Dear world, under the holey connotations that are sparkly balls of far off fires. Some of which burn as bold as the desires of my soul to understand what the hell happen this year in this ruckus, fanatical, tangle that is currently called my life. What the fuckin' shit people! Shit has hit the fan, been chopped by the blades into chunks that are splattered and flung chaotically across ceiling and walls. Melding into a thick, plastery, paste that clings to yet, slowly peels away from it's place and seems to be crawling away to a pile; a mushy cardboard-esk puddle of self pity and disparage, thus is my current life situation.