tds

No reason to write, I just felt like I should. It's getting very hard writing here. Sober, anyway. There's reasons, yeah, but ironically it just doesn't work explaining them here. Which i suppose sums up the problem. This isn't a site issue, but more of a...people one? Whatever. It really doesn't mean a whole lot.

Sleep is not coming anymore. I have two Ambien left. I will likely take one tonight, because I HAVE to go take care of some things tomorrow. I can't be nocturnal. Well, I think it's my natural cycle, but how productive is that? I can only do so much.

I always try to make these somewhat entertaining, so there's not much in the way of useless shit. But now I'm just writing useless shit. Blank spaces just make me nervous.

I think I might have another neighbor I don't care for. Which, in this case, is unfortunate, because she's quite attractive, close to my age, and unmarried. I say unmarried, because she and her boyfriend were being overly loud and obnoxious Saturday night, when they were making out and dirty talking outside their door. Unacceptable. Then, when the door shut, I could soon here them having sex. You just know those noises, I guess. Extremely unacceptable. I didn't think the walls here were that thin, but apparently they are. Regardless, I won. Threw a rock, which happened to hit a car with an alarm near her window, then ran around the corner and back into my apartment before they could compose themselves. That'll learn 'em.

In writing that, I notice that it makes me seem like an abstinant hermit who hates others having more fun than myself, so he reacts as petty as possible. But whatever; the world needs more small victories against the awful creatures that populate it. And, by the way, I hate the fact I've got standards, if only because I sometimes see those with next to none living a life of not happiness but of fulfillment. I miss fulfillment. A reason, other than necessity, to entertain yourself. The type I want is nearly extinct, but has just enough to make me hate things a little more because I don't have one. It's a subject of deep frustration that I might have to lower my standards to find even the slightest bit of fulfillment, if not a little alleged happiness. Seems like a fucked up proposition. This time last year, I think I might have been closer to right than I am now. The fuck is the matter with me, anyway?

For the first time in years, I had an idea that made me grin. Grin that "Grinch Who Stole Christmas" terrible, horrible, awful idea grin. I've been in a good mood most of the day.

Bought Kerouac's On The Road the other day. Will start it soon. The Doubleday woman didn't seem to care for me. I will likely not be hired there.

I'll likely be back sometime later, as I tend to do. I'll likely bitch about music or something.

Later.