beeched

today was just a day.
i got up, we bought our coffee (@ 7-eleven-starbucks), off to the [home] depot where i read my slutty Palm Beach book 'till he got back to the truck and we went to our respective jobs (me late; he never more than ever).

some days it's a struggle to keep it all straight, what is real and what's bent out of proportion by my overactive mind. they say the chemicals make holes in our brains but mine were always there, just deeper now with the repetitive tasks that are moving meditations to our thoughts.

i'm immobile when i get home. i can't cook, i can't do the dishes, i can't anything but drink and read and sleep.
my coffee is brewing it'll be a sweet reprieve from what fogs me down, a smoke on the porch in the cold night air, 45º before darkness set. our television program is on in an hour, if we can make it 'till then. he falls asleep on the couch every night, and when i don't to my book (in bed) wake him, multiple times 'till it sticks, a task that is sometimes to draining to take on that late and i yell in between dreams for his warm body beside me, to hold me, warm; and safe with the shotgun an arm's length away.