Little I've experienced infuriates me and emboldens that fury more than being so hungry for sleep that I could wrestle almost-literal choking on it and when the moment arrives that I can sleep for as a long a duration as I can choose, I don't sleep at all, or worse: deep-seeded qualms or adrenaline-risen moments of the day resurface that with their mental association force me awake after a short time. It feels too much like some other mastermind's fingerwork; an un-aggravated torture creation both effective and cruel. And I'd be right: it's mine. I harbor such strong feelings for the catalyst of this current sleepless night, feelings that I repress and in return give in turn. It loses its surprise when I consider that, but that's often how hindsight works.

I feel like sharing my stories so much that beneath this mask I'm chewing myself a new mouth-hole just for utterances to be spoken quicker, but alas I've no satisfying outlet; I rarely enjoy brandishing the literacy that 12 years of public education has taught me. That is, honestly, disappointing and shameful.

But worry not a wary face. All this is, is a pretense for motivation. I know my story and I know how to tell it, the problem, as my most common is, is finding others to help with it. And considering where we are, that is so hardly an issue that I feel outright retarded for having to write it in the first place.

You can lay down the stun rods: they stopped being effective after Geometry 1.

Oh yes, may the blessings of a day to be thankful be fattening for everyone in all literal and metaphorical senses.