Excuses excuses...

I've been too damn happy. Cheek aching moon cat smiles abound. Silver teeth and green eyes. Slowly growing more and more familiar with the jealousy of the healthy biped amputee fetishist. Enying the empty and broken. Hopskipjumping through the Summer, I was loved, cherished, complimented and embraced. I still am. I'm the luckiest person in the world. I'm the happiest I've ever been! That's my problem. What with love and countless friends, a great home, good health and a rosier future than ever before, I seem to have cleared up all the mouldy bad karma. Not merely swept under the carpet, but wiped clean off the face of the Earth. How can I complain? I do feel fortunate. However this all left me far too comfortable.
Perpetual comfort isn't normal. We're beasts, just wrapped in paper money, secretly looking for something to cry about. Painting pain and doubt into everything we see. We fool ourselves into thinking that a warm existence is the way it should be. It isn't. We're supposed to be fighting for survival. It's in our blood. Our health is waining as we need it less. Gluttony, the by-product of comfort. Cancer, HIV, liver damage and depression, the results of having too much fun at the expense of our bodies. The pestilent lepers of the free world. Dancing spasmadically until our rotten fingers fly off and slide down the front of our underpriced, undervalued, Ikea wardrobes. Tree corpse in the corner. Those who know they're lacking the lifespark, chase a pathetic endorphine tickle can play sports or even worse, run on a machine in an overpriced gym. But the "entertainment" industry, passive as well as interactive, thrives on our need for gore. The terror tabloids, scream at us every morning! There's that word again. Vicarious. But we're not really in there. Despite eyes lit up like alley lanterns. In the blood dreams we censor, we're elbow deep in the steaming, stinking purple organs of every whimpring victim.
I miss it so... I haven't, nor will ever have enough of that red energy inside for the visceral puzzle work, I crave and once cherished.
I think that's why it happened again. It felt new. She felt like the first. Although, that's 11 now. It's taken 11, for me to start throwing hints out into the etha. IT WAS ME. This is fiction. IT WAS ME!