  Trying not to hype myself up, but i'm losing the fight. Ive got that feeling, that manic, make-up-for-lost time feeling. Hitting the deck to do push-ups to make the wife-beater wearing look more authentic. Puttering, cleaning, reorganizing, not breathing as I should. Sure, the French press all went down quickly and Ive decided against actually eating proper food. The meds I should have taken last night and then again this morning are only just now circulating the blood stream.
Ive got the old Jar of Flies album to punctuate my aggression. Looking now for the next installment to throw on. Mood music, something else to incite energetic outpourings. Not a poetry reading/writing night tonight. Tonight its out to play pool with Weez and Truelove. Like preparatory measures taken before a big match, Im dead set on whooping their asses again tonight.
Im working to hit the zone. The unconscious brilliance of talent. Yet Im so broke tonight, the only way Im going to survive another night out is by virtue of crumbling credit cards or a trip to the coinstar. Im going to have to calm down before I get in the car. The last thing I want is for my mood to manifest in my driving. I feel alive tonight.
Not just alive, but screaming-punk alive. My legs are shaking, my heart racing. I cant wait to hop in the car, turn up the music and roll up the windows so I can meet my hunger head on. And just scream to put it all somewhere. Fuck, I could just hump a wall like the stupidly frustrated beast biting my foot. Guess its good Im not seeing a withdrawn girl tonight; Id only feel the same as the cat.
i keep throwing the fucker off of me, but back to the flame he goes. Goddamnit, I miss that body of hers. That belly, her adorable feet. Argh! Silence, ma jeune fille ! Pas ce soir ! 
