You've only been here a week, your argument is invalid.

It's frustrating. Wavering between being mildly okay living here and wanting to buy a ticket and get the hell out of here as fast as humanly possible. This morning, I was okay. Now, now I'm sitting on the couch of my illegally subletted (is that even a word?) apartment watching Bones and wondering what the fuck I got myself in to.

I marathonned 2 seasons of The Secret Diary of a Call Girl, and haven't even mustered up the energy to leave the apartment. I feel utterly pointless and wasteful. I couldn't even bring myself to write. I'm so exhausted every single moment of the day, but I don't sleep. And when I do sleep it's because of sleeping pills.

I'm nervous about my interview on tuesday, but at least then I'd be doing something. I just feel so aimless.
I really need to get back to writing.

This pointless sob story of an entry brought to you by a saturday night in New York City, and a girl with no friends.

I seriously thing my inner monologue is a (more?) depressed Woody Allen.