I have been sleeping on the rug in my room because my mattress is destroying my back. I’m not sure why exactly. Maybe because my weight makes the mattress sag to the floor, and my spine is dragged along with it.

When Tim was out of town I slept at his house a few times. It was so nice—sleeping in a bed. And waking up and being alone. I liked that a whole lot. I had forgotten how much I missed being in a completely silent place.

When I wanted to see people, I saw them. When I didn’t, I went to Tim’s and watched movies. Mostly I just did that.

Recently I have thought that I should get out of my house and move somewhere else. I like the people I live with, but I can’t get anything done here. And what I need to do is finish all this stuff I’ve been trying to write since September. And that god damn book. When people are constantly knocking on my door or just plain hanging out in my room when I get home from work, I start to wish that Tim was still out of town so I could go sit cross-legged on his couch and work on some stuff while a movie plays muted on an enormous television fifteen feet away from me.

I am time-eaten and world-rotten. I don’t see age but I can feel it. What I see also is a pattern of not doing the few completely meaningless things I want to do. And mostly what I want to do is be alone so I can read books and write stupid stuff and hang out with some movies while my cat sleeps on my lap. A lot of my time is spent working on things that I absolutely despise for other people. I don’t want to do this anymore.

Man, can’t I just live alone until the Grim Reaper comes and takes me to that dark place? That would be cool as hell.