I've reached a curious point in my life. Never one to be laid back, I find myself not caring as much as I rightfully should that there's a real likelihood I could fail the class I need to graduate. The days run into each other, cut each other in line, never say excuse me; never end, never truly begin. It's all one long movie separated by black screens of almost enough sleep but never quite enough. I want to do well. I take pride in achievement, but lately I've been turning in assignments with no regard for how the professor will grade them.

I'm high strung. Anxious and nervous, pondering the worst case scenario at all times. Yet lately, I'm at ease. Yes, I'm taking a full load of classes while also working 30 hours a week and performing in an improv group and attending the gym four days out of seven. There's an ocean of work I realize I must complete before I leave college. It's daunting and furious yet I just don't care. I don't care anymore. I refuse to expend any more energy being stressed and worried. I know our culture relies on rushing, on short answers and large coffees but I've had enough of it. I just don't want to feel overburdened any longer. Is this depression? Is there something wrong with me? Shouldn't I be fretting over the fact that I discovered one of the projects I had intended on including in my portfolio was corrupt on my computer? Shouldn't it worry me that I have three projects due next week, I still need to take the GRE and look for an apartment? No. It doesn't. It normally would but today it doesn't.

Last week I had an awful day at work. I felt as though nothing was going right. I felt stupid and incompetent, like everyone thought I didn't deserve to be there. When I got home I tried to go to bed but I just couldn't. I was so wired up, every time I closed my eyes I would replay the day's events over and over. I spent the night tossing and turning, begging God to make me tired. But sleep never came and I went to class the next day feeling like the living dead. I was so disappointed in myself. I had robbed my poor body of sleep it so desperately needed just because I was so hung up on one stupid day at work. I was physically hurting myself--for what? I don't want to die an early death because I am unable to let things pass. I'm not going to lose sleep over a stupid class. There's no price on my health and I'm not letting any professor, any job compromise that. This is so odd to me, so unknown. Not letting things get to me. I let everything get to me, that's why I feel something might be wrong with me. Today I had a strange thought. I wondered why people go on living. What's the point? After I graduate from college, after I part ways with this Bud Light time in my life, where will it go from here? What's the point of being alive at all? Wake up, work, go to sleep. Why not just stop? Why don't more people ask themselves why they even exist at all? Perhaps I'm missing something. Religion? Love? Friends? A hobby? Do other people feel like their life is one giant flickery silent film? There must be something wrong with me, maybe something wrong with my hormones, something wrong with my malformed thoughts. Other people are happy. Other people enjoy their jobs and their lives, they find joy and happiness in the everyday exotic. But me? I don't know. I don't really look forward to being awake. There's nothing I'd rather do than sleep. Sleep all day, exercise for a bit, watch some television, go back to sleep. Be away from people. Sometimes I truly loathe being around other humans. I always have to say things which are socially acceptable. I always have to wonder if people like me, if they think I'm mean or annoying. I spend so much time trying to make people like me even when I know I don't really care. But I do. We all do, don't we? At some level, we all want to be liked. For me this is distressing. This is a project which is always under construction, this is a never ending battle. And food. Don't even get me started on food. I've accepted that I'll always hate my body. I'll always silently add how many calories I've consumed that day then subtract by how many I've exercised off. It'll always be a war between me and the mirror and I will never win it. Sometimes I feel as though I'll never be happy. I'll never be truly happy, I'll never get what I want. I don't know what I want but I'm pretty sure I won't get it. I'll smile, I'll settle. It's like there is a piece, a key, a secret that everyone but me has. A key to being truly happy, to being content. I always feel as though I'm chasing a goal yet I never get any closer. Like dreams where your legs are too heavy to walk but you know you've got to run. If anyone reads this, they'll think I'm insane.