smith

Prospects of waking up early tomorrow morning (and every moerning thereafter) make me ill. There's something about the early morning hours; the post-cathartic shock of realizing that yes, you didn't actually die, and no, the women and warm pastries you were eagerly devouring in your dreamstate didn't actually exist. Such things induce me to nausea.

The past few months have had me stumbling through life with little hope and direction. Last Thursday led me to believe this may change, but the intriguing redhead I met at an erotica party who seemed interested has yet to return my call. Typical.

I detest lack of hope. Within myself, at least.