RE:

Friend, are you there? Can you hear me? Come in Friend. The static is running high, between my temples, between my legs... Wait, what? Between my legs? That doesn't sound right. Scrambled eggs with jellied slug for breakfast. Bagels with cream jizz. A bleak bleak sort of morning. That's the theme. Cynical, too. Oh God, what an infectious disease cynicism is. More viral than AIDS, and only slightly easier to cure. Recession occurs in 98% of the cases. But you know that. You know because you lay on your bed unwilling to get up and face the litany streaming through your head.

Never good enough, you are never good enough, you are Never Good Enough. The insecurities run cracks through your core. Slide their claws into one, apply a little pressure, and VOILA! They have split you open to be served like Maine Lobster. Are your insides cooked? I think they are raw. The cold. The snow turned grey slush by dawn, and the infernal wind threatening to overthrow your grip on self control.