It is 7:30 PM on a Saturday night, and where am I? In freakin' bed.
Why am I in bed? Because the longer I am up, the more tempted I am to make a little trip to the convenience store for some cigarettes. Even if I have the willpower to resist doing that, the damn fridge is calling me.
"Come," it tells me. "Partake of my lunchmeat. Indulge. Wouldn't one of my Ding-Dongs taste really good on your tastebuds right about now. Explore the many pleasures of my Red Velvet Bingle!"
Bastard siren machine.
The sad thing is, I know I'm not really hungry. I am bored and I don't know what to do with my hands and my mouth. It feels like they should be doing SOMEthing, but if not smoking a fag, then what? Answer: stuffing myself with food.
So I find myself in bed, away from the car keys and away from the fridge. This is Day 3. I am miserable.
Remind me, why am I doing this?
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