You feel messed up for mere 24 hours and you put on a slow song (like Serena Ryder's The Funeral) while staring at your wrist for a long time in a dim lit room. If this was any other night, you'd just shake it off and eat a tub of Lecka Lecka. But this is the night where you just finished a Gossip Girl season three marathon and you're feeling a bit suicidal. So, you decide to call your boyfriend, hoping that a conversation with him would be the remedy. It isn't. In fact, the conversation just become, somewhat, a proof of your unstable state of mind. You feel a few drops of warm tears turn cold from the ceiling fan running down your cheeks. You feel miserable and dreamt of being 17; an age of reading purely science books, suicide attempts and self-discover of your bipolarity. But it was better in so many unexplainable ways.
It is now 12:57 a.m and a big ass mosquito just tried to have a Bloody Mary at your expense. You'll, later, eat a few spoonfuls of After 8 ice cream and pray. The plan was to sleep by 2 a.m, the latest.
We'll see if that happens. (It usually doesn't)