Funneling my mental illness into the prose machine to click "post" and receive Vote. I will not go hungry for the night

I funnel too many of my illness into the prose machine. Instead of having a head I now have a small cave entrance. Quickly, I grab and stuff stacks of scrap paper into it.

The scrap paper now has mean letters drawn on it and the letters are chanting for justice for my crimes against coherence. Whoops.

I drop a lighter into the head cave. As it turns out, paper-what-have-mean-letters is not effective against fire. I dip my head into the gel of goo next to my rotbed and smother it.

Extinguished, I use my hands to mold the residuum in my skull into a new mental illness. This one offers a +1 buff to all psychosomatic games of rugby.

I curl into my rotbed and decompose into worms.