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I’m ending it all!

Spindled August 21, 2005.

The screaming stars return to mock me in their cretaceousness. The singing spiders, oh! how they sing, oh! how they sing their songs at the tops of their lungs, oh! how painful to listen in the emptiness to their songs, and the stars screaming, in the empty void that is my Trooble-less life!

My vacuum cleaner talks to me, in doggerel Pig Latin.

They must go away at once or I’ll… I’ll break into seven pieces, by jingo, and fly to the moon on the back of Osama bin Laden! I’ll press my luck and wring their necks and ring their phones off the hook and off the books, whining and bellowing for the Englebee Troobles to exist as I thought—knew!—they had. I’ll buzz the clouds in a cantankerous old goat, strafing the grounds before me as I plough onward, laughing and chortling and guffawing loudly about the complete and utter meaninglessness of an eight-sided traveling case and tote bag. I’ll buy five for the price of four, and three for a dollar, and I shall do a vicarious, serendipitous rain dance on the precipice of eternity, failing and flailing, writhing in ecstasy as I plunge to the depths of the sea, the Holy See! An AK-47 on every roof! Autoerotic suicide with a smile!

I’m ending it all, baby, and on a high note, too!