Compulsive

Although I wouldn't say I am miserable, my nighttimes seem to be quite a chore to get through. And I stuff myself compulsively, even though I know I shouldn't. It was better when I couldn't afford food at all, because then I had a healthy piece of fruit or whatever, but now I cook and concoct and eat and eat and then feel flat and fat and awful.

I miss G. I think...no, I know that I took him for granted. That nasty crime I always told myself I'd never be guilty of. But I did take him for granted. And here's the big fucking gap where I used to be able to just call him and hear him and I can't do that anymore. Fuck.

Fitzgerald's short stories are the perfect length for my busride in. And I listen to a lot of Pumpkins, and I think a lot of Bud. I think a lot.