Eric dragged me out of my drug-induced coma to coax me to eat Burger King, but even now, I could probably pass back out, if I was so inclined.
I utterly failed at laundry this weekend. I don’t even care, except that we’re literally out of clean clothes. Entirely. Unless I wear long sleeves when it’s over 90F during the day, and no thanks to that.
I don’t think 16 ounces of wine and 4mg of alprazolam will free me, but at least I can disappear for several hours.
I was supposed to spend the weekend doing the laundry I haven’t managed to acknowledge beyond guilt for avoiding for literally months. Instead I slept most of Saturday, and accomplished nothing more than bleaching my ridiculous hair and going on a quasi-drunken rage-walk. I’ve taken enough chemicals that I won’t be awake much of tomorrow.
I’d still rather drown in my own blood, but I will be obligated to wake up later. Please drown me.
I twisted the same ankle twice walking near the railroad tracks. Doesn’t feel sprained, though, and I’m not about to curtail my walk for it.
I’m home now and it’s not even swollen. Also, I may have avoided getting attacked on the street by noticing a 2nd shadow and seeing the dude behind me, scooting over in case he wanted to pass me, then casually putting a single cut on my arm - I was already fondling the blade for the entire walk - so if he was following me he could see the blood running down before I pulled my sleeves down. I’m more convinced he was hazardous because I didn’t see him again after he startled me initially, rather than him casually continuing in the same direction behind me.
“and it isn’t that i’m so unhappy i don’t want to live anymore. that’s not what it feels like. it feels more like I’m tired and bored and the party’s gone on too long and i want to go home. i feel flat and there doesn’t seem to be anything to look forward to, so i’d rather call it a day.”—nick hornby, about a boy (via scarsandskin)