Celebrating the heart-rending realization that my habitat is a hole in the ground like I am celebrating my birthday. Accusing this sink-hole as the real devil's advocate the same way that I blame everyone else for the holes throughout my head and in my walls. Celebrating the pitiful realization that instead of patching them, I fill them with stuffed animals and cover them with hand-me-down paintings that clash with the colored pages from my little sister. I start celebrating every black and blue mark. I made a new rule to never spend my money on white blinds or patterned curtains. Not on a place so ******* dark. It's defeating trying to move on and out in a realm where there just isn't enough light. And I'm ashamed to admit that I've found comfort in it. I'll make another toast to that and stop celebrating for tonight.