It's woeful knowing that every pain I am experiencing now is largely self-inflicted. I'm tired- I didn't get enough sleep. And the reason I didn't get enough sleep is because I was up late doing my work. The reason I had to rush work at the last minute? Well because I spent all my other time watching Game of Thrones.
So it's 1am and my assignment--- I would call it barely started. I'm going to hand in such a scrappy little thing tomorrow it won't be funny. I'm frustrated to the point where I want to physically injure something- I guess it's good that there's no one here for me to rightly abuse. I don't want to do any work. I don't want to do fucking anything. I just want to lie in bed, go to sleep, and tell my assignment to go fuck itself.
You know what, I feel as if I should've gone drinking tonight. Not that I drink often or even enjoy the act of drinking, but I feel like I should've gone out tonight. Just to get some alcohol in me. I accused my friend of being an alcoholic when he suggested that I go out and get trashed- but now alcohol just seems more and more tempting. Not that I want to get trashed, but I wouldn't mind a drink or two right now. Even if the only benefit to alcohol I know of is in killing bacteria.
Sometimes I wonder; if I wrote a book about my whimsical worries, what genre would it fall under? Autobiographical? Titled "The Miseries of My Life". I used to imagine that I was the protagonist in someone's novel, and that I would never die, I could have a few close scrapes but I'd turn out alright. Everything is just an adventure, and all my troubles just go away. Then I came to the realisation that I am literally the author of my own story, but it's not nearly as exciting as it sounds.
For who would want to be the author of their own tragedies?
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