Jogging through the drizzle on Hennepin avenue and my head's been pounding for a week. It's paralyzing and frightening to think that I've consumed bottles and bottles of Excedrin and my headaches always come back. Like telemarketers or Mormons on bicycles or election years. You know, the other inevitables of life. Dopamine degrades and bills pile.
Every Monday feels the same. It's usually raining or threatening as much. I start in the morning and promise myself that this segment of seven days will be better. I'll be strong and positive and not lost in thought on the bus. I won't skip classes or smoke and maybe this evening I'll run after genetics and probably pick up my organic textbook and power through 100 pages. That doesn't work, though, and I spend a few hours hitting the snooze and gallivanting around campus in cowboy boots without ever actually making it to class, and soon it's midnight and the melatonin is begging me to sleep.
It's so humid I feel like I'm drowning.
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You only get what you give.
