cellar door [drug lust]. [♥]

I haven't slept at all.
It's seven twenty four in the fucking mo(u)rning. Urg.
Day two of my sober streak.
Day three of my not cutting streak.
It has come to my attention that if I do not drink, I feel really, fucking sick.
Can we say alcoholic?
She is coming over at three o'clock.
I may well pass out before then.
Date day and I am dead.
I realized that every time I meet a new infatuation, I always refer to her as 'she' and not by her name.
Odd.
Went to Dane's last night.
Slept for a while.
Left my cancer there.
Damn that to hell.
I have a feeling that one of my friends is dead. More so, one of my past relations.
Insomnia is definitely one of my strong points.
My current sleep pattern is going to kill when I start school.
Drink to that.
Tomorrow, I am purchasing a new cell phone.
I need to sleep.
Or shower.
Or both.
If you really think about it, the purpose of a journal is to write down your own personal thoughts and/or feelings to later read when you are finished with that particular stage in your life. Or to mourn over when they turn out sour. Why do we insist on displaying our entire thought process to a group of spectators? Because we can. That is why.