most normal nights it's about something stupid or other, like my mother's tendency to cry when I visit her
like my inability to find something I could stick with for all of adulthood other than writing terrible anecdotes on existentialism
like the look of abject disappointment on my father's face when he found out I was getting dropped from school again
like the whole of 2015, where I spent all year convalescing behind a bar counter, convinced I could save peanuts for a degree
like when I watch motes of dust wrestle in dim light and tell myself it's just a phase
it's just a phase
i am very much afraid that two years will not be sufficient for me to get my **** together