I'm here again. The brokeness of everything. Pity Party Central. That's me. This is the only place, now, where I air my grievances with Life in general. No one asks in real life anymore. No one seems to notice that I'm bothered or feeling the weight of my own decisions yet again.

Day before yesterday I slept. All day, I slept and when I woke up I just lay in bed. I knew, dimly, that I was depressed. That I lacked motivation. That, deep down, I wanted to get out of bed. But I just lay there and wallowed in it, whatever it is. I let it run through me, held it, looked at it and then wore it- alone, in my place of solitude, no one to share it with. Naked.

Routines. Lots of routines. And sub-routines. If-Then statements for my ennui. Subjugating a sharp intellect for boredom and self-introspection. Got a call from my mom, asking me to "decorate" a metal flower for my uncle's up-coming birthday. Sure. I'll do it. I didn't bother to ask her how I was going to afford sending it back to her once I was done, or how I was going to afford the materials necessary to "decorate" the thing once I received it in the mail. Not a thing worth bringing up.

I've been here before, broke and close to destitute. Lonely. Wanting to work, but not wanting to at the same time. Wondering where my next meal will come from, knowing that it will be the only meal I have for that day.

I have a job. I am a server, a waiter, at a new restaurant in the Nashville area. Hair of The Dog. "What you need, son, is a hair of the dog that bit ya." Bar. Bistro. Cafe. Music venue. No business. Two days a week.

I swore to myself, years ago, that I would never get a server job. Here I am. Breaking my promise.

I have sunk that low, working for tips and tips only.

Working on a new 3D model in my spare time (of which I have lots these days). I should be out looking for a better job, something that pays the bills. Instead I am behaving irresponsibly and fucking around. Another day, another dollar down.

Same places. Same faces. Same haunts. Same thoughts.

It's getting old. It's been old for a long time. And I'm getting old, too.

I turn thirty-one this year. I shave my head now, not only because it feels good but because I am hiding the grays. Four years ago I would have been stressed out. I am amazed at how stoic I am right now, how not-stressed I am. I want to write, can't. I want to go job-hunt, won't. I want to stop being alone, don't.

Can't. Won't. Don't. Should. Can. Not.

Teeth are getting fixed, slowly but surely. Major work being done on them. I don't want to lose them. Smoking and coffee probably isn't helping. But I'm brushing (more) regularly now. With flouride.

Where did my youthful vigor go? Why am I relenting to the depression? I know the advice I would give someone in my position- I'm not taking it, not even thinking about it.

Money. Money. Money. I fucking hate money! I'd be quit of it if I could afford to be.

Time to do the laundry. Did that yesterday. The clothes are clean. My soul is dirty.

I need one more writeup to reach level 6. Fuck that. It's just another rap song and I hate rap.