I’m happier than the last time you saw me, but don’t tell my therapist because I spent fifty minutes today on some rant or another. He spent a lot of time constructing a metaphor about the beach or the ocean or waves or something. It was good for a while until I realized that I don’t have a beach, only endless waves crashing down. Oh what the hell, I hate the beach anyway. As I was leaving, he said, “That was some discussion,” as if it was some rare culmination of my problems instead of the tip of the iceberg.

Speaking of which, I just took the dog for a walk and passed by the creepy ground floor window that frames a larger-than-life poster of Michael Jackson. As if he didn’t have enough to worry about, Michael Jackson spends his days surveying the alley in my neighborhood where all of the hookers take their clients; I am constantly pulling Goblin away from used condoms. I feel like I can’t complain so much about things when Michael Jackson is still running around loose.