Please, help. I'm about to lose my head.

Watch the little hand... that bastard. It just goes, "tick, tick, tick" so very slowly. Keeping me confined here at me job. I don't know how much longer I can take this, I really don't. I am trying to keep my eyes shut and just lie here peacefully. "This is my job," I tell myself. "To lie here peacefully. Deep breaths. Deep breaths." But I really want to get up and running screaming. Anywhere! Anywhere but here. Please! God! Let me work at something I enjoy and feel fulfilled by.... God? ... God? These fuckers are going to shear my brain from body.

Please, help Henry Chinaski.

Some guy with a camera hunted now the drunken muse of the phony beat poet and author, Charles Bukowski. Due to books such as Post Office, Barfly, & Confessions of a Man Insane Enough to Live With the Beasts, Mister Chinaski has been ostracized from his native city of LA. "I couldn't take the ridicule any more," he slurs in unreleased footage. Henry isn't asking for any monetary sum from you or the Bukowski estate, just that his name be crossed out of every single existing copy of those books. So please, do your part.

http://tympanictheatre.org/

Please, help. I AM? Codependent.

oooh.... yeah. I've been that couple. You've been that couple, too. The one that no longer has any singular identity because both members are so wrapped up in being a part of the pair. God... if any of you see me behaving like that again, assassinate me. And before I die reattach my balls, would you?

Please, help. The mimes are a terrible thing to waste.

I know, I already uploaded this as a t-shirt idea but I never published it as a comic. So here it is. Let me know if you want the t-shirt.

Please, help. My work is captivating.