Can I blame the previous post on hormones? Sure! And while I'm doing that I'll go ahead and blame this whole Web site on hormones. Rare moments of miserable introspection sandwiched between endless amounts of egomaniacal white bread, making one big LOOK AT ME AND HOW GREAT I AM sandwich. Honestly. Therapy would be more efficient, but for some reason it's a lot more entertaining to blab at a bunch of people I can't see than to blab at one who kept smoothing her trousers and unobtrusively checking the time, who I couldn't figure out if she was a lesbian or not, whose name was listed in the phone book with another woman with the same last name, who who who who.
My skin's breaking out, my tits feel like someone's been using them for punching bags, and for about 24 hours there everything Jack did made me want to run around naked with my hair on fire screaming IT'S A BEAUTIFUL DAY WHY DON'T YOU TAKE YOUR SON TO THE PARK SO I CAN LAY HERE ON THE LAYER OF CRACKER CRUMBS WE CALL A CARPET AND CONCENTRATE ON THE LITTLE SALTY RIVERS STREAMING DOWN MY TEMPLES AND POOLING IN MY EARS.
And while we're at it, honey, can you quit taking care of everything? Because since the moment the Nut was born I have been acutely aware of my total dependence on you. I have no more money of my own, I can't cook, I have less marketable skills than the average middle school graduate, all I can do is feed spearmint gum to a little boy who thinks the height of comedy is to bend over and fart.
So, yeah, normally I can sweep all of this under our disintegrating nylon Home Depot faux-Oriental rug, but for some reason, with the tits and the zits and the hard look at my total lack of direction and purpose, yes, tears, and the inappropriate sharing of drunken self-portraits. When I start posting song lyrics, feel free to shoot me.