Problematic

I don't do anything smoothly. I am, above all, completely lacking grace. I stumble down alleyways wafting with the scent of pizza and toss Starbucks cups into open dumpsters. I am finally on campus. I had avoided it "successfully" for 4 weeks. In my success I am now unprepared for a test. I have about 2 hours and 30 minutes to study for. I have taken 2 ativan. I take so many pills now. I have not taken any vitamins. I ate breakfast. I made eggs with spinach and chicken sausage that was quite savory and definitely meant for some sort of pasta. I baked potatoes last night so that all went on top of those. I decided in the last few days, as my many pills were finally kicking in, that I would start meal prep-ing. A trend as annoying as cross-fit but slightly more so than mason jars. I took a gamble at which level was the one I used to like at the PCL. I am now surrounded by books on communism. I wanted the level with comics. I remember, somewhat fondly, escaping my respon

I want to think about anything else. I want to think and speak about anything else. I want to feel less consumed. Less squishy pink and gray brain space and neurons devoured. Eaten up by the foaming obsessions. I want to think about anything else. My inner narrative is all screaming. It's a swirling, darting, overlaid shot that too pointedly tries to capture inner turmoil. It's over-done. Soundless, spinning, shots of color and a gaping mouth. Eyes tightly shut in an expression of the rawest pain, but it's not raw at all. It's over-cooked. Trapped in a story I don't want to tell that no one wants to hear. This one shot that could be in any number of narratives. It's madness, it's drug use, it's the overwhelming mundanity of a coming of age story. It's blue hues. Sickly, cinematic blue hues. The color of an urban landscape. The color of an urban disease. A cluster of noise that formed around the mind of a girl from the fourth largest city in the

It's all. Broken. In my head. Everything. Is slanted. Uncultured. Faux-etry. I live in the imposter syndrome. A year ago I was grieving. If in another year I have another reason to be grieving I don't know what I will do with myself. I bought my first laptop. With my own money. I'm writing on things I got with my own borrowed money. I now own 3 self-help journals. One that explores growth over 5 years, one that explores growth over a single year, and one that explores where I am now. Where am I now? Where am I? Am I? Are we as people forever in progress? It feels so singular. It feels so unique to who I am in a way that isn't pleasant. It's a novelty. Being unfinished. I'm told that's how everyone feels. Everyone sees what others are and thinks someone else has it more figured out. Someone else. I'm watching Catch and Release and I want to be the Juliette Lewis but I know I'm a Jennifer Gardner- without the hot guy to fall back on a