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I sit, bleary eyes bombarded by the product of millions of electron collisions, barely focused on my future and all too focused on my past. At school I always seem to fail in the race for first, somebody always working harder, learning more. Second best at a school like this being orders of magnitude above first at other schools. And so, that fear rationalized, my fear is that I only have four years to do what I want here, because college is a place for doing what you want, not what others want. What I want being more than what I can have, which is the terminal condition of the human race.

First I was healthy, and then the cat made me sick, and now work makes me sick, which makes me wonder if too much work is some sort of allergen. No allergy shot this weekend; I have two midterms next week. No work on Friday night, suspect fled the scene, the indictment will come tomorrow morning.

I sit, stare at my speakers, listen to my headphones, and think about the girls I don’t write about here. Perpetually scared of listing my thoughts, the thoughts of other people more important than they should be. Working through the six rejections game, listening to the party outside my window in the gaps between gapless playback, I wonder if the only way to find a girl is to act like all those other guys who drink themselves attractive. The waiting is the hardest part, and I feel like I should be doing something to remedy the empty feeling, but I feel like proaction is at the bottom of my mixed morals, and I know that in another life proaction is at the bottom of a mixed drink. But it’s not the alcohol, it’s acting in that scene without my SAG card, and it’s the creativity to have something to say to the girl that I take to the coffee shop, and the endurance to wait for the right one to take. Which could be the problem, because hindsight’s rosy glare makes the girls in my past seem all too perfect, and I can barely focus on my future. #