You're going to be a house
Dead worms littered my way to the workout room this afternoon. I woke up a few times last night, er, this morning; once at 10:48, (when any normal person would be up and running, I was dead and unconscious) my phone rang and I turned it off. After pacing the apartment nervously and wondering about things in that knocked-back-a-couple-glasses-of-wine-and-I'm-still-wide-awake state, I finally crashed and burned around seven.

At three in the morning, I had just gotten back home after foraging Dan's apartment and watching Howard Stern. Walking back in the wet snow was quite an experience (though, sadly, not 'tittyelating'). Around four, I was watching the news and felt a tear finding its way down my cheek. Five-thirty, I settled on alternating between a therapeutic Scooby Doo and eating bread. Six a.m., I saw the sky lightening up and decided to read some Rumi.

I think I'm still on some weird, unnatural state. I feel very preachy. I know that I am in need of more sleep, but I can't rest when there's things to be thought about and things to be done.

... on an unrelated note: to whomever thought it was a brilliant idea to suggest naming my breasts "Shock" and "Awe", I will hunt you down. To thank you, because that is some funny shit. Actually labeling them, and then going to another party where the housemates proceeded to take pictures and then declare "Fucking hell, we're going to blow this up and put it outside our house. You're going to be a house!" was taking it to a whole other level.

Once again, I have no regrets. I've only one go at this life. And if I go through it with Post-Its on my chest (I wasn't even given the dignity of that; it was scrap pieces of paper and tape), then so be it. I only wish to leave behind this legacy, that I will inspire others to act on their impulses. Let go of those silly inhibitions. Because if there is ever a better time to act, it is now.