Attention all 9th-grade, hackey-sack, death-warmed-over, trenchcoat-mafia-wannabe punks:
Statistics show that you have come to my site searching for grotesque graphics featuring the grim-reaper holding murderous porcelain dolls. You want to read about screams in the night, you want to feel pain and suffering. You want to fight insanity.
If you are actually expecting to find those things here, I suspect you will be sourly disappointed, and for that, I apologize. You won’t find a hint of death on my space. The only doll face you will see belongs to my precious 2-year-old. You won’t read about screams in the night unless I find steaming piles of dog crap all over the floor on my way to the bathroom at 2:00 a.m. Pain and suffering abound, but not in the bloodbath-chainsaw form you so crave.
For the poor people who are lead to Fighting Insanity looking for a ray of light in their very real world of depression, I hope you found at least a laugh, maybe even just a quick chuckle, or a small smile. I know that I have it quite easy as far as the battle against losing my mind goes, and that there are others that do suffer far more than I ever will.
But for those of you whose mommies just picked you up in the family Lexus from your summer job of mowing lawns, you are looking for more goth than you will ever find on my space. Please don’t go stomping broodily up to your room in your expensive new combat boots–please don’t try and make a voo-doo doll of me. That will only take up more valuable internet time, and besides, you probably have to get ready to go to the mall. (Make sure you have carefully applied a fresh coat of white face paint.)
I am truly sorry you were mislead. And I mean that from the pits of my evil black soul.