Dying is easy it's living that scares me to death...

That's an Annie Lenox lyric, so don't worry, this isn't a maudlin entry.

I'm high. And it's fabulous.

It's like my Prozac. Amelia was telling me I was drinking too much, and I agree, and so I did what any wayward true pothead does.

I put down the whiskey and picked up our makeshift bong.

People are all addicted to something. I think pot smoking is one of the least harmful. Fame or Fortune being the most.

Whiskey Carrie died when the mugger attacked. Or soon thereafter.

Weed Carrie has a far more exciting time. She cleaned the apartment and laughed while cleaning the dishes because she noticed we only have 2 drinking glasses but we have 9 shot glasses. I don't think we've ever even used those. Maybe once or twice, but we drink beer mostly in the apartment. So of course, it would have to be the most prolific dishware we have.

She danced around the apartment and laughed when she went into the bathroom and lifted up the toilet seat, like, I don't know, she had a penis.

I don't think Weed Carrie has a penis. At least let's hope not.

I'm listening to my Sucks to your Ass-mar CD and washing dishes and loving every song on the whole damn CD.

Whiskey Carrie cries a lot. And pouts. Weed Carrie makes a face that looks like she's going to pounce on you at any second. And you don't know if it's cute or terrifying.

Whiskey Carrie throws things. Weed Carrie stretches.

Whiskey Carrie sleeps with people she shouldn't. Habitually. Weed Carrie busts our her vibrator.

Boo Whiskey Carrie. Welcome back, Weed Carrie.

This is my journal to the world that sometimes writes to me.

Go out and seek your truth.

That's an Alice in Chains lyric.