Day off. I'd like to tell you more about last week, since I was walking through the East Village, and all of a sudden the bright lights, but they've put a mind lock on it and I can't describe the godawful smell of extraterrestrial armpits as they gave me noodgies. "Don't worry, it's a stimulus response test," they jabbered in their nasty little voices, gray eyes blinking like sleepy puppies as I screamed and screamed and screamed...

Then the giant machine. It looked like rubber suspenders hanging below stainless steel goal posts, and before the room went black I saw that goddamned lucite checkboard, they carried it everywhere, with the words "Wedgie Examination" in glowing letters. Then I'm awake with the horrible, wrenching chafing, screaming for Ben Gay. But there is no Ben Gay, and I'm rotating five hundred miles above Tuscaloosa.

But like I said, I don't want to talk about it.