prepositions! Remember: Prepositions aren’t words that you should end a sentence with.

Stay in school!

Stay in school!