I'm three days from being not-a-teenager-anymore. For a while there I worried that my guys—my guys, you know—weren't realistic as young twenty-somethings because of how much emotional drama they had. Well, each passing day proves them more and more possible, but maybe also more and more like me and not like anyone else. Move over, hacksaw. I am the new king.
I'm listening to new new music—Deathspell Omega, Feist, Titus Andronicus—and new old music—Gorilla Biscuits, HORSE the Band, Jay-Z, Pelican—and it's fun. I'm like an adventurer. The deepest, darkest Congo. Victoria Falls. Dr. Leunginstone, I presume? No, just a little hippo. Well, I'm not done making an ass out of myself, at least, publicly or otherwise. I guess I should eat more.
I woke up at 5:37. Today was my day to buy textbooks, art supplies, Peek Freans, and to sell my soul to Provigo and/or PA. Instead, sleep. No transactions recorded.
I did get the stones and the website use enough together to pull myself across the downtown core and into the deepest (not really) bowels of Place Montreal Trust. I placed my trust in some employees and came out heavied-down with the (hopefully) right stuff. Tomorrow, here I come. Three packs of Mike and Ikes and doing my best not to take a liking to anything.
It makes me sad that I considered suicide extensively (whoo ideation) before even mentally reaching "move back out next month." Maybe I really am as dumb as I look. I'll let you know when the jury gets back to me.
EDIT: I just dreamt I had 18 million dollars in credit-card debt. It is so good to be awake.
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