The Oddity

Also described as an "irregularity,"
I more fall than throw myself on the gears of the machine.
My favorite color is grey;
I like to hide in eccentric corners.
The neighbors moved out,
giving me a warm, forlorn feeling inside.
It's past 4:20, I've only smoked one bowl today,
and this isn't what I should be thinking about.
Later, I'm invited to a party where there will be alcohol,
an old friend of mine.
Tommorow, I will be numb, shivering and grey matter pulverized.
Yet I may live to write another poem.
Why?