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Upstairs I hear a family. A man and woman gently coo at their gurgling child. The delicate sprinkling of water over head, slowly trickling down the body. Laughter followed by the blank exaltation from child. Happy..
Me, I'm stuck on this toilet with a burning asshole. Got the beer shits. I'm constipated as well. Unfortunately, only in thought. Can't get anything done until the last minute and then its totally lacking clear judgment. Made up of random inclusions barely meeting the status quo.
Miss inspiration. Can't find it in anything requiring creativity. Is that side of me really that depressed? He will not come out no matter how desperately I call him. Blame this on a woman. No, myself. So unoriginal to only be productive in presence of a muse. So pathetic that my logical parts punish us both. They have barred my practice of finding another.
Oh, woe is me.
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