I wonder if I look as stressed as I feel. I feel like my face is wearing my emotional state like a uniform.
Shit! I look like a dead corpse.
When was the last time I soaked in some sunshine? Can’t piece together that mystery, maybe a week, maybe two?
These assignments are barricading me in.
Is that a wrinkle? No it can’t be, I’m too young for that. I thought you needed two kids before those lines start marking themselves on your face.
I need to stop looking at this thing, it’s sadistic at this stage, an unravelling mess. Just wash it, pointlessly moisturise, brush all those teeth and be done with it.
Is that a pimple? Yep, it’s a bloody pimple. Don’t pop it, remember high school; it will make a mess, invite more of its friends, leave scars. Best to leave the yellow creature alone, and wait for it to disappear.
I’m probably overthinking it anyway, I just need food.
Once again, I am making crappy choices. I am a child who eats coco pops, my life is just a massive regression.
Treat yo self, I guess. Okay, that’s kinda lame. Ew. At least I never said it out loud.
Mum needs to stop staring at me. I can feel her judgment. Maybe if I look at her she will stop. Okay, now we’re in a Mexican standoff. I have no chance of winning, she’s drawing her gun.
She shoots me down with “You look stressed, you need to relax”.
That’s probably the worst piece of advice ever given, throughout the history of ALL time, and she has chosen to repeat it.
What will she ask me next? To stop breathing? Look at her so smug.
It’s not like I’ve chosen to be this stressed. I’ve got two assignments due on the same day, a mid-term I still haven’t studied for or looked over the lecture slides. And I’m supposed to relax.
She can’t expect me to snap out of the trance with the simple command “relax”.
I love her, but it doesn’t stop the urge I have to reach out over this table and give her one of those soap opera slaps.
Why doesn’t she get that I can’t just relax?
Don’t you need a bit of stress to get off your ass and stop watching Netflix?
Okay maybe, just maybe, she might have a point.
Shit. I know she’s right. I won’t admit it out loud, but it’s true.
Screw this. Just because she’s right, doesn’t mean I can instantaneously stop, smell some roses, and finally relax.
“I’ll try,” I feebly respond.