so i want to grow up and get a job and make happy, make money, make forget. i can't though, i'm too concerned with windchimes. i mean, fuck windchimes, right? i lie awake at night and listen to rigs on the rumble strip and the windchimes, (mostly the trucks), but damn, the tinkling is enough to keep me awake all night. but sometimes not, and then i dream i drown or maybe i marry a serial killer who props up corpses in rocking chairs or sometimes i dream about my ex-boyfriend's little sister because why not. then i wake up and it's taxes and credit cards and grades and people dying and shit.
i don't know what is wrong with me.
i mean i do, though, it's called obsessive compulsive disorder and major depressive disorder and severe anxiety and a bunch of other shit that takes too long to detail, but i'm talking about the pieces insurance won't cover.
also fuck claire danes.
it's just like, when i close the door behind me i push on the doorknob six times plus seven plus seven, because shutting the door counts as one and then we're at three sevens. odd numbers.
people watch me do it and say "don't."
"i have to."
"no you don't."
i don't have to be sick but i am.
i don't have to watch romeo and juliet but i do. see, when shit got rough for juliet she made out with her dead boyfriend and then stabbed herself, but me? i just throw rocks and calculate my GPA. we all cope, and by "we" i mean everyone but me.
they say once in your lifetime someone comes along who you are absolutely meant to be with. like john cusack or some guy down the road or the person you're dating, if you're lucky. and they probably won't have obsessive compulsive disorder but they might, and maybe they will tell you that you don't HAVE to push on the doorknob twenty-one times, but you will. and it will be alright.
maybe you get it all wrong.
i got a lot of it wrong. choices, i mean. free will and shit. it'll fuck you up.
you'll choose lonely, throwing rocks at walls seven times and wondering why you have to pay people to teach you to be normal.
i hate windchimes, i do. and fucking claire danes.
i mean, i was babysitting this little girl the other day and she said, "do you know that disease that makes people have to finish things?" and my first thought was no, but why don't i have it? it would come in useful for writing essays.
only it turns out that she was referring to obsessive compulsive disorder and i said "yeah, i know it. i have it." she just looked at me all cockeyed and asked what it made me do. "count things, i guess. like the number of times my boyfriend's chest rises and falls and how long i can hold my breath. and i flick light switches or whatever." she looks at me like she almost understands and then is all, "so you know you have it? you know you do weird things? why don't you just stop?"
and the windchimes tinkled all dramatically.
i think someday i might run away. the crosswalks tell me to wait, wait, wait. i am not crazy, they are engineered to speak to people with mechanical voices. i was engineered to count things and throw up. i wonder what it would be like if i threw up all of my insides--better, maybe. worse, maybe. maybe, maybe.
i am so tired. if you offered me the chance to do this again, i'd pick no lonely and more pine trees.