So I’m sleeping on the couch these days, except my mom thinks it’s depression.
I mean it makes sense…I did quit my job so maybe she’s on to something. I don’t know, maybe a part of me is dying inside. And of course, I’m crying right now. Except in some weird way I feel like I’m being used like a metaphor to life, for life’s own purpose to understand itself.
Though Robbie thinks it’s hormones.
Unbelieveable.
I told him how much he meant to me and realized…men are just as fragile.
Great. So now I’m sensitive and emotional as fuck, a complete mess. And in the meantime, I’m bingeing through shows on Netflix like how am I gonna pay rent next month?
And of course, Mickey called me this morning, “how are things going with the new book?”
The new book? I mean, it’s that right there.
Dreaming. Dreaming is more than half of my problem.
I mean, “dreams can’t be afforded where I come from,” and that’s quoted from the man outside of Benny’s deli shop with 2 paper cigarettes.
And yet, that’s all I ever seem to do.
“Babygirl, you got a dollar I can borrow?”
Until next time.
“Look up *Bella*, say cheese.” — Circa 97
