Help!

I'm writing this message in the hope that it will manage to slip through my floorboards and into your flat. Im trapped under a garden-sized jenga set, which has collapsed on me. please help me, if i move the wrong peace, they could all collapse again. Theirs no way out!!!

I looked gingerly at the note that had, just moments ago, floated down from my ceiling fan. At first, I'd thought it was a message from God, probably asking me to keep the noise down, but then noticed the telltale signs of communication from Len, my upstairs neighbour: (Yes, I'm now living in a flat. Please don't bitch out continuity, I'm fictional, and it breaks up the flow. See, you've probably forgotten what was going on now. go re-read the last sentence and ignore this.) The bad spelling was a hint, but his love of extreme versions of family games was what really tipped me off. I considered helping him for a moment, but remembered all the trouble he'd given me last month, when he made me play snakes-and-ladders with him. As the owner of the game, he climbed a ladder, and cheered while snakes chased me around the flat.
 It's lucky I was raised by mongoose really.

For your pleasure, a dress-up Sartre

Yes, I am well aware he has only one pair of trousers and no shoes. But it doesn't really matter, you won't cut him out and dress him, and I only made him to avoid doing work. Still, I hope something philosophical comes out of this for you...

The average life expectancy of a toilet...

is 50 years. They'll probably outlive me...

I have become increasing paranoid of late...

and have began seeing potential murderers everywhere. However, I have taken some factors into account: News reports always suggest that murderers are the "last person you'd expect". Often, television programmes reinforce this belief, as do films and novels. Or it could be the butler. Thus, I have locked myself in a butler-free high-security prison. They're so obviously murderers that there's no possible way I could be hurt. Anyhow, got to go. Shower time...

Perhaps the light areas are dark for an artistic reason. Perhaps I'm just procrastinating. I do have a philosophy essay to do on Sartre, so that's probably more true. Originally, I wrote procreating instead of procrastinating. I am not procreating. That would make it too hard to type.

Is that a hilarious double entandre? I think not.

Broken legs.

Max took another look at my cast.
"Who'd have thought all those zany adventures we got up to would actually hurt someone... God, it's shocking when you think about it!"
I looked down at my leg slowly, then back at Max:
 "What zany adventures? You pushed me down the stairs and called me Charlie. That's not zany, it's just stupid and unfunny."
 "Yea, I suppose." He replied, "Well, sorry about this, but I've got to do it."
Reaching into the bag he'd taken with him to the hospital - the contents of which I'd already wondered about - Max produced a shotgun.
 "Again, I'm sorry I've got to do this. But if I don't put you down (He loaded the shotgun) the only option left is to put you out to stud. And you wouldn't like that at all."
Normally, I'd explain how I wasn't a horse, how that wasn't how horses worked, and how being put out to stud was far preferable to being shot, but there seemed no point today. I'd checked, and the omens were certain. Asteroids were coming to destroy the earth. Soon, the sky would burn, and the ground would... burn as well, I suppose. I might as well let him shoot me, there was no chance of studding with this leg.
I was on the 19th floor, for God's sake. Can't use the lift in cases of asteroids

Mice...

have my keys. They are demanding a handsome ransom for their return. They've locked me out, and I just know they're inside, using my oven to cook their filthy cakes and dealing drugs to the neighbourhood insects.

Concerning Zebra

It was getting bright, and I was hurrying to get home - There's nothing suspicious about a man being out all night, I'd just been robbing bakeries, that's all - when I noticed something wasn't right. Snow... Well, that wasn't unknown in November, of course, but it hadn't been in my drive earlier. Furthermore, it hadn't snowed recently. I should have kept going, into the safety of my house, but instead I stopped like a fool.
Slowly, like the zombies in Thriller, 4 zebra rose from the ground. Their black stripes painted white, they had been able to hide in the fake snow filling my drive quite convincingly.
 "Bonjour." Spoke the ringleader, "The Colonel sends his regards."
With that, he slapped me to the ground with a hoof.
 "We will return soon, mes ami. Au Revoir."
Laughing, the zebra walked past me and into the distance. I knew I couldn't escape my days in Africa this easily...

Meditation on First Condoms, then other subjects...

On reflection, why would you put walnuts in a condom? I suppose one could partake in some kinky stuff using it, but any uses of such a device just sound uncomfortable...
 I intend to use it as a weapon. With any luck, it'll make those long winter evenings just fly by.

The talk of other subjects was just a cunning ruse to lure you here! Oh, me and my subterfuge... I hate my life.

Something about tortoises... I dunno, I need to use titles more.

"It's not working"
It wasn't, there was no point in denying it. I was in serious trouble here - debts up to my ears. This race was serious live or die stuff, and this was a serious problem.
Slowly, the first tortoise crossed the finish line. Serious expressions on their faces, another 4 crossed the line in due time. My tortoise however - overly optimistic named El Diablo rápido, it transpired - lay dead at the starting post. Once again, my attempts to rig a race had gone wrong - my using of the old radish trick, steroids, and tranquilizers on the opposition had failed before. This time, however, I had tried mutation. In my mind, a super-mutant tortoise was the ultimate racing animal (and after, I could sell him to the military). Tragically, it transpired that when one dips a tortoise in stolen nuclear waste, it does not grow to huge proportions and become... muscly... (is that the word? You know, a ripped tortoise... Like condoms full of walnuts, in a shell)
In fact, it makes a tortoise die slowly, in a cruel and unnecessary manner. I'm going back to jail. Stealing nuclear waste and torturing animals - as well-intended as these acts may be - is illegal, you see.

I have taken to painting mice and releasing them into the general population. I'd hoped they would breed, creating a race of brightly-coloured furry friends for everyone, but they generally die. I knew lead-based paint was a bad idea...

I knew my TV dinner would get cold, but I couldn't bring myself to go back to the living room. Not while he was there. I was just too... tedious...
I shall explain the backstory to this incident. In fact, you will probably wonder why I didn't start with the backstory, and thus recall events chronologically, thus avoiding confusion. The answer is because it's a literary thing, and I'm not.
3 days ago, I had heard a knock at the door. Answering it, I found a large bear in a suit. After some smalltalk, ("Arrgh, a bear!") it turned out he was new to the area, and wondered if I could direct him to a hotel (for some reason, my neighbours have fled the street, which is why - I assume - he came to me.) Since I hadn't had any zany adventures for a while, I invited him to stay with me for a few days. I assumed it would be interesting. I was wrong.
Now, he was sitting in my living room, shouting abuse at horse racing. This abusive, angry, animated bear in my living room was as far removed from his normal personality as possible. Normally, he would sit in my favourite chair, unmoving, saying nothing. When pushed, I could get a few moments of conversation about rainfall out of him, but nothing more.
I must return though. He's been in that chair for some time, and I still know what he does in the woods.