Please adjust your fine tuning.

From Pathetic Life #4
Saturday, September 10, 1994

I’ve been feeling poorly for days, so like a good sicko I stayed in bed all day. Overdosed on vitamin C, read lots of zines and about ⅓ of Les Miserables, until the book began to bore me. Everyone says it’s a great novel, so I tried, but — Victor Hugo, my ass. The protagonist is too ceaselessly righteous to be believed.

And along the same intravenous vein, let’s look at a few brief snippets from the zine’s mailbag over the past few days:

“… As I read more of your journal, I begin to worry that you might be considering suicide. That’s no answer, Doug …”
—Aaron Jacobs

“… I hope the keeps you from putting your head in the oven one night…”
 —Jeff Koyen, Crank

… Just remember, Doug, there’s no easy way out, and some of us really care …”
—Phillip

“I don’t know if ‘enjoy’ is quite the right word for my feelings about a zine with as much pain in it as yours, but I’m fascinated by it …”
—Arthur D. Hlavaty, Derogatory Reference

This is becoming a recurring theme, so let's put an end to it, pronto. 

This is my life, folks. It’s not The Brady Bunch. I have few friends and keep my family at a distance because I prefer the space. I live in a hovel because it’s cheap, and leaves more money for movies and ham sandwiches. This is the life I’ve chosen for myself, and I’m generally quite pleased with it.

I reserve the right to get depressed now and then, but nothing here is a frantic plea for help, honest. If it comes off as some kind of suicidal wall-to-wall woe-is-me, please adjust your fine tuning and enjoy the angst, as I do. I’m about as happy as a hermit can be, but SWEET JESUS WHERE’S MY PROZAC?

This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.

Pathetic Life
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