I'm so tired, I would give my right arm to sleep.

Second day now and 3 hours sleep in two days. I'm going up and down quicker than the Cyclone in Coney Island.


Left a message for the p-doc. She just got back to me. She's phoning in a script for 5 sleeping pills.

She won't give me more lest I accidently OD. That is fine with me, my brain is on overtime.

I'm hot, sticky and miserable. Holly was gliding around the apartment with a piece of poo still attached to her bottom. Now my carpets smell of cat poo, and I had to scrub the hardwood floors with Murphy's. I don';t know why this happened, her box was clean. She never did that before.

Could she be getting old? Or is the heat bothering her?

I've been writing solid for the last two days, taking a few breaks, but mostly writing. Most of it seems to crap, verbal vomit, and I don't know if it will end up in my mac's trash can or I can salvage it with heavy editing.

I can deal with my life is shit. I can deal with the fact I;ll never marry, never have children, never have a career. I am making closure that this illness has cost me boyfriends and a shot of a family, as well as a career.

All I have left in this world are my parents, Holly, and my pen.

I thought I had talent. Now I don't think I do. I hope my feelings of despair are just from a sleep oppressed mind and not real.

Cause if I didn't have my pen, I don't know what I would do.