Well, it’s 2am, which could only mean one thing I’m working. The front desk job is not helping at all with the bout of insomnia I’ve been having. I never thought I would say it, but I hate fucking school and just want to drop out, living in my car off McDonald’s food and poetry writing. Maybe I’ll skip down to Mexico and die of exposure, like my protï¿½gï¿½ (Neal Cassady). Other than the normal depression (angst) I’m all peaches and cream.
I find it odd writing letters at this time of day. Maybe I know that they will probably never be sent, but more likely it is because I know when I wake up (that is if I go to sleep) I won’t be the same person. I’ve found that I’m happier with my faï¿½ade then I am with myself, which causes problems beyond my rational train of thought at the moment. As it has shut down, uncoupled, and garaged sleeping peacefully wishing my body would join it.