I want to eat my own hands.
The evil internet has robbed me of the will to do anything, despie the long list of jobs, many of them quite urgent, that lies in front of me. I can't even be bothered to go home, as I'd only have to tidy my room. Fuck knows what I'll do about dinner. I am trapped in the computer centre, a quicksand of the soul.
Why do I keep coming to this place? Why can't I be bothered to write the sketches i've been busting a bollock about for weeks? What is my major malfunction? All these questions, and more, are things I can't be fucked to address.
With a deep sigh, Jon smashed his head repeatedly against the monitor.
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