While my dispossessed contemporaries are confident in the properties of drugs and promiscuous sex to revive their decomposed selves, I binge on writing- an infallible alternative, although I imagine sex binges are drastically better. I'm sleep deprived. I sleep intermittently during the night, like someone with a criminal past. In the mornings, I sit in class anxious and tired, determined to stay awake because defeating boredom during lecture is a collegiate triumph. I go home when I can't remember reasons for staying. My cat's health is in decline. The gravity of her illness is producing a desperate urgency to eliminate time's aggressive(deplorable) speed. Inevitably, her quality of life will deteriorate and she will die. My love for this small animal is improper in that it is deeper than my love for humans. Clearly, I'm sad, but I don't tend my sadness with the necessary seriousness.
The good news is that the year is almost over. This statement is illogical.
