Lost.

I don't even know what I'm doing here anymore.

I start a place to write, and then I lose my words. I can't think or write and I feel almost this mental constipation because I can feel the words inside of my head begging to be released, but my stupid fingers can't put them in the right order.

Albus was miffed this morning for some reason and he wouldn't tell me why. I hate that because then I go through the entire day wondering if it's something I've done wrong.

I made bread yesterday that was intended to be my breakfast for the next week. It's already gone. I feel like I just swallowed a brick, but it was a tasty one.

I feel like having a relationship is the most damn complicated thing in my life. I love Albus, but I feel so trapped sometimes. I want to do a study abroad sometime, but I feel like he will hold a grudge against me for leaving him behind.

I don't want to leave him, ever, but I don't want him to be my whole life, either. I want to do other things, hang out with other friends, but sometimes he gets hurt, and it's so much trouble nowadays to try and make arrangements with people when all I want to do at the end of the day is read and sleep.

Anticipation.

I've been fluctuating between intense excitement and intense fear for the past week.

This election is going to be so incredibly big, and even though there has been so much bullshit going on, what with anonymous people trying to convince voters that they should vote on a different day, or that they could be arrested if they showed up to the polls, or a million other underhanded strategies to keep people away...

There is already a record turnout, especially among the college-student crowd.

The vast majority of these scams have been directed toward Obama supporters. And do you know what I think?

I think it's because the Republicans are fucking terrified, because they know Obama's actually got a chance, and that he's stirred up all of this passion for politics among people who wouldn't previously have even cared.

That, if nothing else, is what excites me.

There is hope.

Headache.

Politics make my head hurt. People spout ignorant bullshit unchecked, and there is nothing I can do.

I will not say I hate conservatives; I have many friends who are conservatives. However, I do hate their politics and their tactics. By their definition, I am a terrorist.

I want to close my eyes and ears and spin screaming around in a circle because that is all I can do, and I just want to make noise. I just want to be heard.

Spiral.

I want to write about beautiful things, but what do I do when there is nothing beautiful to write about?

At the end of each day I feel exhausted and defeated. Albus is the only thing keeping my life on an even keel right now.

One of my professors is insane. She jumps to conclusions, changes due dates, belittles me in front of the class when I try to ask a question or defend myself. By the end of class today I had a wad of my own hair in my hand that was nearly the width of a pencil. I twirled it around my fingers for the rest of the day, enjoying the texture of it.

Pain has become a good friend of mine. Nothing big, nothing self-destructive, but small, delicious agonies - burning my tongue on a stolen fry, near-scalding showers, chewing on my fingers a little too hard, gnawing the insides of my cheeks raw. The pain keeps me a little more focused, a little more in control, or else I would certainly spiral. I never draw blood.

Evaluation.

I call my friends judgmental, attention whores, obnoxious, tardy. I also call them fun and crazy and a riot to be around and I wouldn't trade them for the world. I wonder which of these they will remember for longer?

Albus brings me my favorite yogurt and some oatmeal muffins, and some cranberry juice to ease the pain in my bladder. Without a doubt, he is perfect.

My brain has given up on absorbing any more information about isms or modern theatre, and expects me to wing it when asked to write essays. I think I will have to go with that strategy because I have no idea what else to do. My afternoon of study time was wasted yesterday when I waited for three hours in a doctor's waiting room only to be told that my allergies and my bladder confuse the doctors. They will have to experiment, do tests. I am abnormal in every way.

The apocalypse is nigh.

Zombies walk the streets, and but for a splash of green here and there, no one knows who or where they are. We are told to trust no one. It is quite difficult to stay casual on the street when anyone I meet could be out for my flesh, and the slightest odd behavior might immediately alert the hunting dead to my status as a food source. Even my practice of keeping my hand on the trigger of the Nerf six-shooter in my purse might arouse suspicion.

I have taken to surreptitiously eyeballing trees to figure out which ones I could climb easily in case of an attack. If I can make it out of the library without attracting the attention of the zombie girl sitting a dozen yards away, I will consider myself lucky.

This is the time of suspicion. Tomorrow, all hell breaks loose.

Fear.

Albus threatens onstage, yells obscenities, writes disgusting letters, invades the private life of a girl I do not know, ransacks her house.

It is quite frightening.

I won't say that I can't tell the difference between Albus and his character. I know that the scary man onstage is Tony, not Albus, and I still trust Albus completely despite the fact that he is so very good at being frightening.

But I see a lot of Albus himself in this man. They are good things - chivalry, a worshipful attitude, the pursuit of the perfect romance - but at the same time it makes a small part of me wonder.

This is not affecting my relationship, only my mood. I've been thinking about this play all morning, and I can't even explain fully why it disturbed me so much.