I can’t force these words anymore than I can make myself purge after I’ve littered these floors with home-brew. She said “baby please write for me.” So I try to push ink across notebooks to see if anything worth anyone’s time shows up. My rooms grown smaller as my material possessions stack up. The walls aren't moving but they’re getting closer to pressing my body between them. I wish they’d squeeze me like my mom’s lemonade and find those creative juices I’ve heard so much about. Then maybe someone would take notice that I’m more than a body filling gaps between oxygen and carbon dioxide. It’s hard though to find something inspiring when routines running my life. I’ll find myself walking down the street backwards just to see if I’ve missed anything only to find myself saying “god you’re lame.” So here I sit as my mind starts craving a high. I wish chris would come home so we could search our phone books trying to score an eighth. But with the increasing temperature filling my room I’m suffocating... quickly losing any motivation to move or motion towards opening a window. I make myself sit here and suffer as if I’m punishing myself for doing nothing. Boredom makes sex start to crawl over my brain. Her sex is all I crave these days. It’s wearing my body thin. Just a quick fix I say, but I know good things come to those who wait. But waiting never did anything but make my hormones jump. So here I sit planning my next attack. I’ll just wait until she’s home, you see. I’ll just wait. Waiting makes it better. I’m waiting on her to make it better.