Stuck in a body. Stuck in a place. Stuck in a time. Stuck in existence. Sending a faithless kiss. You’re ruining me down. Your inherit vices… Feeling so bad for each and every second not spent doing at least two profitable things at the same time. Did I became the psychopath because of my inability to handle the immense boredom of those afternoons? Or was it the other way around? I mean, maybe it was precisely this insanity of mine that made the boredom so painfully unlivable. Those voices everywhere... Who said that? Hmm… Where did that infinite bitterness come from? And the energy that feeds it? Is it you, Doctor, with your breakfast pills? God forgives me of becoming yet another doomed writer. Who wants that now? It no longer works for hooking up with chicks. Plus, it requires devoting all efforts to self-destruction, as if it was to be a job, and I’m not at all willing to do that on an un-paid basis. I am useless, then. Who invented this Great Sudoku that is life to keep me distracted -while I pay for things- from what really matters: hating boredom.