how manic depressives ever get anything done

I'm listening to the drums (just the drums) on Calla's "It dawned on me" right now, so it seems like I could grab a chisel and drive it through the nexus of the universal skull with the force of my fist. I am sweating from my run. I am bored with my job, but why not just get another? This province is where jobs are made. Dumb ones, of course, all the logic of a cancerous cell, mucilage for the Frankenstein economy. But so many. There must be a flip side to all of that money. There must be a place for it to go besides crack cocaine and black leather couches from the Brick. Someone, somewhere, must want something like me.

There is snow on the ground now. It looks like it will probably not stay quite yet, but its being here at all is the membrane of the monster moray, its perfect jaw clamped down on everyone's mood, the dullest of disorders. Another year you didn't quite make it out. There is romance in staying forever. But there is no story.

In spite of quitting smoking, I've actually lost about five pounds in the past month. Things are looming, things I'd forgotten about. Bone furniture is being carved and smashed in the hollows of my ball joints. I am being underscored. I am being Born Horny.

I gotta shower. I gotta update my resume. Wait for me?