Mood: Pain resistance extraordinare I think my job should be surgically removed from the planet. Complain. Complain. I feel it's every human's God-given right to complain. Have you looked around lately; there's a lot to complain about. At your stupid job. The routine of life is what has me bent over right now. I want to wake up and look out of a different window that overlooks different bastard scenery. A different set of trees. A different set of houses. A different disrupting neighbor. The routine. I don't even like the word 'routine'. If 'routine' were a knife, it'd be one of the sharpest ones in the drawer; the one you like using as much as you dread it. He's a sharp little jerkoff. Would you say that if you haven't yet shook an idea out of your head that birthed itself when you were 10 years old and still gives you the same fascinating intensity as the very first second you thought of it--do you think that it's trying to tell you something?
Obsessive thoughts
8:50 a.m.//12.08.05
Sound: The ventilation system
Complain.
At your boring home.
At your systematic routine of life.
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