January 29, 2002
The monkey was then handed a stick to use as a tool

When will time free me from these multitudes of horrible depressions? My first day back at work, and I’ve fallen so far I can’t see over my heartbeat. I’m damaged merchandise, a tramp, a dirty whore! All I ever hear is, “I want! I need! I demand!” Where on this path did I exchange life for death? Do I smell of rotten onions? Has death consumed my being? I question life only to demand that I be treated fair. I see battle wounds in my soul—blood so thick that I puke it out through my fingertips. Am I to run to a doctor, and feed off his drugs? Does a doctor’s pill stop someone from throwing their job at me? Why should I become addicted to a false happiness, if my picture frame is what steals from the presence of this masterpiece? I beg not to be them! I beg not be sour! I beg not at all! I only wish to be happy!