[Public Diary] - Homeless...again. Hungover...again.

Yeah, that's right.
I'm homeless.....AGAIN.
:(

Waking up to the smell of rum and bleach is not a pleasant thing.
Ears ringing, head pounding.
"Where the fuck am i?"
Tattoo shop.
The night comes trickling back.
Corona, Captain Morgan, Russian Vodka, and and urge to drink my reality away.
Hours before I was kicked out of my house through a text message. Mature, huh?

"It can't be a good thing to be used to this.
This seems like all I'll ever know, depressing as that is to say.
I want more than this."

Bottles clank together, making sharp sounds. One of the staff is cleaning up the lobby.

Snap back to reality.
"Oh, right."

Stepping off the chair slowly, my head feels like it's 50lbs.
(Sleeping in an office chair WILL give you neck problems)

"Where the fuck is my other sock?"
Stepping around the mystery puddles on the tile, I make my way to the bathroom.
Turn on the light; a soft noise is made by the roaches skittering across the floor, to avoid the light.
Dimly lit and perfumed with the scent of piss and vomit. A white powdery residue covers the back of the toilet and a corner of the sink. There is a mirror, hanging crooked in front of it.
"I look like hell."
Look up to see the zombie looking back at me.
Eyes glazed and bloodshot, her makeup is smeared in a delightfully grungy way. A gray, stained jacket is hanging off her left shoulder.

"I want more than this"


Walk next door to the coffee shop and see Brent cleaning up a couple slices of pizza that someone decided to shove between the couch cushions.

It's getting dark. Eyes not used to the sun, I blink at the light anyway.

"Morning, Brent."

It's close to 5pm.

He looks up and chuckles, probably at my appearance.
"Rough night?"

I rub my eyes in an attempt to clean myself up.
"Uh, yeah. Something like that."

Sometimes when a situation gets so bad, its funny...In a sick, ironic way.
I laugh, too.

Black coffee, Diet Coke, and a hot dog. The cure to any hangover.

My mind wanders again. To things much worse than this. I'm okay. Plane tickets are cheaper than I thought and I did several tattoos the day before.

I pray time goes quickly. I pray money comes quickly. I pray for my mind to stop wandering to broken-hearted memories of my love, and happy times before.

"I want more than this"

I want my phone to ring with a familiar number on the screen. I want to hear three words from the loveliest voice in the world. His voice. So soothing to me.
I want my fucking head to stop hurting.

A lady in the coffee shop gives me a dirty look.
I smile and wave.
I think it's amusing that my appearance offends people.
Is it the hair? (6inch liberty spikes.)
Maybe my gray jacket, which clearly reads "FUCK YOU" across the shoulders with spray paint.

The night drags on and I feel strangely seperated from my body.
It's been 5 hours.

Felling much better, I think of how to end this.

I crave Diet Coke.