Fear

My Biology teacher asked me recently if I was nervous about the upcoming arrival of our decision letters. Looking her straight in the eye I said, "No, not at all." I was, as she suggested, calm cool and collected. I am calm, cool and collected.

But wait--this is not right. I find myself feeling alternately that I have been drinking water in which pennies have been soaked or that I must have been electricuted recently. My mouth floods with the acrid, bitter taste of fear, paralyzing me where I sit or stand; my palms grow sweaty and start to go tingly or numb; my toes cramp; I get facial tics. I hope every day this does not happen during Band. After some brief introspection, which is how I arrive at all my mental-health analysises, I decided--calmly, coolly, collectedly: I am scared s*******.

Despite the fact that everyone I've talked to, except for perhaps my paranoid study hall teacher who has no reason to like me, has said they think I'll get into the three high schools I applied to this year, it appears that fear is not a logical impulse. Damn.

Now what is my fear exactly? As Sinead O'Connor so wisely said, back in oh-something when she got back into the music biz: "I started to wither away and think, No one will ever know I'm here, dogs will eat my corpse, that whole thing." Fear of being stifled in this god-forsaken place of beauty, idiots, and my friends. But the beauty and the friends will hopefully not be enough to keep me here. Sorry, DJ...

March 9, 2008- 3:43 (8 hours and 17 minutes)