These Camels are causing all of my problems. Not the living ones--those are cool. It's those tubes with tobacco in them, the little orange filter with white splash-pattern specks, the curling paper as the cinder rides against gravity, and the smoke, oooh, the smoke . . . all my problems. Why am I running out of money? I spent hundreds of dollars on cigarettes in the past year. Why am I always tired? Smoke is fucking with my oxygen intake. Why do I nevertheless stay up later than midnight? The seratonin is confused. Why don't I care about anything? It's not as good as a cigarette.

This is also why I have nothing to say, ever, when I'm writing: I'm inside, and thus not smoking.

I don't want to be in school right now. I don't want to be in school right now. I don't want to be in school right now. I don't want to be in school right now. I don't want to be in school right now. People, I'm not kidding. I really don't.