Just gonna free associate, Mike.

I give myself crap for too many things, and apparently the need to write overwhelms all. I don't know what the fuck the point of anything is, I'm just lost in some abyss traveling at a rate of 3444 four miles per second on the Thomsonomic Reactor Scale, Thomson being this guy who had a hard time and was taken away in a white coat to a lab where he was put under a microscopoe and studied for four hundred three years until he was discovered by a moon bat wearing a radar sensor sent on a mission from flying electric mill operators. Robots, really.

OK, I'm going to now try to write an entire short story in three sentences off the top of the dome, and make it as depressing as possible.

After a day of drinking hard liquor, Thomson heard a knock at the front door of his dingy efficiency apartment.
"Who is it?" he called out, but he was already preparing his sleeping bag for the night.
"I'm an insurance broker," came the hopeful muffled response.




(I wrote this last night. Lack of sleep does wonders for one's sanity.)