Never was one for logging my feelings on a daily basis. Lax expression muscles have reduced it further. From four or five times a week to two at best. My muse has picked up a nasty junk habit. Hard to get her off my couch to sit on my shoulder and whisper ideas in my ear. She is more apt to slide up and down my dick for promises of a score. Her'ron muses give the best head.

I need to force stimulus upon myself. Stoking the lazy furnace. The pessimistic catastrophe beast that sleeps next to my heart has been most convincing. I don't think much matters on my happiest days. The quit quilt has felt most fuzzy. Responsibility free is dusting me.

Course, the more I cloister myself in this hermit hole, the more I hate it. The rodent invader is not helping. Three days in a row now I have woken up, hopped in the shower determined to march outside and accomplish meager goals. Such as purchasing glue traps. Food deliveries, internet porn, on demand cable and grubby comfy clothes have been lustier trappings. Staring at the uncashed unemployment check yet to be deposited. Fingering the locks and spindly beard yet to be pruned. Even avoiding nightlife. It smells pathetic in here.

Appointment tomorrow with social worker in the morning. Blood tests clean. Clean most likely. Doc mentioned contacting me sooner if troubling results came about. Course, this HMO I am on blows donkey. Earlier this year they prescribed pills damaging to my glaucoma. Take their vows of help with skeptical salts.

Christ. Guarding against motivation. Plugging the steam. Really have been an asshole to myself. Snap out of it you dorkwad slacker nostril picker chunderburger. Leave the crib for cracker sake.

The gears shift and it takes internal insults to downshift. Whole body shaking upset. Scratching at my brain. Begging all the voices to encourage some change. Stuck in another fucking funk. Want to fist up in the mirror, split my lip open, punch my face alive. Sometimes I just can't stand the chemical imbalance. The moment I decide I want out of it, a shiny red button should be pushed. Fucking snap out of it.

Thoughts of disease obviously contributing. My health dice pull up snake eyes and boxcars often enough to convince me that I am dead already. Plenty of unfortunates wracked with unbelievable pain and suffering that I have yet to know. Just feels like I've been handed a slow cheat. Cheated. Swiped of an honest shot. Not the sort to light candles, growling at the dark. Sending my empathy to it's room. No other Job's plight as bad as mine, right? I don't know why I believe I am owed. That my slice of merengue went to some undeserving silver spooned retard. Piss colored dreams.

What a wonderful six hundred marking. Actually caught myself scanning my Cobra insurance for evidence of psychology coverage. Stewing in my gravy seasoning misery. Third perspective probably beneficial. Liquified slug taste on my tongue from the childhood stint in forced therapy. Would have to be a wunderkind. Someone much smarter than me. I respect no one below my intelligence grade.

Such a genius I am that I can't rationalise draining the bile out my skull. Talking to a simpleton would just project fantasies on the backs of my eyes though, stabbing the shrink in the face, pushing them through a meat grinder, removing their fingernails with needlenose pliers.

Ah, fuck it. To hell with all of me. Shut the fuck up all of you up in there. Either start being constructive or get the fuck out and leave a vegetable. Lifeless husk would be more fun than this.