mexicant

So... I'm sitting here, at my desk, listening to Pink Floyd's Mother and desperately wishing I had more in my heart than I do now. I don't know why, but every once in a while all I can think about is taking a nice shiney box cutter and peeling back the layers of flesh on my body. I guess it just means that I'm starting to build a resistance to the medications they have me on. The oddest part about it all is that this is always when I feel my most creative and my most "in-touch" with the world. Maybe I'll just drink some Newcastles and hope the need to cause physical harm to myself goes away.

There really is only one person I want to speak to right now but I don't know what I say to them. It's killing me because my heart constantly yearns for them. I'm too much of a physical person and can't fathom a friendship without actual contact. I mean... I really just want to put my head in her lap and talk about literary classics, interesting music, or thought producing comics.

Oh well.

The music's on Pink Floyd's Wish You Were Here now. How apropos.

Also: The girl and I are buying a house. We're looking at four tonight.