Dear Fucking Diary,

fu

I woke up to a total mess this morning. The ashtray was turned over, there was makeup tossed around and all of my cookies were gone. I guess I was busy in my sleep last night. That’s probably why I’ve been so tired lately. I suspected that I may have been sleepwalking again because, when I wake up in the mornings, things aren’t always the way I remembered them from the night before. Plus, I’ve been sleeping later and later, even though I go to bed at the same time. Sonofabitch! I don’t need this shit right now. I guess I’ll get out my shackles and attach myself to the couch, since I can’t bring myself to sleep in my own fucking bed anymore.

Shit! I’m so pissed off this morning! I’m mad at myself for doing such a bad job on my diet since he died. At first, I was getting sick every day because I was forgetting to eat. Now that I’ve been having my Lady’s Days, I cannot get enough to eat. Fucking hormones. But it’s not just that. I haven’t even been trying. At anything. I go to the chicken place every other day and get enough food to last for a couple of days. They must think I’m fucking crazy. But, economically, you can’t shop cheaper for one person, plus, I don’t have to cook. Which is good, since I’m using the stovetop for counter space at the moment. And I couldn’t shop if I wanted to because my anxiety level stays maxed out all the time. I haven’t even been in a real grocery store for ten years. He always did the shopping. Because I can’t handle nice people in confined spaces. Put me in a room full of lowlifes and fuck ups and I’m just fine. I’d be golden if they started selling groceries in skid row bars.

 

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