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You feel like this was a bad idea. You fucked up. You can't make sense out of anything right now. You try so hard to make sense out of anything but there's nothing. Complete dissolution; the parting of the sensory. You feel the insubstantiality of your existence brush up hard against your desire to be real. You're just grasping for any piece of a fragment of a shred of a wisp of something solid, anything. You hear a distant clicking noise that feels solid, feels real. But that's out there in the real world, where things click and events happen, not here in this bizarre empty expanse that alcohol has taken you to, where nothing seems to exist but a delirious soup of thought, image, feeling, symbol.

Where do you go from here? You won, so why does it still not feel real? At least once a day you'll get a sudden certain feeling like you will wake up again in Sburb and then every time something seems to be going right you'll get batterwitch reprogrammed and schoolfed youll get game overed or doomed timelined or ooh ooh ooh how about getting slabcrificed in a moon crypt by rainbow jackbarf youll be right back in the game and its logic of horrible simplicity that somehow breeds miracles like every day from now on youll die next to your friends and awaken in flaming rainbows as a goddess a goddess a little prancing maid a-waltzen in the meadows causin every lil thing to bloom to bloom to bloom beneath the wave of your spoon as you swing it gaily to and fro to and fro

Sorry. You're sorry. You apologize for your odd little diatribe there, and you promise that it will be the last weird diatribe anywhere in the entirety of Problem Soothe/Commedia. It's just that this tripped-out, psychedelic alcohol has you tripping so much balls... sorry, sorry, you fucked up your grammar, your precious orderly neatly grammar, so many balls, tripping so many balls...

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