Hell

It's 8 am. I didn't sleep all night. My hands are cracked and bleeding from repeated washings of my paintbrushes in ice cold water. It's snowing outside...on April 24th. Why is it snowing outside at the end of April? I'm hungry, but I don't have much left that's good to eat, and there are no food places open this early on Sunday. I think I'm in hell. A cold, wet hell, the ninth level right with Satan, where the sun never shines and the winds never cease to whip and flail all life out of my skin. I need a hug. Where's my Benny-bean to give me a hug?