State of the Union Address

Pretty depressed.  Blog's all cluttered.  Quality's gone down.  Process isn't smooth.  Ideas are scarce.  Same robotic views.  After seeing it, I had chocolate pudding and a bag of small cookies someone left behind—I gotta check on him but I don't want to go out of my way—someone else's ice cream, some hershey's and soymilk.  The cookies were dry and chocolate chip and I would chew them while drinking my milk.  I did it all standing up.  She's probably doing it standing up.

- boo!

Rating's plummeted. Stomach hurts.  I called a black guy suga over the internet.

- (murmurs along the crowd, a distant voice) ah jeez!

Chess animosity.  Morning News HD is too much.  Guess altogether I can't complain.  This post sucks.  I woke up hating her.  I remembered something real nasty I had said to her, and I wasn't sorry.  She hung up on me, then called back to reply in kind.  I caught her off-guard.  She didn't know what to say, so she hung up. If you put together all the days we were physically together, it wouldn't even amount to a month.  Guys around me are dropping due to their girlfriends.  It makes me hate their girlfriends and see them as wicked.  I didn't want to pray before bed because of the pageviews.  So pathetic.  So I didn't.  I asked out someone's masseuse though.  She said No, but I felt good, a little sleazy, after she realized I didn't want a massage.  I didn't want.  I feel gross just telling you.  Some cereal, too.  Cookie Crisps.  My S'mores one was old and soft, the marshmallows, so out of spite I poured that on top of the cookie crisp.  But at least I didn't kick no trash can today.

My approval rating's low.  I can sense it.  Cabinet says it's the same unresolved issues plaguing my platform.  It's draining your personality, my Secretary of the Chair said.  I acknowledged it, sure—America wants change!  Sometimes I wish I never hired her.  America wants change?  People sitting in two feet of rain want change, while you're blowing guys and complaining about who she's blowing.  Wait—that doesn't sound right.  No, I said the first part, you see, and she—whatever, you get it.  America wants prime-rib, sold out of the back freezer of a pick-up truck by some schmuck who'll buy your airbags.  What does that even mean?   I gave her a hand gesture and she walked out of the office.  Blog's cluttered because of my mind, probably.  Some days I feel like I'm slowly dying.

- That's pretty heavy.

Shut up.