So its not the best day in the life of spanklin. Especially when he's retarded and refers to himself in the third person. I am mentally battering myself for not waking up today nose buried in the hair of my lovely lady, and then easing myself into continuing on writing my new book, trippy sketch, or developing my comedic and acting crafts.

Its an absolutely gorgeous day in NYC today, and all I wanna do is shy away from it. Puke on it more like. Trapped under my bridge looking for playful goats to ensnare and devour. Tossing darts at youth obviously enjoying the fact that they reside in NYC, and are in institutions of learning and creativity. Fantacizing of the day they realise the pile of refuse their life really is. Belching up bile on the sunny sidewalks. A permenant fog cast on the city.

Its gotta happen for me. Cause if it don't I will truly crack. I can't continually live this day in day out office politic, commuter drudge, vapid techno speak, bathing my edges with alcohol and drugs, increasing seething contempt for all those around me. I know the consequences of me not making it. My future address a padded cell. Lots of happy drugs and scheduled t.v. times. Of course its fucking bleak you asshole. What the fuck do you think is driving me mad, the fact that I will live happily ever after? Don't toss your hope vernacular my way.

Shit has got to go drastic.