Head under water, and they tell me to breathe easy for a while

I need a shower, but at two thirty in the morning, I can't muster the willpower. Besides, my apartment is freezing.

Recently my sorry excuse for a computer chair broke so that now all my computer usage is done in bed, which isn't quite as lazy as it sounds. Either way, I'm snuggled under blankets, though still tethered within a foot of where I am by the hardline to my modem.

No work tomorrow. No aching body, no complaining customers, no persistant whine of incompetance piercing my eardrums, no dumpster smell, no snob co-workers, no responsibility.

Ever since the frame of my futon/bed broke, I've been sleeping on the surprisingly comfortable but nonetheless last-resort futon mattress. The corduroy cover on the matress leaves horizontal patterns on any piece of early-morning bloated body part it touches; the matress slides across my bedroom floor with a mind of its own (I would have thought that the friction from the carpet alone would have kept it still); it's small and dirty and hard to manage. However, it has treated me very well and has many memories within its folds. It was my brother's before me, and it's the first bed I had living on my own. Which is why I'm sad to say that it must go by the wayside to make room for a real bed. Tomorrow, with any luck.

I've been trying to live through the last few days with a rare, scorching case of PMS. Hey There Delilah came on the radio at work earlier tonight and in addition to my accompanying rant about how it makes me want to vomit viloently, it also made me cry for a private moment when I was backstocking cereal. Tears not of (only) hatred or because I can empathize with naive sophomoric love spanning across a few thousand miles, but as much as it pains me to admit it, I was wishing that someone in the world felt about me the way that gay little acoustic-strumming sellout feels about this girl. I want someone to write me that song. I'm a sick, sick human being.

Cherry Post

I've spent the last two days watching the entire first season of Dexter. Yesterday I sat in a chair for six hours, completely sucked in. How can it possibly be that my solitary goal for the foreseeable future is to have days that accomplish nothing? Either way, there's a satisfaction in letting my brain unravel like a sickly colored ball of yarn in the darkness.

Recently, I find myself wondering more and more about the thin lines between what makes us human and what makes us sub-human. I don a work uniform, and suddenly it becomes acceptable for other people to stop speaking to me in complete sentences. I get points and grunts, one and two-word commands, as though bagging someone's groceries makes me consequently receptable to abuse. It's not necessary to respond to my questions or return my smiles or even look me in the face if it isn't convienent. Mostly it just makes me curious, our arbitrary societal hierarchies.

A small voice in my brain whines pitifully for change. Desperation rules out pickyness, choice negated by need. Everything feels slightly askew, a carbon copy of my life laid over the original, but to the right a centimeter or two, blurring the lines between them. Everything feels slightly wrong and much thicker, almost hazy, and very difficult to navigate.

I had the urge to make blueberry cream cheese turnovers today, though for no real reason.

The tiny rose plant I rescued from certain dehydrating death at work is in critical condition. It looks a little pitiful on my windowsill, almost bare against a grey sky. I hope it survives, for its sake as well as mine.