Little Black Dot

today, i am twenty-one.
it's already ten to five, and idealistically, the rest of my birthday would look like this:
pizza from ali baba on fort street.
a joint.
the first half of season two of the l-word.
realistically, the rest of my birthday will look like this:
pizza from ali baba on fort street.
sobriety.
a term paper on margaret atwood's "death of a young son by drowning" as a depiction of a canada.
this is my own fault. i could ostensibly have written this paper ten days ago. i made this stupid bed and now i have to lie in it, but sometimes, like today, when i'm having a mental breakdown, it's just easier to say
fuck you, academia. you are so lame.