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Screaming, laughing children outside my door set the ghosts of memories past to writhing against the inner walls of my mind.

Still, I do not join them, instead sitting in the unkempt livingroom, filing the dry, brittle nails that are a constant reminder of my station.

Things I could have done, things I should have done flash through my mind, penetrated momentarily by the smell of pizza baking in the oven.

I don't even really cook anymore.

I feel lost. I am lost.

And hungry.

The buzzing gnat in the bathroom knows no more of its destiny than I.

Though strong hands have slammed us both against the wall, only one will be crushed.

Have I been crushed? That's a grim comparison, a bit too deep for my sake.

Washing my hands, I return to the kitchen.

Pulling the pizza from the oven, I use a napkin to blot away the oil from the pepperoni.

I wonder how many calories that saved me? Not like it makes much of a difference, anyway.

I have to go to work in twenty minutes, and yet I sit collecting my thoughts in a sorely-forgotten journal, read only by the select few I call friend.

I feel sick with dread. I'd rather stay home.

But, as always, there are bills to pay.