A lack of sleep and vague ambitions of challenging the hip hop elite with subpar rhymes. It’s almost 4:20, but I’ve got nothing to celebrate, except a few pipedreams.
Procrastination is a subtle art form, and one I’ve spent years perfecting.Why stop now? Each sentence is an exercise in reinforcing the status quo.
This weekend has produced some healthy contrasts. The laughter emitting from our hideaway in Raroa was the best possible start, and made me feel happy to belong, if only temporarily.
However, the rest of the night was a voyage of wholly unfulfilling socialising, marred by reminders of an unhappy work environment, while the self-loathing crept in. The usually reliable social media platforms were only outlets of frustration, and were out of bounds for the night, to be explored further strictly during office hours (or so I claimed).
Saturday was spent counting my finances on one hand, and deciding to confine myself to the modest surroundings of 163 Lambton Quay. Afternoon naps and an evening of Breaking Bad is the extent of my Saturday night thrills. Oh, the joys of responsibility. Trawling Trademe for appropriate beds and getting sidetracked for several hours. Listening to a plethora of music and enjoying every note.
I swear if I time this right, I’m one yawn away from bliss.
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