21st August 2008 - Journal Entry

So I'm hacking at my arm with a cleaver I stole from the kitchen at work, alternately slamming it into the bone, and gnawing at tendons, just below the elbow, trying to lever the hilarious appendage off. My rationale - life's too easy, and if I can afford to complain whilst in a presently healthy and un-impoverished state, then I'm only grotesquely in accordance with the vilely-complacent middle-class shits whom I opt at every flagging second to lambast and conceputually annihilate. The resistance offered by my flesh and bone to this nobely savage endeavour only serves to labour how deeply viral my malaise has become - I'm one of them - only an acutely self-aware specimen in a cesspool of blanket-myopic blue-collar mitochondria, sucking at each other's gilded tendrils in conditioned subordination to every want they've ever been sold. Because I refuse to suck at these deadly crescent labia, I'm left with all the impotent self-doubt and titanic paranoia, without the cosmetic assurances and superficial Pavlovian rewards. Once this indulgent appendage is lopped off, I'll at least harbour tangible complaint and have thus broken through the fallopian veil of auto-digestion into the realm of benefit abuse, pharmaceutical dependency, empty, drifting, opiate days. I'll have attained the status of suicide watch leper boy, and ideally nobody within the cynical monotheism of product will lend me a glance, as I birth the spoilage of their self-congratulations.