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This is not healthy. I'm going to snap. I'm going to grab the bag of golfballs that my former roommate left behind and stalk through the neighborhood in broad daylight beaning people in the head with them, wishing they were the Jon Vicente who bailed last week and left me to cover all of rent. I'm going to pick up a cinder block and walk until I find his jeep, then fling it through his front windshield and rip out all of his windows.

Or, I'm going to pace about, wishing I could do these things, when in reality, I think the easiest solution would be to take the elevator to the sixteenth story of the tower next door, climb out onto the fire escape, and throw myself to the ground.

I've been trying to stay focused. I've been trying to solve these problems with maturity, but I can only take so much. I need an outlet, I need to destroy something, and I seem like the easiest target.

There's no way I can afford August rent. Oh, and now what's this? Somebody's calling to remind me that I owe him money. Well, get it from my deadbeat roommate, the one you introduced me to.

I should just move out of here. I should check into a mental hospital. I should take a bunch of pain killers and slit my wrist, but I don't have enough pain killers, and there's a cast in the way of me cutting my left wrist, and I can't slit my right wrist, because my left hand is in a cast.

I need a job immediatley, but it's hard to find work when you're crippled. I need a gun, and POW, right through my skull.

I think I'm going to vacuum the empty bedroom and use the space to do yoga. Please don't leave me any entries in my guestbook urging me not to kill myself, because I assure you, I've been comprehending doing it most of my life, and I already know that I don't have it in me.