whose emotions ran the gamut from catty to snarky

whose emotions ran the gamut from clinically depressed to clinically insane

whose emotions ran the gamut from "Fuck this, I'm outta here," to "Get this fuck outta here."

wrapped up his evening by executing an unconscious face plant onto the dog bed

weird scenes inside the cube farm

that particular newspaper's brand of what he'd come to think of as infantofascism

that particular paper being the Union Leader (Manchester, NH)

He could think of two words for it, and those two words weren't wicked awesome. But they might have been profoundly retarded or they also could have been fucking lame

the dim patina of these latest dreams, even as they faded, altogether too knowable, too obviously derivative from the larger activity of his conscience. This was no good. However, he thought, I'll take what I can get

 

*

 

found that even those excerpted thoughts, passages, images captured or manufactured, kept the pilot flame of his greater ambition, however dimly, from guttering, from extinguishing entirely 

 

*

 

the sparse vulgar traffic streaming mindless through and around the bare, hovering masses of winter trees

 

*

 

where he sat mutely and lengthily in the handicapped stall, perched above someone's discarded newsprint

in a nasty fucking mood today, as well as in the context of a nasty fucking mood.

 

fuck you, too