Nov. 21, 2003 @ 10:29 p.m.

Comfort is one of the few things that I truly own. Over the past three days getting out of bed was not only the hardest thing to do, it was impossible. My bed, as ugly, colorfully mismatched, and sterile as it is, finds me well as I dream away the sickness. Special little army tanks roll across my lungs, creeping into battle, in and out of my intestines like trench warfare. These tanks equipped with guerilla warfare trained blood cells, released at precise timing in order to win the war and send me back on my way to being a somewhat normal homo-sapien. I don’t even have enough energy to bring the water bottle to my lips. About all I have, besides comfort, is just enough energy to flop down into bed and sleep the night away as if it was my last night to ever sleep again. I hope death is as beautiful as sleeping and dreaming. If that’s the case, we’re all missing out. If that’s the case, what a joke life is. But that’d be too easy, right? Death isn’t earned, it’s randomly distributed like the little lotto balls on Wednesday night TV just after the news. My black leather couch has shown me more love in the last 72 hours than any girl has in the past 20 years, if you exclude my Mother. This entry is a dual dedication, for my bed and fluffy couch, you two save the day when I think nothing else will.