its about that time. when i look for small silver things, put the music on way too loud, go into iso mode and wonder what the hell is going on. out there and in here.
kanye west is a fucking poet. christ. too bad hes also a douche bag. its ok. hes got me moving in this chair. got me feeling gangsta without a clue. got me smiling.
lately i've been avoiding my roommate. and subtle guy he is he calls me on it. it was awkward needless to say when he poked his head out of the door while i was smoking and asked. so, where have you been? i never see you anymore, you avoiding me? um. no.... ive been sick. and at my dads. um no thanks i don't want a shot, no its ok really, ugh, fine. make it a small one.
[5 shots later i was throwing up and cursing because i really was sick, sweet]
im at my parents house for the next two days. alone. i have no cigarettes, too much coffee and sugar, this computer and the house has a bad roach problem. god help me.
i typed a dream here then accidentally erased it. go me.
whats up with this headache? you've been here for 4 days now. you creep and stab when i move my eyes or when i try to eat. fun.
i wish someone would call me right now. this house is big. and scary and making noises i don't recognize. i miss my apt and the xbox and my dumb ass cats already.
help me im lost in my own physical pain and sabotage.
but what could you do, eh?
hmm.
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