Yesterday, I wrote 1,876 words on Chapter Seven of Cherry Bomb.
I left the House. But I always leave the House now. I've left the House at least once a day for the past 47 days. I would guess that the last time I went out that many consecutive days would have been the summer of 1997, just before I moved from Athens back to Birmingham. I'm not sure that it's making me healthier, and I'm no happier, but I feel less like a stereotype. People say, "I don't see what your problem is? Why do you want to go Outside? Why, if I had my way, I'd never leave the House." And I say to them, fuck you.
I find those people almost as annoying as the ones who tell me to sit beneath a lightbulb if the winter bothers me.
I'm not sure I have anything else just now. I'm tired. I hurt. I don't want to be here. It all sounds the same.
Dreaming of mercy,