I have to trim my fingernails twice a week

I was reading about tangle theory on the internet when I realised how long my fingernails on my right hand were. It was an odd thought, given that I'd recently trimmed them not four days ago. I thought about this for awhile and came to the conclusion that my fingernails grow at an absurd rate. I calculated the normal person (given their gender and/or propensity for hard drugs) most likely trims their fingernails no more than once every two weeks, or at most once every ten days. Why, then, do I find myself needing to clip mine at a maximum window of not more than six days, with a median chronology of approximately four? I don't really understand this.

But then I kept on thinking, as I studied up on John Conway's retarded knot theories (I say retarded because while the logic of mathematics retains a semblance of understanding inside my mind, the algorithms involved in making a nonsensical distortion like tangles a common thought, I become lost -hence, retarded) that there must be some sort of cosmic -and ironic- formula for being physiologically cursed.

And besides, why do we need actual human beings to lounge about and ponder the geometrical abnormalities of a tangle or a knot? As fascinating as patterns may be to those of us (and I use the humanistic 'us' loosely here, given that my self-identifying trait is somehow lost on everyone but psychological professionals) who are continually spurned by their existence, the relevancy is more or less nil.

I find that listening to neoclassical pieces while writing produces a calming effect. Emma Shapplin in particular is amusing to me, though her fusion of high-pitched K-pop vocals and a more operatic soprano are confusing. Whereas more traditional singers such as Charlotte Wessels are one-sided, at least Emma has a variable depth to her instrumentation (in this case, her voice). All the same, Charlotte Wessels is better looking so regardless of any aural talent, I find her music more wholly entertaining.

And besides, she sings in English, so that's an enormous boost in points for me.

In all honesty, I do believe there is an overarching methodology to placement within the larger cosmos. How can I have three siblings who are biologically sound to the point of medical flawlessness, and I am shafted rectally? That doesn't seem possible, given that my distortions are both genetic and spatial. Certainly inherited genes might skip offspring, but what sort of predisposition must I have where I can succumb to even the most meaningless deficiencies? For example, the MTFHR gene mutation I have is so preposterous that it's impossible not to roflmao just trying explain it to my physician. How rare must a gene mutation be that an osteopathic doctor is not even aware of its existence? Not simply unfamiliar: entirely unaware.

It's not as if I have a set schedule for trimming my fingernails, but over the past few weeks I've observed my tendency to trim them on days I do my laundry. I generally run out of clothes every four-and-a-half days. So that's not quite twice a week, but I'm allowed to generalize because I am intelligent. Probably more intelligent than you. Unlike you, I am actively losing my connection to reality.

It's a fascination of mine to predict just how psychotic I will become before I either bottom out or torch myself. There is likely a formula to this as well.

Where A signifies the medically-defined constructs of insanity; B is my current decline; C represents the amount of hullucinations I am currently having; D is the amount of fucks I give.

I have likewise determined that Emma Hewitt is far more hospitable to me feeling good. Normally I would avoid listening to music which makes me wet (excepting Katzenjammer, because Katzenjammer). I have recently taken up the music-listening hobby of metal and emo-punk -specifically In This Moment- because of their calming effect. It's just noise. Blank, white, often-painful noise.

I do find it disturbing that most of those emo/screamo songs I have come across are so angsty. Like, who gives a fuck if you've just broken up with your high school boytoy. It's high school, you magnanimous twat; that's what it's for. University, as well. And by that I'm really mentioning the terms of experimentation with narcotics and dating Air Force lesbians. No, I'm just kidding. Those were two different girls, and both of them were equally disturbed -mentally and vaginally.

The majority of illicit substances I've ingested have been via prescription. The summer I had my spine mended via titanium screws, rods, and a nifty mesh cage I was so blasted with painkillers I couldn't even obtain an erection. My sex-crazed girlfriend at the time was so annoyed by this she began answered my SMSs with "fine" and "K." But behind her back I was self-doubling my doses of oxycodone so I could get high enough to forget that my non-titanium rod was non-functioning. How ironic. It works just fine now, however, and that makes me feel pretty good. I've never masturbated using a mirror though. I don't know why I would want to look at my balls and/or grundle while I fap away to internet porn.

That's not to say I haven't also experimented with the kind of drugs you have to know somebody who knows somebody whose brother's cousin's ex-wife's deadbeat ex-convict father-in-law sells cocaine to supplement his disability. I'm neither admitting that I've ingested cocaine nor denying it. Actually that's a sort of a dualistic non-truth, because had I not been thinking of cocaine in terms of my own memory, why would I not simply have said 'marijuana' or 'LSD.' But since there's no way to prosecute someone who sniffed a little lady four or five years ago, I'll go ahead and mention that it's pretty awesome. All of the warnings I received growing up, all the useless abstinence propaganda shoved down my throat, all of the rhetorical anecdotes I'd heard did not prepare me for just how non-addicting it was. I did a little, I moved on.

That was back before I began seeing dark figures, hearing conversations, before my room started flashing, and I still had my sanity to look forward to. Nowadays, I would likely inject cocaine into my butthole and go for a swim. (Seriously, that's a thing.) I don't mean to condone drugs, but they really are an effective form of escapism. If that's what is needed in life, where else do you turn? Meaningful relationships? Temporary. A good job? Pointless. Pregging up your SO? That's just stupid. Films? Music? Fleeting. I imagine being chronically addicted to drugs would supply a platform to fall back upon; a way to release the daily anxiety of being trapped. Claustrophobia in space is a reality I have. When I am in public, when I'm at a party or in a crowded place I feel so constricted it induces panic attacks. But if I dose up on drugs (prescription, mind) I feel invincible.

I believe that the rate of fingernail growth is somehow connected to my other problems. It must be. Here is a chart I've drawn to demonstrate my line of thought:

I know I've forgotten one or two small tidbits, but most of the major instances of my fuckage are included. I do not think a journey into my medical history A4s would be a valuable expenditure of my time, and I'd much rather demonstrate why these values are so interconnected. I've spent a few hundred hours comparing my immense knowledge of mathematics with those actually present in reality and I've created the following formula, from which determining my Fuckage Variable is simple:

So there you have it. I've mathematically proven that my Fuckage Variable is 21605149270.28947. Sadly, as is always the case, it truly is a variable number; math, like most sciences, is fucking nonsensical and one small change can easily balls up even the simplest algorithm. In my case, determining the agoraphobia coefficient (R) is difficult, since it's an ongoing condition. Theoretically it should be limited because at some point I will die and the ceiling of R will have been reached; for the purpose of determining my value, I took the liberty of tossing R and instead substituted 0. It seemed much simpler that way. Likewise, N(1) can vary significantly depending on your definition of 'sexual partner.' If you're a hardcore Christfag, you probably include fondling and tonsil tag as sexual contact, in which case that number is quite a bit higher. But you can just go ahead and fuck off to Pluto and pray to your deity that he/she will provide you oxygen and faster-than-light travel. See how that works out for you.

Just to have something to compare my value with, I've taken the liberty of providing what I believe is the average human being's Fuckage Variable:

So you can plainly see I am 21.6 billion times more fucked than Jane Dildoe on the street. Since math is irrefutable -just like my logic- I am now able to prove I have it worse than you. How does that make you feel? It makes me feel pretty good, actually, because now I have a number I can show anyone who doubts me. Most people can't tell I'm psychologically disturbed because I fake everything so well (would it be easier for you if I were hurting more?), but now I have evidence.

I've also recently upgraded my internet speed. My existence is further qualified by the fact that I can download an album in two minutes as compared to twenty yesterday.

BRB, clipping my fingernails.