Under The Desk    

Why is it always Friday that I break down? I'm huddled fetal underneath my wood-grain plastic desk, clutching the keyboard to my chest, sucking in sobs of air hoping that the next one will be my last. If Prozac didn't make my langer all flaccid I'd be sucking that shit down like it was Pez but - hey! I'm not using it anyways, what's the loss. I guess if the world emasculates me any more I'll grow a pair of tits too. Actually, I do have a pair of flabby man-tits sprouting due to my complete inactivity and lard-covered diet. I am truly degenerate, in the literal sense. As I age, I can feel myself rotting; ligaments and connectules become less efficient, creaking and scraping. Muscle tissue loses tension and degrades into fat. A tooth fell out, just now. I am rotting before I even have a chance to die. I originally started out to write about why women hate me, but it has devolved into why every organism on earth is essentially anathema to my construction. I am the Bizarro Human, speaking in fractured backwards, sheets of shale forming the planes of my face. God, I sicken myself. I don't even want to take the time to fix the spelling here. Going over and re-reading this would plunge me even deeper, except I'd also be laughing at my own ridiculous melodrama. I can't even see the monitor from under here. So: Monday: Will there be a bullet in my brain? Yes or no?