Two years of making this blog? Wow. Let's see if things have picked up for our main protagonist, Brick... What's the song for this entry? Private hell? Oh, well, it sounds like something you can really dance to.

If you've paid attention even remotely to the strange tales contained within the hallowed ephemeral walls of this ol' blog.... Why a blog has walls that defy the laws of the physical universe, we will never know.... then you already know that Brick is not one for the happy emotions. He is what one might call a total buzzkill, a friendless loser stuck in a downward spiral of increasingly mundane things to whine about. Well, If you think this is true, then, well, I can't really argue with you since that's a fair assessment. What can I say, Brick is as thick as a brick.

Nice Jethro Tull allusion.  

We would be remiss if were to tell you that things were going to get better now for the sake of being arbitrary. There are no happy endings here. And there might not be any more Happy Endings on ABC soon either.

Focus.

Haunted by the disillusionment that his friend, frenemy and rival (Tigerman, Shadow and Slate, respectively) were merely extensions of his own mind and not, in fact, the members of his long suffering rock band, Mike's F'd Up Journey. And by long suffering, we are implying that anyone who has listened to their music has suffered terrible side effects for long periods of time afterwards.

At this very moment, Brick was assembling yet another pointless promo while the rest of his department is filling their lungs with mists of carcinogens on the sidewalk below. If loneliness was his modus operandi, self-loathing was his fuel (not sure that makes a lot of sense, bro). No one has gotten as far in life by despising themselves as much since Turk Nobaic, the famous janitor who swept a million floors while shouting how much he hated himself and all that he had failed at.

The Boss was at a weekly meeting for him and all the other people who actually mattered.  Pterodactyl was trolling for wenches or whatever it was that got the jerk off.

Really classy.

And of course Amethyst was out filming a segment for a new show. She was not the first woman brick had cared for and been rejected by. Nor was she he one that he had cared the most for, but the pain was still real. That whiny, self-pitying kind of pain that was both universal and lame.  

His brow was covered in beads of saline weakness, undeserved sweat for the type of task he was accomplishing.

Right beside him, as usual, was the specter of G Mod, the ne time manager of MFUJ, and now Brick's Dostoevskian devil. he was smirking a crimson half-moon.

"All alone again, eh, Brick?"

"Lately I'm beside myself / pretending, unconcerned..."

"Oh, you're no fun. What happened to that gem girl. What's-her-face? Amethyst? And what happened to that other woman you were in love with? The one who made the cold shoulder seem dignified..."

"Give away a love / and then remove another too / painted words adorn the walls / echoing untrue / I feel cold..."

"You feel cold? I feel absolutely bored talking to you when you're like this. What happened to that fiery temper that I liked to crush into a powder? Promise me you'll put up a fight next time."

"Promises abound / You'll rarely find it to begin..."

"Ah, get a hold yourself... It ain't that bad! What am I saying?"

Brick finally stood up and faced G Mod.

"I excuse myself / I'm used to my little cell..."

"No! Don't you dare.."

"I amuse myself in my very own private hell!"

"...dare."

And so the next hour passed in silence, G Mod retreated in defeat. He couldn't fight someone who was already down. he'd have to build him back up first.