Saturday, May 21, 2016

Dear Diary, from Handsome

Had a good morning.  All taters and onions, bitches.  Results may vary.  Users typically experienced drowsiness and irritability after four hours.  Consult a doctor if symptoms persist.

Had a good thought for the world.  The world sneered back at me in indignation.  This was not unexpected.  My well wishes are not generally met with a positive attitude from my fellow citizens.

Straight laying rail until lunchtime, when I feasted then lapsed into slumber.  It couldn't roll any better if I were an interstellar gangster holed-up on Tatooine.

The primetime television kept me from thinking about killing myself.  Not that I would be equipped for that.  Probably an unforseen mishap would ruin the whole thing, causing instead of death, some horribly painful injury that would remain obvious to all around me as long as I lived.

But a whipped pup, skampering under the porch, unless of course, you lay hands on my fried chicken.  Then I'll tear your arm clean off.  Imagine a pink teddy bear with blood and gore stringing from its mouth, then look into its black, coal, obsidian eyes.

I skeert my ownself around midnight.  The night terrors again.  Unconscious, tormented by my conscience, that part of me that comes into control while I slumber, that knows not hedonistic calculus, maybe that same part that did the well wishes earlier in the day-a part I need to kill off for all the irrepairable harm it has done in my life.

It's like I'm throwing out meat to the wolves, here.  I shouldn't be feeding these bastards; I should be stomping them.

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