• missed a class (so early on in my final semester before I declare myself a graduate, begging myself not to make this a habit)
• invoice making and checking (at least some money’s coming in this month, that’s good news)
• contemplating fresh air (I went out to Publika with a book and ate by myself, and wondering why everyone was staring at me for eating by myself)
• reading said book (Paul Harding’s Tinkers)
• revisiting self-taught Japanese lessons exercise book, amazed I still remember any hiragana after that one time I decided to suddenly take up Japanese
• revisiting self-revised German, wondering why I still bother retaining something from four months of intensive Goethe Institut lessons years ago for a uni application I was eventually rejected from
• familiarizing myself with the face of Kiko Mizuhara
• started my daily freewrite
• paused and started reading something else, someone’s blog
• suddenly made a playlist to last a month. In it:
  Sunset Rubdown, Young Windows, Lykke Li, Death Grips, The Weakerthans, These Arms Are Snakes, The Walkmen, Q and not U, Deerhunter, Amalia Rodrigues, Poison The Well, Lifter Puller, Rufus Wainwright, Jawbreaker, Abida Parveen, Current Value, Dirty Projectors, Ampere, Converge, Dillinger Escape Plan, St Vincent
• thought about watching a movie or documentary, but couldn’t bring myself to start wallowing through the backlog to find a 90minute + film fix to my situation
• started writing a mini autobiography (why?)
• sorting out clothes in my room to donate to charity

still trying to get my head to stay still but it’s currently behaving like some jalopy engine that won’t start, sputtering phhbbt hhbhrrt, only it’s deep underwater releasing bubbles that I can’t see go all the way to the top, and the top is where I want to be, where everyone else probably is. In the mean time, I start and stop, and start and stop. Each time I do, it’s between one of those things— I do a bit of German, then I do a bit of Japanese. The chapters of both roll on, giving it an indefinite feeling with a bit of pause in between each chapter. I am nowhere done with either. I feel like I could alternate between them for hours. It’s just a feeling, I’m not sure if I even finished the chapter I was on when I got that feeling because suddenly I have my playlist on while cleaning my room. That feels indefinite too, songs are measured but there are eight hundred of them, and their voices never stop singing me something. For awhile I was queueing bands of all sorts. What trigger was I looking for exactly? I’ll trust that the shuffle button finds it. And then I lie down with my cat because she is rubbing herself in my way over everything. Her bursts of affection are never brief, but cuddling with her sometimes makes her fur seem like it wants to grow itself on me, like her purring could shudder rattle my brain, and that’s when I know to move on to something else. I wonder if this is a high or a low, whether I am up and restless about it or down and trying to snap out of it, and whether my head is planning any sleep for me tonight for the absolute nothing that is waiting for me tomorrow. Waiting for that is just as agonizing, lying in the sprawling, tropical dark, a small room a delayed flight. I fly in and around myself.

This twenty-five year old body is a lightning-packed lunchbox of intolerable energy blowing up again and again in this tiny space, thinking yet again about how despite all this, she is a speck of dirt unmoved on the world map when zoomed out. Scheduled to land on the desert of a Wednesday the only deadline of which is— to date— her own stubbornly unmedicated senescence