[Izulde]

My hands are shaking, the lines of my palms faults upon which the earthquakes of my trembling are founded.

Did that make sense? No, I don't think so. But then, it's hard to know right now what falls in the realm of Logic and what is in the camp of Outlier Analomies. Redundancy, thou hast made me thy bitch.

The last several hours spent looping the same two Hanson songs on incessant repeat. Am I obsessive-compulsive? Some have suspected in times past. Ah, not let us think of that Pennsylvanian hippopotamus. Fat women are the most effective sex drive killer since castration. Unless of course you are a member of that farcical group who ludicriously call themselves BBW Lovers. Yes, love large ladies largely, lads. It'll be all worth it when you're staring down at their corpse twenty or thirty years before their time after the Knave of Hearts has attacked en masse and staged a successful coup, the Queen too bloated with bureaucracy of fat to resist him.

I myself was thin in my youth and to this day remain deliciously thin-armed. Would that I could say the same for the rest of my body. There is a gut to my stomach, my wretched waist ever-expanding. Exercise and a good diet are what I need to take on, but lazy me is loathe to make the effort.

The last time I ate? Misty is my memory; I do not remember. Too, I can not recall the last time I stole to the sanctuary of sleep. A day ago? Two? When one is deprived of dreaming in slumbering, the so-called real world becomes altered and surreal as a matter of compensation.

Hark! From the white box named The Fridge, there comes the lucky leprechaun green summons of a Mountain Dew.

I go to answer.