Apr. 18, 2004 @ 8:38 p.m.

While my insides tickle, as if tiny spiders were crawling among the inner wetness of them, you continue to sleep, blissfully unaware, uncaring and free. I wish you knew the painful joy that thrives inside, bouncing around like ten racquetballs in a three by three foot room. I wish that the balls would squash the spiders because I hate to be tickled from the inside but I also hate having to clean up a mess. This is too big of a decision; I hate playing "Would you rather...?"