I'm so sick of lying to myself.

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Today I cried in Ecology, because my dreams were crushed in front of me.
I want to be a writer and I was out-written by the son of a mortician with a circular saw.

I'm so sick of trying when, in the back of my mind, I know it'll never work out.
I miss the retreat, a lot. Because everything was real. I miss crying.

I should probably just die now, to get it over with.

I'm so tired of myself.
I hate it.
I've been stripped of....anything but a big, black pit of tar that weighs down my stomach and keeps me upright.

I think I just need to get shit-faced or something.