Embarrassment is fuckin incredible. The night I do anything right is the night that I don't fuck up meeting a cute girl. Or, is a week of meeting a couple of cute girls and not having them both hate my guts. How do you journal some fuckt up shit you've done but don't remember? I'm trying my best to figure out what I've done, but tonight I'm drinking wild turkey and smoking weed just to get through. I have nothing to do for another week, job ended early and now I'm outta work with only 35 hours instead of the fucking 120 they promised. Albeit because of weather. I talked to **** and ****. I talked about shit, took fotos and texted and laughed. I woke up alone in my bed. The most depressing part: people not talking to me in the morning. People not looking at me in the morning. I'm really pissed that I've done it again, like I do. The conversations I have in my head aren't that interesting. Buk tells me I did right by him. Celine laughs and calls me a weakling. I tell him no one cares about the french and why don't you call molly you fucking french wanker? Okay. Well, Celine and BUk had good advice. I can't change the past. I can only live in the now. Fuck. Its so hard though not to feel guilty and ashamed. shame. f u c k s h a m e. They told me I could just make a story where I'm the hero. So my story. mansfield. perfect choice of name. no one but man would choose that field. Close to a river but high enough to be cold all year round. elevation around 2,300 feet. That close to the great lakes it matters for snow and ice. The ********'s Bar is a dive. A nice jutebox for punching, and throwing stools at. Or, so I'm told. Every woman loves me and no police reports were filed for destruction of property. The next songs on me as long as its Tom Waits.