Dullness seeps through the crevices of my mind, corrodes my thoughts, clouds my perception, and with that...comes the inevitable paralysis. Fantasies are my only medicine, but medicine is met with drug tolerance & ultimately addiction. The end, the inevitable, looks something like a junkie choking on her vomit while at the mercy of a number 2. Fantasies prove to be nothing more than a waste of my goddamn time.
Ugh. Everything lacks color. I lack originality. Even what I'm bitching about has been bitched to death before by somebody, someplace, sometime. So damn bland and predictable.