whenever i get cold, I always feel the need to sleep. like some sort of hibernating bear, i pretty much just turn the hell off, curl into a ball, pretend like i have no duties in the world, and sleep. sleep is one of my favourite things to do. if i could sleep for a living, i would. there is just something so achingly, breakingly permanent about being stuck in your own dreams, inside your own head, that when you have to open your eyes to the harsh reality of your own plaster ceiling you want nothing more than to sink so deeply into your mattress that you become part of its fibers. i am a very busy person in my dreams. i never have time to be a fool or overbearing or make anybody not like me. i am popular and have many friends. my dreams always end the same, anyway. i guess i don't even need to have them anymore. in the end i am always in a forest--i can hear someone calling to me, but i guess either i'm too lazy to find out who, or i just haven't been able to so far. i break out of the cover, and in the far distance, on a rolling plain, there is a small clump of trees. i will always wake up in a cold sweat. jesus, what exactly am i waiting for? what am i expecting to happen? why can't i make myself work? why do i have to be so excited and tell everyone about him? why do i feel so guilty when I do? dude and yeah i am definitely not obsessed.