The long, cold summer of my discontent

Fuck me! Now that "Amazing Race," "Survivor," and "American Idol" are done, and "Sopranos" and "Big Love" are due to wrap up in the next two weeks, that's it for TV. What the hell and I supposed to do during the summer? Read? Talk to my wife?

Skin grows itchy... and cold... unfamiliar feeling... can't feel my... nostril hair... can't see... peripherally...

This leaves me with no distractions between all the painful baggage I drag around all day; my weak spine bows under the crushing weight. I can't stand to look my problems in the face. Without TV, I have no internal monologue. Without TV, I have no friends. Without TV, I'll be swallowed up by my own personal Charybdis, swirling e'er closer to the center of the wet maelstrom 'til I'm dragged under and the air is buffeted out of my lungs by watery fists of malice.

It's high time I bail -- I'm late for my evening of weeping into my pillow as I cut my lip nursing a cracked bottle of brandy into unconsciousness.