What I am telling you now, is that I’m feeling the pressures of the ever-imploding atmosphere of chance, and perhaps destiny. Like I’m inside The Blob, and it’s pushing to keep me inside, trapping, holding me; knowing that if I just calm down, relax it’s poisonous juices will have a better change of eating away my skin; eventually eating everything but my – by then- brown teeth. But I need to get out, punch through this trap. Although I’m sure forcing what I do next will be more painful than the alternative: I must make more of myself than what seems to be where I am headed.