WTF is up With Smiley

Hi. I can explain

Date: January 31

Dear diary,

 Fuck I'm tired. 

Work was actually pretty calm today. My back hurts, but hopefully my new insoles will help. Wore a hole through my good sneakers. Hopefully they'll get me to payday. 

Boss cut my hours again, but Trisha needs people to scan for her research and at least will pay me in pizza.

Read somewhere keeping a journal can help with anxiety. This is where you come in. With any luck I'll at least have a record of how I lost my mind. 

I put my pen down and close my note book. 

My room is a mess, like the rest of the house I share. However, it's two in the morning and I have class tomorrow. Would sure be nice if I could sleep, but a headache had other plans.

I stretch my arms over my head and yawn. I grab the dishes off my desk and walk out to the kitchen and deposit the offending flat ware in the sink

Pete, one of my roommates, is almost asleep at the kitchen table. I rinse his beer glass, fill it with water then set it next to him with a bottle of ibuprofen.  I open the fridge, grab a slightly shaved stick of butter then sit opposite the slumbering sophomore.

"You're gonna get fat," he grumbled.

"Promise?" I take a bite of my snack.

He sits up and groggily eyes the glass of water, then the bottle of pills. 

"You're weird you know that?" he takes a sip of water and grimaces.

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean," He slurs as he opens the bottle. "You know how many bitches would kill to be like you?"

"Oh yeah, short and flat in front and back." I roll my eyes and take another bite of my butter.

He takes his pills and closes the bottle.

"You know what I mean." He stands. "You need to figure out what you want." He walks around the table to loom over me.

"Sure," I say. I grab his throat as he leans in. My gaze meet his unfocused brown eyes. "Go to bed Pete. You're drunk." 

He blinks and stumbles off to his room. He won't remember tomorrow. He never does.

I throw the butter wrapper in the trash.

 It's two ten. I prep the coffee pot. As much as I'd love a cup, I know better. 

I have a lecture at eight am, online is not an option. I pick up the discarded bottle of pain pills. Ibuprofen, caffeine, fillers. I shrug and take a couple.

I make my way to the bathroom.  The smell of stale weed and mildew great me. Sue, my other room mate, glances up at me from the bathtub. 

"Smiley, what's up?" They greet. 

"The ceiling." I find my toothbrush. 

They're giggling a nonsense phrase as I wet the brush and apply toothpaste. I catch their hand as they reach for the shower curtain. They pull themselves up.

"What time even is it?"

"Two something," I answer. 

"Ugh, not really!" 

"Sorry."

"I hate Monday." They stumble out of the bathroom and to their room.

I rinse my mouth and study my reflection.

Same lean, angular face. Brown hair cut short, mostly hidden under a yellow beanie. Tired eyes under uncombed bangs. Thin lips in a false smile. My favorite sweater,  three sizes too big, just showing the collar of a t-shirt underneath and beautifully bringing out my acne scars.  

I yawn again and stumble to bed. 

"Fuck I'm tired."