I'm sitting on the floor in my bedroom. My back is against my full size bed, whose boxspring is right on the carpet. The bottoms of my feet apply pressure to my brown dresser, with my knees highly bent and the laptop on my lap. It's cozy. My two windows, to my right, identical two panel windows, are fully open, screens filtering, plasticy dayglo yellow wind-up shades on wheels fully drawn. Outside I hear constant chirping and cawing of birds and chittering of squirrels. I hear my neighbors too. Why is it these upstanding people, happy or unhappy but dutiful suburbanites are always home during the day, just like me, who's a slacker. Are they slacking? How do they afford their lives? How do I afford my life? It doesn't always come easy. I bet they smell my smoke right now.
I hate myself.
UGH. I want the birds to carry me away. Sacrifice me to some crows. But having my eyes pecked out, while right now the most appropriate punishment/relief, would really hurt.
I am so boring and this is so boring. I have a lot of inner turmoil. I really can't say a thing about it though. It's so scary. I am so heavy with dread.