Dear Journal,
Feeling listless again today. It began at dawn when I tried to make a smoothie out of beef bones breaking my juicer and then at Cheerios practice… disaster. It was unmistakable. It was like spotting the first spark on the Hindenburg…. a quiver. That quiver will lose us nationals and without a championship, I’ll lose my endorsements and without those endorsements… I won’t be able to buy my hovercraft.
GLEE CLUB!!!
Every time I try to destroy that clutch of scab-eating, mouth-breathers that only comes back stronger like some sexually ambiguous horror movie villain. here I am, about to turn 30, and I’ve sacrificed everything!—only to be shanghaied by the bi-curious machinations of a cabal of doughy, misshapen teens!
Am I missing something, journal? is it me? Of course it’s not me.
It’s WILL SCHUSTER. What is it about him, journal? Is it the arrogant smirk, is it the store-bought home perm?
You know, journal, I noticed something yesterday. of course…it’s coming clear to me now. if I can’t destroy the club, I will have to destroy THE MAN!
