12:10 a.m. - 2001-12-30
another day
another day in the life of...
I woke up feeling achy all over my body, where have I been last night?
my pillow is ragged and I hug it close to me, I feel tormented.
like today would be just like yesterday, I would never get better.
I wish I still had the guts to jump out of bed instead of climbing groggily out of it like a hole in the ground where I escape to every night.
if that would not happen,I wish this day would turn to night in a blink of an eye and I can sleep again.
sometimes it�s not rest I seek, because I would lie on the bed with an arm over my eyes, refusing to see anything, much to speak with anyone, refusing to fall asleep no matter how I try.
I wish I could have a good cry and I would feel better.
but since after crying I did not actually get better, how would I feel better?
what�s the point of crying at all.
sleep is better isn�t it?
but I hate sleeping. sleep is a waste of time when there are a million better things out there to do.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------the end.
somehow, it�s more funny if you write it down and imagine you�re well and what you�re writing is just a fiction story, like you�re a great author imagining and writing down this imaginary life that has absolutely no connection to your real life, it�s gonna be such a joke when people read this story and they expect the narrator to be this sickly dead person isn�t it. what a surprise. I get a laugh thinking about it. it�s like a tv show about vampires and the scriptwriter drinking tomato juice. cept maybe it�s really blood.
I�m sure even hp lovecraft gets a laugh writing down all his dark horror stories and wondering if his winged demons are more scary than his old alcoholic ones. actually, I�m not even sure if lovecraft is an alcoholic. but I�m pretty certain if you�ve read his stories, you would imagine him to be this old guy in a dark damp house in the english countryside with willow branches beating against his window panes every night as he sits down at his candle-lit table, takes a swig of his whiskey and writes on tattered papers, some lonely old guy who probably has more relation to the hellish creatures of the night than he lets on in his stories.
that�s it for this episode.
next episode we�ll be discussing gay authors and their pets.
goodbye.
