6:19 AM

Do you ever get the feeling that you're on a Ferris Wheel when you're not? Breaking up makes me feel like a writer for "My So-Called Life". Which only made it two-thirds of a season before it was canceled. Two-thirds of a season in 1995.
I'm narrator-of-two-thirds-of-a-season-of-a-teen-television-drama-in-1995 down.
How odd it feels to be single now. Maybe it hasn't hit me yet, though that seems strange since I was the one who ended things. I feel like I should have been prepared for a decision I made. I am on my own. It's unsettling to think about, which is likely an indicator of some terribly stunted realm of my psyche.
I should probably be tired since I haven't slept. Unfortunately for the parts of my body that ache for a bout of glorious slumber, I have a two-week free trial of Netflix, which has been fueling my round-the-clock addiction to "The Office", Sherlock Holmes and a multitude of documentaries on serial killers and child prodigies.
Lately I've been thinking I might get an iguana for additional companionship. Winston Napier "Bun" Rabbit seems to get along well with reptiles, and Zeus the Fish has no opinion.
I feel like the only person not really affected by Michael Jackson's death. Does this make me somehow inhuman?
Grad school is a heinous, looming beast on the horizon. Applications aren't due until December, but I really have to finish them (and start them) by the beginning of September because my class schedule next year is intense. I haven't taken the GRE, I haven't compiled a solid portfolio, and I have yet to even settle on the schools to which I am applying. I'd be going for Creative Writing, and, right now, it's looking like University of Chicago, Emerson College, Johns Hopkins and a couple of others. It all makes me a little nauseous, truth be told, but, at this point, even if I didn't want to further my education, I'd be looking at grad school as a seventy-thousand-dollar, two-year vacation, postponing busywork in a cubicle.
What promise will today hold? Maybe I'll go for a walk.