Dudes:

Last night at poker I won 65 dollars and a hangover.

Tartfogler, again:

Seriously, my intenstines writhe about, their tapeworms' booming laughter reverberating in the half-digested, half-excreted nightmare tubes that persist in their squoggling ferrfitude day-in, day-out. Each tapeworm exclaims foul, putrefying things in its own unique song of disgust.

"Habbablab, frorox and fwopfwoppery," says one.
Another, a deep bass of a tapeworm, must be one of the tribal elders, mutters something along the lines of "klaxnafrab poxling yordlefish." Their infernal language fills my consciousness and destroys what shreds of sanity I have left.

Your utter failure to get laid has driven me to this, straight to this. And I shall never forgive you, if I remember your name, if you exist at all.

Swottling tartfogler:

I heave with disgust at the description of your expedition. The gulozags chitter their merriment and eep-eep birds swarthel around, hop-hobbling about, dancing their dance of disdain. Their dance of disdain disdains none other than you, you swottling tartfogler. Your pathetic attempt at distracting them with tales of woe does no good.

-Brian

Kit:

This time I am the other side of the whole love-destroyer-of-worlds coin, and it does feel somewhat better. I have no inclination towards gouging out my own eyeballs. However, knowing that I have generally wrecked someone who I am honestly quite fond of and is interesting and honest and noble and quite wonderful in many ways does not feel good. It does not feel good at all.

There's no going back when the something missing is fundamental and it's all still horribly unfair and when it's unfair to the other person instead of you it makes you feel like you've killed a puppy, not to belittle. It's worse. Because the puppy's just dead and not lurching around. Because it's just a puppy and not a person.

Fuck, man, fuck.

-Brian