Don't take me too seriously but ...

I feel terrible.

Dying little deaths, and not in the fun way.
If you could stand to hear it, I might catch you all in utter thrall, but one man's misery is another man's bore. You'll all be hitting the snooze button before long, and I (dreary as I am) will drag my hollowed bones and fragile sentiments to the cold comfort of my living room futon; where I will sleep to the glow of the science channel, until the infomercials rule the waves. Sucks to your ass-mar Brittan! (That's a dual allusion to both "Lord of the Flies" and the patriotic British tune of "Rule Britannia" for those who didn't know. I'm just sayin')

Chemicals in your brain meats; they make you think some funny things. Funny, boo-hoo, not Ha-Ha.
I bet you're laughing though.

cut it out.

The will to change the channel leaves the room, then the building, then meets up with Elvis for a fried banana sandwich and some coke. (Up the nose with a rubber hose coke, not the soda.) where it promptly dies ingloriously, in the can. Reason has little in common with this psychological vortex, drawing me downward into the recesses of the broken bed-couch I poured myself upon. The spirit of joy in my otherwise static existence, evaporates. It is the very crux of the matter, that one cannot make sense of this, or reason with it. It is a pure form of vanity. A solipsistic ego collapse; a singularity. I cannot talk myself out of it. I just have to keep a stiff upper lip, and muddle through. It'll pass, as it sheds it's layers of childlike impudence and attention seeking drama. I'll have myself an old fashioned tantrum! Ah, that's better.

Have I lost you yet?
I hope I have. How masochistic could you be?