My tiny boat is all I have in the middle of this large ocean, here. As far as the eye can see, there hasn’t been anything but blue for days. It’s quite sad, really. The worst thing is that I don’t have my phone, or a book (didn’t really plan for this) so all I can do to pass the time is feel sorry for myself. Boy. I wish my wife was here so she could ignore me. Oh how I miss her stiff way, her accusations. But now all I have is my tiny cracked boat. I built this boat myself. Made it to spend some time out in the ocean, get away from the wife. Now, all I have is “me time”. What a stupid concept. Time with me? The person responsible for all my unhappiness? Oh what I wouldn’t do for an uncomfortable silence! To feel something real, and not just machinations of my own neuroses, for the first time in a long time. I resent every splinterous board of this tiny cracked boat. I wish it nothing but to perish (once I’ve left it of course). It is the only thing keeping me from being eaten alive, I suppose, so it is better than nothing at all. But if I had nothing at all I would have died by now and wouldn’t have to feel so incredibly bored. So again I say, curse this tiny cracked boat! Keeping me alive and hungry! What I wouldn’t give for one of my wife’s terrible dinners. I would devour every morsel, and I would complain with every bite. But now I’m gonna starve, alone, in this tiny cracked ol’ boat, bored out of my mind. Oh, how I miss my tiny cubicle! Tiny, yes, but unmoving! Stable and grounded…