Bullets still drying on the countertop. Toilet paper roll on the trash can. No work tomorrow for Musette and me both. I’m guessing we’ll finish The X-Files tonight. I have been wanting to watch the other show on Netflix that Gillian Anderson is in. I think it’s called The Fall or maybe The Bridge. And the new season of X-Files is coming out soon, so that will be great. It will be good to see Mulder again. We also have the movie to watch, which I guess he is in. I mean, I’ve seen it before but I’ve forgotten most just about everything about the X-Files from when I watched it when I was younger.

Hunger pangs. A full day of writing, chatting, sharing, reposting, and liking. Thick, solid shit. Karma on Reddit. Reputation increasing. These are the days of our lives. But the dishes have got to get done, because I think it will be grilled cheese for dinner. Do we have bread? I check the cupboards. No we don’t. But we have cheddar cheese, and a can of tomato soup. Goddamnit. People acting like I’m some sort of fat American slob who can think of nothing but Black Friday. But I’ll tell you, Brooklyn can be just as depressing as Poland. And there is a legitimate fear of death and terror in every second that accompanies the starvation I’m currently living through.

And my wife just keeps on bitching. I know. I get it. Okay? She breaks her back for our life but this is the career that she chose, pursuing it along the path of culinary school that I paid the way of, dragging us, the dog and me, through Portland and now here on the trail of those Michelin stars seen as so mandatory for us bringing children into this world. Don’t ask me how it makes sense. I’m just here doing my due diligence, pursuing my own career path, raining down the little black text. Sprinkling your windows with whatever I can ream from the light and spirit of The Lord within and beyond whatever maliciously thumping jokes it lays upon my sanity. Fighting with my locus of control for a breath of fresh air. Coming to you live on the midnight hour, bringing you that special of the Foetal man. Poor pathetic soul that I am. Why does she always have to be such a grump!? Makes me want to throw shit. Bang my head against the wall. That’s all I do, day in, day out, no relief! No alcohol. No pot. A schmiggy that’s working shitty. Just shove it down my throat and choke myself to death!