Woke up from the ear-assaulting noise of the dying box fan. 10am. Fell asleep on the couch by 11:30am. Woke up from that hot and irritated by my own lack of motivation. But motivation for what? I got up to make a meager cup of coffee. I had said goodbye to coffee, cut it cold turkey, but then I drank it every day for a week so…I’ve given up on giving it up. Tea just doesn’t have the same effect. That being said, I’ve been unreasonably anxious for the past two days and caffeine is probably the last thing I need, but I also need my mind to become even somewhat alert.
It’s oppressively hot outside, but decidedly better than being inside. It’s muggy and grey–the sky threatens rain. I pray I don’t have an anxiety attack on the patio. They’ve been known to happen.
I manage to kill hours and hours by doing…absolutely nothing. By the late afternoon, cabin fever is setting in. I have nowhere to be and nothing to do. It’s too hot to masturbate. My room is like a sauna. My boyfriend is a shitty texter. It begins to rain hard.
In the early evening I go outside for my fourth cigarette but after a few drags, sitting on the back step, I feel like I might panic, and instead of just letting it happen or whatever the hell that book tells me to do, I put out the cigarette and vacate the area, retreating back to my room. I put on makeup for no reason. I sit in front of the fan in my father’s office, which used to be my old bedroom. I go back to putting on makeup. Sit in front of the fan. Do my hair, which just gets fucked anyway. Sit in front of the fan again.
Finally I manage to smoke the rest of the shorted cigarette. I write a shitty poem. I can’t write these days. I text Megan to see if she wants to do something. She’s “going out” with her chemistry class, which pisses me off, what most people would see as an overreaction. I just want to get out of the house.