The majestic endochrine legacy hatches from the mud. The dehydrated freeze-dried gloom flakes have been slowly spritzed alive with the collective saliva of my gremlins. The Daleks that zap the folicles off my scalp from inside my skull are screeching "I am saaaaaaaad, I cannot gleeeeeee!".

I can sense the onset stronger than any initial drug tell. I am stuck in the beginning stages of one of my debilitating chemical depressions.

Fuck. Whatever asshole. You've been boringly grumpy since the winter. You fulfilled your own unhappy prophecy. Begged for your genetics to kick in so you would have a clinical excuse to carry your storm clouds around, you fucking cynical turd.

Yeah yeah, leave me alone. Can't sleep, can't wake up. Can't continue, can't quit. Last edges of my fingers holding onto a coarse cliff. Fuck you, even if I did partially bring this on myself, doesn't help me drag my listless shell off the couch cushions.

I have been in a bad mood since before the turn of the year. Thought keeping my dick out of random strange pussy I snared out of bars seconds before the closing bells blared would help. Thought not taking advantage of my industrial strength liver and inhuman tolerance levels would help. Thought giving my Green Lantern power lamp a rest would help. Ditched negative people in my life. Pared down my responsibilities. Tried to ease up off the stress peddle.

Nothing fucking helped. I am drowning in my own bile. Just waiting for the warden to snap off my leg irons. Replaced rocks glasses with food shovels.

That's another issue altogether. Not that I have paid attention to the calories coming my way. I have zero clue as to why my ass has expanded like the universe. Apparently, instead of sleeping at night I am plowing through other people's refridgerators. The stomach has wrestled partial control over my motor functions and subconscious. Faking me out, with bribing the voices. Brief interruptions of them telling me to kick someone's teeth in with typical comical, "Hey! Look! France!", and ordering my hands to shove Pop Tarts into my mouth while I'm not looking.

I made a pact with myself sometime around when I was nineteen. I had told all the people in my personality control center that an orginisation wide edict will be adhered to. I would accept and like my geek freak ass. I would smile when looking at the morning spanky brushing his teeth in the mirror. It woiked like a chaaaa'm.

First time since I was nineteen I hate myself again. I hate what I've become. I hate what allow myself to do. I hate where I've let my belly get to. I hate that fucking reflection.

I think I might be in trouble. Believing that I am an ugly fat uninteresting troll keeps me hermitised. I can feel other people's voices rake into my shoulders when they talk to me. I'd rather reply with a shotgun shell than strum up the strength for any verbal responses.

Anyway.

Yeah.

Can't digest suburban coworker's neverending drivel about how their daughter used up more minutes on their cell phone than was agreed upon. Can't listen to another report on weapons of mass destruction. Fucking phrases like weapons of mass destruction need to be shoved back in the corrupt anuses of the info marketing leeches who created them. Can't jockey for space on my own sidewalk, while people occupy the streets like it's their backyard bar-be-que. If I hear about that village to raise other people's retards I will shit blood. I want to be unsaddled from other people's idiocy.

Don't know how often I am gonna update during whatever this form of psychosis that is taking over. Probably plenty of dizzying bullshit will fly out from the frontal lobes and seem instantly brilliant when I type them in. I'm just doggy paddling across the ocean.