Some Ways You Can Check if You Have ICD-10 F33.42

I need help. And support. And maybe a little reality check. I need help and support and a reality check. Mate, I needed to win this fucking game, but I got so hungry that I ate all my own Pawns. Threw the Queen overboard, and forgot to teach my Horses how to swim. Sinned like a sinner on a budget and now the Bishops hate me. Man, I need help. And support. And maybe a little reality check. I need help and support and a reality check. Please! I needed to save money, but now I have a girlfriend who likes to eat duck and touch noses at live music. And friends, I have friends. They like to grab drinks at the local pub where the law students hang out. They like to grab drinks and write funny stories with me. I like to buy the drinks. I like to buy the check. And lungs, I have lungs (this is another word for addiction). They like to throw my money into the registers of Egyptian men who ask how old I am and believe me (if I hadn’t said “believe me" you wouldn’t have doubted me, but now you’re probably thinking I lie about my age). I like to lie. Man, I need help. And support. And maybe a little reality check. I need help and support and a reality check. Me out. I’m leaving. But not before the whole world looks at me. Swings its eyes down to my feet then up to my own eyes. The world and I have insane sexual tension. We want to fuck each other so bad. The world wants to fuck me. Over there, on the other side, on that table. The world wants me to go to the other side and wait naked and bent over a table. I want to fuck the world too, but I want to kiss the world first (foreplay or whatever). Then after thirty seven minutes of kissing, I’m pulling out a medium roast dildo and sticking that shit up the world’s ass—that is, of course, after removing the large stick (nay, branch) that the world has up there. You see, I need fucking help (like not help fucking, I got that shit down by now). I need help. And support. And maybe a little reality check. I need help and support and a reality check. For 20,000 USDollars, you can buy help. The Foundations will give this money to anyone, unless anyone is an adult suffering from adult pain. The other day when I skipped the Poetry Award Ceremony to stand beneath the Pulitzer building and smoke a cigarette, I experienced such sharp adult pain that my Bank (of America) called me to inform me of suspicious activity on my account. We’re all wired here. They know when we’re sad. They know when to send the wire, and they know when to cut it too. They know when to tell us to cut it out. But we will never learn how to do this. We will learn the code. It’s interesting. I think I will make it my new password.