Well, well, well.


Thirty-five percent of my opportunity to graduate with an Associate of Arts degree rests on one test tomorrow.

I can’t imagine my life, a week from now.

I still haven’t found a job for sure.

I don’t think I’ve ever been– so not a person. So blind from second to second. So thoughtless. So meaningless. So– friendless. I don’t mean that my friends haven’t been there for me, I mean I haven’t been there for them. I can think of noone I’ve been a true friend to for… well, ever.

My life is devoid of adventure or pride. I see glimmers of my former self in my writing. I remember being able to imagine being happy.

I’d like to write professionally. When I move to my new apartment I have vague concepts for the systems I shall enact to recapture the spark that was my personality.

Vague intentions of editing Bleakly into a novella. Vague this, vague that. I need to do, but I have so much to do, I haven’t the ability to do anything but become passive, a sieve of mind through which my life drifts.

Cigarette did nothing to focus my mind. Music is all terrible. I’m adrift. I’m not scared of what might be, anymore, and that’s worse than the frantic terror I should be experiencing.


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