I am teetering on sleep. Eyes are heavy. Sleep drugs in my system - to make my legs not not kick violently, to make me not wake when mt heart has to jumpstart from lack of oxygen . Soul-sickness inside me.

Life dwindles. Heather has Mono. I still have no job. Joy becomes more and more difficult to find.

The goat roast party was a huge flop . . . at least as far as the preparation to result ratio is concerned, it was a almost a total waste of time and goat. (not that it wasn't very memorable at points - but those points came BEFORE the party!)

I think my role in the party was too heavy. Too many people simply find me creepy. I am becoming resigned to the resultant social rejection. Self knowledge is not often a gift.

I try to run away from, or just ignore, problems. And I compensate by taking it all in at once and having chest clenching, shoulder wrenching panic attacks.

I am consumed with dissatisfaction . . . I want to read Fight Club again to find catharsis. Maybe take a broom to an oak tree.

I wonder what the dreams of sleep hold for me tonight. Attempts at fulfillment of sexual fantasy the disappointment of such foolishness. Anger of the unconcious spewing into offending persons or things. I am no longer weak in my dreams, so long as I am enraged. But otherwise, I am lost, confused, shut out, unable to reach my loves - like the dreams of last night.

Teetering.
Falling.

And all the king's horses . . .