Wanting

I just have to survive one more week. One more week of smiling, one more week of waking when all I wish to do is sleep so that I can dream of a world that's anything better than this, one more week of listening to songs that speak to me of a life that I want. One more.

I'm having a hard time with living lately. Something so basic, it seems, yet it constantly eludes me. Is it a problem that I still haven't decided whether I really want to be alive? I still fantasize about how I'll die quite often...it's not at a ripe old age, surrounded by family and friends.

In my abnormal psych class, one of the things they say that acts as a deterrent for people that are thinking of suicide is to have people that care about them. One does not want to off oneself when one thinks of those left in the wake. While that is a slight concern, I know that everyone would get over it. At least my friends would. Sure, they would be sad, but I haven't really made enough of an impression on their lives to warrant true tragedy. And this is oddly freeing. I feel as though I can wander between the two worlds. However, I do have something that is keeping me anchored to this earth: I can't die fat.

Typing that makes me cringe, but it's true. I guess I'm vapid, but there's something so beautiful in having nothing left to lose to me. I think that's from Mayra's book.

I have a week until I leave for Ireland. In that week, I have two tests and an essay. And it will be a week of entirely fruit consumption, because I love oranges.