My mood's a crate of decomposing eggs.

Apologies for the hideous stench.

Every weekend I contemplate my static position anew.

With every screaming kid and subject afflicted with rigor mortis, I become aware of black bile oozing up my throat.

I wonder. What is it that is holding me back?

Fear of rejection?

Fear of failure?

I feel like an inflated toy leaking air and caving in on itself.

Yes, the promos are in the print house now. They would be ready for collection next week.

Soon, they would be in the mail.

Yes, the time of truth is nigh.

So quit slicing and dicing your insides, alright?

Do that later if nothing good comes out of it.