Here’s some news that’ll make my enemies happy—I’ve got a concussion! Last week some ding-dong ran a stop sign and plowed into my car. Lucky for him, he didn’t harm my beautiful face. Unluckily, the same can’t be said for my second most beautiful feature: MY BRAIN.
According to the doctor, my minor concussion could exhibit the following symptoms: clumsiness (I’m not drunk this time!), sensitivity to noise (can you please stop breathing so loudly?), irritability (fuck you), confusion (why isn’t there an entire radio station devoted to Ariana Grande?), and problems with my… umm… what’s that brain part that remembers things? Ah! Memory.
Anyway, so I was like, “Thank you for your diagnosis, doctor. Now if you’ll prescribe me a bucket of oxycodone, I’ll be on my way.” But get this! Not only did I NOT receive a bottomless tub of oxy, I didn’t get any drugs at all! Instead, the doctor ordered me to stay off computer, phone, and TV screens for a whopping TWO FULL DAYS. What is this?!? The Middle Ages?!? What’s next? Attaching leeches to my dick?
