This is not a cry for help, go away. I’m going for a job interview tomorrow. In a few hours, in fact. Well guess what, I don’t want a fucking job. I don’t even want to get out of bed and step outside. I fucking hate the idea of working behind a desk, of answering a phone for minimum wage. I’d actually rather have no money. I want to read books all day and listen to music. I want to look up ghost stories on the internet. I want to talk to my dog and tickle her tummy. I want to eat whenever I want and go for a nap even though I’ve only been up for an hour. I want to think about being somewhere else; anywhere else. I want to live in the past and convince myself that the present is not real. I want to take pictures of words that Sylvia Plath wrote. I want to watch Girl, Interrupted. Again. I want to live in a cartoon. I want to write chapters of all the books I’m trying to finish. I want to write ten poems about murderer’s and lambs and bleeding heart doves. I want to cut my arm to ribbons without having to worry about explaining anything. I want to stop taking my Prozac because they don’t even work. What am I even doing here?