I don't like being this person--the one with the worries. There's something wrong with me? Maybe, probably. I deal with it through vicious passivity. I hang up the phone after I've gotten results and scream, but only in black and white, and flop my head down on my arms and moan, but only in front of my mom or my best friend. I want your sympathy, world, but I don't want to tell you why, tell you what the reason is--partially because I don't know, I still don't know, and while the bruise fades from the last one I'm already being pointed toward one more test, toward slow, biting insanity. It's like this: maybe I am fine! I mean, I am not normal, but maybe I am not threatened. Mom told me that none of this will be more than I can handle, god doesn't give us more than we can take. Oh bullshit, doesn't god know that I'm a paranoid wimp? This is already too much.
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