What a useless life I'm living. TV and books; so little reality. It's no wonder that when something real happens that I am clueless as to how to handle it. Maybe I'm waiting for a rewrite or maybe this is the commercial and I'm waiting for the brand name to hit the screen and a calm voice to say "Nine out of ten dentists agree..." Or a tiny choir to sing, "By Menion."

I can sit here and write this but to pick up the phone and ask a voice I don't know on the other end for help is out of my reach.

I haven't showered in a couple of days and am quite stinky. The cats are careful where they lay on the bed as to avoid the worst of it. It hardly seems worth using soap and shampoo that I can't afford to replace when I'm sitting alone in this apartment. I'll bathe when I want to impress someone. Tomorrow. I'm meeting Joe for lunch and a computer lesson. I'll smell better for my friends, that seems the way to go.

I wish I could remember what it feels like to be happy, content, and joyful. Everything's so muted, gray, and distant; it's like not being able to find a comfortable chair.

My inner diologue is clear; complaints in triplecate, insults close, and full on critisims loud and clear -- about me -- about others -- about the world -- about everything...

I think the thought that I am worthy of better, that I am a good person, but my inner hecklers are better at this than I am.

I'm not thinking of hurting myself, as the Barenaked Ladies say in one of their songs, "It's more energy than some suicides are worth..." There's too much to do when you kill yourself -- pills to hoard, notes to write, wills to make -- if I had that kind of strength I'd be able to make a phone call and get better.

Get better, have a useful life, feel the words "worthy," "good," "happy," "contentment," and maybe "love."

I'm tired.