I have enough smoke in my lungs, enough liquor in my stomache, and enough feeling in my body, and a full cup of fresh brewed coffee to write a fucking entry. My ipod is on random, so here I go: I've had enough shit in on my mind to let things go lately, I am forgetting memories that no longer have any meaning, and I haven't been with friends in a long enough time to miss each and everyone of them. I am starting the job search soon, I'm not sure why, but I think I need to feel an importance in my life. My writing just isn't what it used to be, and anymore I need to be drunk to write anything worth a second reading, and I need to have enough toxins in my lungs to even write at all. Or it has to be midnight, and I have to want it. So I'm racing a mile a second, wondering how I'm churning all this out of my head, it's just randomly coming out, and I feel sick. My stomache hurts, I swallowed enough smoke to kill a baby. I feel like the New Jersey turn pike of people, I am sore. I have no idea how the fuck things got so bad, but I feel like a thirty year old alcoholic, my body is in the shape of one at least. I can't even run, I get out of breath so fast, smoking makes my mind race, drinking makes me think. God forbit I have finally succum to my addictions. I have given up on being a soul anymore. I can be a stereo-type writer, I'm fine with it. I am anyway, I drink to write, and I smoke to keep going, I am never withen writing distance of my laptop without a cup of fresh coffee next to me, damaging my desk because I'm too damn careless to buy a coaster, like any of those would go with my room anyway, maybe I'll just pick something up, black marble maybe, those are gorgeous. Marble is my favorite stone. My dreams have been crushed, I haven't seen anyone worth talking to in ages, and I'm just begging for a day with Kristin, but she's probably avoiding me, she might have reason. I am a stale cigarettes, you need the toxins but you just hate that fucking taste of weeks of bad memories, those sleepless nights and exhausted-minded days. What am I going to do with myself? I think I am finally nothing but a teenager, something I never wanted to be. So my writing matches my life, it sucks. I feel like a complete waste of oxygen and you are nothing but a false advertisement of a future because I'm going to die young. I know for a fact I am going to drink myself to death. I knew it would happen if I ever started drinking, I would be an alcoholic, you can just tell you will be if you are one before you ever start. I knew it. So I'm trying to keep up with my thoughts as I come to the fact that I am going to drink myself to death. I have no idea why I ever started to drink, I knew it would never be good, from my first taste of wine, to my first stolen bottle of gin. It's open mic night at the shithole of my mind. Let the rotting begin. good night, I have a crisp new issue of Filter. oh the articles!