Marathon number one is finished. 71 work hours from Monday through Sunday, 46 of which were Thursday through Sunday.

It was ugly.

Upon leaving work Sunday night, I went home with some beer and a bad attitude. I was exhausted and cranky.

Fast forward twelve beers and four shots of wild turkey to 2:30 am. I ate dinner, some gyros, and crashed onto my mattress with a corpse-like bounce.

I didn't go to work on Monday morning. For the first time during my tenure here, I didn't call in my absense. My boss called my parents to find out if I was dead, hospitalized, or jailed.

I called shortly after noon when I woke, and I went to work.

My boss is between a rock and a hard place. I should be fired, but if she does that she'll have to train somebody new for the job. That's signifigant because we're all going to be laid off in January. She's also let other things slide with me because she's sympathetic to my struggle to generate income. I have around $900 a month in bills. After that, it's nice to have food, gasoline, and cigarettes. I hate money, and cars, so much.

I would never do something as sad and pathetic as killing myself, but when being dead becomes a pleasant daydream I know something has to give.

I have to quit. I can't do this to myself anymore. For the longest time I always told myself that my problems were insignifigant compared to many others'. I stoicly slogged through everything I had to. Well, fuck that. My problems are important to me. I cannot do everything with a smile on my face. I will fail sometimes, I and I have to forgive myself.

If I continually expect so much from myself, I will always fail. I need to lower the bar. I am not capable of being what I considered a sucess.

Not like this.

I'm so disappointed with me.
1:25 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm