Okay so I finally crashed some time between 4:30 and 5 this morning... but not before setting my alarm for 10 so I could be up in time for class at 11. All this under the ridiculously valid assumption that I would stumble out of bed at the last possible second, throw on some shoes, and book it to class.

However, this was not to be.

For some reason unbeknownst to me and anyone else that has had to drag my insomniac ass out of bed at any point in my life, I woke up naturally at 8:40. Wide awake but feeling like six tons of weight was pushing down on my barely post-sleeping form, I opened my eyes to find I was less than half an inch from the edge of my bed.

You know the one, the one on the top bunk.

I somehow managed to swing my three-ton arms around to the other side of the bed and get myself up to a confused sitting position, and that's when I noticed the clock.

I am now showered and sweet-smelling and it's only 9:20. I'm not quite sure what to do with myself. Nothing constructive I hope.

And on that note, here's a little ditty I cooked up in my notebook shortly after updating in my journal last night:
4:01am 2/7/05
And she knew the only time she could ever open up, ever admit something real was in the third person: removed, fictionalized, deadened somehow from the fiery sparking tender-fried nerve endings in her heart, but that didn't bother her. At least she could say it at all.
What bothered her was the lack of a story to go with it. A story about nothing even. Nothing came for the story about nothing and nothing will ever come of it. FUCK

ink :: graphite