I'm wrinkly, from the bath.

Sleepwalking, sleepwalking. It's a long weekend, without the extra day.

Work, essay, dinner, essay, sleep, run, essay, christmas party, drunken essay, sleep, essay, school, hand in essay, work, study, sleep, study, quiz, done.

Then it's float on through to January. I wonder if I'll register anything I experience at all?

My roommate just brought home yet another woman. Actually, it might be the same one, I don't know anymore, they're all kinda the same. But I'm angry now. He wanted to hang out, said he'd phone around 5, maybe meet me after work, didn't. I guess I'm just jealous, I don't know. He's a self admitted selfish guy. Should have believed him.

And why oh why do I care. I suppose it's the story of my life to have someone gush and fawn over me, tell me how amazing and great I am, and beautiful and can't believe I don't have a partner, but then they date someone else. And why oh why do I care.

I hope they go out, I hope they leave. I don't need to hear people fucking tonight.

This weekend is going to ruin me. I'll come down with a cold right after. Maybe I'm just over tired? I feel driven out of my space and into my room, where I think I'll be for a long, long time. If I can help it.

I can make it a small, self contained universe. I'll venture out in a people-proof runabout (a burgundy terrycloth robe) in search of sustenance (when necessary) and use the sub-space travel vessel (a black wool coat with fuzzy hood) to go to planet work and the school nebula. It's safer in here, there are no aliens (men), only comfortbots (cats), interstellar explosions of beauty (music and paints), electric stars (electric stars), plant life (vinyl leaves and various plants in stages of dying), stellar winds (fan), a vaccuum (my heart), and the sun (me).

"Your heart felt good, it was drippin pitch and made of wood."

I'm sad.