Living in a Black Hole
I have that feeling again, this little spot underneath my sternum gets uncomfortable about where I am in life.  Jitters.  Every time I wash my hair, I get this compulsive idea that a little monster climbs out from under the sink and sticks his head in through the shower curtain and just waits for me to open my eyes, smiling.  His face is gray and knobby and he has yellow slit eyes and clear, sharp teeth in a wide, rotting mouth.  The only reason I'm telling you this is so I can spread it around and maybe turn it into a Thing.  Then everybody will quit washing their hair.

But what's the monster, Freud?  Guilt, I guess, and shame.  Lack of sleep.  Something in the water.  I spent two hours writing one sentence yesterday.  It wasn't a good one.  So now I feel a fraud, like I should get a five-day-a-week job instead of this low-paying adjunct professor shit, or just go get the doctorate already and write academic papers about Blood Meridian being a postmodern comment on the corrido and become totally bland.  Dreams?  For chumps and suckers, I say.  I'm going to invest my time in money.