On the heels of my 810 dollar whipping, I recieved in the mail yesterday a random paycheck for 600 dollars. I love this, but it also concerns me. I love it because given the absolute lack of any other reason for this money, I have determined that somebody out there is finally paying me for no other reason than the fact that I am sweet. Whoever this is, I would like to thank you, but you certainly took your sweet fucking time.

It concerns me because it is yet another addition to the pile of mounting evidence I have accumulated that asserts that there is absolutely no rhyme or reason in the country. Case in point: the sheer number of middle aged people in this city driving around with pot-leaf air fresheners that have no idea that they are pot-leaf air fresheners. It's ludicrous.

You see, I'm losing my mind over here. I know this because I feel extreme emotional responses to otherwise quite normal occurrences, for example:

Recieve a random extra paycheck for something no doubt very ordinary, like subsidies: extreme egomanical happiness.

Punching a hole through the seat of my scooter whilst wiping it down from the fifteenth straight day of pouring rain: murderous rage.

Watching an old lady at the soba joint sneeze from the inordinate amount of red pepper I pour on my soba: unchecked hilarity.

Waking up after drinking anything alcoholic at all, whatsoever, either with or without a scratchy voice from singing crappy karaoke, and less money than I woke up with the day before: crippling guilt.

This last one in particular bothers me.

You see, I may seem like a superstar, devil-may-care millionaire, akin to Johnny Depp back when he was a hotel trashing bad-boy and owned that club that River Phoenix OD'd outside of. In reality, however, I'm like the new Johnny Depp, the one who would rather wistfully reflect about his past while changing his kids diapers or working in his garden like a sissy. The Johnny Depp that has absolutely no problem naming his daughter Lily-Rose Melody Depp. Or maybe I'm not like Johnny Depp at all, having never trashed a hotel room with Kate Moss, nor ever having really been a "bad boy," at least not in any way at all similar to how P Diddy would define the term. Also, Lily-Rose Melody is a pretty stupid name. Anyway, the point is I'm awash in emotion, and I have a question for you, gentle reader:

How come I feel guilty when I drink?

The easiest answer would be because drinking takes your money whilst slowly destroying you for your troubles, but I feel like there is more to it. Don't get me wrong, I don't have any sort of problem. I only drink on the weekends, with all of you, so before you get self-righteous on me just take a step back, jack.

I am not sure how, but I think that the answer to that question lies within these next two questions:

Am I actually doing anything over here?

and,

How can I leave this place with no regrets?

One acceptable answer is:

Just take it easy and live your life for Christsakes, you brooding pansy.

But that's just one of many acceptable answers.