Spider, here.

When someone dies, or is gonna, people always say, "I can't live without her." It's this feelin' we get deep down that tells us it's gonna be that way. But it's not. It's worse. Even tho' that damn feeling is chewin' our insides and turning them to slush, we keep on breathin'. We keep on livin'.

Life sucks, man. No matter how much we wanna roll up and die, it keeps beatin' the shit out of us day after day. The only way we can stop it is to blow our fuckin' brains out. If that's not your cup of piss, then the sun keeps comin' up, the seasons go on and our days march ahead.

I didn't think I'd make it thru the holidays. I thought time was gonna stop and the air would dry up and I'd die on the floor of my apartment like a floppin fish, surrounded by islands of funky laundry. It didn't happen. I'm dunno how I feel about it.

Well, the happy crapfest is gone and I can breathe a little better. For a while, anyways. Her birthday is soon. She'll be twenty-three. I got her present wrapped already. Like I still got the one from Christmas. I guess they'll keep pilin' up until I see the end of this thing -- or it sees the end of me. I've already said that last one isn't gonna happen, so they'll sit and collect dust for her -- collect it in my place, I guess.