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(Untitled)
[This journal is closed.] -
Eighty-six. What the hell was that?
Everybody give a thank-you to Marla for helping me in my hour of posting need ( Read more... ) -
Not worth numbering.
Leave AIM names, please? My buddylist is a blank slate again, and damn if I can remember everyone.
It's mena maybe. Still too lazy to change it. -
Eighty-five. Sleep is for the week. No, the weak.
It's funny how you get used to sleeping certain ways, even when you live a lifestyle where you can't count on it being consistent from day to day or week to week. You let yourself get used to the other person beside you, or being curled a certain way, to waking up in the same position or with the covers tangled just so around you ( Read more... ) -
Eighty-four. Yes, I know it's not technically tomorrow.
It's also another one of those hiatuses - hiati? - slightly extended due to circumstances. What the hell, I didn't expect the ex would want to sell the house right now, right now, right this second, dammit, let's take care of this. There's nothing quite like reorganizing your life at the drop of the hat, is there ( Read more... ) -
Eighty-three. Missed me, missed me, now you gotta...
Entry of substance: tomorrow ( Read more... ) -
Eighty-two. Really no reason to angst.
Taking a break. Still around on AIM now and again as mena maybe, but a couple or three weeks in my Fortress of Solitude are called for ( Read more... ) -
Eighty-one. Better than staring at the ceiling.
First things first: I have insomnia. A Marla Sokoloff-level bout of insomnia; she's usually the one of us who complains of not being able to sleep. It's not the only thing I've gotten from her lately, it seems, but right now, it seems the most pertinent. I stare at the ceiling, praying for sleep to come, hoping for a magic sleep fairy to bring ( Read more... ) -
Eighty. This is the last decision.
Ok, do yourselves a favor; go read Greg Kinnear instead of me. Fun posts about karaoke, not self-important angst about divorce, and he's always articulate, funny, the epitome of class. There is no contest. Cut because this is personal, not because it's long, because I almost can't stomach posting this at all.
( I never let you go, but you still went; I never wanted this. )