I feel like Winnipeg.

I can be a bit of a depressed person, I'll admit. It's often worst in the morning, which is why I generally try to sleep in: shops open late, the midmorning inhabitants of coffee shops mull over nothing. The weather. Nothing's new, Katz has a new plan to rape the poor, and any intelligent person has one foot out the door.

It's hard to be optimistic when you're this harsh and unforgiving.

Am I manic-depressive? Maybe. Certainly people tell me that I am. In any case, there are far too many individuals who would describe me as "unique", who -- for reasons I still don't fully understand -- buy into the whole deal . . . . too many of these people for me to be entirely bad.

Sometimes, when I want to be bad, I pretend I'm more like Toronto: chic, you know, and cool. People would hate me if I moved to Toronto, though: that's where the evil lives, not to mention Gun Violence.

I'm not evil, despite my repository of anger and frustration.

Despite the verisimilitudinous clutches, exorted endlessly over the few friends I have. I relentlessly mock all who believe in me.

I feel like a cheap, adolescent hangover. After all, why shell out champagne when huffing gas will do? Or, more aptly, a $13 bottle of wine when there's a jug on sale for $8?!?

I'm gritty and gruff, and you'll take it, and you'll like it. I'm moderate and confused, and I don't need to tell you about it. I'm small and unpretenious, and perhaps even glimmering with opportunity.

I'll wake up at 9, and go to sleep at nine. After all, twelve hours with me is like a lifetime.

And a lifetime with me? Frankly, that's unimaginable.