who?
december two | ten eighteen post meridiem
[]
I've been sitting here for an hour now, trying to think of something even remotely interesting I could tell you, and failing miserably. Each Sunday night for the last month or so I've had really incredible, vivid dreams; the kind from which, after waking up, you immediately want to slam your forehead on the headboard until you find yourself sinking back into them. Thus, reality isn't all that appealing right now, and the details of other people's dreams are sleep worthy in themselves, so I'll spare you. Christ... at least at this time last year I had something resembling a life; a big plastic clown I could blow up once in a while and knock around and then stab repeatedly in a wild frenzy and all the air would rush out in an ear-splitting scream as it slowly bent and collapsed and you would be entertained. Or something. Now I not only have nothing - and I mean nothing - of interest to report, I can't even come up with a decent metaphor to cover up my nothing. Grrr.
I want to get a tattoo. A band around my left forearm. And I want to run far, far away.