It’s close, and there’s nothing that I can do about it. And before I begin to blame 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 I deserved a pat on the shoulder, but certain things will always come back–like people who want more out of you. But a feeling like this is usually self-inflicted because your environment is unsuitable for your personal standards.

Adjustment, they say, is essential in life. I agreed to a certain point, and now I no longer do. You are gifted if you adjust easily. It’s part of the survival game (and I’m sick of it).

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

I completed the novel, but I’m still not satisfied. I’m not entirely convinced of it yet and fear looking more closely at the plot and character’s darker elements. It’s like gazing down at my end, not hers.

I’d give everything to be her, although on the emotional front, she’s me already, and she hates me for it. She’s very contagious, especially with the nimbus above her head; it’s robbing my focus and composure. Get rid of it!

Funny that I lived for the Sex Pistols song at seventeen, which saved me from peer pressure. And Alice Cooper’s Eighteen I almost forgot about. Jimmy Eat World’s 23 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 twenty-six. And now, looking at all the dead Twenty-Sevens, I am actually quite anxious.

I’m not sure where I’m headed anymore. I’m spending most of my time discharging the heat. I want to keep my equilibrium and be a good person.

But it’s not the time yet. I want to become twenty-eight, even though there’s no freaking song about it.

I must be anxious because my sleep hyperhidrosis wakes me up every night. I knew that doubling my green tea consumption wasn’t the best idea, but it was worth trying. Now I find myself washing my pillowcase every other day. They say you should wash it weekly as it gets dirtier than your toilet seat.

Does anyone want to know how hygienic Lovecraft’s famous pillow is? That pillow holds your sickest and most nauseating nightmares. Mine is harmless compared to Lovecraft’s pillow. In my nightmares, you won’t walk on solid ground, but you’ll tumble and lose direction.

If you know how to diminish a hellish heat within, please let me know. Or maybe we could share our heat, and eventually, it’ll go away?

I’m not flirting; I mean it.

Let’s become molten together.

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