It's the day before Thanksgiving and something doesn't feel right. It doesn't feel wrong, but something's watching me from behind the corner, something I should know about but I don't know about. Well, it could be the question of what I'm doing with my entire life. That's kind of the elephant in the room, rather than a sneaky feeling in the back of my head.

Well, I got a lot on my plate. And I'm doing it alone. I don't want to do it alone, but what do I want to be? A writer. And you do that alone. Hours in a room with no connection to others, trying to say something good. I wouldn't mind a never ending procession of constant hugs, always reminding me that I'm not too far away from another human being.

But here am I, alone, typing out these words. For what reason? I say it's for the finger exercise. Deepening the habit groove in my mind. Repetition of the keyboard strokes, again and again, getting used to my hands moving in this fashion. Any other reasons? I dunno. Somebody may be reading these words right now, out there in the black icy void of the internet. And what are you getting out of it. I dunno either.

I tell myself I'm grateful. I tell myself I'm healthy and I should be happy for that too. And this is true. But my mother doesn't care about anything I do. Her depression is determined to bring me down with her - a tentacle wrapping around my foot and dragging me down. I wish she would die. Then I can be free, yes? Or will her ghost rattle its chains around my bedchamber?

I need to get out. I need to make a noise. I need to jump up. I need to laugh. I need to procreate. I need to scream. I need to skip. I need to dream. I need to be happy. Oh god I need to be happy.

I need to move to California. Then I can get away. Distance makes the heart grow colder. Someone freeze my heart so I don't have to feel.

Bonobo apes are funny looking creatures. But also very smart. I hope they can take over one day when