I stole a plate of chocolate covered strawberries from the dessert table of tonights fancy seafood buffet. In the process I also stole a fancy napkin and a plate.

My entourage thought it would be a good idea to go to bed at 8. its now 11 and I'm one beer down and have two of the 4 strawberries I stole left (they were huge strawberries by the way).

I struggle of writing a journal entry is that it shouldn't just be a chronoligical order of things done in the day. We all know its a story, with a point, with something the writer and possibly the reader are able to come away with. Yet I find that the hard bit to do. Writing random shit down was never a struggle. Writing well and writing with a point are where my words leave me in the dust.

Here I am, with my strawberries, I also forgot to mention a mostly eaten white nectarine that isn't quite ripe enough to eat yet and a container of chocolate covered cranberries. The un-opened beer sweats in the ice bucket tempting me to drink it before it seduces my alcoholic father or sick brother. My own condensation tells me the water in the tub is hot enough and the bubbles are rolling over my legs on the edge of the tub.
I'm not happy. but I'm enjoying myself.
I'm lonely. but I'm enjoying myself.