Sara Sidle: Criminalist

jeausys fucking christo n a bicklycle.

guess wqihat time it iss?? its four in the meorningn. and i cant get to sleep caret o knowywhy?

imagonna tell you anywayso ufckuing deal with it .

the bitch in the apartnment next ot me is having sex really loudlya. HWAT THE HELL> some decenctywould be nice. what kindc of fucking nbykjmphomaniac do you obhavre to be to think that thati s okayy? these walls are PAPERTH INN. at LEAST have the courtesxy to bloare some music to cover it or somehting . this is jsut ufcking awkward. 

yes yes yes OH GOD OHGOD OH YES

FUCK YOUU> 

i hate this cityso mcuh.

WHO: Anyone/no one. Just Sara being mopey.
WHERE: Her apartment.
WHEN: She doesn't really care.

Sara wasn't really a fan of her Miami apartment. She just didn't seem to... fit in it. She couldn't relax while in its walls, she always just felt uncomfortable and out of place, as if she hadn't gotten accustomed to the city yet, and her unhappiness with her new place was just her way of showing it. But then again, if Sara Sidle were to be really honest with herself, she would have realized that she had never really felt that at home in her Las Vegas apartment either. Or the one she had back in San Francisco. 

She couldn't really remember the last time she felt she was at home.

But despite her anxious feelings, and her general lack of company, Sara's new apartment was still well-kept, clean, organized, because, well, if she couldn't control the space she lived in, what else did she really have? 

Sighing, she leaned back on her couch, her feet propped up on the coffee table, a well-worn copy of Albert Camus' The Plague in her hands. Her eyes momentarily flicked up from the page, scanning from the clock on a nearby wall, to the silent phone still in its cradle. God Sidle you really are pathetic. Frowning to herself, she shifted positions, tucking her feet up underneath her body and turning her attentions back to her book.

And so Sara Sidle makes her first forray into the obnoxious world of internet blogging. 

I don't even know why I'm doing this. People say it's therapeutic, but I don't see how that's possible. Just sitting around whining about your problems isn't enough to make them go away, sorry. 

So I suppose I'm doing this because I'm bored. There's only so many times a girl can organize her magazine collection in chronological order.

I'm going to go verbally abuse my cactus. That little bastard can take anything you throw at him.

PS- Nick. I know you're not in town, but I've been getting junk mail from your alter ego. Tell him to stop, please?