During depression the world disappears. Language itself. One has nothing to say. Nothing. No small talk, no anecdotes. Nothing can be risked on the board of talk. Because the inner voice is so urgent in its own discourse: How shall I live? How shall I manage the future? Why should I go on?

talking is good.
i will never be a writer.

i am sitting on the floor in the new apartment. free wireless! woo ( Read more... )

stop whining.

things could be much worse and they are for a lot of people.
calm down, drink some ice water, read a book.
mostly, shutup.

(hey. i wish someone had said that to me. they probably should have.)

note to self: when leaving work in hopes of having a productive night, don't take shots of crown.

i have a million things i want to say and no way of saying them.

leave me out with the waste.my optimism is so shot ( Read more... )

i should be studying, but my brain cannot seem to focus ( Read more... )

i don't recall writing that last entry.
shows you how sleep deprived, stressed, and ahfiwytiwehgeg i am.

i intended to write something...smart, uplifting, whatever...

i think i may have gotten 6 hours of sleep last night. my cat woke me up pretty much every hour. i am now wide awake and he is fast asleep on my bed. i feel as if this is training for kids someday. argh.

my birthday is in three days.
i want to travel. bad. i wish someone would buy me a trip.