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I forgot to write a post. It’s now 2:05 AM, I’ve been in bed for the past couple hours, and had just turned off my light to go to sleep when I suddenly remembered. It’s the first time since I began that this has happened. I don’t know what it means, if it means anything at all. I did think to myself last week that it seemed like I was living my life more than I was waiting for something to happen to me, but I’m not sure if my last couple days on the couch really count as such.

I seem to be back to smoking again. I bought a pack earlier and smoked several while on the phone with a brother, then my mother, then a friend; pacing back and forth under the street lights in front of my apartment building like I hadn’t for a couple months. I don’t like it and yet it seems to help a little.

I’ve applied for six jobs in the last two days, watched four movies, finished one novel and begun another, and had dinner with a friend. My life here isn’t terrible and yet I feel so ready for it to end. For something else to begin. You know, I haven’t worked a 40-hour a week job in years. I’m not sure I won’t hate it.

I want to lose weight so I can like myself a little better. I want to quit smoking again for the same reason. I want to write a novel, take up rock climbing or river kayaking, and go out dancing. I keep waiting for my life to start. Tick. Tick. Tick. I keep waiting. And the truth is, this is my life. It’s happening now, today. And in it I am a fat smoker who neither rock climbs nor river kayaks. I don’t actually know what it is I’m waiting for.