Realizing yourself as a stoned, gloomy drug addict in a dry concrete bag is still a pleasure. And if at the same time they cut your eyes with a dull and dirty cleaver, this does not add optimism at all. Well, to hell with optimism. I’m eager to ask a few questions: “Who am I?”, “Why the hell am I not on Earth?”, “Which bitch is going to answer for all this crap now?” It's time to assemble a combat squad!