Fuck. May. Only 17 days until I increment the descriptor of my temporal existence. Less than a season left before I'll have been living back here for a year, just me and the stories in my head and nowhere near enough meaningful human contact. Just jobhomeworksleepjob, endless repetition of the same dull shit. Hull as an attitude, always dragging me back, dragging me away to a room in front of a keyboard with only my mind to play in. Reminds me of a Maiden song, can I play with madness? Going to have to if I don't get out of here soon.
All my problems could be solved by getting drunk, getting high and getting laid. All three goals are far too far from happening.
I don't know why this veered into melancholy and self-pity, it just did.