This post was conceived somewhere between the second and third episodes of Hell's Kitchen, and born at 1:20 AM PDST
I've been in my pajamas for more than 24 hours. I've spent no time outside of my house, save for when I stuck my head out the back door to call the dog back in. I'm currently putting an outline together for a screenplay/video game idea tentatively titled "The Language of Nightmares." It's about an black man named Thomas Jones-Morrison who develops schizophrenic symptoms shortly before his son goes missing. It'll be everything that Heavy Rain was supposed to be.
I'm also sharpening my knife rather obsessively. There's a fine layer of metal powder on my shirt that shines whenever I turn around to my mini-fridge to pour another Tom Collins. I've nearly sliced my hand twice. I should probably stop.
A thought occurs to me: I am the Ubermensch. How do I defend this thought? I don't have to. I'm the damn Ubermensch. Besides, I don't try to pick apart these sorts of facts. I accept them and roll with it. I'm cool like that.
The printer is whirring. It probably shouldn't be doing that when I don't have anything to print.
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