an open letter to my dad and facebook

dad, you're my bff and all but please stop becoming a fan of everyone and everything in the adult film industry. it bums me out you're a fan of peter north, two and a half men, and cheese steaks. Facebook, you should really keep a better eye on this situation.

I hate doing taxes, but

love getting 'free money' from the man; the lunacy of this concept is not lost on me, I assure you.

Pardon my stream of thought, if you will, below:

All of my hard earned money is only represented by ever changing pixels I see on various screens. Why does it hurt so much to see the loan companies and landlords and cable companies and bars and grocery stores and restaurants and hospitals take my pixels? Since when did fucking pixels mean that much to me? Even the rare bills that wind up in my possession are worthless. Pretty pieces of paper with nothing to back them, just a means of exchange for more Excedrin pm. My pockets might as well be filled with egg shells and cum rags and finger nails and broken glass and dirty napkins and sticker backings and dead batteries and bottle caps and envelopes and candy wrappers and dryer lint and bloody tampons and ultra absorbent toilet paper. Same shit different name, and it all happens to be made of corn and oil and wood. Literally the same shit.

Can the wool be pulled even further over my eyes? Has this shit storm frustrated anyone else to the point of psychosis?

Something's gotta give. Perhaps it will be my skull as I pound it against the asphalt in a vain attempt to stop the madness.