Yeah - well another day in paradise. The calendar keeps on chuggin and who knows what the fuck's around the corner. And so on, as Vonnegut says. The hatred is flaring good today for some reason - I guess it was just time for a little bit 'o big old hate to show up in my scull today - I have this strong desire to post a complete list of a few of the people I hate but they most likely wouldn't appreciate it and it sucks that even if you hate people you have to respect there feelings because you could get arrested or like sued and stuff. So like another thing about today is like I just wanna sound like a teenager for some reason. So like get off my back ok. Raw! The coffee is rotting my guts and it tastes like liquid metal in my mouth. No. No real news about anything - just more feelings - I am struggling with my novel right now - every time I look at it, it pokes me in the brain like a stick in dogshit - but it is about the only thing I am optimistic about - yeah my book - whew is it hot in here OR DO I JUST FUCKEN HATE EVERYONE!!!!

Do you ever feel trapped - like your stuck in something and can't get out? You're stuck in a really narrow hallway and can't move. Your car is boxed in and its midnight, there's no one around. The bathroom door of a single toilet restroom is mysteriously locked from the outside and you are in there fiddling with your hands and breaking into a cold sweat wondering what in the hell you are supposed to do?

I wonder what it would be like to know that you were about to drown and had to live in that instance for eternity? That moment when the heat-panic sets in and you just realize that something beyond your control is happeing to you. And as the cliche goes there is nothing you can do but try to solve the Rubick's Cube of your situation.
The water quickly rises as you desperately try to solve the puzzle but you are getting so anxious and paranoid that you can't seem to concentrate too well on you puzzle solving. You decide to take a few seconds and distract yourself even if you know the water is climbing. It is rising and it won't stop until it fills your world up right to the top.

"How highs the water Moma?"
"Five feet and rising son."

Your finger nails have pulled away from your fingertips and the sides of your hands are raw from beating on the door. Snot sprays and spider webs down your face and clings to your lips over your mouth and chin as you sense your impending doom. The door simply won't open and there doesn't seem to be anyone on the other side.