All my life my sister has been telling me I should sit down and right a book. So, this past summer (was the middle of August of '08, to be precise) I sat down and said, 'Why the fuck not?' This might as well be either the prologue or the first chapter, I've yet to decide. But anyway, fifteen-twenty years from now if you're reading something and these words seem rather.... familiar, you'll know why.

Here goes...
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I sat down to a stale bowl of cold Cheerios. The right side of my body ached from something unknown. A numbness existed extending down from my head to the tips of my fingers. My body ached from a thousand bad fucks. Or was it even that physical, perhaps I ache from a thousand rebirths, all again into a human being. What is so special, so significant about the suffering of one man that it needs to be replayed a thousand times over? Is there something I have failed to do nine-hundred ninety-nine lifetimes prior?

Long, straight blonde hair trickling down between my shoulder blades. It itches sometimes. Sometimes it gets in my eyes and mouth. An ex...something, used to love when it would get caught in the 5 o'clock shadow I always seem to have. It seems that ever since I was a kid I've always been fascinated with facial hair. For instance why men have it while females mostly have peach fuzz. Then your Great Aunt Louise comes along begging for a kiss with an upper lip which could double as a fucking Brillo pad. Facial hair--why is it so prominent on us males? Because we have more external genitalia?

I, myself, have what you can call a perma-goat. That's right, a goat--not a goatee, a goat. Leave the mustaches for the Mexicans and the porn stars. I once measured a two inch hair growing from my soul patch down into the goat, but like that random fact means anything in a world with records being set for the longest fingernails. All in all, no one gives a shit about the almost cool. They want to be floored by anything and everything. Far too many people enjoy the climb back to their feet.

Blue. So many things can easily be associated with that word. The sky, sheets, pens, paint, markers, flowers, grass, shirts, pants, anything that can be packaged uniquely, yet mass produced. My eyes are blue. Hell--they have gold around the pupils but what have they gotten me in life? So few people notice I exist and even fewer have been close enough to notice the harshly discoloured bags which rest under these finicky, sun-kissed portals.

By all accounts, I am a curious specimen to observe and study. Physically and intellectually, I am a lovely beast. But what has such a beautiful being done to be forced to live a loveless life? Why am I cursed to relive the same day over and over again? Waking up at 4:30 in the afternoon every day seems cool and all, until you focus on the idea of tossing and turning for hours, unable to give your body the rest it is screaming for. Perpetually tossing and turning while your mind tried to find a rational explanation for the emptiness you feel inside parallels that of a man cheated out of the last thing he had--his life. Falling unconscious to the chirping of birds is only healthy in a fairy tale.