what?

I find that sometimes it's hard to get up, but once you do it's even harder to get down. The mornings don't always agree, but maybe it's because I'm just sick of being sober. If only I had the motivation to be an addict. Maybe then I could make something of myself, even if just a charity case (I could be an A&E special). Maybe I could be out among the people, blowing my money on things I won't even remember the next morning.
I take that back, I can't stand people. They're all better than me, even though at the end of the day I just end up jealous of myself.
I feel like the heads of a coin that wishes it were tails, a coin that's been flipped but never seems to land. Spinning until I'm nauseous, like those damned revolving doors that seem to be everywhere I go.
Sometimes I think I'd put my pen to paper more often if I weren't stuck in those doors all the time. I wouldn't write stories, just incoherent thoughts revealing my faults and insecurities disguised as fiction and no one would know but me. It would be so artsy I'd have to start wearing a scarf. That scarf would only get me so far. Farther than I am right now however, and farther than I'd end up otherwise.
I hate scarves though, so fuck it. I'm going to pour myself another drink and shoot for the A&E special.