At 5:57 AM, everything is funny

Sad fact of life. I just laughed at the obituaries, Dylan's hokey Wisconsin accent, and the blood currently trickling out of a recently re-opened scab. Might be a bad sign, but honestly, it's six o'fucking-clock in the morning on a Wednesday. I don't give a DAMN what anyone else might say, I can stay up this late and be ok...after mass amounts of coffee, tea, redbull and monster. 

If I hadn't had to work on a philosophy paper, this would never have happened, but as it stands, I'll be up for over 24 hours, for the second time in a week, because of school. So i blame not myself nor Dylan, but classes. Bitchy as that may seem, I'm to wired by my body's unwillingness to sleep to notice. Honestly, giving students a week to write an 18-20 hundred word essay on the topic of voluntary active euthanasia, and expecting them to do it before the 24-mark is just crazy. Asking that of college students is like having them sign over their sleeping permit for two days. Just shouldn't be done. 

But enough of the whining. I have finished my essay and shall now wait for the food hall to be open at 7 AM, in hopes of procuring breakfast for myself and Dylan. I'll just let my decompression from this happen at my Aunt's house this weekend. It's a nice thing to have family close by. Especially if one has never been away from home for times beyond about two weeks. Very good for the mental health to keep oneself healthy and sane. Should probably do so more. 

Nothing of note to note here...wow, what a useless statement...

hey.

to all my trusty reader out there, thank you for the reminder to update.

I've got nothing of note to report here, so it'll be rather boring as a piece of poetry or fiction. Mind you, this will also be the piece, or one of the pieces, i use to apply to the Creative Writing Program here at University of Miami.

I've narrowed down my choices for the fiction track to option 

http://www.as.miami.edu/english/creativewriting/undergraduate/admissions)

Smokes. Rick walks into CVS with one thing on his mind. Smokes. Camels, Malborros, Newports, Cobra, Memphis, Rick needs anything, something, just to get the nicotine fix his body craves. The freezing Brooklyn air curls around him, probing his coat, looking for an opening to wreak havoc. The December night is harshly cold and crisp, and every inch of skin left out feels like ice. The biting scent of burning wood is the only redeeming quality of the night. The door opens with that annoying chime, and Rick walks to the counter, the soft sound of his boots on the tiles the only noise in the store. He opens his mouth, his teeth chattering, the sound jarring like bones, he utters two words. "Smokes. NOW." The lady behind the counter looks at him, her jaw down in disbelief at the attitude rolling off him in waves. She looks behind her, the manicured nails reaching to the familiar spot where the cheapest packs can be found, only to find... its empty. She looks closer. Then her eyes widen in shock and her hands fly over each empty compartment. She turns back to Rick, her eyes fearful and her voice meek. "I'm...I'm sorry sir, we don't have any more smokes. We're out."