Dear Diary,

I've properly discombobulated my water factory dream shop mechanic's head when I found it last night on his body where he was lying on the floor after I surprised him in the back with a hedgehammer for his birthday. Oh, the hammer wasn't for his birthday, of course--that old dog knows that it's my favorite--I just wanted to give him a little pat on the butt but I was afraid he might misinterpret sexual cock urges and so I gave him my "Oh, you!" pat on the back instead. Anyway, it's about Christmas time and the colors protruding from his coconut brain remind me of Hamlet's soliloquy after knocking up his mother or something or other. Sometimes I write things that I'll be proud of later like that last sentence though having read it it's pretty hot off the presses magical proudness that isn't shameful I think.
I wish I wish I couldn't love a woman who was inside my bronchitis infection. I'm getting carried away. She shouldn't have smoked as a child, and I shouldn't have been being breathing then. Like I said to my son on one Christmas morning to myself, "Walk the snow and leave your path, but you better goddamn hope it's snowing behind you cause it's one hell of an ugly goddamn path. That's life, son. I know you have other things going on right now--girlfriend, your mother, that environment thingamajig you like to write reports about. Well, I'm gonna go ahead and pat you down there to make sure you've got my GRANDCHILD IN YOU I REMEMBER DOING THE SAME THING FOR YOUR MOTHER. Here's your present; enjoy. Thanks for stepping by. Hah, hah, hah."
That was a fine moment in my life history while I've torn my way out of it into the shell around it that's not as soft but more protected. Take care, Jack, take that care and cake it all over yourself and then let your girlfriend eat you heheheh.