The writing style in a lot of my journal entries is that of a Noir tone - that's where my style comes from.
Here you go, the journal entry:
There I was, staring at myself in the mirror again, the same way I did every morning, noon, and evening. The days had been going by faster and the cold getting colder, perhaps even outwinding the warmth of the sun. The pizza man got here earlier dropping off his boxes of joy for the rest of the house to eat - I had been having nothing but beer and bread since we started moving in. Real classy meal, nutritious too, a bag full of the sea salt pretzel-crackers had slowly diminished over the course of the week along with beer bottles in place of my old habit, caffinated double servings of high wired poison, not like that of coffee.
My face was looking more and more scruffier and making me look more and more like I was some bum in a shirt and shorts with a buzz cut that had been growing. Real charming. Every night was similar to the previous, it was always calm and ended with me having had a few drinks then taking my medicine with water to wash off it down. Although, the beers had slowly stopped giving me the buzz high, or topsy turvy feeling I was looking for. They were more of a night cap to help me sleep easier, no prescription but taken as needed.
Had I become a drunk? That was a rhetorical question, the answer was "no". I had been drunk, not because I wanted to ease any pain or sadness, more the less because I'd been drinking it for the taste. My sleeping schedule was all sorts of messed up, and my room was bare minus the boxes and my bed up above. Need I say more? I was happy, away from the seclusion in my old house, but still not completely free of my own disappointments. I walked back to my room, I felt like I could sleep anywhere, that's how it was when you were drunk, warm and sleepy.