Crying. I'm becoming quite good at it. I'm doing it as we speak. The waterworks are coming and I don't know why. That's not true, I know why. I'm broke, my career is disappearing, I have a headache, I'm tired, I'm tired of being tired, emotional eating is at a record high, I have writer's block, I'm more unmotivated today than ever, I suck. Fuck, I suck. I'm sad. And depressed. If I want to drop the F-bomb and start rhyming, I will. I just did. No one wants me. Or my ideas. Damnit, my ideas are good. My forehead is breaking out. I haven't had zits in over a decade. What do I do? Put some cream on it? My hair is flat. And greasy. Split ends are taking over. I've bitten my nails down to the nubs. Hot. Sexy. You know you want this. My groove is gone. I need it back. If Stella can do it, so can I. Right? Nothing's right. Everything's wrong. No zip. No zest. Just blah. Lodi Dodi, I need to party. Beer. Vodka. Strike that, give me chocolate. And ice cream. And Pringles while you're at it. Cry cry cry. Sob sob sob.
Whew, I needed that. Thanks for listening. When's the last time you really cried?