Maybe I wouldn’t fare any better on my own, but I seem to be following dads cues too much, for lack of better words.
I might be a lot happier getting something to eat and watching a movie, but dads gone to bed.
Or maybe I wouldn’t because I’m desperate to be in bed, especially now that I’m here, even though I’m kind of starving.
Maybe I’m confining myself as much as anybody else with my refusal to eat after brushing my teeth.
But I’m even staying up as absurdly late as him, though thankfully not waking at 2am – I don’t counter productively watch tv to fall asleep either, although it seemed to sometimes work as a kid.
I don’t even know why I have these thoughts or bother with them, they’re somehow as fascinating as they are completely boring, to me.
It’s bordering on the juvenile triviality of writing in a diary every day, but introspective without the tedious details of what I had for dinner or anything fanciful.
That’s an appalling sentence, in a way.
Do I need to use both juvenile and triviality, both triviality and tedious?
Another banal effort.
Why the fuck am I so British, I write like a Jane Austen novel if Jane were a man and a bit of a twit.
Do these words really come naturally or is it contrived? I don’t know.
I think I’m procrastinating sleep right now, like I was with my last post.
But I seem to keep finding things to tappa tappa tappa (keyboard sound effect, or Shirley Temple according to Lisa Simpson) about past midnight, more than once. Enough, already.

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