Journal = a daily record of news and events of a personal nature; a (masculine) diary.

I woke up this morning, looked in the mirror and said, "shut the fuck up you son of a bitch." That's how I kicked off my day. I woke up on the wrong side of the bed, or rather, wrong quadrant. You see, my bed is divided into four sections. Upper left is "pissy", lower left is "out-of-my-mind insane", upper right is "stoned (but not really)", and lower right is "tacky, tasteless, and traumatized". When I happen to wake up in all four quadrants at once, I know it's going to be a fairly normal day. My bead spread is the Cartesian coordinate plane, and I woke up in quadrants 1 and 3, with my back awkwardly arched over the joint intersection of 2 and 4 (I'm a wild sleeper).
I kind of half stumbled and shuffled my way down the stairs, with one foot occasionally skipping a step jarring the bones in my body. That was the first quadrant kicking in. The kitchen was dark, I hadn't purchased new light bulbs in months, but I don't really care about that. I just make a weird noise and pretend I have high-tech military night-vision goggles stapled to my face (quadrant 3). So, there in the darkened kitchen, I poured a cup of cold black coffee, cold and black like my soul. Then I started laughing hysterically because I remembered that I FUCKING HATE COFFEE!!!! Seriously, whoever brought that messed up machine into the house should just go to hell (it was me...).
I sat and cried over my disappointing life for two hours before getting up to grab breakfast. Unfortunately, all I could find was a stale cupcake and some crumbs. I also hadn't purchased food for quite some time. I skipped breakfast, because we all know cupcakes are pure evil, then I went to go make myself presentable to whoever I might encounter during the day. My comb had too few teeth, and I forgot how the razor worked, so I ended up somehow showering in my pajamas with toothpaste in my hair.
The rest of the morning was a struggle. My pants wouldn't fit over my arms, and for some dumbass reason, my belt was too big for my ankles. I could see myself staring back at me from the mirror. A look of pure hatred. God I hate the dude on the other side of the glass. "What're you looking at? Punk," I spat. He just stood there smugly. Rage boiled in the depths of my empty heart. He smiled. "Stop looking at me."
"You can't tell me what to do," the mirrored reflection answered back.
And that was it, I reared back and punched the mirror, his fist collided mine at the exact same time on the other side of the glass.
"It's not a fist-bump you asshole!" I screamed at him. Seriously, living with this dude is a nightmare. Taking a few deep breaths, I decided to leave him be. I had discovered over the years, that he can't actually come through the glass, so it's pretty easy to ignore him for the better part of the day.
It was about lunchtime when I finally finished in the bathroom. I stepped out back for a moment to water my garden with my homemade miracle grow, a solution of paint thinner and Clorox. Works great. Tastes great too.
I was relatively hungry by that time, but the only food item was that decrepit cupcake staring at me from the countertop. I despised the way it looked at me, so I took the rifle from the mantle and blew a hole through its pitiful gluten-based form...and subsequently, the glass tile backsplash. Wow, I'm such an idiot.
Sooooo....I decided to then hit the store (not physically hit it, it's a metaphor. I was just gonna drive up, buy some shit and go home). But then I realized, not only that I shouldn't start a sentence with a conjunction, but also that my front door was boarded up with a sign that said "do not go outside, you will regret it." Well okay ominous-weird-person I don't know. Don't know why I listened to you, but I did.
Later I discovered my toilet was flooding. Well, it had never really stopped, it's just that whenever I turn away from it I forget about it. Some odd mindfuck. Whatever. For the cursing sensitive, I'll stop...sorry.
Anyway, back to my f....fu...fried-chicken-crap of a day. I tried to calculate the amount of vegetables I had in my garden, I really was starting to get hungry...had been for days. Just needed to know how long those green beans would last me, so I divided by zero and a huge fu...freaking hole got ripped through the space time continuum. Sorry Einstein, but you seriously should have warned us about that one. So now I have this odd physics phenomenon happening in my garden, so my green beans are probably radiated. Well shi...shoot.
Nearing dinner time, no dinner, so it's just time. Time for what I ask, time for a Nilla-Wafer top hat I answer. Kidding. Time to collapse in bed an reminisce my wasted life. Cry over lost opportunities, forgotten pastimes, crushed dreams, and dead goldfish. Wow, this shi..stuff got deep fast.
Then I stubbed my toe. Twice. And I said, "God dam...bless mother fu-reaking son of a b-badger basking batshi-ushi dried ramen noodles...ARGH!!!!! screw the close quote. You know what. Fuck! Why do people have some sort of personal vendetta against some SIMPLE SOUNDS? Seriously people! These guttural utterances that we speak forth when angered are JUST SOUNDS! Mother fucker! Father fucker! Whatever the fucker!! WHY?
I broke a sweat typing that.
Well, it's bedtime. I curled up in the corner of the bed, not in my pajamas, or my going out clothes. I haven't really figured out how to get dressed today. Then I mast...ya know what, this is getting way too freaking personal.
I threw the lamp to the ground. It was the last working light and it smashed. Who needs lights anyway, especially when you can make a stupid retard noise and pretend you have super high-tech night vision goggles stapled to your face.
I knelt down and prayed to my patron saint Van Gogh (or however you spell it). I asked him to teach me how to become less socially awkward, and he told me to cut off my left ear. I said "thank you," and he said, "you're fucking weird for thinking I can actually talk back to you, let alone would want to talk to such a hopeless, miserable, defunct, dismal pile of shit." I nodded and said, "I know."
Then it was back to bed. I injected myself with sodium pentothal, so that I would have more honest dreams before laying carefully down in all four bed quadrants. Thank you René Descartes, for making my life complete. (No, we didn't date dumbass, he invented the Cartesian Coordinate Plane which I use on my bed...funny enough, he invented it while in bed. *close parentheses*
And that concluded my day.

I bet none of you people actually read this all the way through. If so, how many times did I (God forbid) start a sentence with a conjunction?

Time to go die...in a ditch.

Curse you government for taxing my ditch...it's mine...not yours...I dig it in the past tense. You didn't.

Cheers (I'm not fucking British.)
Austin.