My life has become so easy to live that
it makes me sick. I’ve realized the futility of lists and declarations, while
self-loathing has failed to provide a stimulus. I have reached a point of deep,
deep lowness. I think of doing nothing interesting while the days are filled
[in an attempt to pass time] [only to do the same thing tomorrow] with TV,
food, booze and cigarettes. Somewhere in that mix I squeeze in some phone
calls. And that’s literally all I do. I can’t make another list preparing for
such things as sobriety, exercise, sewing, and early slumber. But I also can’t
continue like this. I will seriously die. Either from depression, substance,
boredom or all three.