I'd rather sleep my whole life away than let you keep me from dreaming.

Why yes, I am, in fact, sitting in the parking lot of a Holiday Inn in Asheville, picking up their wireless Internet signal. Why do you ask?

Seriously, that's what I'm doing.

"But Sarah," you might say (Yes. My actual name is Sarah. Deal with it. At this point, it would be a relief for someone at work to find this and fire me for something inappropriate I've said. Although, to be fair, I guess I've never actually said where I work. So there's that, at least. There's no proof. Kind of.)

"But Sarah," you would say, after being appalled that I interrupted your interrogation of me. "You don't live in Asheville. It's almost 11:30 p.m. What in the world are you doing that far from home at 11:30 p.m. on a Thursday night, when you have to work a full day tomorrow, starting with an interview ith a douchebag?"

Well, I'll tell you. When I'm angry, I drive. It's not a good habit, as it causes wear and tear on your car, and when you're living in the one part of the country that's freaking out about a "gas shortage" (perpetuated, incidentally, by the media telling everyone there might be a gas shortage and, as a result, causing everyone to rush out and get gas, perpetuating their own drama and crisis. Not that I think people around here are dumb. Even though I do.) I'm aware that I've wasted gas by driving out here with no real purpose except to steal Internet from Holiday Inn (Iz sittin' in your parking lot. Stealin' your Internetz.)

But the way I figure it, it's less self-destructive to drive around, no faster than you usually do, than it is to go drink yourself into a coma. Far less. And it probably costs around the same, truth be told. A night out at a bar and the trip from my house to Asheville is probably about the same.

Or, at least it was, before the Big Gas "Crisis" of 2008.

So why am I angry?

I don't really want to get too into detail, because, as I believe I mentioned at the very beginning of my time blogging here that I didn't want this to turn into my old livejournal, which was angstastic and emolicious. I didn't like that.

However.

Have you ever been so entirely starved for affection and attention that you took someone just being nice to you (which, apparently, you aren't entirely used to) and took it as them being interested in you, and so you, in turn, even though the person totally isn't your type and is a nice enough person, but just not for you, convince yourself that you're interested in because you just so. badly. want someone that's all your own, that you don't have to share, that can make you feel like the last person you were with did, except without all the crap and drama, and then you, through a couple of conversations with the aforementioned person, find out that they "like you as a friend, but not as anything more" (which, upon reflection, sounds so incredibly high school that you want to invite the person to the 5-year reunion your class is having this weekend that you are most assuredly not going to, because you haven't been away from these people long enough to forget why you disliked them in the first place) and you realize, after the conversation, that while your pride and self-esteem are incredibly, incredibly wounded and scarred, the worst thing about it isn't that you were, in essence, flat-out rejected, because you're actually ok with that, because, as you've realized, you weren't ACTUALLY interested in this guy, but that the worst thing is that it's yet someone else who doesn't want you, who you're not good enough for, who reminds you of the you you were in high school, the you you thought you'd left behind in college when you finally found real friends and a niche, which was promptly taken from you when you graduated and moved up to this wretched, wretched job where nothing you do is ever good enough, and you can't get away from the one person who broke your heart, possibly beyond all repair, even though you knew what you were getting into when you got involved and, truth be told, you can't blame him entirely, and you know that, and you hate the fact that he could possibly know how much he has turned your entire world upside down, even though you'd never say it to him, and you're certain he doesn't read your ramblings here and all you really want to do is get him out of your head, and certainly out of your heart, because you know how awful he is for you, but you just remember the beginning, when it was all good, before you started to feel like you were basically just a mid-life crisis, and you've even got people TELLING you you were just a mid-life crisis, and you just want that again, not with him, of course, (or. . .who are you trying to kid? He's the one you can't get out of your head) but someone, but you're relatively convinced you're going to live out the rest of your days as a spinster, because you can't even get someone you thought was interested in you to actually be interested in you, which is actually ok, because you would, in essence, be using him to get over the person that has wrecked so much havoc on your heart?

You have? Good. Me too.

And that's all I'm going to say about it.

Because really? That's not why I was mad in the first place. I was mad in the first place because I've got this story I'm supposed to be writing, and I'm fairly certain she's going to yank it and put a story about the new Wal-Mart on the front page instead, and I'm not willing to spend all this time and energy, busting my ass to do this awesome story, when I'm just going to end up angry tomorrow. But if it doesn't run Monday, I won't be able to use it to enter into this journalism competition, because everything you enter has to have run by Sept. 30, and we're a 3-times-a-week paper, so the next issue after Sept. 30 would be Oct. 1.

Rejected.

I may not actually enter the contest anyway. The only story I have that I wanted to enter is ok, but probably not award-winning.

Also, I should probably go home to my frigid, heatless apartment.

I swear I'll get my ANTM recaps at least up to the last episode this weekend. Or, I'll do my best.

And I'll be happier next time. Maybe. At trhe very least, I won't subject you to multiple angsty entries.

This isn't livejournal, after all.