Last night was fun. But I wasn't really there. The combination of Detroit, late night comedy and what I assume to be mass quantities of alcohol is lethal; especially to a sober girl, drunk on the impossible, observing within.
I never really finish anything I start. I have an unfinished novella on my desk, not to mention countless stories, letters, songs and poems, a sketch pad full of incomplete line drawings, books with dogeared pages and piles of untouched to-do lists. I suppose it's safe to assume that my motivation runs out half way through whatever it is I choose to do and then I hide it away to finish someday. Well, I've decided to see this through until you tell me not to. I would hate to face myself in a few years knowing I didn't even try. This may all seem obsessively persistent and at times utterly pointless, but I figure what the hell? I've got all the time in the world. I can't be held responsible for feeling this way, I can only own up to what I choose to do. Within the past few days I've come to realize and fully understand that the things you want most are the ones you must fight for. So, gather the troops, load your guns and say your prayers because I have a feeling this might be a very bloody affair. (ewww blood!)
I'm confident that I will be, in some way, victorious.
I need a place to stay for a few days.
The emergency sirens are going off and I don't much care.
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