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     diary at DiaryLand.com! contact me older entries newest entry Hey little bird, fly away home: Your house is on fire, your children are alone.

2003-01-22 - 10:46 p.m.

It's probably not possible for my eyes to feel more swollen and heavy than they do right now. I looked at the sad, baggy bastards just a few moments ago, and it tells a story, those dull, bulbed, orbs laying exhausted against equally distressed skin. Skin that's trying to retain some form, but wants to fall all out of shape.

This story is mundane. The story is too few hours of sleep for weeks on end, with too many confused, bumbling thoughts smacking around just inside my shaggy, wet cave of head. Maybe I'm afraid of life. Maybe I'm just afraid of mistakes.

I met a fellow online who has just now started questing for a new roommate in Austin, and the apartment is well suited to my needs and requirements I think. I find this just as I reach home to find a message to call back the person that I had applied to for the apartment in Louisville. I've not called back. I don't doubt that they've accepted the application. I just haven't managed to decide what the fuck I'm doing besides being indecisive. I can tell you what I don't want, just not what I need.

So let's give them a rest shall we? Let's close these eyes and do it blind.

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