My Thoughts Are Pollution

Coming-of-age ramblings that don't mean much in the long run

Month: December, 2015

Another Year In Review, I Guess?

As far as years of my life go, 2015… was one of them.

It wasn’t particularly eventful. I’d call it a low point in my life if not for the lack of actual traumatic events that accompanied it. I honestly don’t have much to say about the year itself, so I thought I’d go find some highlights from my blogging efforts this year and share them. I’m gonna stay away from poetry/lyrics for the most part, as it is difficult for me to evaluate what in particular stands out from those writings.

Let’s start here, with the 2014 Year in Review.

The Great Whatever

Sick, Sick, Sick

Written By Medicine

In Love Maybe



To Take Offense

Another “Her”

A Secret Because It’s Not Worth Sharing

Socially Awkward Inner Monologue

The Pretension of Poetry

Drug Stories Part I


Vomit Story!

Father’s Day Rumination 





More Vomit-Talk!

The Death of a Visionary


Cliches I Adore


A Hatred of Music Reviews

A Matter of Time

Don’t Hate Mormons, Seriously

Our Virtual Reality Future


Five Things

Fumbling, Episode 1

Thanks Mr. Wilson.

Something Sweet

Panic Attacks

Fumbling Episode 2

Some DRUG talk


Fumbling 3

All The Pretty Girls (An Episode of Awkwardness)

Fumbling 4


I Did a Thing.

I wrote a user review of a video game. On another website.

But still. This is the first time I’ve ever reviewed a thing, even if it’s a user review sequestered away from most eyes that would ever see it. I’ve never even, like, rated something on Amazon before.

Fumbling My Way Through Life Episode 4

Lately I’ve been watching a lot of music videos and covers on Youtube.

Everybody is too perfect.

Watching the ease at which talented musicians perform is not inspiring for someone like me; it’s disheartening. When I see the way their fingers move along a fretboard… It looks so natural; it looks like they belong there. When I put my hands on my guitar, it is a struggle to hit every single note. And I’m not an amature as far as time spent playing goes, not by any stretch of the imagination. Nor am I lacking in the practice department. When I initially started playing, I would go until my fingers bled and then some. My band and I would spend countless hours playing in dire heat or numbing cold, fall-down drunk or stone-cold sober. I still play every single day.

But it doesn’t feel as natural to me as it looks when I see other people play. When I watch other people play, I see a wall that cannot be climbed. These people look like they were born to play the guitar. I look like I’m about to break a goddamn sweat just from thinking too hard.

There’s such a magnificent difference in the way we play that I feel as though I’m doing something fundamentally wrong. I feel like I’m looking at the instrument the wrong way; holding it upside-down or something. Like there’s some mistake I’m making that could be easily corrected were I not mostly self-taught. But I know that’s not it. Maybe I just wasn’t cut out for this. Maybe I learned how to play the guitar against all fucking odds, whe  genetics keep trying to tell me know

I guess I can just tell that it’s always going to be a struggle for me. I’m never going to be able to play a song without thinking. I’m always going to be worried about that next note, and unsure as to whether or not I’m even going to successfully hit it. But I love playing. I love singing. I love writing music. I won’t ever put this instrument down, no matter how insignificant everyone else on earth makes me feel. Because they do do that. They do make me feel small and worthless. Perhaps not intentionally. Maybe they aren’t trying to show off. Maybe they aren’t trying to taunt me; maybe they aren’t laughing at me from that ledge I will never be able to climb. It’s so hard not to see it that way. And it’s so hard not to be spiteful. But I love the music, and I love it enough to take the unintended insults and accept the feeling of inferiority for the rest of my life. It’s just not something I’m willing to lose.

Blood On My Hands

It took her a month

To really receive

The letters I sent

One soul in a sea

Of souls

And I rocked the boat

She swore it would float

But it didn’t float

And now I know

Your Honor, you see

This blood on my hands

I’ve got this disease

And it has its demands

Oh it’s not a disease!

I’ve got plenty, you see

Plenty of brains

And plenty of heart

I’m healthy, you see

I’m right in my head!

She just couldn’t be

What she always said

We’re both better off dead

So don’t call it a disease!

I’m just not depressed

I’m only upset

And a little obsessed

So this blood on my hands

I wish it were hers

Your Honor you can’t

Blame me for bein’ hurt.

It’s a mark on my belt

It’s a scar on my hands

This red stripe on my wrists

You have to understand

So Your Honor where are you?

Why do I defend

Myself from myself

The end from the end.


You’re the first in a long time

Like a Christmas of off-white

You’re not quite

But you’re quite close enough

Oh, I’m less than I was

When I was in love

With the feeling of love

And not exactly in love with you

But I do

Fumbling My Way Through Life, Episode 3

Otherwise known as “The Minor Tragedies of Christmas Eve”

On my way home from work today, I noticed that a cop had set up a speed trap on the street I was driving down.

Insert flurry of emotions.

Then, insert a weird argument with myself where I try to figure out where, morally, I should stand on this issue that has suddenly come to my attention.

Insert me slowing down to thirty miles-per-hour.

Maybe it would be better if I actually explained my thoughts, rather than just typing out the concept that I had thoughts at all. For context, I did not get a ticket or pulled over or really anything here. I just happened to see this speed trap as I was coincidentally obeying the law anyway. This thought process isn’t colored by some sort of financial loss or loss of face.

My immediate reaction, formed entirely within the gut without any say from the brain, was fuck that guy. Maybe not the most elegant or thoughtful of reactions, but A: I was in a car and thusly in “fuck everyone else I just want to get to where I’m going” mode and B: I was kind of bitter about how work has been this holiday season at that exact moment. I’m not trying to excuse myself or anything here, just trying to explain myself. Trying to explain how someone who considers themselves moral and just and thoughtful would immediately shit all over a human being; a civil servant, no less. But it did happen.

After about three seconds of thought I realized (through experience) that most everyone who was out today was kind of thoughtless on some level, as they had put off their Christmas shopping until literally the least convenient day possible, short of attempting to do so on the day itself. I’m not judging you if you had to go out to shop today. Unless you’re like seemingly everyone who shopped at my work, who seemed to be purchasing the entirety of their Christmas Day on the spot.

Side note: What a shitty Christmas Day it is when all of the gifts you bought were last minute and not thought out in the least! I sold five tablet pillows in an hour. Five. Tablet pillows. Pillows for a tablet. Read that again. These people were so desperate to find a gift that they actually thought someone might feasably  want a thing that makes their tablet more comfy in their lap.

And it was those people who generally populated the roads this afternoon. I can see the need to make sure that the streets are safe when that’s the case.

Still though. To be the guy getting a ticket on Christmas Eve, man… What a bummer that would be. I mean, I guess the moral here is that you should always obey traffic laws, but I’m not going to judge someone for fucking speeding. Every single person who has ever driven a car has done it at some point. Maybe you’re like me and obey the speed limit almost all of the time. You’ve still done it. Maybe on accident, even. And I feel for the person who happened to do it on that street on that day. I mean, imagine the person wasn’t, you know, financially stable? And they were on their way to pick up some gifts for their kids or wife or boyfriend or anyone really and now they’re just… 200 dollars out. Whoever’s Christmas that was going to be, it’s a speeding ticket less exciting now.

And yeah. I know. It’s still the person who is speeding’s fault. I can’t blame the cop for enforcing the laws. I can however feel empathy for the person stuck at the shitty side of that law, regardless of how preventable their situation was. It still sucks. My night in jail a few years back was fucking horrible. I may have earned my way there, but it doesn’t make it suck any less. So I really do feel for people in shitty situations, even if it was their own actions that lead to them.

But yeah. Some frustration there with the speed trap. Not something that gets you in the holiday spirit, exactly. But I guess it sucks for that officer that he was stuck out there today, too. And I’m sure there’ll be a number of them out tomorrow, too. That can’t be fun.

Side note to end on: fuck working retail this time of year. I’m so tired. What a nightmare. But happy holidays anyway, everyone. Tomorrow will be a better day all around.

American Music (Violent Femmes Cover)

I had some fun with this one. Check it out!

I Am Enthralled By This Sort Of Thing

It’s odd that in spite of my current state of sobriety, I find recreational drugs to be such an absolutely fascinating topic. From the scientific aspect of them, such as how the drugs actually interact with your brain, to the cultural aspect of them, like a good drug story, everything about them is just so goddamn interesting.

Perhaps due to my past abuse of it, one of the drugs I am most intrigued by is found in cough syrup.

(Please excuse these disclaimers, but they’re really important. If you have no intention of ever attempting to use recreational drugs, then feel free to skip them. Otherwise, please, please, please give them a read before moving on the the rest of my write-up.)

[Disclaimer: Legally, I need to tell you not to abuse this stuff. Also, as a friend, I need to tell you not to abuse this stuff. It’s really bad for your body, and the only reason I ever enjoyed using it so much is because of the fucked-up place I was mentally when I was using it. Don’t do it, it’s not even an enjoyable experience for most people. Seriously, most people I did it with fucking hated the experience. Don’t do it.]

[And holy shit, by the way: UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES SHOULD YOU EVER ABUSE THIS DRUG WHILE TAKING ANTIDEPRESSANTS. Taking too much over the recommended dose of  any product containing the drug I mention in this write-up WILL ABSOLUTELY KILL YOU. EVERY TIME. IT IS A FATAL COMBINATION. SSRI‘s and DXM are lethal when taken together. Every fucking time. I cannot stress this enough. And if you aren’t sure if what you take is an SSRI, don’t risk it. This is lethal, and the death is slow and painful. Again, COMBINING ANTIDEPRESSANTS, EVEN IF YOU’VE BEEN OFF OF THEM FOR A FEW DAYS, EVEN WEEKS, IS FATAL WHEN COMBINED WITH RECREATIONAL DOSES OF COUGH MEDICINE.]

[Third disclaimer: If the fact that I had to write up three fucking disclaimers of progressively longer and longer length about the use of this drug isn’t enough to persuade you not to attempt to use it, I don’t know what is. But if you aren’t going to be reasonable, than at least heed this last warning. DO NOT TAKE RECREATIONAL DOSES OF MEDICINES THAT CONTAIN ACETAMINOPHEN. That one in particular is important, as the drugs that contain both the “fun” drug and acetaminophen together will always kill you when taken in a high enough dose to get high. And an acetaminophen overdose is not pleasant. It involves bleeding from your fucking eyes. You should always read the other ingredients in your medicines, study them, and make sure you’re not going to die. Seriously, if you insist on trying this drug, do your research and do it thoroughly because this is an extremely dangerous drug to abuse, if you’re stupid about it. If you’re smart it’s actually… relatively safe, as long as you don’t leave the house.]

Okay. Here’s what I actually came here to say.

Did you know that the way that most cough medicine prevents you from coughing is by blocking certain messages from going from one place in your brain to the other? The natural impulse to cough is stopped because the part of your brain that says, “Hey, something’s up with my throat,” never gets a chance to talk to the part of the brain that says, “Hey, if something’s up with my throat, just let me know and I’ll try to violently solve that problem.” The specific drug that does this is called dextromethorphan, and it’s in a lot of over-the-counter medicines.

The thing is, at low doses, it keeps your brain from knowing it needs to cough. That’s fine. At much higher doses, a number of different parts of the brain fail to communicate with each other, and this leads to some pretty… drastic effects. At a higher dose than you would ever take for a cough, but still a relatively low dose (which for the sake of the scale I’m going to use, will just be called a low dose from this point on) the effect is similar to mild drunkenness.


That state of mild drunkenness was the point at which most people found the drug fun to use. Anything past that was a no go for a lot of them, but for my closest friends and I, that wasn’t enough. We were already way past thinking mild drunkenness was fun. We were taking pills in volumes that would normally kill people, and half the time we weren’t even aware of what they were. Someone would just come by with some prescription they got, sell it to us, and we’d be like, “We can probably take, like, eight of these each, right?” and would proceed to get fucked up. We weren’t at heroin levels of desperation, but we were all at least pretty close to the point where we wouldn’t have turned it down if someone offered.

The low-medium dose of the drug was my personal sweet spot, though I didn’t mind edging into the medium dose on most occasions, and did indulge in a high dose a few times. The difference between a low-medium dose and a low dose was pretty huge in terms of effect, though. You see, the hallucinatory/dissociative effects of dextromethorphan (or DXM for short) are often described as having certain “plateaus”. There are generally considered to be four plateaus to the high, though I’ve read tales of a fifth that seems incredibly difficult to achieve without dying and sounds altogether unpleasant. But anyway, they’re referred to as such because while taking more of the drug does gradually increase the effects, there are certain thresholds where the effect of the drug takes kind of a different shape.

Let me break it down for you in a non-illegal way. We’re going to use a twenty-point scale so that I don’t have to actually tell you the dosages we would use, so that you don’t use them yourselves. [Responsible, that’s what I am.] Keep in mind that this is not actually 100% to scale, so don’t try to convert these vague numbers into milligrams; that won’t work. Say that one or two points is what you take when you have  a cough. two is a bit excessive for that, but if it’s Nyquil and you really need to sleep or you’re just a bigger person, it’s fine. No one’s judging you. Three is still not really getting anywhere. It’s like taking four or five Tylenol. Maybe not a good idea for your liver, but it’s not like you’re going to feel any adverse effects from it. Around four you feel something, but you’re still, like, good to drive. No one will notice a difference in your behavior but you, and even then, it’s not significant. Five is about where it’s at. Five matters. You shouldn’t drive. It’s not crazy, but you’re somewhere. I’d say once you get up to six, that’s when you’re really there. You feel a switch flip somewhere in your head; you are pretty plastered. That’s the first plateau. Everything before that affected you, sure, but you would have gone to bed that night thinking that the drug was weak shit.

So, the next time you take it, you think, “That was badass, I’d like to get that way, but, you know, more!” You go to seven, eight. Basically the same thing. Slightly more intense, but it really didn’t change things that much. The next time you do this, you try to hit the number nine, not thinking much of it. You notice something different about this one, but you aren’t quite sure what to make of it. It was a lot harder to move, and you found yourself confused more often than not. Time passes slowly. Weird, right? You’re still basically just drunk, but you feel as though you’re on the precipice of something else. So the next time, out of curiosity, you try to hit ten. Everything is fucking different this time. You definitely don’t feel drunk. This is something entirely new.

We’ll continue our point-scale breakdown a little later. I just wanted to show how the plateau thing worked. You can take more than you did the time previous, but unless you hit a certain threshold, it’s generally going to be the same experience. Until you take a certain amount, the drunkenness of the first plateau is never going to hit you. And until you take a certain amount more than that, the drunkenness is all you’ll get.

That low-medium does I said I preferred earlier? That’s the point when you hit the second plateau. I was so bored of the drunkenness. I would indulge occasionally, but ultimately, I was in this for something more. And holy fuck, did I find it. At the low end of a medium dose, your vision becomes… different. It becomes hard to process what exactly it is you’re seeing. Navigating through menus on a television becomes nearly impossible, because reading becomes nearly impossible. Words look like they’re written in other languages; you see all the letters, but you don’t know what they mean all mashed together. Lights leave behind long traces when you move your eyes. It becomes very difficult to walk. It’s actually impossible to walk normally. You tend to take large strides, and your torso dips and sways around as though it were a ball-in-socket joint. We came to refer to this phenomenon as “spiderwalking”, as the long strides (which would often come with steps taken on all fours) reminded us of the long legs of a spider. Your body has an urge to stretch and contort in weird ways. It’s not uncommon to find yourself sitting in positions that look like if yoga was invented by crack addict. I tend to weave my arms through my legs, or wrap them backwards around my head, or both. Logic breaks down. Once you hit the second plateau, you can’t follow the plot of a movie. Your conversations with your friends become limited, though that doesn’t take away from the feeling of comradery that comes with being in this state together.  Your imagination runs wild; you can live out entire stories inside of your head. When you close your eyes, you hallucinate. My friends and I found that sticking our heads into dark places, like a closet or a laundry basket, causes extremely intense effects. It feels like staring into infinity. Music means more than it ever did. Time goes on forever. What is already a long trip (about twelve to fourteen hours) feels about three times as long due to the effects of the drug.

This might be a good place to mention the vomiting. Oh god. This is where the rubber hits the road; this is what separates the men from the boys. This is why people fucking hate using this drug. But my closest friends and, we had no fucks to give about this. Even though it was truly horrible. The DXM vomiting could easily fall into the top ten most terrifying moments of my life and I did it repeatedly. I’m not sure if it happens to everybody, but the pills we took when we first started abusing DXM contained another substance in them, a substance that caused vomiting it high doses. High doses in this case meaning, like, one pill more than the recommended dose. We were a millennia past that, so you can imagine the horrors that followed. Because of that initial experience, our bodies kind of have an almost Pavlovian response to taking cough medicine. We puke even if it doesn’t have the other substance in it. So these horrific fits of nightmare puke happened frequently, even after our switch to a better pill. If it was just puking, well… that wouldn’t be so bad. But it was violent. My stomach was rejecting the substance with everything it had. It was ready to kill me if that’s what it took. Looking into the toilet bowl while having the DXM vomits was like looking into the eyes of death. Every time, I thought, “This is it; this is the time I overdose. I’m about to die. There’s no way I could possibly be experiencing anything this painful and horrifying if I wasn’t going to die from it.” It was truly a nightmare. And it didn’t ever just happen once. It would happen once, about ten or twenty minutes before it really kicked in. The  it would happen over and fucking over at various points in the night. And it’s so much more terrifying when you’re so high that you can’t even remember your own name.

Oh, and once you hit the second plateau, you can’t sleep. It’s just not going to happen. You’ll be lucky if it happens the next night eve, because the hangover can last about three days, and no matter how fucking tired you are, it keeps you awake.

A medium dose was just a more extreme version of the low-medium dose. It was harder to move at all, and harder to keep your eyes open. The reason I prefer the low-medium dose to the regular one is because the regular-medium dose is a much more solitary experience than the low-medium one. The world going on around you matters a whole lot less, and it can be hard to communicate, and even if it weren’t difficult, it still feels mentally taxing to do so, and once my friends or I hit that point, we’d often forego speech altogether and attempt to communicate solely through body language, which isn’t very effective when your vision is fucked up.

The medium-high dose takes you over the edge of the third plateau. This is an altogether different experience. DXM, being a dissociative, takes a large facet of your personality from you at this point. You feel very distant from yourself; it is as though your body is just a shell and you are controlling it from elsewhere. I couldn’t connect faces to names or memories. There was no past or future, there was only the right then, and even then, it felt as though the right then was barely there at all. Full-blown hallucinations that are difficult to distinguish from reality happen at this point. Talking is almost impossible. Walking can be done with assistance from a less-afflicted friend. Keep a bucket nearby. You won’t be able to get to the bathroom if the vomit comes knocking. This is a very contemplative high, and is no longer “fun”. When you hit the third plateau, it’s because you’re doing some hippie shit and want to explore your own consciousness. Or… you know, you’re doing it as a form of escapism. Like I was. Nothing felt more like an escape from reality than this, an actual, literal escape from reality. I did it pretty frequently, though not as frequently as my second plateau experience. This was also a very solitary trip, and I really enjoyed using drugs as a means to connect to my friends.

The high dose is the fourth plateau. I’ve never been there. I came fairly close once, and I shit my pants and “slept” outside on the grass near an office building that night, occasionally popping my head up to scream in terror at nothing. The fourth plateau is not an easy thing to deal with, and even coming close was kind of too much for me. My friend may or may not have been there. I’m not sure. I know that the effects of this stage involve not being to move at all, and not opening your eyes. To anyone watching, you look dead. You are full-blown hallucinating the entire time. Many people who have experienced this claim to have seen God, or aliens. It seems that this plateau has a tendency to make one believe that they’ve connected to higher plane of existence. I know that’s all bullshit, and that it’s all inside their heads and that it’s all a bunch of druggie nonsense, but it still sounds pretty crazy and intense.

My friend might have hit it. I don’t know. We carved things into each other’s backs that night. It was kind of a “becoming blood brothers” sort of thing, though we never actually mixed our blood with each others’. We were actually fairly sober during the carving. We had a bunch of medical supplies that a friend had stolen, along with a pack of clean, never-been-used X-Acto knives. We were smart about our stupidity, like we always were after we started taking DXM. (We started doing research on pills before taking them after we got hooked on this drug. Maybe DXM saved our lives. Funny, that.)

I remember hearing the sound of the blade cutting through my skin seconds before actually feeling it. I have a pretty noticeable scar now, though that was kind of the point of this whole operation. I’m not ashamed of that one. I’m proud. It still does symbolize my friendship with those guys. And I’m still friends with all but one of them. They’re really important to me.

But that night was the night before they had to take my friend to mental hospital. What he saw that night, he either doesn’t remember or doesn’t talk about it.

Anyways, that was a bit of a tangent. I guess I should finish up that twenty point scale thing now.

Basically, hitting ten was hitting the second plateau. Eleven, twelve and thirteen don’t change much, but thirteen is that high end of the second plateau I was talking about earlier. Fourteen is where things change again, and things won’t change past that until seventeen. Sixteen is where it gets scary, but seventeen is theoretically where you’re kind of never the same again. And eighteen is dangerous. Nineteen is either hospital or brain damage. Twenty is dead.

Not that it was easy to hit that. Hitting the fourth plateau puts you about three-fourths of the way to a lethal dose, so you’d have to take what you were already taking plus a third of that same amount to die. But I can’t imagine pushing it that far would be… y’know. Worthwhile. It just sounds harrowing. I’d rather try heroin. And I don’t want to ever do heroin.

After this is all said and done, you get the hangover. No sleep. It’s not going to happen. A shower is so much sensory input that it actually makes you feel sick. You probably should avoid driving. You won’t want to eat or drink anything, but you should. But you won’t be able to eat anything too dry and anything moist is just going to be sickening, so good luck. Even after forcing it all down, you might throw it up.This hangover is fucked up and can last, like, three days. Not recommended.

I don’t have much in the way of a conclusion, though I can totally see myself going deep on another substance in the future. Not as in using it, but discussing it. Duh. I just find the subject absolutely enthralling.

Fumbling My Way Through Life, Episode 2

You know something that irritates me? People who think that any creation that vaguely looks like a vagina is art.

There’s no real reason for me to hate this. It’s just… It seems like a such a common thing among stuck-up art people to love, and it’s such a low bar for art. It’s so easy to do: Make a painting of a tree where a knothole is kind of vaj-esque, and then proclaim how it depicts the secret power of a woman in the modern era or something like that. It’s so fucking cliche. And yet I find snobby artsy people heaping praise on those kinds of works constantly.

Find a better metaphor, guys. If one day dick-pics become more than just gross and are considered expressions of a man’s true erotic love in a world determined to keep passion hidden away, you’ll either find me homeless in an alley vomiting up blood and proclaiming the end of the world, or I’ll be at the top of the art scene because knowing what people’s naughty bits look like is apparently all it takes to be artistic.

And don’t get me wrong. All my life I’ve sort of wished I could be a part of that stuck-up art scene. I just want to be a little more Richard Hell and a little less Patti Smith, to make a music metaphor. Though if you don’t know who those people are, I’ve only muddied up what I’m trying to say even further. And even then, Patti Smith is far more talented than those vaj-tree artists I alluded to previously, and Richard Hell is actually kind of a deep cut, so the metaphor barely works in the first place. But I wanted to seem cool and knowledgable and stuck-up and you really should know who those guys are anyway. So yeah. Here. That’s half the work done for you already.

Be glad you learned something from this. If I didn’t make that allusion to old punk music, you would’ve come away from this with nothing but the term vaj-tree, and that would’ve been a truly awful turn of events.

She’s Married Now

You smile
At the one standing
Behind (me)
And I can’t help but overhear
Your stare
It’s louder than your heartbeat
It is vibrating the air

Am I a nuisance
To you?

I would love being your friend
If you were really a friend
But when a pretty boy comes walking by
I never hear the end
And I don’t see you
For weeks
Until he dumps you off on me

Then I’m number one
We’re so much fun
We’re perfect for each other
I’m like a little brother
There goes another guy
I get your voicemail yet again
Why is it every time you fall in love
I lose my right to be your friend

I mean, it hurts and all
To see you so in love
With literally everyone else…
But I’ve moved on somewhat
I need to look out for myself
So I can stay by your side
And you can find someone else

And I swear that it’s fine
I mean, friends, they don’t mind
But when I need you, you’re blind
To all the screaming in my mind
As if I owe you that much
For ever daring to like you
Like I should be paying you back
As if my love was to spite you
Like loving you wasn’t fair
As though all of my despair

Never counted towards

This lopsided deficit
That should have never been there
But the way you interpret it
I owe you your share
For bothering to put up with it
Because I ever dared
To ask you
If you cared
Like I do

I don’t want to be your friend.
I don’t want to be your friend.
Or your lover!

If you ever need a shoulder
Or just somebody’s blood to cry on
If you need carrying over
Or a hill of bodies you can die on
You need a sufferer to take your sins
And animate the dead
You’re dreaming, go the fuck back to bed.