I was in the shower a few minutes ago. I realized I turn 20 in a few days. I then realized I will have to live what I have already about 3 more times. Maybe even more. I had to get out because I needed to throw up. I’m glad I don’t get panic attacks.

I can’t imagine a future in which I’m okay with being. I can’t picture having a job I remotely enjoy. Nobody in my bed. No car. No home. No hobbies. Nothing. I can’t even imagine next week, nor can I recall the recent past.

I’m stuck in the present. It’s not like anything I’ve ever experienced. I think…
I should probably sleep.

As I slave away on an important yet meagerly simple essay, I have to take a break every couple minutes to consciously stop my thoughts. I have one thing on my mind and it’s not my work. Because I can’t control myself and cease introspection and the subsequent emotions, I’m habitually coming to the conclusion that this will be my last semester at my college. This isn’t nearly as “poetic” as my last text post from a couple days ago because I’m truly terrified of my life. I have to catch my breath between every sentence I type and everything statement or question I think. I’m so tired.

Illiteracy gets to me.
Perpetually.
I’ll read and read and reread, but succumb to anxiety and my intellectual insecurities until I can’t help but cry, cry, cry.
I wish I knew why.
I can’t remember names. I can’t recall dates. All the notes I’m compelled to take refuse to assist in any way.
I’m gonna flunk English and be evicted from school.
To think me special is to applaud a fool.
I’m not a special snowflake, I’m a fucking tool.