Another Friday Night..

and I ain't got nobody, I got no money cause I don't get paid...

I haven't done jack shit all week, really, yet I'm so tired. I'll be glad when I'm through with whatever funk it is that I have. I can't for the life of me understand why I'm so sickly! It makes no logical sense at all. I look pretty healthy...

I love ending sentences with... It's almost saying that the thought continues, even though the writing ends. Or maybe that's exactly what it's saying...

Has it become obvious that I'm in a strange mood, yet? This is how I get when I have nothing of substance to write about. It just seems like good practice to write ever so often, so in a sense, this is the product of good practice. Damn.

My Prozac seems to be helping quite a bit. Things don't seem so black, anymore. Poor black. I wonder if the color black is at peace with the connotations that are attached to it. I'm pretty sure it's oblivious.