‘Cause I’m Going Hungry….GOING HUNGRY YEAH!!!!

Well, it’s the start of week 7 out here on the Akademik Shatskiy and things are moving right along. After an extended stay in port for repairs we are back out at sea firing those guns like…well like you do. I probably could have come up with something cleverer there but you see I haven’t been myself lately. I’ve been tired and lackadaisical. A general malaise has washed over me in the past few days and I can’t really put my finger on the catalyst. It could be the sun exposure. It is absolutely oppressive, and our lookout post offers no protection to the sun so I’m really hoping this suntan lotion works but I’ve acclimatized to the sun weeks ago. After all, I have been out here for almost 2 straight months. I could be depression. A lot has gone on back home that I can’t do anything about the least of which being the simple fact that everyone I know back on land is actually getting on with their lives while I’m not. Time just stands still out here and all I can really do is just accept and cope with the decisions that get made regarding me in my absence. But I can deal with that. Depression’s always been the one fuckin’ muse I could never shake but I’m used to it and I got good friends…and I’m like Shirley Manson. I’m only happy when it rains. Nope, I think I’m weak because we’re running out of food. In fact, I’m almost positive that what it is.

Yup, you read me right. The Shatskiy’s food supply is Shatskied. You’d think with all the time we spent in port they’d have restocked, but oh no, not us. Playing it safe is for suckers. We’re riding it out. Sailing till the food runs out and we’re scheduled to run out of food on the exact day I leave. Talk about luck huh? Even still we’ve cut back, rationing if you will. A balanced diet is hard to acquire from a nutritional standpoint because what we’re running out of is fresh fruits and vegetables. Oh we got plenty of potatoes and cabbage. I don’t see us running out of them anytime soon unless of course the Russians’ vodka cache dries up early, then we’ll have to sacrifice the potatoes for distillation purposes. And I’m WAY okay with that. God knows some hard spirits distilled in a makeshift still, deep in the bowels of the engine room, would ease the pain.

It’s actually not that bad. It sounds worse than the reality. A week with less food ain’t gonna kill nobody and it’s good to push the body a little bit. Keep it hard. Keep it lean. I think it’ll be good for me in the long run, just another character building experience. Like getting the shit kicked out of you or circumcision (I can’t remember it but you know some character was built on that day.). Pain is a great teacher and when faced with good humor and a positive outlook you’ll come out of it a better person with a new lease on life and an even more concrete and resolute hatred of Republicans. Plus, it’s always a good idea to build up a tolerance to pain just on the off chance you get kidnapped and tortured. You’ll want a high threshold or you’ll lose the respect of your captors. I don’t know where I’m going with this, but I will say men that aren’t circumcised tend to be more whiny and pretentious and way more unhygienic. The filthy heathens also fold a lot quicker under the pressure when being tortured. It’s because they weren’t introduced to that pain at a young age. Benedict Arnold wasn’t circumcised…and we all remember what he did.

Okay I’m done. I got nothing more to say except you really don’t know how much something means to you until it’s gone. I feel really bad having said so many disparaging things about the quality and flavor of Royal DANSK cookies. Whenever I was offered those cookies, usually at holiday functions, I’d always tell the host something to the effect of, “Thank you, but I wouldn’t eat those things even if I were stuck in the middle of the ocean on a boat with no food.” And here I am. Left to ponder what I did to karma to deserve such an ironic, cosmic slap in the face, longing for one of those crumbly, dry as fuck, hardly sweet discs of wasted flour. Not really. I’d probably still pass if offered one. But I will say this; I bet, right now, somewhere my evil grandma is fuckin’ around with a miniature voodoo doll of me and a ship in a bottle and laughing maniacally. I’ll have my revenge on her come the 23rd when I get off this ship. Oh yeah you better believe I’ll be taking care of Grandma on the 23rd, probably on the 24th too. Ditto the 25th. You get the idea.

Author’s note: To all you losers out there, the title of this piece is an homage to the song, “Hunger Strike,” by the Temple of the Dog collaborative. The latter part in all caps to symbolize Chris Cornell’s wailing pipes. Are we in Tiananmen? Because y’all are a bunch of squares.