You know how in high schools the 'rebels' think they're the abnormal ones; they're not, they speak the language as well as the commonly accepted 'popular' kids do. The real freaks, outsiders, weirdos, that's the awkward kids. The tourettes-boy, the autists, the plainly socially inept. You wear a spiked collar and think you're an anarchist; you think you're a freak? You're playing the same game as eveyone else. Try again.

This is not my world anymore.

I am a round piece crying at the square-hole world; not for cool personality traits, but for physical inability. You want to know of my life? My arm is shaking too much to hold a pencil, or a phone. Even through my glasses, if stressed, the world is blurred and doubled. My eyes are so dry I think of sandpaper when I blink.

Every day I am aware of how little I can trust my brain to do for me what I expect it to. I neglect appointments. I forget to pay bills. I forget to do laundry. I forget to cook. I forget to eat. I forget all the fucking basics of dignified self-sufficient life. And I hate it, I hate it so much I cry every time a pencil slips out of my hand unintended, and I would seek comfort, perhaps, if I had any idea who to say such things to, who I could possibly discuss this self pity with without shame, without somehow reducing myself. I have no secrets, but I find I do not believe in offering comfort without contempt.

I am a round piece making a round space for myself.