OH, BURY ME NOT

I think this is the first time I am actually aware of what a sensory overload is. I've literally locked myself away in my paper-strewn dorm with nothing but required reading, toast and vodka for this entire week. I am not allowed to come out until Sunday. I've reviewed a myriad of ideas from freight-train jumping journalists disguised as hobos to complete story breakdowns of Jack and the Beanstalk to how the internet is killing our culture and assaulting our economy to fetishism (more on this some other time), and it has basically come down to the point where all the words on the pages are nothing to me but columns of ants. I'm officially fried. I smell like Satan's asshole and my fingers are trembling like a gramps. There's no coke in the machine at reception, so not even my smallest of desires can be fulfilled. But the worst has to be that it seems my novel is threatening to shrivel into itself like a penis post cumming; and after all of yesterday's literary enlightenment too! NOTHING. FUCKING. LASTS.

So as much as my coursework is nagging me and plastering itself to the walls of my mind like a Kills poster (GO AWAY!), ME time must ensue as of this ungodly hour. Shower. Fridge raid. Spread myself out like butter on a bed of toast and watch a silly Almodovar movie, that being Pepi, Luci, Bom (isn't that the sickest cover art?). DO. NOT. DISTURB.