Twenty-seven

It’s close and there’s nothing that I can do about it. And before I begin to attach any blame to you, you’d better turn around and leave.
Did I ever mention that my last panic attack, before today’s one, was late August? I thought I did really well and my shoulder deserved to be patted, but as you know, certain things always return…like people who want more out of you. But a feeling like this is usually self-inflicted, usually because your environment unsuitable for your personal standards. Adjustment, they say, is important in life. I agreed to a certain point and now I no longer do. You are gifted if you have the ability to adjust. It’s part of the survival game (of which I am sick now!).

My evening run was horrific – started off really cold, but you either run yourself warm or take a cold shower and remain cold. Keep poking your immune system and suffer hard, it’s only for a moment. I felt warm eventually, but it was the first time a sense of paranoia impelled me to speed up. You think that only children suspect their shadows of following them? To be honest, I never looked at my shadow that closely before, the way it jumps, expands and overtakes me as I am running. I never look behind me when I run, but I could swear someone was behind me!

Having completed the novel I’m still not satisfied. I think I’m not entirely convinced of it yet, as I fear to look more closely at the darker elements behind the plot and character. It’s like gazing down at my end, not hers.
I’d give everything to be her, although on the emotional front, she is me already and she hates me for it. She is very contagious, especially her nimbus, which is now above my head, robbing my concentration, my calm and composure. Get rid of it!!! F***!

Funny that at the age of Seventeen I lived for the Sex Pistols song which saved me from the insignificance of peer pressure. And Alice Cooper’s Eighteen I completely forgot about. Jimmy Eat World’s Twenty-three gave me a sense of redemption. I hated that age, because my metabolism took a big turn. In the song Wish, Trent sings about being on the way to hell at the age of Twenty-six. And now looking at all the dead Twenty-sevens, I am actually quite anxious. I’m not quite sure where I am headed at the moment. I’m spending my time discharging the heat. I just want to keep my equilibrium? Be good. It’s not time yet. I want to become Twenty-eight – for there’s so freaking song about it.

Talking about anxiety, my sleep hyperhydrosis wakes me up every night. I knew that doubling my green tea consumption wasn’t the ideal option, but it was worth a try. Now I find myself washing my pillow case every other day. They say you should wash it weekly as apparently it’s dirtier than a toilet seat. Does anyone want to know how hygienic Lovecraft’s famous pillow is? That pillow holds your sickest and most nauseating nightmares. In comparison to his, mine is very harmless. In my nightmares you won’t walk on solid ground, but you’ll tumble and lose direction.
If you have an idea of how to diminish a hellish heat within, then please advice. Or maybe we could share our heat and get rid of it this way?

I am not being flirty, I meant it. Let’s become molten together.

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