I'm missing someone. I'm not even sure if she was ever there in the first place, but I miss her all the same. I miss a her. I don't really know who she is ( Read more... )

That's it. I'm done with this idiotic drinking spree. The only time I feel that upset is at the end of those nights when I get really drunk ( Read more... )

When I'm sober (earlier), I'm alright ( Read more... )

I was born in the places ( Read more... )

He or she who can name all the song titles listed within the following poem will receive a hefty gift of five dollars from me.

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I picked this purple turquoise flower ( Read more... )

So, tonight my goal was 19 shots. I'm at 15 right now. And yes, I am counting the shots that I put into mixed drinks (2 screwdrivers and 1 smirnoff mixed with pepsi). The point is, I have four left. Granted, it's 5 am, but you think I could do it. Maybe if I wanted to feel really sick tomorro morning ( Read more... )

Okay. So, I'm totally wasted while I write this. And yet, my goal is to make as few typos as possible. That in itself may have been a typo, because I don't remember exactly how to write the plural form of typos. Do you believe that I've had 12 shots tonight? I was going for 19 because that's how old I am, but I started feeling rather sick when ( Read more... )

The night I broke - a Monday night, of all nights - is difficult to explain even to myself. I wandered aimlessly for hours, doing everything I could to amount to nothing in the end: listen to music, do laundry, stare at a computer screen. Then I drank ( Read more... )

I flounder about in this shallow puddle. I know how I should feel and think at times, but never how I should act. And my gils pulsate, in and out, gasping for the next breath. I don't want to hurt her anymore than she hurt me, and yet I wish she would hurt. And all the while, what's the use? I take stab after stab with these numb blue fingers ( Read more... )

... good to be home. 8')