Every night, when I lock the front door, I feel a stream of cold air on my toes, from the gap beneath the door. As my crippling OCD makes repeated requests to check and re-check the locks, I hear people in the hallway revel in conversation. Lucky are those who enjoy partaking in human-to-human interactions, for man is after all, a social animal. Here I am, writing to myself. Every line, a little gayer than the last. Is it a poem? Is it prose? What is prose, anyway? I mean really, what the fuck is it?