So I'm sitting here bored, alone and high. Seems like a typical night for me, most of the time I can occupy my mind enough so that you know what, fuck it, I think I'm going to write some random story, I don't know what what will come out, but I've had the urge to write more than blogs lately. Maybe something was finally purged from me so that I've said all that there is to say about myself, so I don't have to write any more. Or maybe the reason I blog is because I'm looking for somebody out there to take notice of my life . Now that people have, I don't feel the urge to blog as much. Or maybe I'm high. I don't have a lot of good writing when I'm high, so I usually try to avoid it, but lately it's hard to find time when I'm lucid enough write. So yeah, I just drove an hour each way just to get weed. I didn't even stop to hang out with any of my friends there. Just there and back, I was back in an hour and a half with stops for gas and cigarettes. I don't know, it was fun I guess. I'm still fairly new at driving so going for a drive like that is still fun. But doesn't it seem like every time somebody gets into a car, they're taking a gamble with their own lives? It doesn't matter how safe a driver you are, there's always that chance that you're going die on the road. It scares the hell out of me, but in accepting that fact I'm coming closer to accepting death. At least as a discussable topic. It used to be that whenever the topic came up, I'm start having a panic attack. Even right now I feel my chest tightening. I know that overwhelming fear is just a thought away, but as long as I can keep writing, I might be able to distract myself from it. There it's going away now. It seems that my thought are rambling tonight, but it's covering a lot of different subjects so I think it might be good reading. It's weird, when I'm typing this I'm now imagining all these different people reading me. Like those two anonymous comments that I got on my post about quitting weed. Maybe more than my uncle and Jamie actually read this thing. Still, it's a personal thing. But I have the feeling I'm saying the same things other people are feeling, I'm just putting them to words. I don't think I've seen that done before, so who knows, maybe the right person will read this and want to pay me to write. Now that's the ultimate dream, to get paid to write. Writing is a lot of fun. This isn't work to me, writing was never work. Even when I was on the newspaper, writing was still fun. I loved working up against a deadline, I knew that if I pushed my brain hard enough it would come up with something that people would like to read. Here it's typing out my inner monologue. This must be getting boring to read, but I think I'll just type until there's nothing left to say. Ha ha, maybe that was the last thing I had to say. Oh, tonight I will be publishing half completed entries that were saved as drafts. I won't be editing them at all, so it's a lot of raw emotion. Am I just getting carried away here, do people actually like my writing? Or am I just so desperate to be good at something, that I really like my own writing even if it isn't any good? Ugh. Even after all that writing, I'm still sitting in an empty apartment getting high. How depressing is this? But I'll play some video games, and watch TV and eat of course, this will distract me at least until I go to tired to keep my eyes open. If I got to bed before I'm tired, it's a recipe for a panic attack. I lay there trying to get to sleep, and checking the clock every fifteen minutes, imagining how bad tomorrow will be if I don't get enough sleep. But anyway, I'll wake up tomorrow, smoke a bowl in bed and get up, watch more TV, play more video games and eat more. Then because I have Monday off this week too, I'll do the same thing on Monday. A work night is no different, I come home I get high, I watch TV, play video games and wander around the Internet in search of an end to the loneliness that is always simmering under the surface of my mind. People think I spend too much time with my family, but they are the only people that have to accept me being with them. With any group of people other than my family, I always wonder if I'm really wanted. I'm always so worried about over staying my welcome, that I never truly let myself go. I'm always too reserved, too polite for normal people my age. Of course I'm polite. Politeness and professionalism have become my defense mechanisms. When ever I get into a conflict, I switch to "customer service mode", I'm always apologetic and I invariable say, "I understand why you would feel that way". I think if I ever had the ability to stand up for myself, this job has killed it. Actually I don't I ever had that ability, I just found a job where lack of self confidence is a plus. So here is where I trail off into nothingness, I'm sure I could write for another half hour, but I think I'll spare you the pain.