Clutched By Anxiety Compliments Vladimir Putin

Yours truly borrows a phrase courtesy the great bard also known as William Shakespeare's Hamlet: "For 'tis the sport ... Hoist by one's own petard meaning "victimized or hurt by one's own scheme”. The aforementioned excerpt hopefully describes the fate to befall president of Russia. Nevertheless, unseen talon sharp claws... dig deep into mine psyche soft underbelly piercing bedrock of core (puss) being akin to butter knife slicing thru peanut butter and jelly unable to preserve an iota of calm while stuck in said emotional jarring state, which eruption of cataclysmic agitation analogous to a bomb going off inside my head, where a mishmash of frenzied discombobulated brainstorming angst doth glom, whereat the "little boy" inside this man called for his mom, who when this aging "baby boomer" chap just a kid and experienced devastating, jarring, and paralyzing tom malt chew hiss in dom mitt able inexplicable fear, though NO obvious danger threatened, NOR warning signaled "BEWARE," nonetheless adrenaline coursed from head to toe as if clear and present harm lurked quite near, inducing a host of physiological fallout symptoms darkly freighting this sole son with nightmarish scare, whereat no escape, nor exit no matter how fast a sprinting tear found me running mile a minute only to end up nowhere, except smackdab right in the same place in relation to despair, which translates to mean... yours truly could not run and hide, as quickly made clear to me then, and now, though at present scores years older, the balm courtesy of prescription medication popped inside mouth from palm olive smoothed hands, as if this teetotaler betook himself prom men aiding albeit with tumblerful of liquor getting feigning noggin all a jam aware that nothing amiss, would be evident, sans lower gastrointestinal exam, nonetheless diet restricted to graham crackers and broth distilled from ham hock, once again thwarting vegetarian ambitions damn!