So I'm staring plaintively at pages upon pages of essays I don't care about, but should probably read. I'm staring at my two half assed attempts at essays. Not even half way through. I'm staring at my overflowing ashtray. I'm staring at the kinks I've been making in my broken D string, on the cheap steel string acoustic that's lying across my bed, that I'm practically using as an arm rest. I'm staring at the piles of empty bottles and cans that are strewn across my room. I'm staring at the piles of books I haven't read for far too long that populate my floor. I'm staring at the pile of assorted gloves I seem to have amassed. My Ice Hockey trapper. Motorbike Gloves. Football goalie gloves. One leather glove. One fingerless woolen glove. God knows where their partners are. Somewhere in my 6x9ish room.

I've got a cd on, but I'm not really listening to it. I hate when that happens.