It's another Monday night. A Monday that was a vacation weekend, in which I spent every night alone because I don't have a car and all of the fun parties in L.A. I know about, well, I had no ride and was too proud to ask.

Besides, it doesn't matter, I'm meant to spend my nights alone, anyway. It allows me more time to refine my writing, sewing, self-pity and hatred. I'll just sit here and recall all of my past failed relationships and write about them in my novel: Jet Set Desolate, or, 101 drug stories. Certainly seems like a good use of next semester to me.