I yelled in the shower my frustrations at ricecakes and said to myself I’m only awake to go back to bed. I have about fourteen hours until then, so I’ll do a bunch of jumping jacks on broken glass. That’s all it is. Some of the stuff is Jell-O. Other stuff is cold cement. But all that matters is that I go back to sleep.

I felt like a pirate without syphilis when I woke up this morning. It was the same as throwing a clock out the window. I usually feel like a craps dealer with his head in the oven, but maybe it’s the medication I’m taking that helps me feel a little more Jack Nicholson. I told my doctor about the dogshit I’ve been snorting, and she increased my dosage. I got worried. That’s something I don’t wanna hear. I would rather hear, “I’m glad things are getting better. Let’s lessen the dosage.” But I rarely ever hear that. In fact I don’t remember the last time a doctor said that. She said she needed bloodwork again. But why? What’s she going to do with it?

The sun is like an orange dipped in rancor. I stand in repose, as numb as eggs in a lazy refrigerator. The milk is full of snot. I boil inside at everything that can’t be redone. The devil reincarnate laughs at my disappointment. Maybe I should too. Oh, there are a lot of things to be disappointed about. It hovers like an alien craft and shits plums on my head. Maybe I should glue myself to a pillow in Saskatchewan to feel better after all the barrels of panther piss I’ve had to swallow. But that probably wouldn’t make a difference. I can’t remember the last time I held a knife and felt like Christmas on a Friday. The cars fill the air like jackhammers on vanquished cats. And all I can think about are Tetons skinning lions. What colossal rancor. But I don’t blame myself. It’s those who play Uno and try to shoot me with raisins from a BB gun. What hell they have to pay. Anyway, enough languid hostility for today. I still have to squeeze these grapes with my steely thumbs and crap out more penguin sweat. At least it’s not the pallor skin of a turtle.