What the fuck does one do with a Grammy? It's the biggest joke I've ever received. A popularity contest, that's all it is. I can't possibly begin to express how utterly pathetic this thing looks on my so-called mantel. Perhaps if I lived in a state where a fireplace would even remotely be put to use it would have more importance. I suppose I could send it to my parents--oh wait. Ha! I should send it to "Dexter", put in a black widow for shits and giggles. Take him out Kill Bill style.

Despite all that nonsense, the promotional efforts have finally ceased. I get a three month break, ride this single while it's out and then release the next in time for summer. We're not exactly sure what it'll be but they want something "Summery". How they get "Summery" out of my band I'll never know. If they expect another album, they can piss on it.

A tour has been in the works, though. I guess I should get on that. I usually leave that up to the guys who get paid to whore me out. I just tell them where I don't want to go. I am such a tool--a tool who rolls over too easily. Not out of defeat but because I simply don't care. Why should I? I write the music. I perform it for the kids. They take care of everything else. I suppose it's apathy more than anything. I've found myself drifting more and more towards that obnoxious, meaningless "shrug". Pathetic, really.

I think I want a doner. Doner or gellato. Grease or sugar. That is the question. The only problem is it's way too bright outside for this nocternal creature. I suppose I'll have to wait. Or send out that ass-no, made him quit yesterday. No more assistants. I didn't even think I was being that much of a cunt. All I did was tell him he had to pick his battles--what did he want to fight me on? What did he want to fight my manager on? I think the poor guy was just overwhelmed. This industry is scary. Or, you know, I could bloody well be the walking Anti-Christ. I know someone who'll agree whole-heartily to that.