So I get sick of my own voice. I get sick of reading my own words and thoughts and typing them daily. I get sick of submerging in myself.

Get in. Get out.

But I can't. I can't escape.

Everywhere you go, there you are.

Someone says this to me as I hand him his skinny vanilla latte. And I've heard it before. I heard it in Sheppard Pratt. The social worker said it in that cool deep voice of his.

And yeah, it's true. And yeah, it's a profound statement. And yeah, it sounds beautiful.

But shut up. Just shut up.

I see friends. I drive to Bethesda to see them. They're standing around the bar in a corner of Union Jacks.

I approach and smiles and greetings erupt. They explode with joviality.

And I'm warmed. Enriched. Fulfilled.

All that.

It feels good. I haven't seen these folks enough lately. These folks that I've shared my life with. That I've joined in experiencing and learning what this world is all about. What we're all doing here. How to make it better. How to make ourselves better. I've journeyed through my days with them. Years. Lives.

I've journeyed with them.

As the night moves on I step outside to smoke a cigarette. They appear a few minutes after and announce how the party is moving. How they're relocating to a wilder establishment.

And I have to decline.

Sadly, I have to decline.

But they understand. They're supportive and caring as usual.

It depresses me when I'm left sitting on the curb as they drive off in drunken glee. But I'll see them again soon enough.

God, I hope I see them again soon.

I get home at four in the morning.

I'm sober. I'm with the Girl. I'm content.

We've just returned from my first night at a drive-in movie theater. We sat in the cooling heat of summer and watched three movies on the largest screen in the US.

We're hungry and I make us veggie burgers with lettuce and tomato. Pickles and onions. Broccoli sprouts on a whole wheat bun.

On the bed we watch stand up comedy shows as we silently chew our food.

We smoke a cigarette on the back porch as the sun comes up.

My life has certainly changed.

I get headaches.

And I recall when my psychiatrist told me that the Effexor may send sensations of electric shock throughout my body. Waves of uncomfortable surges. Pulsations of pain.

But maybe it's the lack of sleep too. Maybe it's the fact that I'm only unconscious for a few hours a night. Only resting for a brief period of time. Barely recuperating.

Or could it be the stress? The constant strain of worrying about my future? My security? My happiness? My progression as a person?

Or the caffeine? The fact that I now work at Starbucks? That I can consume an unlimited amount of coffee for free?

Maybe it's because I think too much. Or some fault of my brain that is unable to handle a normal amount of activity. Maybe I killed too many cells by drinking too much alcohol. Maybe -

Ok. Yeah. That's enough.

The fourth. It doesn't go so well. Things don't really pan out.

Our trip to Lancaster. Our attempt to stop by a friend's. The bottle of champagne we buy.

None of it pans out.

So what do we do instead?

We spend time on the back porch with the myriad odd bugs, smoking cigarettes and wiping years from our faces.

Brilliant.

At least the night ends well enough. With a box of cookies and a pint of ice cream. With Honest Teas and intertwined fingers. With both our bodies beneath the comforter.

What happens? What happens on these awfully quiet days? The days that resound so painfully with silence? With the speechless conversations that last far too long and permeate far too deep?

With the tears that leave me depleted?

This is such a pleasant morning. This coffee. This cigarette. This curb.

But where is She? Where is She?

The streets bear no cars. The coffee shop holds no customers.

So alone.

And then it starts to rain. Then I get wet.

Perfect.

The search continues.

We approach a historic building in Mt Vernon.

A man is to show us some apartments.

He turns out to be a famished black man seated on the front steps of the building in a torn t-shirt and paint splattered pants. He's toothless and seems to have incredible trouble keeping his eyes open. He fumbles with a plastic bag full of keys that he drops as we walk around. As he trips going up steps and mumbles unintelligible words.

He shows us units that look like holding facilities for the insane. One in the basement seems more like a maze. A collection of rooms linked together for some odd reason.

Afterwards he takes us in the maintenance room a few doors down for an application, where the manager and owner sit around a cluttered table of miscellaneous junk in the heat.

The owner is a plump tan skinned man with a European accent so thick that I base all of my responses off social cues. He has a hard, gritty handshake.

We say we'll show ourselves out.

We rush down the hall trying door after door trying to get back to the world.

I throw the application in a trash can outside.

I wait in my car, in a line of cars at the Halethorpe dump. I wait and I sweat.

So much water lost.

Today I view an apartment in Charles Village. See if it strikes my fancy. See if I'd like to live within its walls.

That's the excitement. That's where it stems from.

And I'd really just like all this to be over. I'd really just like to stop searching. For a house. For a profession. For a purpose. I'd like all these things to be established. Resolved. Finished.

This heat is driving me mad.

I'm not sure what happens, but suddenly it's July. Suddenly it's July and it's hot and I have no money and I don't have a home and I'm tired constantly and I drink more coffee than water and my days go by with little nourishment.

Suddenly these things happen.

I spend yesterday sweeping and mopping and lifting and moving and carrying and setting and laying and thinking and sighing and smoking.

That's a day. The last day of June. The last day I'll spend in that horrid townhouse.

But where to now? Where to live now? Where to work and what to do now? How to fill my life now? How to be happy now?

How can I wake feeling so defeated?

My bed has betrayed me.