I live the exact same day, every day. I guess I need to give up the ill-begat notion that things are ever going to change. I've gotta stop fantasizing that I'll wake up one day, and Trent Reznor will be at the door with roses and airfare to some exotic place where babysitters are plentiful and cheap.

Things aren't going to change. I'm still going to be sitting here, tapping away at this stupid damn keyboard, fixing the same dinners, watching the same TV shows, and waving to the same dimwitted neighbours. Tomorrow. Next week. Next year. Next fucking century.

You know it means to turn 25? It means you're too old to go on The Real World, and too young to be President. It's paying the mortgage, but still being asked if your parents are home. It means you've figured out that life is a big hairy deal, but you're still waiting for Monty Hall to tell you the rules of the game.

Where do I fit?! Where am I supposed to go? You tell me. I'll totally shut up and listen. Man, I'm serious. I'm so fresh out of answers, the sick humour of the situation has long since lost its appeal.

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