Egg on my face. If you are one of my many friends or associates, you may have noticed I haven’t been myself for quite awhile now. I never shut up about how rad colors look or that I’m hearing pictures. For that, I apologize without admitting to any wrongdoing on my behalf. Most people who have met me from the years 2006 to 2019 report that I have licked their faces to “taste” their essence. I also apologize for that without admitting any wrongdoing.
Listen, I am well aware that I’ve spent an inappropriately disproportionate time not wearing clothes over the last thirteen years.
To everyone in my community, I most sincerely apologize. My body is a disgusting work of Satan’s miserable hand. Having to see my bare flesh is a fate worse than the harshest prison sentences. Trust me, I‘ve lived with this disgusting guts-cocoon my entire life, and looking at for that long doesn’t make it any better. Unfortunately, I am unable to admit to any wrongdoing on this account as well, however much it pains me.
I would truly enjoy nothing more than to hold myself accountable for all the terrible things I’ve done and the altogether unpleasant vibe I project into the world. How simple everything would be if I were completely at fault for my own actions. If that were the case, I could just become a better person and move on with my life, but that is not the hand I’ve been dealt here.
No, it seems that in a shocking turn of events, I have been poisoned.
I would venture to guess this has something to do with why I am always vomiting, which is yet another thing I’ll apologize for without admitting responsibility for it. And no, I still will not clean up any of my vomit. Sorry, but it is not my problem. It is the problem of those who have poisoned me.
You see, my body is teeming with large quantities of psilocybin and cathinone, which are schedule 1 drugs known for their psychedelic effects. The doctors and scientists who have studied me after my most recent emergency room mishap told me they have never seen a higher concentration of psilocybin in anyone’s bloodstream before they met me, and they weren’t sure how I was still living.
“Thank you,” I grinned upon hearing their compliments.
“That wasn’t a compliment,” they said upon hearing me thank them for their compliments.
The team asked to follow me around for a week to study my behavior and find out how a man who has never ingested shrooms or knowingly taken any illicit psychedelic drugs might be flooded with more mind altering chemicals in his bloodstream than actual blood. And while I do value my privacy, I welcomed them to follow me around while I masturbated into flowers in a misguided attempt to create flower-human hybrids. Again, I apologize but feel no accountability for these actions.
Only a few hours passed before the team discovered the source of my poisoning. Anyone who knows me cannot help but notice my cicada-based diet.
Whether it’s candied cicadas for a treat, wok-tossed cicadas or cicada tacos (which I call “tacadas”), I refuse to eat anything but cicadas. They are nutritious, as evidence by the fact that cicadas have been my primary form of nutrition for thirteen years now and I haven’t died yet. They are delicious, as evidence by the fact that I can’t get enough of eating cicadas. And they feature none of the ethical or environmental concerns associated with the meat industry.
Nothing gives me more pride than coming home with a sack of cicadas slung over my back after another fine day of emptying my thousands of cicada traps I’ve set up all across Northern Ohio. Obviously, I reject the constraints and damage of traditional gender roles, but I never feel more like a man than when I plop my cicada sack on the kitchen counter and show my family the day’s catch. Truthfully, this probably isn’t a feeling unique to manhood. Everyone likes providing for their family, and sacks full of cicadas is how I provide for mine. It doesn’t even bother me that they have never once thanked me for the cicadas or joined me in feasting on their bug bodies.
According to the team of doctors and scientists, though, that’s a good thing. Cicadas, it seems, are often riddled with massospora, which The New York Times says is a “parasitic fungus” that attaches to cicada nymphs when they dig through infected soil. “As the cicada matures, massospora multiples, digesting the insect’s insides, castrating it and replacing its rear end with a chalky white plug of spores.”
It is this massospora, which spreads even further through very sexy means that mimic popular STDs, that has been making me trip balls for thirteen straight years.
Much like the cicadas that make up the entirety of my diet, I live with a perpetual high, trying to mate with everything in sight. Whether it is flowers or a stop sign or your car door, I do try to have sex with anything that exists, usually (but not always) inanimate objects.
Yes, I apologize for this.
No, it is not my fault.
I defy anyone to say any of this is a product of wrongdoing on my part. Of course, I sympathize with anyone who I have harmed while under the psychedelic control of this dangerous fungus, but I am the real victim here. Maybe if I could easily buy FDA regulated cicadas like I can buy a steak at the grocery store, I wouldn’t have been poisoned. Shame to any society that will not sell me my favorite source of protein in a safe, regulated form.
And though the “expert” team of doctors and scientists “think” I should “quit eating cicadas” or I’ll “die or hurt somebody”, but I disagree. I should keep eating cicadas, specifically the ones with massospora attached to their rear ends. Their so-called “expert opinion” to which I am “legally required to adhere” means nothing to me. If anything, constantly tripping balls has made my life tangibly better.
Consider this:
- I have a significant other who is seemingly a series of prisms stacked upon each other to create an arc of refracted light so beautiful, I weep in its presence. And that significant other has a dope-ass job, I assume. Otherwise, I have no idea how we afford our house and all our stuff.
- My job is rad. I spend all day driving around Ohio, collecting cicadas in my giant cicada sack. It’s just me and my truck and my tunes and the wailing of thousands of cicadas screeching for me to let them out.
- People used to hate me, but now it seems like everyone loves me? I have so many great friends and I am universally beloved all throughout the universe. I have traveled the cosmos in my Mind Ship and have psychically met a myriad of strange creatures, many teaching me shapes and sounds and feelings unknown to the common human. And I’ve taught them what I know. Though my body is grotesque and vile, my mind is capable of sexual wonders to which only these aliens are privy. Don’t worry, sweet alien lovers, what we have done is a secret between me and you.
- Music is better. I hear notes and see colors.
- I only know how to cook cicadas. I pride myself in not having anyone else cook for me, but I learned to cook with cicada-based recipes and I really don’t feel like going back and learning how to cook other stuff. That sounds like a lot of work.
So yeah, I’m going to keep eating cicadas. And don’t you fucking judge me for this decision because I was high on cicadas when I decided this. Therefor, I cannot be held accountable for this or anything else I have done, am doing or will do.
Bye.