Every time, and I mean every single gosh-darned time, I drive by my old apartment I feel like a little part of my heart is ripped out, thrown on the muddy ground, jumped on, and then shoved back in my chest to slowly poison and cripple my body. I hate my home. I love my old home. More than anything I wish I could be back there on my wonderful comfy couch, doing research papers and homework, working just one job, and petting my old cat.
Instead I'm in this crap hole excuse for a house, sitting on my ass wasting each day just hoping that I can make it through the day so I can wait out one more worthless day. I fail at teaching. I fail at my job (even though I'm relatively still a good, albeit lazy, employee). I'm not accomplishing everything I wanted to. I'm not accomplishing anything. I feel nothing but despair. Today, while with friends, was the first day in literally weeks that I could remember genuinely smiling. I miss the old days of summer, warmth, achievements, and eagerness. These days I just wait....wait...wait...and decompose, watching as the days pass by while my heart, and dreams, slowly die away.
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