Seriously, you guys...seriously

Work Ethic: Well, it's November. You officially said "Fuck October". Are you happy with yourself?

Self-Loathing: I'm going to go out on a limb and say that generally, no, he's not. I know since I'm him.

Realism: We're ALL him, jackass.

Inner Child: Bad word!

Me: I...I have no excuse.

Self-Loathing: That's a new one.

Me: Shut up.

Civility: There's no need to be rude.

Me: Where the hell did you come from? I thought you died in the Blue Riots of '08.

Civility: No, that was one of the Love Of People twins.

Me: Oh.

Depression: Me want dopamine!

Me: Yeah, well, we all want a lot of things. Self-Esteem wants a future. Irrelevance wants a pony. And Libido? I think he's gone insane.

Libido: I am become Sexual Frustration, destroyer of egos.

Me: What?

Comic Nerd: It's pretty bad. He's like the Dark Phoenix from X-Men except horny.

Realism: He's not joking, man. You know that I always try to counteract the hyperbole that comes spewing from the vast majority of your brain cells, but in this case, it's pretty accurate. Look at what Wikipedia says about it...

Me: I'm not listening to Wikipedia!

Realism: Just listen! "It is claimed by some that a person who is sexually frustrated sends off "signals" in their personality, consciously or subconsciously, arising from their frustration.These cues can include frequent moodiness, over-eating, agitation, stress, lack of sleep, being easily sexually aroused, trouble paying attention to things, low self-esteem including the feeling of being unwanted, unloved and/or being physically or personally repulsive; and similar phenomena. The feelings of repulsive, unwanted, unloved and rejected can lead to manifestation or intensification of other unhealthy personality traits, such as severe depression arising from the despair felt, or even body dysmorphia."

Inner Child: WE CAN BE A TRANSFORMER?! I WANNA BE OPTIMUS PRIME!

Me:...dysmorphia. Not Transfomers. And what's your point?

Realism: Well...it kind of applies. You're always moody, basically acting like you have a bleeding vag. You're more agitated than a hornet's nest caught in a washing machine. You stress out constantly. A stiff breeze can...well, you know. You have no focus at all. Self-Esteem is basically dead at this point. And Depression? You look at that big, hulking retard over there and tell me he doesn't exist.

Depression: Me not retard! Me just need extra time to understand!

Me: What's your point?

Realism: My point is, believe it or not...maybe you should listen to Libido for a little while.

Me:...are you out of your fucking mind?

Self-Loathing: No, but you are!

Self-Esteem: Can't...breathe...

Libido: I'm being paid attention to? What is this?

Me: That shit came from Wikipedia. You can't possibly consider that information accurate. Come on. An article about Henry VIII could just become fifteen hundreds uses of the term "lol butts". There's no factual validation there.

Realism: There's no reason to attack my veracity just because you won't come to terms with your own sexual inadequacies.

Ego: SEXUAL INADEQUACIES?!

Me: Here we go...

Ego: Bitch, you don't KNOW 'bout no sexual inadequacy. Are you kidding? Boba Fett down there could blow a lamp off a nightstand from five hundred meters.

Me: I...

Ego: The Awesome could impregnate ladies who he's never even MET just by them thinking about him.

Me: Just...

Ego: Maximus could...

Me: Okay, that's enough. I appreciate your...enthusiasm, Ego, but surging full-bore into lying isn't helpful.

Realism: Look, the fact is that you ARE frustrated. It's just how it is. You've only kissed one person since 2008 and you were drunken than a pack of German war vets. You haven't had anything below the waist handled since 2007. You have officially crossed the line between "caught in a dry spell" and "wandering aimlessly in the Sahara". If it could rust over, it would have.

Me: I got it, thanks.

Realism: I'm just saying...

Me: I know. I got it.

Libido: But I don't got it, that's your problem.

Me: Here's part two...

Libido: You seem to not care about me at all. Sure, there's all that fancy porn out there, but that's hit the point where it's boring. It's rote. It's mechanical and not in the fun way.

Me: *sigh*

Self-Preservation: I'm inclined to agree.

Me: What the hell stake do YOU have in it?

Self-Preservation: You mean aside from the very real concern that you won't propagate your bloodline, thus killing me?

Me: Well...yes.

Self-Preservation: Well, that would be the fact that instead of taking steps towards correcting your troubling lack of wet dick, you drink yourself into numbness.

Budding Alcoholism: Can't numb nothing!

Me:...that darkness aside...

Self-Preservation: Seriously. Boozing instead of lovin' hurts both your dick AND your liver. It's a double-whammy of self-abuse.

Me: Peachy.

Self-Loathing: So are you going to do anything about it?

Me: I say...no. Fuck my libido. Let my crotch go down in flames. I'll take a dead sack over reviving that stupid bastard over there.

Zombie Romanticism: Blaaaaaaargh so clooooooooose blaaaaaargh!