I love writing Sands. But as of yet, I have not been able to think up a satisfactory plot line for a full story. So, I have decided to compile here the products of the times when Sands takes over my mind and forces me, at gunpoint, to write something about him. Just drabbley stuff and Sandsisms... always fun!

I'm lying on a bed with the thinnest fucking mattress ever. There's a spring poking me in the back, but I'm too lazy to move. I don't even want to think about how many hookers have probably been on this thing. It's gotta be a regular STD playground. I almost crack a smile at the thought of herpes on a see-saw with gonorrhea, and AIDS going down a huge orange plastic slide – but again, I'm too lazy.

This bed happens to be in a hotel, probably the worst one in the whole damn country, knowing my recent luck. It smells like it, anyway. When I got here and asked for a room, the owner asked if I wanted a bottle of some shit that passes for liquor down here and/or a woman sent up. I told him I never consume any food or drink on days ending in "y," and that I'd really prefer to just fuck myself. Hey, the rest of the world already has. Why shouldn't I get a turn as well?

So, yeah, I'm just lying here. I guess time is passing. It usually does. But I have no clue how long I've been here and really don't care to find out. Three days, I think. But the blinds are closed and I can't tell whether it's noon or midnight. It's all the same to me.

That chicle kid said I was going to be okay. I don't fucking feel okay. In fact, I feel downright shitty. I wonder if he's back out whoring his bubble gum to people like nothing ever happened. Or maybe he's scarred for life. I'd like to think that I've aided in scarring someone for life, even if he was a pretty good kid.

I'm so goddamn bored. I could put the TV on, but what point would there be in that? The shows down here all suck, as does the radio. Porn is no good unless you can see it, so that's out. I can't read, for obvious reasons, which is a shame. I used to read quite a lot. Nonfiction mostly, and some of that really old stuff. The Decameron and Dante. You know what other book I really liked? 1984. The title was total bullshit; absolutely nothing happened in '84. But I did rather like the part where Winston almost gets his face eaten off by rats. I remember looking around at my English class as we read that book, thinking which one I'd most like to watch get their eyed chewed out.

Motherfucking irony for you there.

I have gotten up exactly four times since checking in: twice to have a glass of water with my painkillers, and twice to take a piss. (If two times is twice, and three times is thrice, then what's four times? Frice?) Otherwise, I've been about as useful and productive as an armless man on a basketball court. Or an eyeless man in an art gallery, to make the comparison a bit more apropos. Not that I have anything against art. Some of it's pretty cool, I suppose. I like those paintings that just look like the paint factory exploded on the canvas, or the ones which are all one color. I've always wondered if the artists actually saw that kind of stuff as a representation of the sociopolitical unrest or whatever, or if they just got their shits and giggles from making the art critics ooh and aah over a canvas painted grey.

I think I need to kill somebody. That might put me in a good mood. Shoot somebody in the fucking face until "face" is a misnomer. Or torture somebody. You don't need to see to do that. It's all in the touch.

Yeah, I should go out and kill someone, find someone who's just too nice for their own good, or too scummy to live. Anyone, really. I wonder if this place has a maid. She'd do. Or, I could give the owner a buzz for a hooker, and play Jack the Ripper.

I've never fucked a dead woman. I wonder what it would feel like.

Christ, Sheldon, get a hold of yourself. You know you're not doing shit for a long time, you lazy bastard.

True. I would do something, but, you know, I don't feel like making the effort. I'll just lie here for a while longer, I think. Waste away. Maybe if I lie really still this spring will get the fuck out of my back.