Added later...I want to write something beautiful and poetic and nice. But nothing comes. I make simple statements. I tell it like it is. I cry and then move on with my life. And Jerr.... Gimme yor AIM name... I know you have one. The entry...
Lots and lots of depression.
Lots and lots of weed.
I told her to never call me again.
She told me to, and I quote, "Fuck off."
I'm not calling her for at least two weeks.
STL was aaight.
Had better.
New fuck buddy... literally... Derek. Thirty. African American. Three kids. Should be interesting.
Am I not terrible? Am I not the worst person you have ever met?
Marijuana is simply dulling things. Not making them go away.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuckf uckfu ckf uckf ukckc ufufckcku ffu..... Fu fu...
Cell bill... Yeah... Two hun-ert dolla-s... Screwed.
Tired of loading planes. Tired of inducting. Tired of answering the phone with my sugary-sweet voice and telling them to "Hold please." Tired of cleaning my room. Tired of driving to get more green. Tired of the ghetto. Tired of uniforms. Tired of tats and tongue rings and hiding who I am. Tired of proving myself. Tired of putting up with bullshit from bullshit people.
I'm just plain... tired.
It's the weeeed, maaannn....
Let's go smoke a bowl together.