If anyone wants to know what the inside of my skull looks like, just ask. Been stuffed up in there for weeks now. When I'm not living inside my head, I'm cramped up inside my ass. I can also tell you what the weather is like up my own ass.

Firewater has turned on me. Syphilitic judas. The days of happy drunk spanky seem like a fairy tale now. Locked up in some ancient tome. Waiting to be rescued from the dank tower it's been sequestered to. Last three excursions out, took every inch of control to not unravel on my barstool. Barely wrapping my scarf around my neck, racing out the doors, cussing the tears away down the sidewalk. The gypsy vodka river has dried up.

Yesterday, I decided on Il Bagatto for supper. Too troll to leave the crib, ordered delivery. The lady who answered the phone was so nice and complimentary, I could hardly take it. Sweetly pleasant. Genuinely appreciating my business. I was unable to allow the algebra of her kindness to equate. I sincerely thanked her for being decent. Hung up the phone, fingers digging into my scalp, trying to keep it together.

I'm in a scary danger zone. What's left of my rationality realises that I am terribly sunk into a debilitating chronic depression. The chemical switch jammed on. Same rationality realises nothing much I can do about it. I could use help, and I am unable to ask for it or search it out.

Looks as if the scumlords will make beef come lease resign in June. Was told by the super that he had to refuse fixing my malfunctioning toilet as standing orders from the landleeches. Open tumor in my bathroom ceiling will continue to drip foul water until I get the boot. People blow off my concerns and insist that all I have to do is fight. Been turning the keys in this lock for over three years now. Aparently I have some rights. I don't believe it. I believe my gypsy ass will be homeless once again, clinging to the credit report of another.

Few of the fellow tenants apparently were hired on by the festering wounds to monitor the comings and goings of my residence. Cunt downstairs, who looks like an anorexic female Frank Zappa, and the upstairs dogface weasel ratboy midget. The cunt's name is Deb, constantly quizzing me on when the sublet chick will come back from Ireland. Like to chop her rabid pitbull into chunks and shove them inside her diseased dry twat. Micheal, the upstairs dogface weasel ratboy midget, being encouraged to drag his furniture around five times a day, slam the floor, play his horrible derivative acoustic guitar bullshit. It's been difficult convincing myself not to kick his door in and snap him in two. Make his ears bleed.

Larry, the redheaded retard stupor, is another one. Refusing to fix health issues with the apartment. Followed him down the street a couple times recently. Wonderful cinema inside my skull of him biting the curb, me kicking the back of his head repeatedly.

Depositing my guvment check this morning. Grinding my teeth at the idea that tax is taken out of my meager unemployment check. Noticed my dwindling balance. Will be necessary to cash in my retirement package. Not a single nibble on the hundreds of resumes sent out since October. I will be a drooling forgotten piece shit in some dirty welfare old folks home.

If benefit laden career doesn't come soon, I will need to rely on social services for medical attention. Meaning, I will lose my sight. Prevention is not this place's mantra. Strictly damage control. Just let my corneas whither away and the glaucoma pressure suffocate my optic nerves. They'll find me as a wet puddle on whatever street next to whatever building I can crawl and paw my way up. I can't deal with blindness. Just can't. I will end my life then.

Giving up on casual sex was such a superb idea. Pamphlets of willy lump lump rehydrated youth fears of cock disease. Plus, not as spry as I once was, harder to sneak out of some chick's apartment at five in the morning. Wasn't all that shady, plenty of amenable hook ups, but the fuck buddies have all faded. Serious relationship victims. Spurned numerous offers of free pussy this last half year. No pussy is free though.

Ain't exactly a pretty package. Solution to sexual frustration, yet spurning random balling, means a dedicated lady pal. Nobody wants a man falling apart. I don't want this man falling apart. Forced to smell his odor every morning. Useless sad sack. I can't ask some female to carry this burden.

My best homie is swamped in by a horrendous succubus. I represent freedom, and her codependent severe seperation anxiety clutches him away from me. Last time we talked, he had to sneak a call from the basement, while pretending to clean things up down there. She caught him, it was a five minute conversation. He told me that his slave master doesn't allow him to have a couple drinks after work since the parakeets get cranky if he isn't home on time. I think she is the worst trollop slime ever designed by the nether world goblins.

I know I need to create my own thing. Snap out of it and stand the fuck up. Just feel like I'm in some mud pit, and even if I get out I'll be covered in stinky manure. Physically sick to face the normality of daily life. Shaking and sweating a metallic water every time I think I have to deal with something new. Spider web thin veil that will be swept away, and everyone will know that I am insane and insist that I be strapped inside an institution. Personality erasing drugs and electro shock therapy.

I don't even know what the fuck I am saying. I am so fucking sick of myself. Been fighting since I was four, I can't fight any longer. I'm gonna go uncontrolably tremble and squint my eyes closed on the couch until things shut up.