I flushed out my rage with giggles and faux punches lightly disguised as humor and play. Lightly veiled logical smiles dance in a rage around their fumbling brains and furious fingers.

I feel the tears in my stomach when you're here. She can rage, she can rage, mud on my carpet, spiders in my drawers, food on my pants, quiet bills and loud paycheques.

It's different now that I'm less poor and more aging
You can always see this place again
Anytime you wish,
And we'll go stabbing
Myself in the neck

It's in the way that he poses
It's in the incense he burns
His stories are a tabloid magazine
He's always calling my bluff
He puts the weights
Into my little heart
And he gets in my room
And he takes it apart
His heaven is never enough

Today I climbed Mt. Everest by making pizza, taking a shower and walking to the store. I breathed your soul in my oxygen mask and I drank your absense in an ice shard. Tomorrow my heart beats again and I'll go flying through Nepal, my fingers visiting Lake Tahoe and Tampa Bay and Texas. You'll probe at me through some optic fibres and I'll smile at you or let my subconcious hate you, and you'll feel this and hate me too, but I'll treat you like a pawn and you'll have to love me in the end. I'll gloat and whip out my calculator and you'll be a number, divided by time, to gain a raw score.

A score that feeds me more pizza and earns me more trips to the little asian-run grocery store where smiles are free of charge.

And there's 5 minutes left. There's always 5 minutes left. I didn't have time to write down my thoughts and I have to do it again. I just grabbed a cd from your shelf. The Devil's Pleasures, and a real breast and a fake rubber cock attached to a rubber suit, and a philharmonic sound my father could appreciate...

The people who use the most visited website in the world are mostly nice, but they're the stupidest bunch I ever met. They shouldn't be allowed to own computers. My hand bones grate and I'm getting arthritis as I tell them over and over what a browser is, and how to copy and paste, and why they shouldn't have given their SIN and credit card numbers out to a random junk email.

V, you annoy me like all get-out. Stop coming round to my desk. I have to put up with you outside of work; why should I have to do so at work too. God, you pervade my whole life. Go the fawk away! PS. You're annoying. Take a hint. I will waste no more words on you.

M, just because you submitted my resume to your supervisor, which netted you $500, doesn't mean I owe you my vagina. Stop hitting on me. Please. It's slimey.

Oh, and Jan, please keep your deep manly voice lowered. I know you want to loudly announce to nobody how you need space from your beloved, and how well you are doing at your job, but the ten cubicles in your radius don't need to hear it. PS. You're fat. You and V should team up as jogging buddies. Maybe I'll introduce you and you'll hit it off, gobbling nothingness at each other.

I'm too nice. If only I was this mean and un-politically correct in real life.