Sorry...

I got nothin' and it's late and I'm hungry and I'm tired and I wanna go home.

Put that in yer fuckin' book.

Jesus, Bill...

Don't "Jesus, Bill," me, motherfucker.  I don't wanna hear it.  I don't have time for your shit.  I'm tired and I wanna go home.

Why are you being so hostile?

I'm not being hostile!  I'm tired and I wanna go home!

So, go, then!  Get on with it already!  No one is holding you here.  Leave!  But stop bitching about it, you whiny little baby.

Fine, then!  I don't need you to tell me to go.  I'll go when I'm ready to go.  I don't need you anyway.

Ya big baby.

+     +     +

Wow.  That was productive.

You're welcome, by the way, for that worthless little creative turd I just shit out into your computer.  I'm sure you're the better for it now, as am I.

Ugh.  I need a shower after that.

And I was so proud of what I created yesterday.  I really thought that was worth something.  Following that up with this miserable excuse for "creative output" feels like a monumental failing of a level that calls into question my worth as a human being.  Now I just wanna go home and sit in my empty bathtub and masturbate into my underwear with my face buried in a tub of ice cream until I pass out in a puddle of my own excrement and shame.  Or maybe I'll just get McDonald's on the way home.

Six of one, really...