2005-01-12 - 10:18 p.m.
I have to admit, diary, that though I'm with you now I wouldn't be if it weren't for the music. I'd be sleeping right now dreaming of salty food a scotch and a smoke, maybe some sex too. But only for the alliterative effect. I'm not even going to sit for this one. I'm just going to stand here typing, with my headphones on, somewhat kneeling to reach the keyboard until my knees give out or until I accept that yes, I really do have to work tomorrow, and if my boss really wanted to get pissy about things she could both fire me AND evict me, and then I'd really be screwed.
I've got high blood pressure, diary, though I keep hearing my pulse rate is superb. Twenty four and I gotta watch my salt intake, maybe start worrying about colesterol, which I can't even spell let alone be bothered to worry about.
Yes, I'm sitting, but only for this fourth song. I don't want you to grow accustomed to my company right before I leave, I just need to hear one more. The problem is choosing which one. I think I'll decide by length...
I've got a crush on a twenty year old virgin who seems to like drama, and whom I work with. In fact, whom I'm replacing, way to climb that corporate ladder, you go girl, all that other shit.
Oh Comely, 7:54.
I didn't mention she's currently got a boyfriend, who treats her like dog shit. If I ever mention her and the word "save" I want my nose broken.
These days I smell the whiff of a cigarette and it's like perfume on the wind, a scent an ex you never quite got over was particularly fond of, and nevermind the suffering you'd like to smell like that again. I'm good for overstressing metaphors. Maybe just good at stressing. I'm also not bad at the bad segues, or maybe I'm just really bad at the non sequitors.
That's about all I got to say really. Not too much risk of this, but I don't particularly wanna hear your pity, so don't. I've obviously got enough pity for myself.
Your 7:54 is up.
