There is a strange existential heaviness in being eighteen — as if the universe hands you a box labeled “Adulthood,” but when you open it, it’s just a thousand unsorted puzzle pieces that don’t even belong to the same picture.
My brain is a paradox:
Half of me wants to map out my life like a medical school syllabus, color-coded, annotated, pub-medified.
The other half wants to just give up, lie on my bed and contemplate the metaphysics of the dust particles on the underside of the shelf my poor slightly OCD very RN mother somehow missed as I was shooing her out of my room so she wouldn’t wrap the whole room up into a Hefty garbage bag and throw it out with the trash.
I oscillate between reading neuroanatomy for fun
and forgetting to eat because my executive function collapsed like a failed soufflé that someone forgot to add enough potassium bitartrate (aka cream of tartar) to to stabilize the egg whites.
…currently reading “The Cake Bible” by Beranbaum. (Don’t worry, I wouldn’t step into a kitchen with a hazmat suit on OR if you paid me. It’s really not bad for some late-night light reading though.)
…Then continuing to scarf down half the fridge once I’m over burnout-mode.
Is this growth? (My growing waist-band sure thinks so)
Or is this the soft beginning of a life changing, fully debilitating, paralysis mimicking and permanent burnout blooming quietly behind my ribs?
Both, probably. Definitely both.
…or is it my IBS firing up again from that dratted (yet, scrumptious) 5- course desi meal mom made for dinner again…
sigh…
UnderTheRock Diaries 