By Danny Gallagher
Stress is my “fourthmeal”. It bleeds over into the rest of my time, like a diabetic enjoying that late night Chalupa that he knows will someday earn him a spot on the receiving end of an organ donor list.
What’s a guy to do? Every video game is a teeth-grating deathmatch for virtual glory and defeat is only an admission of not wanting it enough. Reading a book might be relaxing to some, but my serotonin-lacking brain sees it as a bloody “Mortal Kombat” style showdown between my attention span and the words on the page that mock me every second I’m not looking at them.
Even exercise, according to some medical experts, is a great way to relieve stress and tension. I just skip it because squeezing into spandex in a Jazzercise class would just produce more stress than even I would need.
Nothing has ever been able to cure the stress beast inside me. It, along with the repressed frat boy, quiet inner child and overeating self-esteem monkey that also live inside me, cannot be fed. I really should charge those bastards some rent.