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.