Dilly-Dallying Hither and Thither

Lately shit, or rather "things", in general are strange. And while I often tend to embrace said strangeness, cultivate it even, it seems to have reached maximum capacity-- Crossed the splintered threshold into complete incomprehensibility. Seeing that the situation is too weird to assimilate by any normal human capacity, I've consulted several mystics on the matter. One emerged from his trance weeping and refused to speak with me any further.
Another, who after several minutes of poring over her tarot cards, was only able to mutter "go fish".
All were dumbfounded.
Seeking guidance in more practical arenas has proved equally fruitless. My physician simply referred me to the nearest Wine & Spirits. I turned even to my very own grandmother, who instead of her usual words of kindness and encouragement, told me [very kindly, gingerly, grandmotherly...to go fuck myself]

So having taken the advice of each of the latter, and finding myself confused as ever, I at long last devised what I consider to be a brilliant new "tack" from which to approach the problem on the whole. While this new method is not without its share of kinks to work out and by no means answers any questions, it seems promising in its ability to alleviate the pains of existential freak-outs, general feelings of "stop-the-world-i-wanna-get-off", catholic guilt, etc.

I've entitled the aforementioned "tack" , "The Keith Bush Method". It is a relatively simple concept and is easily employed. Upon his/her decision to adopt "The Keith Bush Method", the individual performs first a brief ritual whereupon they select and prepare their own favorite sandwich. They are then instructed to [important: on the diagonal] cut their sandwich in half and select one of the halves to eat. As soon as they finish partaking of their half, the other remaining is cut once more [this time by the proctor, who as is explained now should be viewed as a physical representation of "the incomprehencible drag"] The proctor then, without asking permission or expressing gratitude, helps himself to one of the portions and smears the other into the individuals face and hair. This should be done with nonchalance, the proctor is encouraged to here remain as aloof and cool as possible. The ritual here ends when the individual [belly full and tastes satisfied, in spite of his ridicule, etc] is asked whether or not they would "Like to give dessert a whirl?"
Whether this offer is accepted or declined makes no difference, as here [important: before the individual chooses] the newly-initiated is clubbed and returned safely to their bed before consciousness is regained. Indeed, in many cases, the process leaves the individual more confounded than ever. But this is perhaps where the success of this method lies. They find themselves blessed with the newfound knowledge that the "search for meaning" is often way-strange and messy- more trouble than its worth, and while that wacky sandwich ritual may have been like, "kinda symbolic, y'know?" that they ought to lighten up and give less of a shit lest they find themselves in some weirder sort of mess. there are more pragmatic things to worry about after all...

like how in the hell you're going to pay off enormous dental bills, for instance.

allow me to describe my face to you.
Mutilated? Grotesque? I've just returned from the dentist, where I had tiny bits of road removed from one tooth, and a total of three filed down and totally reconstructed. They somehow managed to put them in pre-nicotine stained, much to my relief. But while the problem of looking like a cartoon of a hillbilly is solved, I'm afraid that only time and copious amounts of triple antibiotic ointment will take care of the overall spookiness of my aspect. When describing the situation to my boss, he replied, "So you look like a boxer? Thats kinda cool".
I do not look like a boxer.
Unless of course the boxer was had at with a cheese grater.
Oh well.