When you work it out I'm worse than you.

The urge to write is starting to nag at me, and my fingers are thawing and creeping shyly across the bridge of my guitar. I'm still trying to build, form walls of activity and fullfillment to close myself off from the outside world. Work is so-so. Bearable. Social life is one empty promise after another. The two of you are sleeping together, feigning comfort and happiness.
I'm smoking again. For some reason destroying the inside of my body has given me a morbid sense of superiority, a mindset that allows me to bask comfortably in negative energy.
I met a boy. At the bar, no less. He's adorable, funny, interesting. Has never had a real girlfriend before. Smokes weed and indulges in the delights of a home-body. I think we'll be good friends in the end. As gelatin slices of light slid down from the lava lamp above his bed, we composed ourselves and spoke in halted conversation. It can only get easier from here.
I'm tired of your vacant stare, the way your eyes melt into red and swallow in upon themselves taking with them any verbal evidence of the mind I used to know....
My Nana needs heart surgery. After breaking this to my little sister, I lit a cigarette in the car on the way home and breathed deep enough to bring a head rush. Deftones assaulted my ears, and with the windows down, I could smell the start of fall. It seems like I screamed almost before I saw the shadow, and when I looked to my right, there was a bum. On a bike. With a thermos of liquor. He wanted to smoke a joint with me, kept asking what drugs I did, what music was playing, what I did with my life. I begged for the light to turn green while making polite conversation, which is really all you can do when someone is hammered and leaning inside your car. My finger finally found its mark, and I pushed the auto windows up (fucking pimpin for the 1980's) and blew his last words into the night air: "You're a beautiful girl!" Thanks, drunk guys tell me that all the time.
I just got back from a weekend os heavy drinking, laughing, dancing, and spending excessive amounts of money. A girl's weekend out. Victoria, as always, charmed me into dreams of relocation with it's abundance of scenesters and raw culture. I'm so bored here, so boring, too. I've taken to drinking alone and smoking on my lunch breaks at work and letting the mess in my room coagulate in the corners and driving for the sake of something to do with me feet. Boys pass through my mind like dead cells, floating fragments with blue eyes or hippy hair or histories that haunt my dreams. Maybe I'm lonely. Or bored. Maybe all I want is something exciting to wake up for tomorrow. A face wet with rain, surprising me on my doorstep. An unexpected phone call. An 'I love you'. This house, this city, they're cancer hole-punching my bones and tarring my insides, choking off oxygen to my brain. I need out, some form of escape, and that scares me. I'm like a house waiting for paint, lead-based or otherwise, sky blue or failure red, spread thick or at least splattered over the bare bits. Brush strokes over bite marks, a new shade of lame. An unrecognizable whisper of change. Anything to warp the view.