Sum

13 hours a week is just a joke. But I tell myself to handle it, to keep going and before I pile my plate higher again and keep running through life. I tell myself to deal with it. Watching Downton Abbey at 11:30 in the dark before bed. Counting the hours until I have to be up again. 5 hours is a good night's sleep, 5 hours is a luxury. I pile everything on and eat it all. If I'm not choking it's fine I say. fine. fine. fine. I'm not choking, not yet. I'm 19, not dead. Not middle aged or married. So when you say slow down what do you mean? Slow which part? The thoughts or the goals? Because I write verse between classes and buy museum memberships between spinning carts of books up into the stacks at work before I smile and nod at advisors and professors who tell me about the importance of education and requirements in a half laid off world of the starving, displaced and abused. The requirements because they're the most important thing and graduation is the pinnacle. And I say fuck comp in my head behind teeth clenched into a smile, I say fuck comp like it's my job. Because its job security is ironclad and its expected job growth for 2015 superb. I write this here as a memory, proof that when you'll say later that I never tell you anything, I'll have this written here as plain as day: I don't care anymore. I don't care if the days start spinning like clock hands, if weeks speed by like weekends.

I just don't care at all.