My doctor tells me to avoid reading newspapers. He recommends instead I listen to soothing classical music by Brahms, close my eyes, and imagine the news I'd like to read about in the newspaper. Like the end of the Ukraine invasion by Russia. North Korea overthrowing their dictators and becoming a democracy. Abundant rain in the Sub Sahara leading to amazing crop harvests that feed everyone and leave enough to export for huge profits. A federal government program that features handouts of free cotton candy. So far it's worked pretty well. My mental health has improved markedly. There are no longer voices in my head telling me that sugar is poison or that Donald Trump is another Caligula. I can smile again. Meet people and shake their hand with a smile and twinkle in my eye. Even use my pressure cooker to make beef stew again -- for the first time since 1995. But I have to confess I miss the feel of newsprint crackling in my fingers as I turn the pages from wars to disasters to Dilbert. Carrying a newspaper on the bus, reading it on a park bench, rolling it up to beat my dog when it soils the carpet -- these are all tactile pleasures I need to replace. So I put rubber bands around my wrist. And snap them whenever I want to buy a copy of the Washington Post. My wrist is black and blue. And I might be developing gangrene -- there's a dark blue line running up my arm that throbs with heat. But at least I'm not obsessing about global warming or living in dread of Alec Baldwin. Only thing I still have trouble with is lying. I don't have a dog. Don't beat it with a newspaper or anything else. In fact I don't have a carpet for it to pee on. No house. No job. I'm homeless, actually. And don't have a doctor. I'm making all this up while sleeping under a layer of newspapers on a park bench. Have you got a quarter?
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