So you drop a man inside of a fucking cage, okay?  No on else is in there, and no else is around.  It's just this man, alone in this phone booth-sized cage.  He becomes mad, losing himself in his own thoughts, and succumbs to the deepest form of despair as loneliness.  In this little shit hole that you've made home for him, it becomes his death cell.  Poor, poor man.  All he needed was someone to talk to, but we didn't give him anyone, and now he is dead - his skull, broken against the sides of his cage.
Now, as a second scenario, we will drop him in a much larger cage.  I'd say...eehhhhh, about the same size as middle-class living room.  So we drop his ass in there, but, we also drop in twenty others.  Now they're all bumping around into each other, shoulder to shoulder.  Suddenly, our little man needs to take a leak.
"Hey man, why don't you go piss somewhere else?"   
"Dude, what difference does it make?  Everywhere I go, there's someone fucking standing there."
The guy who believes that corner A is his corner gets very angry at our man.  So, he creates himself a make-shift dagger, then pushes it into our man's throat.  Poor, poor man.  All he needed to do was piss, but now he's bleeding and stumbling, quietly, because he knows no one will help.  The rest of the people in our room looks at the murderer, fearing for their own safety, then, as a group, they gang up on him, beating him until he is killed from shock and internal blood lose.  This goes on, and on, and on until there is just a couple people left. 
"Ahhhhh, enough room now."
"I agree."
"Hey, Peter and John.  Do you guys wanna play a card game?"
"Huh?  Oh yeah, sure."
"Sure."

There's no winning is there?  Not unless you can survive to be one of the few remaining.

It's Sunday night, and about 10:30 in the pm'z.  I'm restless, tired, and extremely unamused by the fact that it is...well, 10:30 in the pm'z on a Sunday night.  I would really enjoy writing a blog, (strange word) but I have no ideas as to what I could write about.  Hmmmm, let's see.  There's my backpack on the floor next to me.  One pocket is open, and I believe it's because I needed to use my calculator today.  And there's my alarm clock.  It now reads 10:40 in the pm'z.  That was 10 minutes.  10 minutes that I could've used to do something productive, like pack the backpack that I need to bring to school tomorrow.  10 minutes I could've used to write an e-mail to my professor, asking why she must make her quizzes so fucking difficult.  10 minutes I could've used to give my dog some attention, because I know once she's gone, (in the near future) I will have regretted not giving her more attention.  That's a depressing thought, so I should stop.  I think I won't want to have a pet when I get older.  That feeling of a doomed tomorrow has a way with stabbing me in my throat, and I'm not particularly okay with that.  There's an ashtray, full of butts, needs to be pitched, but my ridiculously small trash can is full.  I smoke too much during the school year, not because I'm stressed, which I am, but because it keeps me somewhat physically busy when I'm studying.  I have ADD, and my body is constantly in a rattle.  Fuck the medication.  It makes me feel like a cloud, and not the good kind of clouds you see on sunny afternoons, but those disgusting grey clouds that loom overhead all day without a single drop of rain.  Fuck those clouds. 
So, Derick, when do you plan on going to bed?
I'm not too sure quite honestly.  It's now 10:50 in the pm'z, but sheer boredom is keeping me from my dreams.
How so?
Well, I'm afraid of dreaming about a nothing.  I've lived through another day and I believe I ought to be given something to think about when I wake up.  Nothingness in a dream isn't a dream at all, and boredom only provokes that.
I'm not sure what I can do for you, Derick.  In fact, I'm rather speechless.  I want to talk to you and catch up, but I don't want to keep your drowsiness at bay.
I understand. 
Well, how about a shot of rum?  Would that get you to sleep?
Yeah, but there isn't a lick of liquor in the house, and I still have another month before I'm twenty-one.
Damn.  Well, I'll just let you get back to your blog, - strange word by the way - and I'll talk to you in the morning.
Alright, man.  Later.
Anyways, I think I'll end my writing shortly and give the mattress ride a shot.  "This" can be very dull sometimes.  Consider me a bastard to my own mental health, but I kind of hope for something catastrophic to occur right now, just to spicen things up a bit.  Here's to hoping a hole opens up in mid-air at the foot of my bed.
Now, to set my ceiling fan onto it's medial setting. . . . Off. Three. Two.