Since it appears to be the thing to do, I guess I'll write in here ( Read more... )

If I write in here, others can see it? Makes about as much sense as anything else.

I have no idea what this place is supposed to be, or whose apartment I'm in. If someone knows who's behind this, tell me now so I can kick their ass.

[Yeeeeah. Memory loss within a memory loss. We must go deeper.]

[Pretend this is backdated to Feb. 28]

I get it. I'm supposed to be constantly humiliated. However, this is getting ridiculous. I already had to deal with the fucking cat ears.

[here is a small hoofprint]

These damn things are back.

Stupid fucking desks. Trampled right over the journal and then I had to go and make a new fucking one.

Not like I even need one.

I have a job now, which means I'm leaving this barren place. Not sure what to expect on "Level 3," but it has to be better than days of endless nothing.

I feel like something is missing. I don't own anything, but I think I'm supposed to. It's something important, I guess.

[Slow and deliberate letters written in a fancy script, though the sentences are clipped and bullet-point-like in nature.]

Testing.

Room is sparse. Other bed is empty. Things fit in one drawer.

Appreciation to 'Bastet.'

Need cigarettes and job. First one is more important.