Through the slits of my bedroom shades, I can see that my neighbor is enjoying an episode of The Simpsons. The television set has been on since 5:30 pm, alternating from cheesy sitcoms to obviously-rehearsed "reality" specials. And although I have two fans blasting cold air, the whirring hum reminding me of a landing helicopter, I can still faintly hear the pumping bass of the upstairs residents' blaring music. It's nearing 12:30 am.
I can't sleep. Not really because of these distractions, although they certainly aren't helping. A textbook over-thinker, I'm finding many things to ... over-think. The ever-looming uncertainty of the future, each day creeping closer and closer to the present, is daunting when I realize I don't have anything figured out.
Maybe I'll write a book. Well. Maybe not.
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