I swim in a sea of cranky whining. My head nearly explodes from the effort of listening. There’s junk scattered all over the house. In one room a storybook CD plays, in another it’s the Beatles. In still another a television mutedly regurgitates saccharine pap. The coffee’s run out already. The cream is going bad and makes white flotsam instead of carmel clounds in the black infusion. I am a set of climbing bars for a moaning, solipsistic monkey with delusions of grandeur. I would ask you to send help, but I’m too afraid you’d get caught in the gravity well of this ugly situation. So don’t send help. But, please, pray for Mojo. No more posts for today, unless the human petri dish loses consciousness and blesses me with a couple hours of work time.