I’m sleeping on the couch these days, except my mom thinks it’s depression.
Although it does make sense.
I mean, I did quit my job so maybe she’s on to something.
I mean, I don’t know…maybe a part of me is dying inside and of course, I’m crying right now.
Although in some way I feel like I’m being used as a metaphor to life, for life’s own purpose to understand itself.
Only 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, “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 we come from,”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
