Initiation of search: Five a.m. Completion of search and subsequent collapse into sheets: Seven a.m.

Plenty of mental inventions to fuel the insomnia pyre. Mapping out every inch of my apartment, and the historical storage context therein for each smidgen of space, attempting to locate my precious sketchbook. This is how I would have spent my time staring at the shadows of my ceiling while sleep escaped me if I hadn't found the treasure.

The Pungent Swashbuckler is on point. My eyes feel sour and sting. Back of my throat has a clinical splash drip down the back. Haven't worked with El Swashbuckler in some months. I didn't miss his stink. Kinda odor just stabs you in the face. His dander probably withers plants.

Tired and clunky, no desire to suck back his fumes. Nasal invasion!

Tired. Boooooo. The night before a looney bin idea wouldn't leave me alone. Mascot War! I was developing a video game in my mind, two player fighting style, and all the characters are mascots of sports teams, pro and college. They'd maintain their permenant maniac smile or grimacing snarl expressions. Bits of bodysuit cloth would fly off as they attack each other. Completely viscious street rules fighting, nut shots and eye gouges. Oh it would be sublime. Mascot War! If I see an advertisement for what I just described, the vengeful fist of spanky will descend from the clouds.

Fist would be a good name for a boy. Who would fuck with Fist? Of course you name a kid Fist, and then you notice that he likes brushing the hair of all your daughter's dolls. Later in life Fist is a different, more twisted apropos name. Fist likes to fist fuck. My son Fist would be one bad ass cocksucker though. Dats ma boy!

Alright, I was thinking of complaining about some more stuff. My cranky tank is running on empty. So later for you.