Take this extra pair of mittens, my hands are starting to sweat.

A while ago I invented a new letter for the English alphabet. This was long forgotten until today when I asked a stranger, "can I trouble you for a light?" So after I set fire to Davison Hall, I repeated in my head the statement, "can I trouble you for a light?" I honed in on the words 'trouble' and 'you.' Soon it came flooding back, the 27th letter of the alphabet and my gift to, or curse on, humanity -- Trouble-U, the evil twin of Double-U, or 'W.' It's single-letter representation looks like this:

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It should be quite obvious that it's the letter from Hell. More evil than X.

There's a new Burger King commercial in which Darius Rucker aka Hootie sings a parody of "Big Rock Candy Mountains" promoting the Cheddar Bacon Chicken Something.

I'm bound to stay where you sleep all day, where they hung the jerk that invented work.

...who was fitted with collar and chain...

I posted a picture of myself as a little kid a few weeks back, dressed to the nines, with a smile on my face that I will never again be able to match in genuineness. Retrospective egotism aside, I really was an adorable kid. It was agreed, I remember, by most people, especially women, that I was an exceptionally handsome young man. Especially women. Especially the women at Lemon Tree.

Lemon Tree is where my mom would take me for haircuts. I reckon my hair grows more quickly than most people's, on account of I was there at least once every month, or so it seemed. My mom would get her haircut by this lady with a femullet and a picture of Billy Ray Cyrus tucked into the corner of her mirror. I never had a particular hair dresser; at least not that I can remember. I do remember, however, that they referred to my hair style as the "Nice Boy" haircut. I'm not sure if my reputation as a nice boy was responsible for the name of the hair style, or if the style itself required, demanded that I be a nice boy if I wanted to stay true to the ideals of the Nice Boy. I remember that.

What I also remember is that every time I went into that place, all the ladies that worked there would raise a fuss about how extraordinarily cute I was. They didn't pinch my cheeks or anything; in fact, I don't remember having my cheeks pinched all that often by anyone. My charm transcended such silliness. And specifically, most specifically of all, I remember them calling me a "heart breaker," and predicting that, given this title, I'd break a lot of hearts when the time came to do so. I was a heart breaker with a Nice Boy. And fucking long ass eyelashes of which even they were jealous.

I have long since come to the conclusion that the ladies at Lemon Tree were a bunch of pedophile idiots. Because they were wrong wrong wrong. I'd go so far as to say these ladies had the extrasensory ability to predict the opposite of what would happen. My heart has been torn to shreds, beaten to a pulp, sapped of all emotion, and in most other ways broken so many times that the only title I'm worthy of is "heart shithead." I reckon I've only broken one heart, that of my own mother, when I got arrested last year, coincidentally around this time. That's one broken heart. Hardly the work of a person you'd call a heart breaker. Hardly the work of a person you'd expect the child in that picture to grow into.

So now then. Today is Tuesday. Tuesdays are trying days for me. They are so trying that on Monday nights--nights very much like last--the premonition of a trying Tuesday--days very much like today--causes much too much anxiety to permit slumber. And NyQuil, the nectar of Hypnos, my only friend in poor times, does nothing. And so it goes that Tuesday becomes even more trying because of fatigue due to temporary insomnia of the night prior.

I suppose that my busy Tuesdays keep my idle hands from doing things like jerking me off. A day of mishegoss is all the orgasm I need. Besides, a heart-breaking Nice Boy needs to keep his hands out of pants and his mind out of the gutter. Maybe then he'll be able to fulfill the title.

But probably not.