Yes, I WOULD like some cheese with my whine. Chevre, please.

I can't sleep and I can't write. When I go outside my sunglasses fog up and it feels like walking into a tandoori oven. One with a humidifier running. I have no social life here. All my things are in boxes on the other side of town. People look at me funny when I say anything. The produce boy at the grocery store closest to my parents' house doesn't know what leeks are. It's a twenty-minute drive for a latte. Not a good latte. Any latte. People with no reason to interact with me talk to me and it makes me nervous. The cats are shut up and can't be with me at night and they keep inventing new ways to sound like they're in peril. The treehouse has been so much hassle every step of the way that I almost don't want the fucking thing anymore. I feel fat and old and really, really fucking tired, and I hate this.