More than once I've been in a hamster ball. It's round, solid, see-through, it can't be spoken into. You can poke your little hamster ball wherever you want but he won't care. He's in there, little guy, trapped and caged like your feelings. You backwards cunt.

Sometimes though it's not my hamster ball I'm in. Maybe it's more like a magician's box. You know, those tall black boxes with the three doors and the swords. Except there's only one box, and no hatch, no tricks and no illusions. Only those swords, those sharp-edged "I hate you more than I hate paper cuts or broken-down cars or Sweden" swords I get torturted by. They never go all the way in, you torment me and you make me cry and scream. I can never sleep while you jab those into my own little private space, the little privacy I have left. The stuff of my nightmares is summed up in every one of those magician's blades and not even the circus can stop you now.

But the show must go on.