(no subject)
ironically enough, last night was my most successful attempt at sleeping in the countable past. im trying to remember when my day to day didn't consist of restlessness and poor decisions and bad luck, aligning themselves like some shitty knock-off version of the ten plagues. if this were some sort of noir fiction pulp novel, i could start out like so:
"I noticed i was behind the eight-ball too late to take the run out. i could say it all started a week from last, but that's not really on the square. truth is, i have no idea how far back it goes, i just know i wont be able to make a clean sneak of it this time. i cant tell if this is the sting, so im still thinking on whether i should sing or shut my head...."
i'd say im just aimless, but that'd be optimistic. all i know is that i've been getting the short end of the stick for a while now, and i think it's time some other wrong number got the screws put on them.
"I noticed i was behind the eight-ball too late to take the run out. i could say it all started a week from last, but that's not really on the square. truth is, i have no idea how far back it goes, i just know i wont be able to make a clean sneak of it this time. i cant tell if this is the sting, so im still thinking on whether i should sing or shut my head...."
i'd say im just aimless, but that'd be optimistic. all i know is that i've been getting the short end of the stick for a while now, and i think it's time some other wrong number got the screws put on them.