So tired . . . Can't sleep. Promised myself I'd sleep in . . . yet here I am . . . can't sleep. Isn't that funny, now?
What a day yesterday. Wrote more in my novel, which really seems to be going into hyperspace or something as I near the end. I wouldn't be surprised if I had draft one finished by next week.
I paid for my classes last night. Even though I'm only taking two, the cost was one hundred twenty dollars. It's really unbelievable. And now it's not just that I'm too busy to be a full-time student . . . I just can't afford it. I can't even conscience spending that much money on school. And I'm not even figuring in the cost of books. I've still gotta buy books for the playwriting class I started last night, and they look to be expensive. But the class seems to be fun so far, and I like Mr. Karl Sherlock. In addition to having one of the best names in the school, he also has the best wardrobe.
Then, of course, I walked home. And I really hated it last night. Not sure why. I was just cold and miserable and I wanted my damn car.