When I finish a conversation, I always walk away coolly into my apartment, close the door quietly so as to not call attention to myself, and fondel a steak knife, contemplating how easily it could slide into my jugular.  The warm, happy sensation of my own blood, something truly unique to me and great in its own way, spilling out all over me, bathing me in my own-ness.  Too bad I'd hate myself too much to enjoy it, so don't worry.  (Not as if you'd care, anyway.)

Last night I couldn't sleep because Ron, my neighbor, was having violent sex next door to the tune of Handel's Air.  Ugh, what putrification of such holy music.  Tomorrow night I'm going to the Renaissance Fair.  I play the viola de gamba, if you didn't know.  There's a picture to the right.  I really love the viola de gamba; it's quirky in a way to which I can claim.  But don't get me wrong, it doesn't make me happy.  How could it?  It's a viola de gamba.

Maybe tomorrow I will tell you of my travails there.  Hell, you could even go, if you wanted to.  ...But I'd hate for my air of mystery to blow away like my lust for life, so I won't.  Sorry.  By the way, here's a little dialogue I had with myself earlier today (before my previous post):

MICKEY: Hey, Mickey, how are you?

MICKEY: Go to Hell.

MICKEY: Why would you want me to do that?  I'm you after all.

MICKEY: It doesn't matter, go to Hell anyway.

MICKEY: But have you ever considered what going to Hell would entail?  I don't think I could do it.

MICKEY: You could at least go to hell mentally.

[next 20 minutes spent in mental oblivion as licks of imagined fire tickle MICKEY's feet until they bleed, imaginarily]

[MICKEY exits imagined hell, returns to apartment]

MICKEY: Thanks, Mickey.  You could go to Hell, too.

MICKEY: Already there.

THE END

Tonight I'll be playing all diminished chords. 

Get a life, Mickey.

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