I like finding her cigarette butts in my ashtray. It reminds me that she's still there.

Little rubber cockroaches

I have nothing to say. Little specks of inspiration hit me now and again, but the second I sit down to write they are gone. It just took me 30 seconds to remember the word inspiration. I need to go home. I have nothing here, and it seems like my lack of life is beginning to feed off my soul. I'm clumsy, befuddled, confused, inarticulate, and usually drunk. Things aren't bad here at all. I almost welcome bad. I'm just meh, and there really is something wrong with it.