The situation is desperate.

If you've seen Zoolander, you will understand the following. If you haven't, fuck it anyway.
I am a male model, sliding rapidly down the unfavorable side of my apex in the biz, and I am asking myself, reflected in gutter water, "who am I?" to which I quickly reply, "I don't know."

It's like I'm stuck in some shitty nightmare, wherein I am me, but not me. In fact, the part of "me" is being played by a shitty actor who in no way, physically or mentally, resembles the real deal. And I'm pinching myself and freaking out, doing everything short of cutting my left hand off, but for the life of me, I can't wake up. At this point I've given up, and I'm just hoping someone will rescue me, even if it's by dumping a glass of ice water on my face. Any awakening, even a rude one, is welcome.

And as for right now, I am, in a penitential gesture, writing outside, not braving but enduring the howling gales that torture the joints of this creaking porch. Not really. Sometimes it is a bit chilly, but I'm having hot tea, and the day is fartin gorgeous, and I drove my miserable ass all the way to Spiderhouse as a treat for laying around and being sick for the past two days. I love this place. What do I have to complain about?
Whoa whoa whoa, watch yourself! That is a can of mutant, saw-toothed, festering lesion laden worms! Put down that can opener! Don't even go there.