I am sick of:

1) Paying to meet people to date.
2) BOOM. pause. BOOM. pause. BOOM. Again today. All day. Again.
3) Not being famous.
4) All of my clothes. Especially the ones on my floor. Ditto: shoes.
5) The deli downstairs which is the only place I ever go for lunch because I'm lazy.
6) My laziness.
7) My height.
8) Spring pastels.
9) The phone that sits on my desk, taunting me all day with its maddening ring. There it goes again.
10) The holiday coming up that shall remain nameless because it is God forsaken and cruel, taunting me and my loneliness with it's fucking yummy fucking heart-shaped fucking candies in every drugstore fucking window.
11) Paris Hilton.
12) Missing Sunday brunch because I work weekends.
14) People telling me I am good at my job. Don't they understand that being good at this parrots-could-do-it-well job makes me want to slit my wrists the right way?
15) The subway.
16) January.
17) The homeless woman on my street who won't ever take (fresh) food but will always ask for money.
18) My mess.
19) Diet Coke instead of regular.
20) Searching The New York Times Sunday Styles section to see if any of my ex-boyfriends* are getting married.

*M

I am NOT sick of:

1) Um...

fuck it.

bedtime.