The key is to make it that bizarre that they dont ask for proof

I did a Wrong Thing and the voices say I have to stay in and cut myself.

The mere sight of your oily, pallid, queasy, bloated face reminds me of a drowned baby and sickens me to the very core of my being.

Work, like, sucks, and stuff... y'know?

I have formed a powerful vacuum between my rectum and my ride-on sex aid and so cannot get off until nanny orders me to "dismount pony!"

I am on eBay bidding for a ticket to be adopted by Madonna.

I am hopelessly depressed by the grey, empty futility of existence and the void of wanton drive-by pointlessness that characterises your puny fucking job.

All my socks are full of cum.

I have to bury all the dead prostitutes that are in my shed they are sectreating ming juice onto the patio and the smell is attracting Kebab sellers