I just accidentally shoved my mother down a ladder.

This is his very super uber secret blog.

This is his superhero underground HQ.

He's so damned afraid people will think he feels sorry for himself, which he does.

The real question is, will he be alone. Like abandoned. In the end. The spotlight blinds him, he can't see the world around him, he only sees his hands and they're so blown up and big and bright, and it's weird that these hands belong to him. And he can only see these hands and feel the spotlight burning against his face, and this light could be his rage, his hate, and he can only hear the people whisper around him in the darkness.

The thing is, he ain't going to beg. The thing is, he doesn't even care what the voices are saying.

This is what's called "blinded by rage".

What's the next step?

Self-destruction? Any good ideas?

Last night he was convinced he was going to die if he closed his eyes.

So, instead he wrote this.

He gave it an absurd name. He called it: THE LUDICROUS THEATER OF VENGEANCE AND VINDICATION, which was quite ludicrous on its own.

It was one of those terribly bad ideas. Or one of those ideas that go terribly bad.

But he wrote on.

Because he wanted revenge. Because he wanted to scream at people who weren't there at the time to scream at.

Show, don't tell. It was getting tiresome.

His head was buzzing.

Sweat left his pores like little drops of poison.

He swore he'd never drink again. Is that telling, and not showing?

They hooked him up with a therapist for Thursday afternoon. How exciting.

He had to make a list of all the things that made him sick. Or crazy.

There were many things on the list. And the list was ridiculous.

He just wanted to get drunk and not think about the things on the list.

He thought, what's wrong with me?

The sad thing was that there might not be something wrong with him. Goodbye treatment with haze-inducing pharmaceuticals. Goodbye numbness.

He didn't want to become better. He just wanted the others to become worse.

Fuck it. The list drew on and on and on, and it could all be fake.

A fake itch. A manufactured ecstacy.

Insecurity was one of his weakest elements.

He thought of the piece he was writing, and the list, and his manic yet unsupported enthusiasm, and he wanted to smash his head against the wall.

But there was snoring coming from the next room, and it sounded like it was being roared into his ears.

And then another snoring sound replied.

The ebb and flow of snoring, the amazing, complex orchestration of sleep, fucking hysteric.

It made him uneasy.