Closetfag was feelin' it. He didn't know what it was, but it didn't really feel...right.
Was he feeling that wall you hit when you've advanced your life as far as it could go? When you know that, despite all your efforts, fate had pegged you as a massive failure?...Or maybe it was just the mescaline...yeah, it was that shit-grade mescaline. He'd have to do something about that - his peyote supplier down in Puebla was starting to slack off, and he was still paying that greasy motherfucker top dollar to bribe the federalos.
But not now. He had to make the morning rounds. Climbing out of the bathtub, he stood half-consciousness in the middle of the bathroom for a good minute, trying to get a bearing on his situation.
He turned to the mirror and stared at his eyes. "Jeezus, they haven't been this dilated in weeks." He remarked. "I'll have to make a note of it." Our favourite bastard was documenting every damn detail of his life ever since he had started associating with TCC-tan and her ilk at 420chan, and on her advice watching Dragon Ball reruns on acid.
After a good five minutes of gazing into his own reflection, hunger finally slapped his wasted ass back into a fully conscious state. He turned and headed out the door, thoughts of extra-large vienna sausages and deep fried krispy kreme donuts floating in his mind.