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Dear Scabby: Have I lost my punk cred?

Dear Scabby: I am narcoleptic. It really affects any sort of productivity. A doctor once prescribed me an upper to help it. It helps a lot. However, it turns me into Patrick Bateman. I would like to live a normal life and not fall asleep driving anymore. I’m really worried about getting into an accident. -YOUR LOCAL NARC

Dear Local Narc: What kind of uppers are they? Do you have any extras laying around? The pharmaceutical industry is killing America’s youth and stealing the last remaining morsels of creativity from your yakked up soul, which is why I recommend surrendering the rest of your prescription over to me at your earliest convenience.

Doctors will tell you that diet and exercise are essential to staying energized throughout the day, but I’ve found ruminating about my failures as a wife and mother to be much more effective at preventing sleep. If narcolepsy persists, learning to lucid dream is a great way to feel productive while being unconscious. I recently read, “Lucid Dreaming For Fucking Idiots” and it destroyed my already-fragile concept of reality. Part of me thinks I might be asleep right now, so I guess you could say I’m living the dream, if you will.

If all else fails, there is a medieval torture device used during the Spanish Inquisition called the heretic’s fork. This double-sided fork is attached around the neck and prevents sleep by threatening to puncture the area under the neck and above the sternum if you start to drift off. It’s a little extreme but so is falling asleep on the highway.

Dear Scabby: I’ve been dating someone for 6 months and he is taking the relationship much more seriously than I am. I don’t really want to be with him, but I also don’t want to be single. What should I do? -AIN’T THE 1

Dear Ain’t the 1: Six months is nothing. I’ve been wearing the same pair of socks for longer than you’ve been stranded in relationship purgatory with your insignificant other. I just celebrated a one year anniversary with a falafel sandwich in my refrigerator that I fully intend on eating, but enough about me, let’s get back to your selfish tendencies and codependent inability to be alone.

You don’t seem to care about yourself or anyone else, which is very punk rock of you. Keep up the bad work. I also found myself in a similar situation decades ago when I started dating a nice simple-minded guy who offered me little more than food, shelter and unconditional love. Luckily, I had the good sense to leave him and our four children before things got too serious.

They say good dick will imprison you, but I’ve that found if you have enough issues any dick or dick-like object can become a prison. Get out of this relationship while you both still have some shreds of dignity left and discover that being alone is nowhere near as lonely as being with the wrong person. Find a hobby, practice self-love and if the seclusion gets too much to bear, just go back to him, no harm done. Convenience is king.

Dear Scabby: I’m married, have a family, and a great job. I’m worried I’ve lost all the punk cred I had when I was touring with my band and living in a punk house. Should I embrace my life as a married square or should I try to go back to my youthful ways? -PREVIOUSLY PUNK

Dear Previously Punk: You’re right to be paranoid. Financial and familial stability are the two leading causes of cred death. You went from disputing corporatism to disputing parking tickets, but it’s not too late to reverse the damage. Take a break from resealing that drafty window and talking to your neighbor about which diapers work the best and get back to your roots.

You’ve heard the expression, “it’s all in the name.” I bet that your kids call you “dad,” your wife calls you “Previously Punk,” and your recently rescued shelter dog doesn’t give a shit what your name is unless it happens to be “walk” or “good.” Everyone in the house needs to show you some respect and start calling you by your old punk name. If that means changing your answering machine message to “You’ve reached Chris Corpse and the Missus,” so be it.

While you’ll never be able to reclaim your former identity completely, start small by turning your house into a home. Add graffiti to the kitchenette backsplash you just had put in and then move on to punching holes in the newly renovated walk-in closet. Consider every sink a toilet and remove the numbers from the front of the house. Your address is no one’s business but your own, with the exception of your landscaper.

Scabby is the self-proclaimed mother of the Richmond, VA hardcore scene (and also a number of illegitimate children who have been trying to get in touch with her via ancestry.com.) She came this close to getting her associates degree in psychology from an online program that was later shut down for reasons we cannot disclose due to an ongoing investigation. Originally named Gabby F., she started going by Scabby after an untreated bed bugs “situation” in her first squat made national news, and is assumed to be anywhere between 50 and 100 years old. She looks forward to answering your most pressing questions and encourages people to push each other mentally, emotionally, and literally. You can contact Scabby at [email protected].

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