Radio stations are horrible.

Have you noticed this? In our area, radio stations have been playing what they have the gall to call "A.D.D. Hour" mixes of songs. What does this mean? Why, it means they play the popular parts of songs and then blend them into other songs which have the same time signature. It is a way of assuaging the surplus of damaged teenagers who cannot listen to even a three-minute bit without losing track of reality and stealing a hood ornament or breaking a bay window out of horny anger.

I'm not going to stop there. I'm just going to come out and say it. All teenagers are fucking idiots. You know who you are. You are fucking disgusting. I hate you so much. I laugh when you run out of money in front of me a the corner store.

Pat.

Nice Pete's physical recovery technique. Jury's out.

I have been having more problems with my acid reflux condition since last I wrote, and my newly adopted natto-only diet hasn't been as effective as I thought it would. To add insult to injury, Nice Pete has been eating only tomato-based, highly acidic foods around me, and drinking large quantities of grapefruit juice, while staring directly into my eyes. His reasoning is that by taunting me with the things I can't have, my body will subconsciously adjust itself so that it will really want those things again. He says he's used the technique on a number of folks before, but he just went silent when I asked what the results were. Maybe he doesn't want to influence my progress. I can see how expectations might guide results.

Well, I've got to go, as Pete has announced the arrival of a pepperoni pizza and the thawing of another can of Minute Maid. Truth be told, I hope his technique does work, and fast, because I'm getting pretty sore from the way he holds my neck against the wall while he eats all this stuff.

SCREW heartburn!

I am no supporter of chain-style dinner restaurants, but Arthur was famished after Support Group tonight and insisted we stop at Sizzler. He claimed that it was his birthday. Normally, I abhor restaurants with such convoluted systems of signing in and taking plastic trays, but I was somewhat peckish as well and did not press the point.

The dish of the day was an option which enabled you to eat all of the fried shrimp that you cared to, and I took them up on that offer. I figured that all seafood carries Omega-3 fatty acids, and that it would be brain food. Plus, I could scrape the breading off and remove most of the oils and salt. That would leave me with seafood protein and vegetable-based marinara dipping sauce.

Woe is the consumer who tries to make gold where there is only betrayal. The dipping sauce proved enormously acidic, and left me with a case of acid reflux the likes of which you might only see on medical school horror video clip websites. I am ashamed to admit it but shortly after leaving the restaurant I had to pull over and ask Arthur, who seemed unaffected and in far too jovial of spirits, to man the wheel. Although he is an absolutely abysmal driver we did manage to finally screech and jerk our way to my abode, at which point I told him he could phone a cab and carried myself inside. I am only writing this now because the Bromo needs 15 minutes to settle before I lie down.

Goodnight. Pat.