I have a mouse living in my house. He's about three inches in length, wild, has bulbous eyes, and a pelt the color of winter. He's quick. I'm attempting to lure him out with saltines, he lives in a comfy knook beneath my father's CPU, but he refuses budge from his hiding place. He's cute. I named him Slick.

Digressing.

Life is nothing, but a dull hum and a digusting lack of sleep. I feel that I wish to be disdainful to all civilians I greet. I'm too tired to care to do it, anyway.

Eyed several times by Pawtucket residents. Realized that I definitely dislike most men. Women, well, I've always hated most of them. I've given up on humanity a long time ago.

Hoping I'll be able to read my short story on Pearl Harbor. (I doubt it highly, if nothing else, it is metaphorically gory.)

My muses are back. Confirmed preferences. Shit. I didn't want to know that.
(I should have guessed, but Rachel lolls about in denial for years.)

I think increasing my depth of insanity by the day.

(Maybe I should work out more.)