I went into my dorm room to evade the rising sun and make an attempt at real sleep, but it was useless. Sobriety was creeping back in on me, and I felt sick about it. I hated that I was such an early riser. Not even the fiercest of benders could sedate me long enough. My fucking thoughts were always on overdrive. It was driving me mad. I was sure of it. I would be one of those old men who said inappropriate things because their filter had become defunct and let all the craziness escape their brain through their mouth. Fuck, it was either going to be a short life of over indulgence, or a long one with a lot of pain. Problem was, I was always a sort of pussy about making those types of decisions: whether or not to die. It was the biggest of decisions a man has, and it was so fucking permanent. I might have been manic-depressive, but I was aware of how things could turn around. Luck danced with even the poorest of souls.