I miss my sketchbook :(

Damn it all, I'm nowhere near a scanner. I'm no where near a sketchbook. I don't know what to say. I'm under my sheet, typing this stupid, fucking blog post, stalling for tomorrow till I get my next drawing up here. A Marilyn Monroe portrait I'm staring at is quite pleasing to the eye, and I have no idea where my juice is. I'm pissed, aroused, and lost. I'm hungry, and I have an aching for a veggie burger. As I watch Al Bundy do his thing on a clip from Married With Children, I stand here - actaully laying here - realizing how fucked the 90's was, and I'm glad I live in the 21st century. No more fears of a nuclear winter, but fears of a lack of purified water in the late 21st century. Shit, looks like the Fallout universe will inevitably be a reality. I would ask for Fatman, to nuke the orange, Godless-mutants of the night, but I'm standing right here [Fat joke, jabroni].

I miss my daughter, and most of all, I miss my wife. As I now sit here in this small cage, I etch the days left I have in this forsaken hell-hole of a room.

Day potatoe.