I have no idea what's going on. Everything is unfinished business and halves. Nothing's ever resolved. Just giving up lends itself to roommate living. I cry at anything remotely romantic because I'm sure that I'm only good for anything on paper. Or text message. In practice I'm nothing but an errand to run and a floor to sweep.

It's nice to be sick right now. It's good to have my physical body feel as sore as my insides; to feel like I've been thrown under the bus. It's good to feel punished; my back cracked backward by my couch bed. I even made sure my wool quilt can scratch my skin at night and my room's been as cold as a tomb. Just to make sure.

She asked what my mantra was and all I had to say back was, "I look in the mirror and just say 'this is life.'" She sighed and said, "Oh god!"