Bring on the death, I'll be content enough to die

I read some of The Fuck Up while taking a shit today. I only seem to read when I'm taking a shit. There is something about squeezing out feces that makes me want to read...and reading is a great, productive activity when in the bathroom. The problem is whenever I'm on the toilet, I come up with brilliant ideas for my book, and by the time I eject myself clear of that porceline bowl, I forget them. My eyes fucking hurt, I have a cross country flight to do tomarrow, I'm tired, I still have lots of studying to do, my fingers are cramped, and for some reason I keep writing. Maybe it's the long playlist of pirated mp3's that I have playing, or maybe it's my nervousness for tomarrow's long flight that I have to finish planing tomarrow in the early a.m. Maybe it's the lack of satisfaction in my day, a feeling I get often. The only thing I ever do of value is talk to my better half. That or masturbate...but I'm beginning to hate masturbation. It's not fun to feel anything remeniscent of an orgasm without her. She. Her. Dana. God I miss that woman. Soon she'll be in my arms, kissing my neck, nuzzling her face into my chest. I'll die right there, happy, with a smile on my face, and my pecker hard.