Ruth Bader Ginsburg died yesterday. What a month in a spectacularly shit-fuck of a year. It was her time, I get that, let her get all the rest she can now. I can’t help feeling exposed, like one of the last protectors of my realm is gone and I only have like two left. The Obamas.

Do you know what a lipoma is? It’s a fatty tumor just under the skin. When I can’t sleep, often I am shamefully scanning YouTube for removal videos.  I know it’s gross, it’s like a guilt like masturbation in the 50s or something. But the thing is, I have a couple so I’m anxiously insane about getting them out. BUT…get this…one is on my brain. Yup, you read it, I have fat on my brain.

This has got to be the easiest joke-teller fodder available. And since I am overweight well, I get it. You little fat fucker. I may be fat but I’m pretty happy with myself. It’s taken a lot of time but I know I’m so much more than my body so, I could be hated on and not care honestly. But the fat on my brain, it’s pisses me off. Like why? Of all places, the thing I view as the engine to what I love the most—knowledge, is imperfect. And not in a like valiant disease way…just fat.

I know all this because I used to get migraines every week when I had an office job. No one knew why so the scans ensued. Turns out, office jobs are kryptonite hell and they found a spot of fat. It’s in no way dangerous and wasn’t the cause of the headaches.

I’m sort of mad at my brain now that I’ve been thinking about it so much. Maybe I can blame my pitiful performance in college chemistry to it. Like guys, I failed that due to a tumor, brain cannot compute (computer from 80s voice). Who the fuck needs chemistry to be a zoologist anyways? Fuck that! No one! I just wanted to take care of the GD tigers!

So what I’m saying is that it’s not my fault I don’t work at a zoo like I wanted.

*Art is Mark Ryden or Rydan

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