look through fucked up glasses. There's nothing even wrong with my vision. I see from here to there and everywhere other were. They trained me to think I need to wear underwear. I don't understand the point of underwear. Is it so you shit your pants at work, so you can just wipe up a bit and get back to work? I've never have had that problem. I want to have that problem. Maybe someday, I'll aspire to that. One time, in the seventh grade tripping on acid, I shat my pants. I went to the bathroom. I was literally tripping on acid.There was no toilet paper. Just the salvadoranians pissing in the middle of the floor. For some reason, they would always piss right in the middle of the floor. It was messy. Of course, I needed to be resourceful to clean up the brown stripes. I tore out some pages from a notebook. You never realize quite how slippery that is until you try to use it as toilet paper. If I was the dictator of Texas, there would be an anus cleansing device in every middle school bathroom all across the blue plains of Texas. The one that squirts. 'm not so sure the salvadoranians would ever be able to figure out how to use it. Almost everyone I work with is from El Salvador, and sometimes I worry about it. Sometimes, I worry that they're going to read about my rascist blogs. I'm goiing to go to work on a Monday morning with a brutal hangover, the emotional hangover, the impending doom, and they're going to ask me, "Pancho, why'ld you say all that fucked up shit about us? I thought we were friends." I'm deeply sorry. "On Saturday morning, we brought pupusas, and we invited you to eat with us. Why do you write all this bad shit about us on the internet?" Allow me to clarify, . . . I don't like pupusas. It's so greasy. And you're supposed to put this watery red sauce and rotting cabbage on it. And when I bring food to share at work, everybody is instantly full. Y'all don't eat my food, why do you want me to eat your pupussy? I still eat it anyway. Outside of work, I'm so totally hostile, but I'm as friendly as possible when it comes to my companyeros. Although, it's night and day, me and them. We work on commision. They all have babies. My only purpose for work is the rent and the beer and the food. It's cheap, my life. My life is cheap. I think if I couldn't have beer, I would shrivel up and die. If I told a psychiatrist that, they would be conscerned. Well fuck them anyways. Kaiser wants me to see a psychiatrist. "Do you hear voices? Do see things that maybe other people might not be seeing?" Well, fuck off. I don't want to do that. I like my mind. It's quite all right.