May 17th, 2002 - 10:31 p.m.

She is in a horrid mood.

While sitting at a bar, waiting for a table in order to consume less then mediocre food, surrounded by those who ought not drink too much lest they lose what little intelligence they possess, am filled with an outrageous desire to scream. Honestly now sir and madam, everything is not that humorous, and laughing at every nuance like lushes shall not make it so. In fact, your conversation is so lacking in any element of humour, that I feel as if I have stumbled upon the anomaly of a vacuum of entertainment.

Unamusement and depression hangs about in the air like a damp fog, begins to form a thick layer of condensation upon the windows, and obstructs the detestably lit view of the parking lot. One can feel it enter the lungs, like a shining viper, settling into a coil in the abdomen.

Of course, the food was sub par. And prompts one to cry. But remains self contained. Glued tentatively by nicotine and alcohol, caffeine and sugar. A most poignant medicine. She is drunk on the invincibility of youth, you see, and so a path of self massacre seems most fitting.

Someone shoot me in the head.

She has tears in her eyes. And if these are the �best years of her life�, how shall she bear herself when she is past these years? No, you are just moronic. So, I implore you, do shut up.

N.

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