You know nothing good is going to come of a night where the topic of rectal bleeding includes the words gobs and gobs. Really. I’ve come to the conclusion that most writers in my class are sick fucks. Ashes in hotdishes? Marbles in dead mom’s mouths? Rectal bleeding? Mortuary sciences?

I’m like Suzy fucking Sunshine compared to these sickos. The mind boggles.

I know at one point I pointed at Vodo and announced something like, “Yes, I am gonna blog this motherfucker.” But I can’t remember what it was about. It might have been funny, but probably not.

Despite all outward appearances, I am not myself these past few days. My insomnia has insulated me from everything. While this generally makes me numb, the death of Vonnegut has tinged my isolation with sadness. The insomnia has started to make me panic at night, which never helps.

I have become subdued and slow. Smiling takes effort. Laughter is forced. My brain continues to spin ever faster and faster but my reaction times have slowed, so I don’t even know what it’s thinking anymore.

This does not bode well for my short story due in seven days, but I’ll think of something.