Latrine mood. Furry street chewing gum, catching each footstep, bottom of the Puma's mood. Desire to hermitise myself for a stretch. Don't want to explain myself or fend off attempts to conquer my curmudgeon attitude to humans. I need people repulsors and resistors hovering around my body.

Struggled yesterday against the tide of coworker bullshit and server madness just to leave the jobby early to be tortured. Regular scheduled prodding at the eye doc. Post opthamology tooling makes me shiver. Always feel like I escaped my restraints on the chrome like metal laboratory tray, while the aliens take a comet juice break from researching my body with a myriad of offworld scalpels and probes. Sun beating down on me, irises saucer wide, searing spikes of light, direct current to the main pain kernel sensor in the center of my brain.

Fighting every urge to stand up and hand in my corporate slough, triple finger all department heads, and scrape off all identification of the taints that the jobby has put upon me. Generating bulbous sacks of seething alkaline bile to launch furiously at all these coworkers. Contemplating becoming a ditch digger so I never rely on computers to put rice in my bowl. Imagination developing mechanised cock attachments that can jackhammer any silicone valley device to a pile of granular bits.

Rumors to have the blinds open again to the cave I work in so important visitors can gawk at geeks whilst listening to the chocolate factory sales pitch. As can be imagined, I am eagerly awaiting having crowds peering over my shoulder. Think I'll scoot my jeans down some so my butt crack blazes all the day long.

Since my department changes the schedule on a monthly basis, making it sinfully difficult to plan out a life, I've burned through much paid time off in one day clusters. Calendar calculations prove out that I probably will be kept from seeing my family this year. No annual Thanksgiving goodness. Second favorite holiday squashed by this chunder belch circuit farm. Uneasy to even investigate the potential fun smashing, if the jobby fucks up my Halloween night with scheduling pant loads.

I've flaked on Firestorm three weeks in a row now. Typical behavior. Avoiding discussing my issues with the state of affairs, deciding to ignore them instead. Talentless producer. Alright, talent takes a vacation on him on stage, but he has some modicum of producing accumen. Performing on stage he should not. He is gearing up to move our venue to Times Square. I'd like to see Times Square sink into a mammoth underground rockbeast's anus. Impossible to subject my compatriots to the ravages of plastic tourism central. If the group goes there, I believe I will bail. Not an entirely horrible occurrence as my anger towards the performance chops of a couple individuals in the group has materialised loudly in front of audiences. Will have to have a talk. I hate talks.

My posse no longer has the fruit on the bottom, social yogurt all stirred up. Interestingly enough no one is pissed off at me. I suppose I've kept asshole spanky in the den. However this results in all parties looking to me for advice and mediation of the squabbles. I'd just like to smack people on the back of the head "Snap owwwduvit! Fahgeddaboutit. Chill ninjas, chill." Homies need to handle their shit correctly. No desire to change diapers presently. Drinking buddies should not be complicated.

I need my dick wet on a regular consistent basis. No exposition on that topic necessary.

Then the christmasising of last year's downtown shitstorm is determinedly hopping on my tits. Self felching network televisual spawning of global encompassing reams of bullshit waxpaper creating a lone gunner mentality brewing in my cranium. Let's make a holiday out of it! Retards. Perpetuate the cycle more you spunk soaked bar rags. Shove your symbolism in your bottomless canyon cunt. See, so upset that I used the ugliest word I can think of. Maybe, hey just maybe, if everyone relaxed a little over needing to stick your red, white and blue cocks out, things around the bubble might ease up and be less dickwadish. I was here. I understand the vast gravity of the situation and the consequences of action and inaction. The bandaid has to stay on for a while. Forcing the sucker off with all this Oprahish sixty minute healing is completely misguided. Gaaaghack! I'm ready to put shovel to faces. Shut the pie hole now, fucking back away from the war tip. You need vacant memorials and boobtube special presentations to feel better and remember what happened one fateful day? I'd like to roll you in chunky and moist manure, sink you into a nest of grubs, and cover the huge pile with regurgitated limburger.

Chew off my dingleberries.