of consciousness. Fuck James Joyce. He introduced me to this style, but I hated it. I’m drunk. I’ll write exactly how it comes out of my mind.

I have class tomorrow. There’s a quiz. Quizzes are retarded because there’s no way a student can memorize 30 pages in one night. You want me to absorb this shit? Fat chance, I have less than 8 hours. You know why I became a journalist? I can apply things and research them. I believe I have the power to help people.

I have work tomorrow at 4 right after class. I’m probably gonna be hung over. People at work tell me I’m gonna get fucked tomorrow. I’ll bend over and take it.

There’s a point in sobriety where writing becomes next to impossible without severe editing. I believe I’ve reached it. Thank god for spell check.

I’ve always wanted to write on a typewriter just like Jack Kerouac did, even though I think he was a free-loading prick.  The guy always complained how his friends complained how he was living off them. Get a job.

Summer is supposed to be my time off. Why do I feel so stressed? Without stress I feel I wouldn’t get anything done. I’ve felt this way my whole life. Procrastination is a gift and a curse.

Tonight was $2 kamikaze’s at Char. It’s easy to spend a lot of money. Shit.

My goal is to wake by 9:30 tomorrow. Somehow I don’t think this is possible.